PAGANINI

Some time ago, after my lecture one night in Boston, I bethought me to

call on my old friend Bliss Carman. I expected he would be sleeping the

sleep of the just, but I was prepared to rout him out, for although my

errand was from a fair, frail young thing, and trivial, yet I was bound

to deliver the message--for that is what one should always do.

But the poet was not abed--he was pacing the room in a fine burst of

poetic fervor, composing "More Songs From Vagabondia." The songs told of

purling streams, hedgerows, bathers lolling on the river-bank, nodding

wild flowers, chirping pewees, and other such poetic properties, which

the singer conjured forth from boyhood's days, long since gone by.

This suite of rooms, where the poet worked, was in a fine house on a

fashionable street, and I noticed the place bore every mark of elegant

bachelor ease and convenience that good taste could dictate. The best

"Songs From Vagabondia," I am told, are written in comfortable

apartments, where there are a bath and a Whitely Exerciser; but patient,

persistent effort and work overtime are necessary to lick the lines into

shape so they will live. Good poets run their machinery in double

shifts.

"Go away!" cried Bliss Carman, when he had opened the door in reply to

my sprightly knock. "Go away! I am giving to airy nothings a local

habitation and a name. This is my busy night--do you not see?" And fully

understanding the conditions, for I am a poet myself, I went away and

left the author to his labors.

It is a mistake to assume that genius is the capacity for evading hard

work. "La Vie de Boheme" is a beautiful myth that was first worked out

with consummate labor by a man of imagination named Murger, and told

again with variations by Balzac and Du Maurier. Boheme is not down on

the map, because it is not a money-order post-office. It is only a Queen

Mab fairy fabric of a warm, transient desire; its walls being

constructed of the stuff that dreams are made of, and its little life is

rounded with a pipe and tabor, two empties and a brass tray. Yet the

semblance of the thing is there and this often deceives the very elect.

Around every art studio are found the young men in velveteen who smoke

infinite cigarettes, and throw off opinions about this great man and

that, and prate prosaically in blase monotone of the Beautiful.

Sometimes these young persons give lectures on "Art as I Have Found It";

but do not be deceived by this--the art that lives is probably being

produced by small, shy, red-headed men who work on a top floor, and whom

you can only find with the help of a search-warrant. One sort talks of

art, the other kind produces it. One tells of truth, the other is

living it.

Edgar Allan Poe wrote the most gruesome stories that have ever been

told, just to prove that life is a tragedy and not worth living. But who

ever lived fuller and applied himself to hard work more conscientiously

in order to make his point? Poe wrote and rewrote, and changed and added

and interlined and balanced it all on his actor's tongue, and read it

aloud before the glass. Poe shortened his days and flung away a valuable

fag-end of his life, trying to show that life is not worth living, and

thus proved it is. Gray spent thirteen years writing his "Elegy," and so

made clear the point that the man who does good work does not at the

last lay him down and rest his head upon the lap of earth, a youth to

fortune and to fame unknown. Gray secured both fame and fortune. He was

so successful that he declined the Laureateship, and had the felicity to

die of gout. Gray's immortality is based upon the fact that his life

gave the lie to his logic. The man who thinks out what he wants to do,

and then works and works hard, will win, and no others do, or ever have,

or can--God will not have it so.

* * * * *

As a violinist Paganini far surpassed all other players who ever lived;

and when one follows the story of his life, the fact is apparent that he

succeeded because he worked.

And yet behold the paradox! The idea existed in his own day, and is

abroad yet, that "the devil guided his hand," for the thought that the

devil is more powerful than God has ever been held by the majority of

men--more especially if a fiddle is concerned.

Such patience, such persistency, such painstaking effort as the man put

forth for a score of years would have made him master at anything. The

public knows nothing of these long years of labor and preparation--it

sees only the result, and this result shows such consummate ease and

naturalness--all done without effort--that it exclaims, "A genius--the

devil guides his hand!" The remark was made of Titian and his wonderful

color effects, and then again of Rembrandt with his mysterious limpid

shadows--their competitors could not understand it! And so they disposed

of the subject by attributing it to a supernatural agency.

Things all men can do and explain are natural; things we can not explain

are "supernatural." Progress consists in taking things out of the

supernatural pigeonhole and placing them in the natural. As soon as we

comprehend the supernatural, we are a bit surprised to find it is

perfectly natural.

