Prague, Dresden, Berlin and Warsaw were _The Violin Some Account of That Leading Instrument and Its Most Eminent Professors, from Its Earliest Date to the Present Time; with Hints to Amateurs, Anecdotes, etc.

triumphant ear-charmer. Great was the excitement he produced at

Berlin—but somewhat contradictory the opinions about him. “Most

assuredly,” said one journalist, “Paganini is a prodigy; and all that

the most celebrated violinists have executed heretofore is mere child’s

play, compared with the inconceivable difficulties which he has created,

in order to be the first to surmount them.” The same writer declared

that Paganini executed an air, quite _sostenuto_, on one string, while,

at the same time, a _tremolo_ accompaniment upon the next was perfectly

perceptible, as well as a very lively _pizzicato_ upon the fourth

string: that he executed runs of octaves on the single string of G with

as much promptitude, precision and firmness, as other violinists on

_two_. Nay, his celebrator went so far as to say that, in order to

produce this latter effect, he employed one finger only; and further

declared him able to render the four strings of the instrument available

to such a degree, as to form concatenations of chords that could be

heard together, and that produced as full and complete harmony as that

of six fingers of a pianoforte-player on the key-board; adding,

moreover, that, in moments of the most _daring vivacity_, every one of

his notes had all the roundness and sonorousness of a bell! Another

journalist averred that he was incapable of producing a _grand_ tone,

but that he executed the _adagio_, and impassioned _cantilenas_, with

profound sensibility and great perfection of style. It was the remark of

another critic, that “whoever had not heard Paganini, might consider

that there existed a _lacuna_ in the chain of his musical sensations.”

Lipinski, a Pole, had ventured to seek, at Placentia, in 1818, a contest

with Paganini, such as Lafont had previously sought. Whilst at Berlin,

he met with a _third_ challenge to a trial of skill. Sigismund Von

Praun, an ambitious youth, asserting claims to universal genius—a

counterfeit Crichton—attempted to dispute the palm with him, and paraded

a public defiance in the papers: but, this time, Apollo would not

compete with Marsyas Praun, who had made some impression, a few years

before, at Malta and other places, appears to have had talents far from

contemptible, although immature, but his presumption exposed him to

merited ridicule:—

Low sinks, where he would madly rise,

This most pretentious imp!

See! while with Paganin’ he vies,

_Praun_ looketh _less_ than _shrimp_!

After returning from Warsaw, Paganini visited Frankfort. It is related

that, while he was in this latter city, an actor from the Breslau

Theatre, taking advantage of his marked peculiarities of look, manner

and gesture, made successful public mimicry of him; and that he had the

good sense, himself, to attend one of these performances, and join in

the general laugh with the best grace imaginable. He remained for a year

at Frankfort; and it seemed as if he had renounced the previously

well-circulated notion of his visiting Paris and London, when he

suddenly made his appearance at Strasbourg, and soon afterwards arrived

upon the banks of the Seine, to delight and astonish those idolators of

novelty, the inhabitants of the French metropolis.

Of the impression produced by Paganini among the Parisians, as well as

of his personal and musical characteristics, I find so graphic and

picturesque an account in a French journal (_Le Globe_), that I am

induced to translate, for my purpose, the chief portion of it, under the

conviction that the length of passages leading to what is so far the

_reverse_ of “nothing” will be easily pardoned. Whether the writer’s

moral estimate of the spectacle-hunting branch of the Parisian public be

not a little overcharged with severity, is a point which I have no

pretensions to determine. That there is some eloquence in the thoughts

of the French writer, whoever he might be (and, alas! for common sense,

he is, or was, a St. Simonian), will be, I think, admitted, even by

those who would not so far admire his composition as to “mark it for a

rapture nobly writ.” Here follows his sketch, however; and Paganini

himself (in pictorial effigy) shall attend, and give it a sort of

personal confirmation.

“_The Artist_ is about to make his appearance—silence begins to be

restored—the overture is over, without having been listened to—somewhat

less of coldness and unconcern is expressed on the faces around—and the

hands of the white-gloved are all armed with the double opera-glass.

_Enter Paganini and his Violin!_

“A universal clapping of hands attends his first advent on the scene. He

advances, with sundry awkward and heavy steps; he makes obeisance, and

the applause is renewed: he moves forward, with increased oddity of

gait, and the noise of hands is prolonged on all sides.

[Illustration]

“He makes several further salutations—he endeavours to animate his

countenance with a smile of acknowledgment, which is instantly succeeded

by a look of icy coldness.... He makes a halt, and, with still greater

eccentricity of manner, it may be, than in his reverences and his walk,

he seizes his fiddle, hugs it betwixt chin and chest, and fixes on it a

look at once of pride, penetration and gentleness. Thus resteth he

several seconds, leaving the public at leisure to examine and make him

out in his strange originality—to note with curiosity his gaunt body,

his lengthy arms and fingers, his dark hair descending to his shoulders,

the sickness and suffering denoted in his whole frame, his sunken mouth,

his long eagle nose, his wan and hollow cheeks, his large, fine,

manifest forehead, such as Gall would have delighted to

contemplate,—and, beneath the shelter and shadow of that front, eyes

that dilate, sparkle and flash at every instant!

“Such doth Paganini show himself, formed, at every point of his person,

to catch the greatest possible quantum of applause from a public whom it

is his office to _amuse_. Behold him, a compound of chill irony and

electric enthusiasm,—of haughtiness, with seeming humility,—of sickly

languor, and fitful, nervous, fatal exultings,—of wild oddity, chastened

by some hidden and unconscious grace—of frank abandonment, of charming

attractiveness, of a superiority of talent that might fix the most

indifferent,—but, above all this, a very _man-fiddle_—a being of

extraordinary nature, created as if expressly for the gratification of a

public delighting, before all things, in the extraordinary!

“‘Sufficient for the eyes!’ seems he now to say within himself, as he

notes in their operation the incoherent reveries and speculations of his

beholders. Promptly his looks descend from his violin to the

orchestra—he gives the signal—he raises his right hand briskly into the

air, and dashes his bow down upon the instrument!

[Illustration]

“You anticipate the rupture of all its strings! On the contrary, the

lightest, the finest, the most delicate of sounds comes forth to win

your surprise. He continues for some moments to sport with your

pre-conceptions, to look askance at you, to irritate you; and every whim

that occurs to him, is employed to draw you out from your supposed

indifference. He teases you, he pleases you: he springs, he runs, he

wanders from tone to tone, from octave to octave; achieves, with

incredible lightness and precision, the widest intervals; ascends and

descends the chromatic and diatonic scales; touches harmonic

accompaniments in his way; extracts unknown sounds; searches, with easy

success, for difficulties and tricks of skill; exhausts, within the

space of a few bars, the whole range of chords and sounds possible upon

the instrument—discourses, sings, bewails, ejaculates, describes! ’Tis

suddenly a murmur of waves, a whistling in the air, a warbling of birds;

a something undefinably musical, in the most acute as well as the lowest

tones—an unrestricted impulse of caprices, and contrasts, without guide

or measure! ’Tis, in a word, a perfect union of incoherence and nameless

clatter, beyond which, the world-worn and vitiated beings around, the

worshippers of singularity, can see nothing, imagine nothing, desire

nothing!

“The great Artist has, nevertheless, resources other than those of

phantasy, by which to captivate the public—and presently there succeeds

to this musical phantasmagoria a broad, stately, harmonious (albeit

somewhat too bare) simplicity. The fatigue of the public and of the

Artist now gives place to a species of joy, that visibly blooms on every

countenance. Chords that are pure sweet, melodious, brilliant, stream

from beneath the bow; and then come accents of nature that seem to flow

from the heart itself, and affect you with a perspiring thrill of

delight; and then (prodigy of harmony!) the vague moans and unfinished

plainings of a melancholy abandonment! You sympathize, in gentle pain,

with the touching and melodious artist; you dispose yourself to follow,

at his direction, the course of (as it should seem) some mournful,

fleeting, intangible vision—when instantly a fit of violent distress, a

sort of shuddering fury, seizes him, and we are startled, chilled,

tormented, by cries which pierce the inmost recesses of our frame, and

make us tremble for the hapless being whom we behold and hear! We dare

not breathe—we are half suffocated;—fearfully the head burns, and the

heart aches.

[Illustration]

“And yet—and yet, despite this too positive pain which the unfortunate

artist has forced both upon us and himself, he bethinketh him mindfully

that ’tis his vocation to serve for _sport_ to the public that does him

the _honor_ to come and listen to him. He snatches away, therefore, your

ladies with delicate nerves, and your men of effeminacy, from the

suffocation and syncope that threaten them. Truce to the cries of agony!

truce to despair! A fantastic chaunt, a wild laugh, springs up—and then

succeeds a sort of buffoon dance, to complete the relief of these

people, and restore them to _life_. _Encore_ he sings, he laughs, he

dances: each face is completely reassured, and its owner, to prove to

the rest, and to his own satisfaction, that he has not so far forgotten

himself as to quit the precincts of _bon ton_ and eternal frigidity,

smiles listlessly upon his neighbour, strokes his cravat adjustingly,

and throws a careless glance from side to side! Amidst this returning

indifference, let there come a new passage of arduous brilliancy, some

more or less astonishing sleight of hand—and a reiterated clapping of

palms convinces the unhappy purveyor of diversion that he has but too

well served the public according to their taste!

“And now, should the rondo come, in its light and laughing gaiety—should

the hymn of love and delight succeed, ’twill be the same case as with

the cry of grief or despair. Each burst of simple gaiety must be

followed by an air in the coquettish style, an impulse from the head, to

give it stimulus. Amid the passionate harmonies of love, you shall hear

interspersed the accents of coldness, of disdain, of raillery. After a

voluptuous transport, you shall have mincings and caprices:—

[Illustration]

for there is no gaiety, whether for _him_, or for the listening public,

of a natural, fresh and youthful character; there is no frank and

confiding attachment; there is no serene and grateful pleasure; there is

no sadness that pours itself out for the sake of consolation; no joys

but such as are like scentless flowers, that one picks to pieces in

sport; no passion save what is akin to delirium, debauchery, or deadly

poison! What the public must have, and the artist, are your _pizzicati_,

your contrasts, your satanic schooleries, your touches of the

extravagant;—’tis a dose of madness or despair,—’tis an agony—the

sensation of a man suspended over a bottomless abyss;—’tis a violin,

which is at once a flute, a bass, a guitar, and a whole orchestra,

intermixed, confounded, and getting into harmony only by fits;—’tis a

professional visage, revealing a wounded and withered heart; ’tis a

human skeleton—death, in grotesque attire; ’tis the “talented

exhibition” of a rebellious angel, who gnashes his teeth, and howls, and

jeers! And so the public, seeing their artist hold forth to them, under

convenient forms, all possible monstrosities, seem to applaud themselves

inwardly, and to exclaim instinctively, ‘Here is our interpreter, our

plaything, and our own handywork!’

“Of such a public, and such an artist, how saddening the sight!... The

public, made up of idlers—of beings isolated, selfish, cold,

corrupt—must be _amused_, forsooth! and the artist exhausts his taste

and his sentiment, and well nigh perspires blood and water, to comply

with their exactions—to _amuse_ them!—and if he attain this end, the

public clap their hands, the manager of the theatre counts out to him a

heap of gold, and he goes away, with his ears deafened at the noise

which has surrounded him, and which, for a moment, (it may be), has

made his heart beat high;—he goes away, with a loving grasp tightened

over the coin he has so hardly won; and inwardly exclaims, with a smile

of pity, ‘The blockheads—the barbarians! Who is there among them that

can comprehend me—that can _feel_ my intentions?’—and then the

home-returning public, selfish to the very soul, indemnify themselves

for their fingers’-end applause, by sottish contempt, by remarks that

are empty, or worse—that are scornful, bitter, shocking, disgusting

even—such as those which may have been buzzed into one’s ears in Italy

or in Paris, but varied in a hundred ways, and aggravated at will, just

as _he_ varies and enlarges, twists and turns, beneath his magic bow, a

subject of apparently the most simple and insignificant kind. And now

the voices most distinguishable among the ebbing crowd murmur out the

words, ‘Gambler! Libertine!’ or worse.... And the privileged public

resort again to the theatre, to admire the talent of him whom they

comprehend not; and the artist returns in like manner, to _amuse_ those

who provoke his pity, and whom he beholds so far below him! Thus, we

have contempt on one side, compassion on the other—applause from hands

chilled with the touch of gold, on the one part,—on the other, sounds

that borrow their animation from no social sympathy! Such are the

relations between the public and the professor—such the bonds that

connect them!”

So much for the pungently descriptive, as regards this singular being.

It is less difficult, however, to exhibit effects and appearances, than

to analyze the causes or means which produce them—and it is in this

latter endeavour, accordingly, that there has been least success

attained by those who have made Paganini their theme, in Paris, as

elsewhere. That which was already obscure in relation to him, has been

forced into denser obscurity by the attempted demonstrations of certain

pompous literary showmen, who have succeeded only in illustrating the

proverb of “ignotum per ignotius.” Mystification and generalization, the

resources of ambitious ignorance, have been copiously employed in these

endeavours. Of a less unsatisfactory character, however, are the

pretensions of M. Guhr, the able violinist, of Frankfort, who has

attempted an analysis of the means employed, and the effects produced,

by Paganini. Like most professors of a secret, the arch Italian was

always studious of maintaining the mystery so provocative of curiosity

and admiration. He assumed the air cabalistic, and, with a severe front

and sullen eye, would stimulate and foster the impression of his being

“profited in strange concealments.” M. Guhr, though he had the seeming

advantage of personal and friendly access to him, found he could make

nothing of him by the interrogatory system, and therefore adopted the

alternative of becoming a silent student of his peculiarities, till he

made certain discoveries of more or less importance, which he shaped

into five heads, to show that Paganini’s chief points of difference from

other violinists were—

1. In his manner of tuning the instrument.

2. In a management of the _bow_, entirely peculiar to himself.

3. In his mode of using the left hand in the _passages chantans_, or

passages of a singing character.

4. In the frequent employment of harmonic sounds.

5. In the art of putting the violin into double employ, so as to make it

combine with its own usual office the simultaneous effects of a

mandolin, harp, or other instrument of the kind, whereby you seem to

hear two different performers.

As to the first of these points, “his manner of tuning the instrument,”

observed M. Guhr, “is wholly original, and to me appears

incomprehensible in many respects. Sometimes he tunes the first three

strings half a tone _higher_, while that of G is a third _lower_, than

ordinary. Sometimes he changes this with a single turn of the peg, and

he invariably meets the due intonation, which remains sure and firm.

Whoever is aware how much the higher strings stretch with the least

relaxation of the G, and how much all the strings generally lose, by a

sudden change in tuning, the faculty of remaining with certainty at one

point, will join me in the lively desire that Paganini may decide on

communicating his secret in this respect. It was surprising to find,

especially on one occasion, when he played for nearly an hour and a half

in the most opposite keys—without its being perceptible that he had

changed his tuning—that none of the strings became disturbed. In an

evening concert, between the _Andante_ and the _Polacca_, his G string

snapped, and that which he substituted, though afterwards tuned to B,

remained firm as a rock. His manner of tuning his instrument contains

the secret of many of his effects, of his succession of chords, and

striking vibrations, which ordinarily appear impossible to the

violinist.”

According to this statement, “curious, if true,” Paganini improved his

effects by playing on an instrument _out of tune_, and, with something

like a miracle of creative power, produced harmony out of discord.

Paganini must of a surety have “pegged hard,” and with a screwing that

was inscrutable, to have attained such a management of his pegs! Was M.

Guhr a misty demonstrator, or was Paganini inexplicable? As to the G,

that can bear to be pulled about in this fashion without resenting it,

we must suppose it to possess a passive virtue, a habit of

accommodation, quite beyond the custom of the stringy tribe.[38]

In expatiating on the _second_ point, M. Guhr seems content to describe

effects, rather than to labour (in vain) for the indication of a

cause—but his description is not infelicitous:—

“Paganini’s management of the bow is chiefly remarkable by the

_tripping_ movement which he imparts to it in certain passages. His

_staccato_ is no way similar to that ordinarily produced. He dashes his

bow on the strings, and runs over a succession of scales with incredible

rapidity, while the tones proceed from beneath his fingers, round as

pearls. The _variety_ of his strokes with the bow is wonderful. I had

never before heard marked with so much precision, and without the

slightest disturbance of the measure, the shortest unaccented notes, in

the most hurried movements. And again, what force he imparts in

prolonged sounds! With what depth, in the adagio, he exhales, as it

were, the sighs of a lacerated heart!”