But the limitations of great men are seen in that when they have

acquired the skill to do a difficult thing well, and the public cries,

"Genius!" why the genius humors the superstition and begins to allow the

impression to get out mysteriously that he "never had a lesson in his

life."

Any man who caters to the public is to a great degree spoiled by the

public. Actors act off the stage as well as on, falling victims to their

trade: their lives are stained by pretense and affectation, just as the

dyer's hand is subdued to the medium in which it works. The man of

talent who is much before the public poses because his audience wishes

him to; one step more and the pose becomes natural--he can not divest

himself of it. Paganini by hard work became a consummate player; and

then so the dear public should receive its money's worth, he evolved

into a consummate poseur--but he was still the Artist.

* * * * *

A large number of writers have described the appearance and playing of

Niccolo Paganini, but none ever did the assignment with the creepy

vividness of Heinrich Heine. The rest of this chapter is Heine's. I make

the explanation because the passage is so well known that it would be

both indiscreet and inexpedient for me to bring my literary jimmy to

bear and claim it as my own--much as I would like to.

Says Heinrich Heine:

I believe that only one man has succeeded in putting Paganini's

true physiognomy upon paper--a deaf painter, Lyser by name, who, in

a frenzy full of genius, has with a few strokes of chalk so well

hit the great violinist's head that one is at the same time amused

and terrified at the truth of the drawing. "The devil guided my

hand," the deaf painter said to me, chuckling mysteriously, and

nodding his head with a good-natured irony in the way he generally

accompanied his genial witticisms. This painter was, however, a

wonderful old fellow; in spite of his deafness he was

enthusiastically fond of music, and he knew how, when near enough

to the orchestra, to read the music in the musicians' faces, and to

judge the more or less skilful execution by the movements of their

fingers; indeed, he wrote critiques on the opera for an excellent

journal at Hamburg. And yet is that peculiarly wonderful? In the

visible symbols of the performance the deaf painter could see the

sounds. There are men to whom the sounds themselves are invisible

symbols in which they hear colors and forms.

I am sorry that I no longer possess Lyser's little drawing; it

would perhaps have given you an idea of Paganini's outward

appearance. Only with black and glaring strokes could those

mysterious features be seized, features which seemed to belong more

to the sulphurous kingdom of shades than to the sunny world of

life. "Indeed, the devil guided my hand," the deaf painter assured

me, as we stood before the pavilion at Hamburg on the day when

Paganini gave his first concert there. "Yes, my friend, it is true

that he has sold himself to the devil, body and soul, in order to

become the best violinist, to fiddle millions of money, and

principally to escape the damnable galley where he had already

languished many years. For, you see, my friend, when he was

chapel-master at Lucca he fell in love with a princess of the

theater, was jealous of some little abbate, was perhaps deceived by

the faithless amata, stabbed her in approved Italian fashion, came

in the galley to Genoa, and as I said, sold himself to the devil to

escape from it, became the best violin-player, and imposed upon us

this evening a contribution of two thalers each. But, you see, all

good spirits praise God! There in the avenue he comes himself, with

his suspicious impresario."

It was Paganini himself whom I then saw for the first time. He wore

a dark gray overcoat, which reached to his heels, and made his

figure seem very tall. His long black hair fell in neglected curls

on his shoulders, and formed a dark frame round the pale,

cadaverous face, on which sorrow, genius and hell had engraved

their lines. Near him danced along a little pleasing figure,

elegantly prosaic--with rosy, wrinkled face, bright gray little

coat with steel buttons, distributing greetings on all sides in an

insupportably friendly way, leering up, nevertheless, with

apprehensive air at the gloomy figure who walked earnest and

thoughtful at his side. It reminded one of Retzsch's presentation

of "Faust" and Wagner walking before the gates of Leipzig. The deaf

painter made comments to me in his mad way, and bade me observe

especially the broad, measured walk of Paganini. "Does it not

seem," said he, "as if he had the iron cross-pole still between his

legs? He has accustomed himself to that walk forever. See, too, in

what a contemptuous, ironical way he sometimes looks at his guide

when the latter wearies him with his prosaic questions. But he can

not separate himself from him; a bloody contract binds him to that

companion, who is no other than Satan. The ignorant multitude,

indeed, believe that this guide is the writer of comedies and

anecdotes, Harris from Hanover, whom Paganini has taken with him to

manage the financial business of his concerts. But they do not know

that the devil has only borrowed Herr George Harris' form, and that

meanwhile the poor soul of this poor man is shut up with other

rubbish in a trunk at Hanover, until the devil returns its

flesh-envelope, while he perhaps will guide his master through the

world in a worthier form--namely as a black poodle."