However he might sometimes err in his doctrine, M. Guhr was at least

right in his faith. The supremacy, which he assigned to the great

Genoese genius, was expressed in the language of a handsome enthusiasm:—

“Rode, Kreutzer, Baillot, Spohr—those giants among violinists—seemed to

have exhausted all the resources of the instrument. They had extended

its mechanism, introduced the greatest imaginable variety in the use of

the bow, which was made subservient to all the shades of expression and

execution: they had succeeded, by the magic of their sounds, which

rivalled the human voice, in painting all passions and all the movements

of sentiment. In short, advancing rapidly in the path marked out by

Corelli, Tartini, and Viotti, they had raised the violin to that rank

which ensures to it the dominion of the human soul. In _their_ style,

they are, and remain, great and unsurpassed. But, when we hear Paganini,

and compare him with the other masters, it must be confessed that he has

passed all the barriers which custom had hitherto raised, and that he

has opened a way peculiar to himself, and which essentially separates

him from those great Artists; so much so, that whoever hears him for the

first time, is astonished and transported at hearing what is so

completely new and unexpected;—astonished by the fiend-like power with

which he rules over his instrument;—transported that, with a mechanical

facility which no difficulty resists, he at the same time opens to the

fancy a boundless space, gives to the violin the divinest breathings of

the human voice, and deeply moves the inmost feelings of the soul.”

But we have left Paganini himself at Paris, where we must now rejoin him

and his fortunes. As for the latter, in the moneyed meaning, they grew

with a ratio of increase that would have been more wonderful, had it not

been afterwards outdone by that of his gains in London. As it was, they

were sufficient to inspire one of the Parisian dilettanti, a nicer

worker in figures, with a special access of passion for calculating the

value of notes—that is to say, of Paganini’s musical “notes of hand.”

The result, based upon a concert given at the Opera at Paris, producing

16,500 francs, and presenting 1365 bars of _the_ fiddling, indicated a

quotient of 12 francs for _each bar_, and was still more curiously

distributed into proportions as follows:—for a semibreve, 12 francs; a

minim, 6 francs; a crotchet, 3 francs; a quaver, 1 franc, 50 centimes; a

semiquaver, 15 sous; a demisemiquaver, 7½ sous. This exemplary

calculation did not overlook, moreover, the cash value of each of the

occurring sorts of _rests_; besides working out a “contingent remainder”

of 420 francs—that residue happening to be, by the most curious

coincidence, exactly the price of such a violin as the Conservatory

usually awards by way of prize to its most successful pupils![39]

The provoking impertinence of Rumour, with her thousand busy tongues

darting conjecture and accusation, drew forth, at Paris, as at Vienna,

some effort at self-defence on the part of the assailed Artist. His

letter to the Editor of the _Révue Musicale_ may claim a place here (in

translated form), as well for its pleasantry and ingenuity, as for the

clue it affords to the origin of some of the slanderous liberties which

had and have been taken with his character. Of this letter, it

subsequently appears that the materials were furnished by Paganini, and

the diction arranged by his friend, M. Fétis:—

“Sir,

_Paris, 21 April, 1831._

“So many marks of kindness have been lavished on me by the

Parisian public,—so many plaudits have been awarded to me,—that I

am bound to give credit to that celebrity which is said to have

preceded my arrival. But, if any doubt on the subject could have

remained, it must have been dissipated by the care I see taken by

your artists to make representations of my likeness,—by the

numerous portraits of Paganini, more or less like the original,

with which the walls of your capital are covered. It is not,

however, to simple portraits, Sir, that their speculations are

confined. While walking yesterday along the Boulevard des

Italiens, I saw, in a print-shop, a lithograph representing

_Paganini in prison_. “Well!” said I to myself, “here have we

some worthy citizen who, in imitation of Don Bazilio, has been

turning to account the calumny which has pursued me for the last

fifteen years.” While smilingly examining all the details of this

mystification with which the fancy of the artist had furnished

him, I perceived that a numerous circle had gathered around me,

and that every one, as he compared my features with those of the

young man represented in the lithograph, was taking pains to

satisfy himself as to the degree in which I was altered since the

period of my imprisonment! Thus I found that the thing was taken

_au sérieux_, and that the speculation, at least, was no bad one.

It occurred to me that, as every one _must live_, I might as

well, of myself, furnish a few anecdotes to those enterprising

persons who take so much interest in me and my affairs; so that,

if so disposed, they may have a few more subjects for prints, as

good, and quite as true, as that in question. It is with this

view that I beg you, Sir, to do me the favour of inserting this

letter in your Musical Review.

“These gentlemen have represented me _in prison_, but they do not

seem to know what _took me there_; and, so far, they are about as

wise as myself, or as those who have brought the story into

circulation. It bears, in fact, a great many versions, and

presents a corresponding variety for the designer. It has been

said, for instance, that, having surprised a rival in the chamber

of my mistress, I had bravely stabbed him from behind, when he

was incapable of defending himself. By others, it has been

pretended that it was against the person of my mistress herself,

that my fury had been directed; but they are not agreed as to the

_mode_ I had adopted to accomplish her destruction,—some

contending for the poniard, and others for poison; so that, as

each has indulged his imagination in describing the affair, it

would be hard to deny a similar license to the dealers in

lithographs. I will relate what occurred to me at Padua some

fifteen years ago.

“I had given a concert there, and had met with considerable

success. On the following day, I was one of sixty at a _table

d’hôte_, where I had entered the room without being recognized.

One of the guests was pleased to express himself in very

flattering terms on my public appearance the evening before.

Another concurred in the praise thus bestowed, but added, by way

of explanation, “There is nothing in the talent of Paganini which

ought to excite surprise. He is indebted for it to the sojourn he

has made for eight years of his life within the walls of a

dungeon, with nothing but his violin to mitigate the rigors of

his captivity. He was condemned to this long confinement for

having basely assassinated a friend of _mine_, who was his

rival.”

“The whole company, as you may well believe, exclaimed against

the enormity of the offence. For _my_ part, I got up, and,

addressing the person who seemed so well acquainted with my

previous history, begged him to tell me where, when and how, the

adventure had taken place. Every eye was turned towards me as I

spoke, and you may judge of the general astonishment, when one

amongst themselves was thus recognized as the chief actor in the

tragedy. The historian was sadly embarrassed. It was no longer

one of _his friends_ who had fallen; “he had heard it said,”—“he

had been credibly informed,”—“he had believed,—but it was

possible that he might have been mistaken!”

“It is thus, Sir, that the reputation of an artist is trifled

with, because others, of more indolent habits, are at a loss to

understand how a man should apply himself as effectually to

study, while at full liberty in his own house, as within the

walls of a dungeon!

“At Vienna, a still more preposterous rumour put the credulity of

the inhabitants to the test. I had been playing those variations

known by the name of _Le Stregghe_ (the Witches). A young man,

who was described to me as of a pale and melancholy aspect, with

eyes of the most inspired cast, said that he saw nothing

surprising in my performance, for, while I was executing my

variations, he had distinctly perceived the devil at my elbow,

guiding my fingers, and directing my bow; that the said devil was

dressed in red; had horns and a tail; and that, moreover, the

striking likeness of our countenances plainly established the

relationship between us! It was impossible to refuse credence to

so circumstantial and descriptive an account: and the curious

became satisfied that this was the true secret of what are called

my _tours de force_.

“For a long time, I was weak enough to allow my tranquillity to

be disturbed by such idle rumours. I tasked myself to demonstrate

their absurdity. I called attention to the fact, that, from the

age of fourteen, I had been constantly under the public eye, and

giving concerts; that I had been employed, for sixteen years, as

chief of the orchestra and director of the music, to the Court;

and that, if it were true that I had been eight years in prison

for killing my mistress or my rival, it must have been before my

first appearance in public; so that I must have had a mistress,

and a rival, before I was seven years of age. I invoked even the

testimony of my country’s ambassador at Vienna, who declared that

he had known me, for nearly twenty years, in the situation which

became an honest man; and I thus succeeded, for the moment, in

silencing the calumny; but calumny is never totally extinguished,

and it does not surprise me to find it revive in this city.