But if Paganini seemed mysterious and strange enough when I saw him

walking in bright midday under the green trees of the Hamburg

Jungfernstieg, how his awful bizarre appearance startled me at the

concert in the evening! The Hamburg Opera House was the scene of

this concert, and the art-loving public had flocked there so

early, and in such numbers, that I only just succeeded in obtaining

a little place in the orchestra. Although it was post-day, I saw in

the first row of boxes the whole educated commercial world, a whole

Olympus of bankers and other millionaires, the gods of coffee and

sugar by the side of their fat goddesses, Junos of Wandrahm and

Aphrodites of Dreckwall. A religious silence reigned through the

assembly. Every eye was directed towards the stage. Every ear was

making ready to listen. My neighbor, an old furrier, took the dirty

cotton out of his ears in order to drink in better the costly

sounds for which he had paid his two thalers.

At last a dark figure, which seemed to have arisen from the

underworld, appeared upon the stage. It was Paganini in his black

costume--the black dress-coat and the black waistcoat of a horrible

cut, such as is prescribed by infernal etiquette at the court of

Proserpine. The black trousers hung anxiously around the thin legs.

The long arms appeared to grow still longer, as, holding the violin

in one hand and the bow in the other, he almost touched the floor

with them, while displaying to the public his unprecedented

obeisances. In the angular curves of his body there was a horrible

woodenness, and also something absurdly animal-like, that during

these bows one could not help feeling a strange desire to laugh.

But his face, that appeared still more cadaverously pale in the

glare of the orchestra lights, had about it something so imploring,

so simply humble, that a sorrowful compassion repressed one's

desire to smile. Had he learnt these complimentary bows from an

automaton, or a dog? Is that the entreating gaze of one sick unto

death, or is there lurking behind it the mockery of a crafty

miser? Is that a man brought into the arena at the moment of death,

like a dying gladiator, to delight the public with his convulsions?

Or is it one risen from the dead, a vampire with a violin, who, if

not the blood out of our hearts, at any rate sucks the gold out of

our pockets?

Such questions crossed our minds while Paganini was performing his

strange bows, but all those thoughts were at once still when the

wonderful master placed his violin under his chin and began to

play.

As for me, you already know my musical second-sight, my gift of

seeing at each tone a figure equivalent to the sound, and so

Paganini with each stroke of his bow brought visible forms and

situations before my eyes; he told me in melodious hieroglyphics

all kinds of brilliant tales; he, as it were, made a magic lantern

play its colored antics before me, he himself being chief actor. At

the first stroke of his bow the stage scenery around him had

changed; he suddenly stood with his music-desk in a cheerful room,

decorated in a gay, irregular way after the Pompadour style;

everywhere little mirrors, gilded Cupids, Chinese porcelain, a

delightful chaos of ribbons, garlands of flowers, white gloves,

torn lace, false pearls, powder-puffs, diamonds of gold-leaf and

spangles--such tinsel as one finds in the room of a prima donna.

Paganini's outward appearance had also changed, and certainly most

advantageously; he wore short breeches of lily-colored satin, a

white waistcoat embroidered with silver, and a coat of bright blue

velvet with gold buttons; the hair in little carefully curled locks

bordered his face, which was young and rosy, and gleamed with sweet

tenderness as he ogled the pretty young lady who stood near him at

the music-desk, while he played the violin.

Yes, I saw at his side a pretty young creature, dressed in antique

costume, the white satin swelled out above the waist, making the

figure still more charmingly slender; the high raised hair was

powdered and curled, and the pretty round face shone out all the

more openly with its glancing eyes, its little rouged cheeks, its

tiny beauty-patches, and the sweet, impertinent little nose. In her

hand was a roll of white paper, and by the movements of her lips as

well as by the coquettish waving to and fro of her little upper lip

she seemed to be singing; but none of her trills was audible to me,

and only from the violin with which young Paganini led the lovely

child could I discover what she sang, and what he himself during

her song felt in his soul.