“Under such circumstances, Sir, what ought I to do? I see nothing

for it but to submit with resignation, and give free scope to

the exercise of an ingenious malignity. Before concluding,

however, I may as well communicate an anecdote, which has

probably given rise to some of these injurious rumours about me.

It is as follows:

“A performer on the violin, named D...i,[40] who was at Milan in

1798, had connected himself with two men of bad character, who

persuaded him to go with them during the night to a neighbouring

village, to assassinate the clergyman, who was reported to have

been possessed of great wealth. Happily, the heart of one of the

associates failed him at the decisive moment, and he resolved to

denounce his confederates. The gendarmerie went to the spot, and

arrested D...i, and his friend, at the moment of their arrival at

the house of the _curé_. They were condemned to twenty years’

confinement, and thrown into prison; but General Menou, then

Governor of Milan, at the end of the second year, set the artist

at liberty.

“Would you believe it, Sir? It was on this foundation, that all

my history has been raised. A performer on the violin was in

question, and his name ended in _i_—so that it _must_ have been

_Paganini_. It was _I_ who had been in prison, and the

assassination became that of my mistress, or my rival. Thus, to

explain the discovery of my new style of performance, they

encumber me with fetters which would but add to the difficulty.

Let me hope, Sir, that if I must yield to the propagators of a

calumny so obstinately persevered in against all verisimilitude,

they will at least consent to abandon their prey _after

death_,—and that those who so cruelly avenge themselves of my

success, will leave my ashes to rest in peace. Accept, Sir, the

assurance, &c.

“PAGANINI.”

Largely profited in honours and revenue, through his exertions in

France, the great artist directed his course to the shores of England,

where the reception which awaited him was destined to form a climax to

his previous triumphs. Fame, that most eager, but inexact lady-usher,

who had introduced him to the French with so many whispers of wild

import, took similar liberties when she presented him to the marvelling

Londoners. “The page will be a strange one in the history of Art, to be

written some fifty years hence (says a writer in the _Athenæum_), which

shall contain all the rumours that heralded Paganini’s first appearance

in England, and were quoted in explanation of his outward eccentricities

of person and manner. Our children will laugh at the credulity of their

fathers, when they read of a magician who strung his instrument with the

heart-strings of his mistress—a sort of demon Orpheus, who had been

initiated into his power by the gentle ordeals of murder and solitary

confinement;—and yet such reports were widely spread, and, strange to

say, believed! The writer of this notice remembers having heard it

gravely said in society, “that Paganini could play upon his violin when

all its strings were taken off!” and, when another of the party, to

expose the absurdity of the tale, declared that this wonder of the world

had done more, having once actually _strung a gridiron_ (his own violin

not arriving in time), on which he performed a concerto with immense

applause—this second and surpassing marvel (of course fabricated in the

humour of the moment) was not only swallowed, but absolutely retailed,

as an accredited fact!”

The capacious area of the King’s Theatre, scarcely adequate to the large

expectations founded upon his fame, was selected as the scene of his

London début. An awkward collision with public opinion marked, however,

the interval immediately preceding his appearance. An endeavour to

elevate the prices of admission above the usual _concert-pitch_, raised

a storm of opposition, that was only allayed by prompt and necessary

concession. To attribute the attempt, thus properly frustrated, to an

extortionate spirit on the part of Paganini, as was pretty generally

done at the time, seems hardly fair. It is more reasonable to suppose

that his ignorance of the English customs was taken advantage of, for

the sordid purposes of others; and on this point it may be worth while

here to say a few words. There is in London a class of needy and

adventurous foreigners, who, with no available talent of their own, have

just industry enough to make them beset those of their countrymen, whose

genius or good fortune enables them to figure successfully in our

metropolis. Whoever, at the period here referred to, has had occasion to

direct his course through the Regent’s Quadrant, either in the twilight

of a departing day, or during the brighter reign of gas and night, must

have noted the loose, idle, swaggering gait, the tawdry and _outré_

habiliments, and the dark and dirty looks, of certain figures who

loitered about in obstructive knots, or sauntered on in pairs or threes,

among the more regulated passengers. Their equipment was ordinarily

completed by a reeking cigar, which added to their sense of importance,

and was an auxiliary to their impertinencies of demeanour towards the

females, of whatever grade, who chanced to pass within their track. But

their “high and _palmy_ state” was in the gallery of the King’s Theatre,

where their pertinacious “manual exercise,” and their laudatory

vociferations, in favour of the dancers who successively occupied the

stage during the ballet, were a serious annoyance to all around them.

Under this character, which seems to have no English term that will

exactly fit it, they were (and still are) known as the _claqueurs_.

Externally, they are altogether the personification of impudent

pretence—and, to enable them to support their equivocal character, they

seek out the private quarters of the great singer, or the fortunate

artist, in whatever line, and, by all the arts of the meanest flattery,

contrive to extract from his purse such tribute as his vanity, or his

complaisance, may be willing to afford. It is no unnatural conjecture to

suppose that, on the occasion just named, Paganini acted under a mistake

produced by influence of this kind.[41]

Perhaps no achievement in the musical art, performed by one person, has

ever been attended with more enthusiasm than marked the exhibition made

by Paganini at his first concert in London, given on the 3rd of June,

1831. Certain it is that nothing in the way of musical performance, that

had ever preceded it in this country, had exceeded it in _novelty_. It

was the prevalent theme of talking wonder; and all the ingenuities of

written criticism were tasked to describe and estimate it. Allowing for

the difficulty of appreciating, where the singularity was so great,

there was a remarkable acuteness shewn in some of the accounts that

appeared in the journals of the day. From these I propose to make a few

extracts, selecting such as seem best to illustrate the peculiarities

with which they had to deal. Let us commence with a statement given in

the first person, by Mr. Gardner, of Leicester.

“At the hazard of my ribs, I placed myself at the Opera door, two hours

and a half before the concert began; presently, the crowd of musicians

and violinists filled the Colonnade to suffocation, all anxious to get

the front seat, because they had to pay for their places, Paganini not

giving a single ticket away. The Concert opened with Beethoven’s Second

Symphony, admirably performed by the Philharmonic band; after which

Lablache sang _Largo al Factotum_, with much applause, and was encored.

A breathless silence then ensued, and every eye was watching the action

of this extraordinary violinist: and, as he glided from the side scenes

to the front of the stage, an involuntary cheering burst from every part

of the house, many rising from their seats to view the _spectre_ during

the thunder of this unprecedented cheering—his gaunt and extraordinary

appearance being more like that of a devotee, about to suffer martyrdom,

than one to delight you with his art. With the tip of his bow, he set

off the orchestra, in a grand military movement, with a force and

vivacity as surprising as it was new. At the termination of this

introduction, he commenced with a soft streamy note of celestial

quality: and, with three or four whips of his bow, elicited points of

sound that mounted to the third heaven, and as bright as the stars. A

scream of astonishment and delight burst from the audience at the

novelty of this effect. Immediately, an execution followed, that was

equally indescribable, in which were intermingled tones more than human,

which seemed to be wrung from the deepest anguish of a broken heart.

After this, the audience were enraptured by a lively strain, in which

you heard, commingled with the tones of the instrument, those of the

voice, with the _pizzicato_ of the guitar, forming a compound of

exquisite beauty. If it were possible to aim at a description of his

manner, we should say that you would take the violin to be a wild animal

which he is endeavouring to quiet in his bosom, and which he

occasionally, fiend-like, lashes with his bow; this he dashes upon the

strings as you would whip with a walking switch; tearing from the

creature the most horrid as well as delightful tones. He has long legs

and arms, and his hands, in his playing, often assume the attitude of

prayer, with the fingers pointed upwards. The highest notes (contrary to

every thing we have learnt) are produced as the hand recedes from the

bridge; overturning all our previous notions of the art. During these

effects, a book caught fire upon one of the desks, which burned for some

time unobserved by the musicians, who could neither see nor hear (though

repeatedly called to by the audience) any thing but the feats of this

wonderful performer. Some few pieces were played by the orchestra, that

gave repose to the admiring audience. He then entered upon his

celebrated performance of the single string, introducing the air of _Nel

cor più_ (_Hope told a flattering tale_), to which he imparted a tone so

‘plaintive and desolate that the heart was torn by it;’ in the midst of

this he was so _outré_—so comic—as to occasion the loudest bursts of

laughter! This feat was uproariously encored. He then retired to put on

three other strings, and ended this miraculous performance with the

richest _arpeggios_ and echoes, intermingled with new effects that no

language can describe! Though he retired amidst a confusion of huzzas

and bravos that completely drowned the full orchestra, yet he was called

for to receive the homage of the audience. There was no trick in his

playing; it was all fair, scientific execution, opening to us a new

order of sounds, the highest of which ascended two octaves above C in

alt.”

Our next demonstration is from the able pen that gave life and eloquence

to the new “Tatler:”—

“Those of our readers who have heard the most eminent of violin

performers, eminent for strength, sweetness, and purity of tone, will

hear all these requisites to absolute perfection in Paganini. They who

have heard difficulties in the way of execution overcome, which it

seemed bordering on desperation to attempt, may tax their faculties to

invent new enormities, and they will not only fall short in their

imaginings, but he will perform all, and more, not merely without show

of effort, but as if they were a fanciful prelude, or pastime, to some

laborious undertaking. In the course of the concert given last evening

at the Opera-house, he performed four pieces, in which, we conceive, he

exhibited every feature that the instrument can display, and many more

than it has hitherto been thought capable of. The first was a concerto

of the most florid character, varied with movements of exquisite

expression and tenderness. The second was a composition in the minor

key, and which, for its own intrinsic merit, made the strongest appeal

to our feelings. In it he satisfied at once any doubt we might have that

he would prove unequal in a _cantabile_.—His expression in this piece

was the most genuine display of passionate feeling we ever remember to

have heard on any instrument. It required no explanatory chorus, no

voice of accompaniment—it was the perfection of musical sighing, and

gentle sorrow. The third performance was a military rondo, the whole of

which he played upon one string—the fourth. In it he introduced the

subject of ‘_Non più andrai_’ from _Figaro_, with variations of the most

astonishing description. He introduced passages of imitation in octaves,

with wonderful rapidity and neatness, and with a purity of tone that was

delicious. The precision, too, with which he dashed from the lowest

note of the string to the opposite extreme, and all with the utmost

indifference of manner, was one of the commonest of his achievements.

The last piece, which was a brilliant rondo, he played entirely without

the orchestral accompaniment; and this was the triumph of the evening.

It consisted of an air with variations, crowded with enharmonic

passages. The subject, now legato, and now hurried, was at one time

attended with a florid, and at another with a _pizzicato_ accompaniment;

and, as he drew to a close, he accelerated his time to a _prestissimo,

the air and the pizzicato moving on together_, and ending with a _rapid

shake upon the latter_! The violin-player will fully appreciate the

difficulty of this achievement. It is scarcely necessary to state that

the audience were _satisfied_. The applause was showered upon him in

torrents.”

Another commentator thus expresses himself:—

“Paganini’s playing is in a very high degree intellectual. It is mental,

as well as physical and mechanical. The instant he seizes his violin,

which he usually coquets with for a time before bringing it up to its

proper place, a sudden animation passes over his countenance. He has the

advantage, which all concerto players, by the way, ought to adopt, of

_never using a book_. This mode, in itself, has as much the superiority

as a speech delivered has over one that is read. When the first bow is

drawn, Paganini is evidently lost to every other thought, and is

revelling probably in a world of his own creation. All his passages seem

free and unpremeditated, as if conceived on the instant. One has no

impression of their having cost him either forethought or labour. The

word difficulty has no place in his vocabulary, so completely is all

brought under his subjection and mastery.

“Nothing can be more intense in feeling than his conception and delivery

of an adagio passage. His tone is not, perhaps, so full and round as

that of some other players—as Baillot, or De Beriot, for example: it is

delicate, rather than strong; but that delicacy is inconceivable, unless

one has heard it, and was probably never possessed equally by any other

player. His touch is occasionally so fine, that the note seems to float

in the air, and not to spring from any instrument. In point of

expression, it is impossible to imagine any thing more perfect. The

melancholy or tender (as should be the case in slow movements) mostly

predominates; but there is no shade or form of expression which the

genius of Paganini does not draw forth. His adagios are intermixed with

passages of rapid execution, which go off with the rapidity of a rocket,

or a falling star—a break of the subject, or an impertinence, in any

hands but his own—but, if analyzed, all is in perfect keeping.

“The only thing that can be said to lessen the wonder of Paganini’s

powers in the way of mere mechanism, is that he is indebted for them, in

some measure, to his own peculiar conformation. His long arms, and

slender frame, allow him to place the instrument in the most

advantageous position that is possible; and his left arm is brought so

completely under it, that his hand seems to cover the whole extent of

the finger-board. Such is the flexibility, besides, of his joints, that

he can throw his thumb nearly back upon his wrist, and extend his little

finger, at the same time, in the opposite direction. By these means,

when in the first position, as it is called, of the violin, he can

reach, without shifting, to the second octave. His extreme high

notes—for he contrives to play three octaves on each string—are given,

consequently, with a precision and certainty never heard before. This

flexibility, without doubt, is indispensable to the execution of many of

the passages, though it is, probably, not wholly natural to him, but

acquired, in part, by his long and severe practice. His solo on the

fourth or G string (the other three being discarded for the occasion) we

consider among the most charming, as well as the most wonderful,

specimens. There are few players, we apprehend, who, in point of mere

difficulty, could do on four strings what Paganini does on one; but that

is nothing. The charm lies in the peculiar effect—in the soft and

silvery tone of that string, which one almost imagines to be increased,

though, perhaps, without reason, by taking the others away. No defect is

felt, as regards compass, in this piece. There appear to be as many

notes as in the violin in its ordinary state; and, in fact, by the aid

of the harmonics, he does make nearly as many.”

Such were the wonders achieved, and such the impressions created, by

this superlative master of the most versatile of instruments. After he

had performed at this his first concert, Mori went about with the

jesting enquiry, “Who’ll buy a fiddle and bow for eighteen-pence?” and

John Cramer exclaimed, “Thank Heaven, I am not a violin-player!” It

seemed, in short, to be commonly admitted, that, as nothing had been

heard before, in violin performance, equal to this exhibition, so

nothing could be expected ever to exceed it—that “the force of fiddling

could no further go.” One of the numerous critics whom he kindled into

rapture, observed that in the style of Paganini were united the majesty

of Rode, the vigour of Baillot, the sentiment of Spohr, the

_sensibilité_ of Kiesewetter, the suavity of Vaccari, the mastery of

Maurer, the _justesse_ of Lafont, and the elegant expression of De

Beriot!

The excitement produced by the first public display of these powers in

our metropolis was fully sustained on the subsequent occasions. It would

fill a volume of itself, were I to treat, “avec circonstance,” of the

successive concerts at theatres and other places, in which the Genoese

genius electrified attending mortals

“With heav’nly touch of instrumental sounds.”

With no intention to be thus particular, I must beg permission,

nevertheless, to extract a few more passages of contemporary notice. The

celebrated _Capriccio_, in which he introduced the air from the

_Carnaval de Venise_, merits a separate description:—

“On reaching his position in the centre of the stage, he seemed at once

to lose all consciousness of the presence of mortals, and to live and

breathe for his violin alone. He touched its strings lightly and

trippingly, as if to awaken it, and then, after having given it three or

four of those sweeping, switching strokes, which almost justify the

expression that he thinks to lash it into submission to his spirit, he

threw off a most singular mutilation of the Venetian Air, “Oh! come to

me!” in which, while he appeared to retain only the sad part of the

original, he communicated to it an odd wailing character. On this

subject he _capriccio’d_ some four or five variations, all in a

consistent style, in which he introduced most of his peculiar movements

of hand and bow. At the end, he was rapturously applauded, and he

retired as he had entered. The applause, however, being continued, mixed

with some cries of _encore_, he came forth again, but without his

violin, and, making a most eloquent bow, retired once more. The plaudits

were, however, now redoubled, and the wicked audience, having got the

crotchet into their heads, pretty unanimously vociferated _encore_;

when, after some delay, the good Signor absolutely did make his

appearance with his second self—or his _pickaninney_—his violin; and did

vouchsafe two little variations more, of the wizard strain:—the last was

altogether performed by the hand which held the instrument, and without

the aid of the bow. On the whole, so strange, so whimsical an

outpouring of melancholy we never heard before, and probably never

shall again:—one really did not know whether to laugh or cry at it.