Oh, what melodies were those! Like the nightingale's notes, when

the fragrance of the rose intoxicates her yearning young heart with

desire, they floated in the twilight. Oh, what melting, languid

delight was that! The sounds kissed each other, then fled away

pouting, and then, laughing, clasped each other and became one, and

died away in intoxicating harmony. Yes, the sounds carried on their

merry game like butterflies, when one, in playful provocation, will

escape from another, hide behind a flower, be overtaken at last,

and then, wantonly joying with the other, fly away into the golden

sunlight. But a spider, a spider can prepare a sudden tragical fate

for such enamored butterflies!

Did the young heart anticipate this? A melancholy sighing tone, a

sad foreboding of some slowly approaching misfortune, glided softly

through the enrapturing melodies that were streaming from

Paganini's violin. His eyes became moist. Adoringly he knelt down

before his amata. But, alas! as he bowed down to kiss her feet, he

saw under the sofa a little abbate! I do not know what he had

against the poor man, but the Genoese became pale as death. He

seized the little fellow with furious hands, drew a stiletto from

its sheath, and buried it in the young rogue's breast.

At this moment, however, a shout of "Bravo! Bravo!" broke out from

all sides. Hamburg's enthusiastic sons and daughters were paying

the tribute of their uproarious applause to the great artist, who

had just ended the first of his concert, and was now bowing with

even more angles and contortions than before. And on his face the

abject humility seems to me to have become more intense. From his

eyes stared a sorrowful anxiety like that of a poor malefactor.

"Divine!" cried my neighbor, the furrier, as he scratched his ears;

"that piece alone was worth two thalers."

When Paganini began to play again a gloom came before my eyes. The

sounds were not transformed into bright forms and colors; the

master's form was clothed in gloomy shades, out of the darkness of

which his music moaned in the most piercing tones of lamentation.

Only at times, when a little lamp that hung above cast its

sorrowful light over him, could I catch a glimpse of his pale

countenance, on which the youth was not yet extinguished. His

costume was singular, in two colors, yellow and red. Heavy chains

weighed upon his feet. Behind him moved a face whose physiognomy

indicated a lusty goat-nature. And I saw at times long, hairy hands

seize assistingly the strings of the violin on which Paganini was

playing. They often guided the hand which held the bow, and then a

bleat-laugh of applause accompanied the melody, which gushed from

the violin ever more full of sorrow and anguish. They were melodies

which were like the song of the fallen angels who had loved the

daughters of earth, and being exiled from the kingdom of the

blessed, sank into the underworld with faces red with shame. They

were melodies in whose bottomless depths glimmered neither

consolation nor hope. When the saints in heaven hear such melodies,

the praise of God dies upon their paled lips, and they cover their

heads weeping. At times when the obligate goat's laugh bleated in

among the melodious pangs, I caught a glimpse in the background of

a crowd of small women-figures who nodded their odious heads with

wicked wantonness. Then a rush of agonizing sounds came from the

violin, and a fearful groan and a sob, such as was never heard upon

earth before, nor will be perhaps heard upon earth again, unless in

the valley of Jehoshaphat, when the colossal trumpets of doom shall

ring out, and the naked corpses shall crawl forth from the grave to

abide their fate. But the agonized violinist suddenly made one

stroke of the bow, such a mad, despairing stroke, that his chains

fell rattling from him, and his mysterious assistant and the other

foul, mocking forms vanished.

At this moment my neighbor, the furrier, said, "A pity, a pity! a

string has snapped--that comes from constant pizzicato."

Had a string of the violin really snapped? I do not know. I only

observed the alternation in the sounds, and Paganini and his

surroundings seemed to me again suddenly changed. I could scarcely

recognize him in the monk's brown dress, which concealed rather

than clothed him. With savage countenance half-hid by the cowl,

waist girt with a cord, and bare feet, Paganini stood, a solitary

defiant figure, on a rocky prominence by the sea, and played his

violin. But the sea became red and redder, and the sky grew paler,

till at last the surging water looked like bright, scarlet blood,

and the sky above became of a ghastly corpse-like pallor, and the

stars came out large and threatening; and those stars were

black--black as glooming coal. But the tones of the violin grew

ever more stormy and defiant, and the eyes of the terrible player

sparkled with such a scornful lust of destruction, and his thin

lips moved with such a horrible haste, that it seemed as if he

murmured some old accursed charms to conjure the storm and loose

the evil spirits that lie imprisoned in the abysses of the sea.

Often, when he stretched his long, thin arm from the broad monk's

sleeve, and swept the air with his bow, he seemed like some

sorcerer who commands the elements with his magic wand; and then

there was a wild wailing from the depth of the sea, and the

horrible waves of blood sprang up so fiercely that they almost

besprinkled the pale sky and the black stars with their red foam.

There was a wailing and a shrieking and a crashing, as if the world

was falling into fragments, and ever more stubbornly the monk

played his violin. He seemed as if by the power of violent will he

wished to break the seven seals wherewith Solomon sealed the iron

vessels in which he had shut up the vanquished demons. The wise

king sank those vessels in the sea and I seemed to hear the voices

of the imprisoned spirits while Paganini's violin growled its most

wrathful bass.

But at last I thought I heard the jubilee of deliverance, and out

of the red billows of blood emerged the heads of the fettered

demons: monsters of legendary horror, crocodiles with bats' wings,

snakes with stags' horns, monkeys with shells on their heads, seals

with long patriarchal beards, women's faces with one eye, green

camels' heads, all staring with cold, crafty eyes, and long,

fin-like claws grasping at the fiddling monk. From the latter,

however, in the furious zeal of his conjuration, the cowl fell back

and the curly hair, fluttering in the wind, fell round his head in

ringlets, like black snakes.

So maddening was this vision that to keep my senses I closed my

ears and shut my eyes. When I again looked up the specter had

vanished, and I saw the poor Genoese in his ordinary form, making

his ordinary bows, while the public applauded in the most rapturous

manner.

"That is the famous performance upon G," remarked my neighbor. "I

myself play the violin, and I know what it is to master the

instrument." Fortunately, the pause was not considerable, or else

the musical furrier would certainly have engaged me in a long

conversation upon art. Paganini again quietly set his violin to his

chin, and with the first stroke of his bow the wonderful

transformation of melodies again began.

They no longer fashioned themselves so brightly and corporeally.

The melody gently developed itself, majestically billowing and

swelling like an organ chorale in a cathedral, and everything

around, stretching larger and higher, had extended into a colossal

space which, not the bodily eye, but only the eye of the spirit

could seize. In the midst of this space hovered a shining sphere,

upon which, gigantic and sublimely haughty, stood a man who played

the violin. Was that sphere the sun? I do not know. But in the

man's features I recognized Paganini, only ideally lovely, divinely

glorious, with a reconciling smile. His body was in the bloom of

powerful manhood, a bright blue garment enclosed his noble limbs,

his shoulders were covered by gleaming locks of black hair; and as

he stood there, sure and secure, a sublime divinity, and played the

violin, it seemed as if the whole creation obeyed his melodies. He

was the man-planet about which the universe moved with measured

solemnity and ringing out beatific rhythms. Those great lights,

which so quietly gleaming swept around, were they stars of heaven,

and that melodious harmony which arose from their movements, was it

the song of the spheres, of which poets and seers have reported so

many ravishing things? At times, when I endeavored to gaze out into

the misty distance, I thought I saw pure white garments floating

ground, in which colossal pilgrims passed muffled along with white

staves in their hands, and singular to relate, the golden knob of

each staff was even one of those great lights which I had taken for

stars. These pilgrims moved in a large orbit around the great

performer, the golden knobs of their staves shone even brighter at

the tones of the violin, and the chorale which resounded from their

lips, and which I had taken for the song of the spheres, was only

the dying echo of those violin tones. A holy, ineffable ardor dwelt

in those sounds, which often trembled scarce audibly, in mysterious

whisper on the water, then swelled out again with a shuddering

sweetness, like a bugle's notes heard by moonlight, and then

finally poured forth in unrestrained jubilee, as if a thousand

bards had struck their harps and raised their voices in a song of

victory.

* * * * *

In Seventeen Hundred Eighty-four, Niccolo Paganini was born at Genoa.

His father was a street-porter who eked out the scanty exchequer by

playing a violin at occasional dances or concerts. That his playing was

indifferent is evident from the fact that he was very poor--his services

were not in demand.