Nothing upon record, that we know of, comes near it, with the exception

of _Corporal Trim’s_ pathos in the kitchen.”

In the region of the harmonic notes, which was before (comparatively

speaking) almost a “terra incognita,” Paganini may claim the undoubted

merit of having made extensive discoveries:—

“The _staccato_ runs, performed with the bow and concluded with a guitar

note, are quite original with Paganini; and this is one of the few

novelties in which he may find successful imitators. But his manner of

producing the harmonic notes, which ascend to a height never before

imagined, will probably remain a perpetual mystery[42]; it is not their

least marvellous characteristic that, exquisitely attenuated as they

are, the distinctness and strength of the sound is not, in the smallest

degree, impaired. In performing on the fourth string only, he introduces

the harmonics as part of the regular scale, thus obviating, in effect,

all deficiency as to compass. The introduction of _pizzicato_ runs, on

this solitary string, is another inexplicable mechanical feat.”

And again, as to these wonder-working harmonics:—

“Signor Paganini having, through vast exertion, procured himself the aid

of two entire additional octaves with their half-notes, making in all

28 notes _on the fourth string_, by means of the harmonics, is able to

execute pieces of a very extensive scale on that string alone. The

labour he must have gone through, before he could so completely obtain

the command of the harmonic notes, none but violin performers of

experience can form a notion of. The most surprising part of the use he

makes of them is in the clearness and strength of their tone, which

render them as audible as the full notes, at any distance.”

At his (so called) farewell Concert at the King’s Theatre, on the 20th

of August, two of the pieces he selected for his display were especially

remarkable in the treatment. One of them, a _fandango_ of very bizarre

character, performed on the fourth string, consisted, in part, of a sort

of whiningly amorous colloquy between two birds. An incidental

_crowing_, like that of a cock, was privately conjectured, by one of the

musical men present, to be the artist’s medium of conveying an oblique

satire upon _the audience_, as the subdued vassals of his will. No

impression of the kind, however, existed with _them_, for they demanded

the repetition of the affair. The other piece was our National Anthem of

God save the King, certainly an ill-selected subject for exhibition on a

single instrument, and, in the treatment of it (if I may venture to

advance my own impressions experienced at the time), too full of

sliding, and, as it were, _puling_, to satisfy the pre-conceptions

derived from the fullness, steadiness and grandeur, characteristic of

the original composition. Indeed, as it appeared to my own humble

judgment, there was intermixed in the general performances of this

wonderful artist, “something too much” of this sliding and tremulous

work, the result, seemingly, of an overstraining at expression—of an

attempt, if I may so speak, to make the note carry more than it could

_bear_. The effect, in such cases, was in some degree analogous to that

of Velluti’s singing; it bespoke intentions outstripping the possibility

of execution. But then, amid so much splendid achievement, must we not

always expect to find some mark or other of the imperfection belonging

to that poor human nature which is the agent?

Whatever may have been, in the _artistic_ sense, the relative

appreciation of Paganini’s talent, in the various European countries

that had witnessed its display—it is certain that he was no where so

highly estimated, according to the _monetary_ scale, as in England,

where it has been supposed (though the exact computation of such matters

is difficult) that his receipts amounted to about twenty-four thousand

pounds. Whilst the golden shower was descending on him, he was not so

absorbed in its fascination, as to forget the silent claims of the

penny-less;—nor would it be fair to measure his impulses in this

direction, by the side of that largeness of soul which we have all so

greatly delighted to honour in the excellent Jenny Lind.

In the summer of 1834, after an absence of six years, spent partly in

Europe and partly in America, Paganini revisited Italy—where, looking

wistfully towards the sweets of retirement, he invested a portion of his

accumulated funds in the purchase of an agreeable country-residence in

the environs of Parma, called the _Villa Gajona_. Among the projects he

at that time entertained, was the thought of preparing his various

compositions for publication—a measure towards which the eager

curiosity, of those especially interested in the violin, had long been

pointedly turned, under the impression that all which was mysterious in

the production of his extraordinary effects would thus be freely

elucidated. Exaggerated notions, however, as to the pecuniary value of

such a work, seem to have possessed the mind of Paganini; for, an

enterprising Parisian publisher, who had made hopeful approaches to him

whilst in London, had been frightened away by the discovery, that if he

were to enter on the speculation by payment of the sum expected, he must

look through a vista of ten years, for the commencement of his profits!

Received every where with honour in his own country, as the result of

his foreign ovations, and decorated, by Maria Louisa, Duchess of Parma,

with the Imperial Order of St. George, the caressed Artist was,

nevertheless, incapable of any continuous enjoyment, for the want of

that health which his restless and transitive spirit had no where been

able to attain. A speculation of no sound character, with which he was

induced to connect himself (in ignorance, as it is believed, of its real

nature), drew him away to Paris, in 1838, and, in the result, damaged

his pocket, and did not wholly spare his reputation. In that project,

designed professedly for concerts, but covertly for gambling, he became

involved, through a legal verdict, to the extent of 50,000 francs.

In the midst of the troubles associated with that affair, his ailments

had deepened into consumption; and he made a painful journey through

France, under medical prescription, to reach Marseilles. There, in

retirement, beneath the roof of a friend, a brief return of energy

enabled him to take up, now and then, his violin or his guitar; and he

one day showed so much animation as to join effectively in a certain

quartett of Beethoven’s, which he passionately admired. The necessity

for change, so peculiarly felt by consumptive patients, impelled him

again to his own Genoa; but the _great_ change was at hand—and another

journey brought him to his last earthly scene, which was at Nice. The

closing process was rapid. His voice became hardly distinguishable from

silence itself—and sharp attacks of cough, that grew daily more

obstinate, completed the exhaustion of his strength.

Of the final moments of this memorable man, an Italian writer has

furnished some account, in terms which, touching as they are, yet leave

in the heart a sense of something to be desired—something which no

reflecting mind will be at any loss to understand. The account is (in

English) as follows:—

“During the evening that was his last, he manifested more tranquillity

than was habitual to him. On awaking, after a short slumber, he had the

curtains of his bed drawn aside, that he might contemplate the full

moon, serenely marching through the immensity of the clear heaven. In

the midst of that contemplation, he again sank into drowsiness; but the

whispering of the contiguous trees excited in his bosom that stir of

gentle emotion, which is the very life of the beautiful. As if he would

have rendered back to Nature the sweet sensations he was receiving from

her in that final hour—he extended his hand toward his charm-haunted

violin—toward the faithful companion of his wanderings—toward the magic

thing that had been as an opiate to his troubles;—and then—he sent up to

heaven, along with its expiring sounds, the last sigh of a life that had

been all melody!”

The date of the event was the 27th May, 1840—and the age of the

deceased, fifty-six. The great Artist left considerable wealth, together

with the title of Baron (conferred on him in Germany) to his only son,

Achilles, the offspring of a union with a certain vocalist, named

Antonia Bianchi—a union which, not having been secured and sanctioned by

the church’s testimony, was soon severed by the lady’s temper.