The poverty of the family and the failure of the father fired the

ambition of the boy to do something worthy. When he was ten years old he

could play as well as his father, and a year or so thereafter could play

better. The lad was tall, slender, delicate and dreamy-eyed. But he had

will plus, and his desire was to sound the possibilities of the violin.

And this reminds me that Hugh Pentecost says there is no such thing as

will--it is all desire: when we desire a thing strongly enough, we have

the will to secure it--but no matter!

Young Niccolo Paganini practised on his father's violin for six hours a

day; and now when the customers who used to hire his father to play

came, they would say, "We just as lief have Niccolo."

Soon after this they said, "We prefer to have Niccolo." And a little

later they said, "We must have Niccolo." Some one has written a book to

show that playing second fiddle is just as worthy an office as playing

first. This doubtless is true, but there are so many more men who can

play second, that it behooves every player to relieve the stress by

playing first if he can. Niccolo played first and then was called upon

to play solos. He was making twice as much money as his father ever had,

but the father took all the boy's earnings, as was his legal right. The

father's pride in the success of the son, the young man always said, was

because he was proving a good financial investment. It does not always

pay to raise children--this time it did. It was finally decided to take

the boy to the celebrated musician, Rolla, for advice as to what was

best to do about his education. Rolla was sick abed at the time the boy

called and could not see him; but while waiting in the entry the lad

took up a violin and began to play. The invalid raised himself on one

elbow and pantingly inquired who the great master was that had thus

favored him with a visit.

"It's the lad who wants you to give him lessons," answered the

attendant.

"Impossible! no lad could play like that--I can teach that player

nothing!"

Next the musician Paer was visited, and he passed the boy along to

Giretta, who gave him three lessons a week in harmony and counterpoint.

The boy had abrupt mannerisms and tricks of his own in bringing out

expressions, and these were such a puzzle to the teacher that he soon

refused to go on.

Niccolo possessed a sort of haughty self-confidence that aggravated the

master; he believed in himself and was fond of showing that he could

play in a way no one else could. Adolescence had turned his desire to

play into a fury of passion for his art: he practised on single passages

for ten or twelve hours a day, and would often sink in a swoon from

sheer exhaustion. This deep, torpor-like sleep saved him from complete

collapse, just as it saved Mendelssohn, and he would arise to go on with

his work.

Paganini's wisdom was shown at this early age in that he limited his

work to a few compositions, and these he made the most of, just as they

say Bossuet secured his reputation as the greatest preacher of his time

by a single sermon that he had polished to the point of perfection.

When fifteen years old Paganini contrived to escape from his father and

went to a musical festival at Lucca. He managed to get a hearing, was

engaged at once as a soloist, and soon after gave a concert on his own

account. In a month he had accumulated a thousand pounds in cash.

Very naturally, such a success turned the head of this lad who never

before had had the handling of money. He began to gamble, and became the

dupe of rogues--male and female--who plunged him into an abyss of wrong.

He even gambled away the "Stradivarius" that had been presented to him,

and when his money, watch and jewels were gone, his new-found friends of

course decamped, and this gave the young man time to ponder on the

vanities of life.

When he played again it was on a borrowed "Guarnerius," and after the

rich owner, himself a violinist, had heard him play, he said, "No

fingers but yours shall ever play that violin again!"

Paganini accepted the gift, and this was the violin he played for full

forty years, and which, on his death, was willed to his native city of

Genoa. There it can be seen in its sealed-up glass case.

Up to his thirtieth year Paganini continued his severe work of subduing

the violin. By that time he had sounded its possibilities, and

thereafter no one heard him play except in concert. It is told that one

man, anxious to know the secrets of Paganini's power, followed him from

city to city, watching him at his concerts, dogging him through the

streets, spying upon him at hotels. At one inn this man of curiosity had

the felicity to secure a room next to the one occupied by Paganini; and

one morning as he watched through the keyhole, he was rewarded by seeing

the master open the case where reposed the precious "Guarnerius."

Paganini lifted the instrument, held it under his chin, took up the bow

and made a few passes in the air--not a sound was heard. Then he kissed

the back of the violin, muttered a prayer, and locked the instrument in

its case.

At concert rehearsals he always played a mute instrument; and Harris,

his manager, records that for the many years he was with Paganini he

never heard him play a single note except before an audience.

I have a full-length daguerreotype of Paganini taken when he was forty

years of age. No one ever asked this man, "Kind sir, are you anybody in

particular?"

Paganini was tall and wofully slim. His hands and feet were large and

bony, his arms long, his form bowed and lacking in all that we call

symmetry. But the long face with its look of abject melancholy, the

curved nose, the thin lips and the sharp, protruding chin, made a

combination that Fate has never duplicated. You could easily believe

that this man knew all the secrets of the Nether World, and had tasted

the joys of Paradise as well. Women pitied and loved him, men feared

him, and none understood him. He lived in the midst of throngs and

multitudes--the loneliest man known in the history of art.

Paganini, when he had reached his height, played only his own music; he

played divinely and incomprehensibly; next to his passion for music was

his greed for gold. These three facts sum up all we really know about

the master--the rest fades off into mist--mystery, fable and legend. We

do know, however, that he composed several pieces of music so difficult

that he could not play them himself, and of course no one else can.

Imagination can always outrun performance. Paganini had no close

friends; no confidants: he never mingled in society, and he never

married.

At times he would disappear from the public gaze for several months,

and not even his business associates knew where he was. On one such

occasion a traveler discovered him in a monastic retreat in the Swiss

Mountains, wearing a horsehair robe and a rope girdle; others saw him

disguised as a mendicant; and still another tells of finding him working

as a day-laborer with obscure and ignorant peasants. Then there are

tales told of how he was taken captive by a titled lady of great wealth

and beauty, who carried him away to her bower, where he eschewed the

violin and tinkled only the guitar the livelong day.

Everywhere the report was current that Paganini had killed a man, and

been sentenced to prison for life. The story ran that in prison he found

an old violin, three strings of which were broken, and so he played on

one string, producing such ravishing music that the keepers feared he

was "possessed." They decided they must get rid of him, and so contrived

to have him thrown overboard from a galley; but he swam ashore, and

although he was everywhere known, no man dared place a hand on him.

A late writer in a London magazine, however, has given evidence of being

a psychologist and man of sense; he says, and produces proof, that after

the concert season was over Paganini withdrew to a monastery in the

mountains of Switzerland, and there the monks who loved him well,

guarded his retreat. There he found the rest for which his soul craved,

and there he practised on his violin hour after hour, day after day.

All this is better understood when we remember that after each retreat,

Paganini appeared with brand-new effects which electrified his

hearers--"effects taught him by the devil."

Constant appearing before vast multitudes and ceaseless travel create a

depletion that demands rest. Paganini held the balance true by fleeing

to the mountains; there he worked and prayed. That Paganini had a soft

heart, in spite of the silent, cold and melancholy mood that usually

possessed him, is shown in his treatment of his father and mother, who

lived to know the greatness of their son. He wrote his mother kind and

affectionate letters, some of which we have, and provided lavishly for

every want of both his parents. At times he gave concerts for charity,

and on these occasions vast sums were realized.

Paganini died in Eighteen Hundred Forty, aged fifty-six years. His will

provided for legacies to various men and women who had befriended him,

and he also gave to others with whom he had quarreled, thus proving he

was not all clay.

The bulk of his fortune, equal to half a million dollars, was bequeathed

to his son, Baron Achille Paganini. And as if mystery should still

enshroud his memory and this, true to his nature, should be carried out

in his last will, there are those who maintain that Achille Paganini was

not his son at all--only a waif he had adopted. Yet Achille always

stoutly maintained the distinction--but what boots it, since he could

not play his father's violin?

Yet this we know--Paganini, the man of mystery and moods, once lived and

produced music that, Orpheus-like, transfixed the world. We are better

for his having been and this world is a nobler place in that he lived

and played, for listen closely and you can hear, even now, the sweet,

sad echoes of those vibrant strings, touched by the hand of him who

loved them well.

And when we remember the prodigious amount of practise that Paganini

schooled himself to in youth; and join this to the recently discovered

record of his long monastic retreats, when for months he worked and

played and prayed, we can guess the secret of his power. If you wish me

to present you a recipe for doing a deathless performance, I would give

you this: Work, travel, solitude, prayer, and yet again--work.

[Illustration: FREDERIC CHOPIN]