The life of Paganini had been a “fitful fever”—and the desire to “sleep

well” may indeed be conceived to have been as an abiding thirst within

him. Even his cold remains, however, were not permitted, by jealous and

jaundiced authority, to repose undisturbed. Slander had been furtively

busy with his name—he had died without the _stamp_ conferred by official

religious ministrations—his Catholicity was dubious—his mortal relics

could not (_so_ decided the Bishop of Nice) be committed to consecrated

ground. In vain did his son, his friends, and the chief professors of

art in that city, make solicitation of leave for a solemn service to be

performed in behalf of his eternal repose, under the plea that, like

many another victim of consumption, he had not supposed his death to be

imminent, and had departed this life suddenly;—the leave was refused;

and all that could be obtained, was the offer of an authentic

declaration of demise, with license to transport the corpse

whithersoever it might be wished. This was declined—and the affair was

brought before a public tribunal, which gave verdict in favour of the

Bishop. Appeal was then had to Rome, where the Bishop’s decision was

cancelled, and the Archbishop of Turin was charged, conjointly with two

Canons of the Cathedral at Genoa, to make enquiry into Paganini’s

Catholicity. During all this time, the corpse had remained in a room at

the Hospital at Nice. It was then transferred, by sea, from the

lazaretto of Villa Franca, near that city, to a country-seat in the

neighbourhood of Genoa. There, a report soon got into circulation, of

strange and lamentable sounds being heard by night. To arrest these

popular impressions, the young Baron Paganini undertook the cost of a

solemn service to the memory of his father, which was celebrated in one

of the churches at Parma. After this expenditure, the friends of the

deceased had permission from the Bishop of Parma to bring the corpse

within that Duchy—to transfer it to the _Villa Gajona_—and to inter it

near the village church:—and this funeral homage was at length rendered

to the remains of the man of celebrity, in May 1845, but without any

display, in conformity with orders from the government.

The sum bequeathed by Paganini to his son (for whom a documentary

legitimacy had been procured) amounted to two millions of francs (about

£80,000), charged with legacies of fifty, and sixty thousand francs,

respectively, to his two sisters, and with an annual _pittance_ of 1200

francs to the mother of his loved Achilles. He left also some valuable

instruments, including an incomparable _Straduarius_, a charming

_Guarnerius_, of the small pattern, an excellent _Amati_, a _bass_ of

Straduarius, agreeing with the violin by the same maker, and his large

and favourite _Guarnerius_. This latter, the sole instrument associated

entirely with his travels, he bequeathed to the city of Genoa, being

unwilling that any other artist should possess it after him.

Some further particulars, to illustrate chiefly the habits of the _man_,

may not be deemed superfluous.

Paganini’s existence was a series of alternations betwixt excitement and

exhaustion; and it is not surprising to find that his moods of mind were

variable and uneven, and that he would sometimes sit, for hours

together, in a sealed and sombre taciturnity, whilst, at other times,

he would surrender himself to a wild effervescence of gaiety,—without

any apparent motive in either case. Most commonly silentious, he was

talkative when travelling. The weak state of his health made him averse

from loud conversation; and yet, when the rattle of the wheels over the

pavement became deafening, he would talk loud and fast. To the scenic

charms out-spread before his eyes, he was insensible—his urgent impulse

being to move rapidly, and to reach his journey’s end. In his later

years, a low bodily temperature was habitual to him, insomuch that he

would wrap a furred pelisse around him, in summer-time, and huddle

himself up in a corner of his carriage, with every window closed.

In-doors, on the contrary, he would have all the windows open, and

called it taking an air-bath! He anathematized the climates of Germany

and France, but, above all, that of England; and declared that Italy was

the only country to live in. The intensity of his internal sufferings

transmuted, at times, his ordinary pallor into a livid, or even a

greenish hue; but his recourse was to quackery—to _one_ empirical

remedy, in which he had faith, and not to doctors, in whom he had none.

Before commencing a day’s journey, he took no tea, nor coffee, but

either soup or a cup of chocolate. If it were early in the morning, he

would start without taking anything, and sometimes continue fasting the

greater part of the day. For the encumbrances of baggage, he had almost

the contempt of a _Napier_. A small shabby box, in which he placed his

beloved _Guarnerius_ instrument, his jewels, money, and meagre stock of

linen,—a carpet bag—and a hat-box—these were his accompaniments, and

were all stowed inside the vehicle. Careless of all that goes by the

name of _comfortable_, he was also very little solicitous about his

toilet. His wardrobe might have gone into a napkin. As for his papers,

they were thrust into a small red portfolio, in “most admired disorder,”

such as himself alone could penetrate for any immediate purpose.

Arithmetician he was _not_, in the ordinary sense—but he managed his

business calculations in a way of his own, that answered all his need.

To the style of his accommodations on the road, he was quite

indifferent, provided only that his rooms were _quiet_. At the day’s

end, a light supper, or (sometimes) a cup of camomile tea, sufficed him.

In his own quarters, Paganini maintained usually the strictest solitude,

and seemed always to quit his room with regret. His violin, as silent as

himself, was not touched, save when he tuned it for a concert, or a

rehearsal. He had worked _enough_—his labours had long before carried

him to the summit;—his want, his craving want, was _repose_. There is a

floating story about his having been dodged and watched for six months,

from one halting-place to another, by an enthusiastic English amateur,

who hoped to “pluck out the heart of his mystery,” to grasp the secret

of his studies, by lodging at the same hotels, and occupying (whenever

possible), a contiguous chamber. Vain expectation! a profound silence

always enveloped the great Professor. At length, however, the crisis of

discovery seemed imminent. Paganini was seen (through a key-hole) to

seat himself on a couch—to take the incomparable fiddle from its case—to

raise it to his left shoulder! Still, the silence was unbroken—not the

whisper of a note could be distinguished! Paganini, absorbed doubtless

in the composition of some new piece, only shifted his left hand about,

upon the neck of the instrument, to study his positions, without the

help of the bow—and then restored the un-awakened fiddle to its

resting-place. The Englishman (says the story) renounced his hapless

pursuit, and returned home in despair!

Enchained to music and its toils, from his earliest youth, Paganini had

acquired very little general knowledge. Books were strange things to him

and history and science, almost nullities. Political events had no

interest for him: he looked at the newspapers merely for what personally

concerned him. His mind was much engaged with his own projects for the

future—such as forming a Musical Conservatory in Italy, publishing his

compositions, writing operas, and ceasing to travel. He had a _Byronic_

mistrust of friends, and proneness to regard them as secret plotters

against his peace. As for visitors (by whom he was sometimes besieged),

as many as he was not constrained to see, were passed over to his

Secretary. To those Artists who sought his converse, that they might

enucleate his professional secrets, he listened patiently—but maintained

his reserve. Invitations to dine or sup, which at every large town came

in a shower upon him, were sparingly and reluctantly accepted. On rising

from the table, if he could escape unperceived, he would immediately

retire, to take repose. He was more lively _before_ than _after_

dinner—an ill compliment, perhaps, to his _host_, but no bad way of

signifying the real sacrifice he had made, in accepting his invitation.

In evening society, he was cheerful, in the absence of _music_; but, if

that were started, either in practice, or as a conversational topic, his

good humour instantly vanished;—nor is this at all wonderful, when we

remember that his public life was one enormous compound of music, and

that to _forget_ that art, when in his more private moments, must have

been to him as a want and a refuge. His eyes, weakened by the glare of

stage lamps, had an owl-like propensity to shun the light, as was

manifest in his custom of turning his back to the chandeliers &c. in

evening society, and sitting in total darkness at home. He had a

faculty, like that of George the Third, for unfailing recollection of

the persons and names of those who had been once presented to him; and

yet (strange to say) the names of the towns, wherein he gave his

concerts, would slip from his memory, as soon as he had quitted them.

On the mornings of his concert-days, he allowed himself a liberal time

for quiet—lounging at ease upon a sofa, as if conscious that composure

is the cradle of strength—and then he would start up, full of decision

for business. Amid the ensuing preparations, he took a good deal of

snuff—the sure sign of his being earnestly engaged. At rehearsal, he was

careful to exclude strangers. If they found their way in, however, he

touched his solo passages almost inaudibly, or indicated them by a

slight _pizzicato_. With the orchestra, he was rigorous in the

extreme—exacting the minutest attention to every point. When he came to

some special passage of display, in expectation of which, the members of

the band were on their legs, all eagerness to catch what was coming, he

would sometimes carelessly throw off a few notes only, and then turn

towards them with a smile, and the words, _Et cœtera, Messieurs!_ It

was for the evening—for the public—that he reserved all the wonders of

his talent. He always took away with him the various orchestral _parts_,

which he would entrust to no one else. As for the _principal_ part, it

was never seen, as he played from _memory_, and sought to prevent the

copying of his compositions. He had a way—the caprice of conscious

power—of keeping the public a long time waiting, before he would show

himself, and begin to play. His departure from a concert-room was the

picture of a triumph. The curious and the enthusiastic formed a dense

lane, extending to his carriage, and welcomed him with transports of

admiration. At his hotel, a similar assemblage awaited him with their

acclamations. Elate with such marks of general favour, he would then

join the _table-d’hôte_, not without an appetite for supper, though,

perhaps, depression and indigestion might constitute the experience of

the following day.

Such, then, as artist and as man, was Nicholas Paganini—whom let none

_envy_, nor deem that a world-wide fame was _well_ acquired by the

sacrifices _he_ made for its attainment—sacrifices involving, almost of

necessity, much oblivion of the higher purposes of life, along with the

forfeiture of some of its best comforts. Measuring the toils and

sufferings of his career against its triumphs, surely we may say, “_le

jeu ne valait pas la chandelle!_”—the precious flame of life was _too

dearly_ expended on a perfection that allowed _nothing else_ to be

perfected!” For a fitting wreath to the memory of Paganini, the

_cypress_ should bear equal part with the _laurel_; since pity and

admiration can hardly be dissevered, in our thoughts of him. The

consummation of _the artist_ was the spoiling of _the man_. To render

himself, in so absolute a sense, the _master_ of his instrument, it was

essential to become, what he emphatically was—its _slave_. Bodily

health, and moral vigour, withered alike under a dedication to _one_

object of ambitious study, so early sighed for, and with such prolonged

severity pursued. That the _success_, however, (be its relative worth

what it may) was _complete_—that the bold and wild adventurer reached

the highest attainable summit in those regions of art that he explored

and illustrated—is a point which seems hardly capable of rational

dispute. Allowing some of his eccentricities to weigh against him as

_defects_, there will yet remain sufficient ground for regarding him, on

the whole, as the greatest of _all_ violinists, past or present; nor

would _he_ be the _most_ hardy of prognosticators, who should venture to

assign him the like pre-eminence over all future individuals of his

calling;—for how can we anticipate another such happy union of the

_inventive_ with the _executive_ power—another case in which there shall

be so strange a concurrence in the various requisites of pre-disposing

organization,[43] inflexible will, and co-operating circumstance? The

same causes, however, which have placed him so far above the level of

the crowd of instrumentalists, would seem to deny to him the production

of any permanent or important impression on the general state of his

Art. He could hardly have been followed by others, even if he had

undertaken to be their teacher, and to “ungird his strangeness” to their

toiling apprehensions, disclosing to them the most subtle principles of

what he himself delighted to call _la filosofia del violino_. _His_

means would still have been above _their_ means, and the end would

never be reached. Thus, although the greatest of artists, he must be

reckoned, as a director and propagator of his art, far less considerable

than Viotti of the modern school, Corelli of the old, or even others

less distinguished than these two men of fame. “In considering the

discoveries of Paganini,” said once an able French critic, “as regards

their application to the progress of the art, and of genuine music, I

think that their influence will be very limited, and that what arises

out of them is only good in _his_ hands; for, indifferently executed, it

would be insupportable. The art of Paganini stands alone: it was born

and it will die with him.” It is true that we have had _subsequent_

experience, in various instances, of a certain degree of _approximation_

to the feats of Paganini; but, were this even closer than it is, it

would not invalidate what has been here suggested as to the almost

incommunicable nature of such skill as his.

Potent to stir the vibratory string,

And _wonders_ from the realms of sound to bring!

Skilled, through the _ear_, to reach the awakened _heart_,

Or bid the _Fancy_ play her picturing part!

Conqu’ror, whose captives, gladdened with soft strains,

Clung to thy sway, and revelled in their chains,

And came in crowds, their homage to renew,

And heaped the tribute still, as still thy due!

How _void_ the space that thou were wont to fill!

Thy throne, how vacant, now—and _mute_ thy skill!

Hast thou—hast _found_, far, far from earthly din,

The _rest_ thy glittering triumphs could not win?

—Farewell!—What chief soe’er may seek to reign,

_Thy like_ we shall not look upon again!

The _compositions_ of Paganini, replete as they are with the most

surprising difficulties, and the boldest innovations, form prominent

examples of what may be called the _romance_ of instrumental music. The

design entertained by their author, of giving them to the world in his

own life-time, as well as of imparting the _secret_ that should make

their execution seem no longer super-human, was destined to have no

fulfilment; and it is to be regretted that his death rendered impossible

the complete publication of _all_ that he had composed, as not a few of

the manuscript pieces were left by him in an imperfect state. Of

_twenty-four_ several pieces, enumerated as forming the whole of the MS.

original works of Paganini, preserved by his son, _nine_ only were

discovered to be in a completed state. An edition of all that is

presentable, however, has been undertaken in Paris, to gratify at length

a twenty-years expectation but it is very doubtful whether a London

edition will be ventured on, since it is only for the higher class of

professors—for a very select minority—that such a collection can have

any attractiveness, beyond that of mere curiosity.

Monsieur Fétis, in his literary notice, written to accompany the

Collection just referred to, has given some able critical remarks on the

compositions in detail. His pamphlet may be consulted with advantage by

the enquiring reader. Alluding to the compositions in their general

character, M. Fétis observes that great merit is displayed in

them—novelty as to the ideas, elegance as to the forms, richness of

harmony, and variety in the effects of instrumentation. These qualities

(he adds) shine out particularly in the _Concertos_, however much they

may differ from the classic type of those of Viotti, which, with all

their charming sentiment, left something yet to be desired, on the score

of _variety_, in the more rapid passages.

In his own compositions (which he always played with more satisfaction

to himself than those of any other master) the mind of the great artist

was highly developed; but to execute his peculiar intentions, in all

their complexity, he needed the beautiful, exemplary, unfailing accuracy

of intonation, that so distinguished him. How nicely exact, in the

softest passages, his double notes! With what marvellous certainty did

his bow pitch down upon the strings, no matter what the relative

distance of the intervals! His hand (says M. Fétis) was a geometrical

_compass_, that divided, with mathematical exactness, the neck of the

violin—and his fingers always came plump upon the very point at which

the intonations of his double-note intervals were to be obtained.

As some sort of antidote to positive _despair_, I will conclude this

chapter with a passage in which, despite their thorny intricacies, the

above-named writer recommends the practical study of Paganini’s Works:—

“It will perhaps be asked, what can be the advantage of introducing

fresh difficulties into Art! In Music, it will be reasonably contended,

the object is not to _astonish_, by the conquest of difficulties, but to

_charm_, by means of sentiment. Against this principle, I would be the

last to declaim; but I would observe, first, that there is no preventing

those cases of _exception_, in which certain artists _will_ seek the

triumphs of their talent in extreme perils of execution, which, if

successful, the public will as surely applaud;—and, secondly, that the

study of what is most arduous, leads to certainty in what is more

simple. A violinist who should attain the power of playing the Concertos

of Paganini, with truth of tune, and in perfect proportion, would

possess, _à fortiori_, an undeviating accuracy in ordinary music.”

CHAPTER IV.

THE FRENCH SCHOOL.

... furnished out with _arts_. DRYDEN.

Next in importance to the Italian School of Violinists, that of France

now offers its claims to our notice. If the palm, indeed, were to be

awarded according to the comparative merits of the _living_ (or recently

living) Masters of each School, it must be given in favour of France;

for, though we might admit the Italian Paganini to have been “facile

princeps,” the greatest of _all_ performers—and though we might overlook

the consideration of his belonging, in fact, to no class or acknowledged

system whatever—he is, still, but _one_ man of might,—a Goliah, without

an army to back him, since his qualified countrymen, in modern days, are

few—whereas the French have a redoubtable band of champions, present or

recent, whose united force is able to defy living competition. It is in

the aggregate of the _past_ with the present, however, that the Italians

are found to predominate. The probable originators of the art of

violin-playing (in so far, at all events, as it was worthy to be called

such), _they_ have been likewise its steady and decisive improvers in

every department, from the days of Corelli to those of Viotti, a space

of about a century;—while the excellence of the French is of more

modern growth, and, it should be remarked, of more limited character.

Brilliancy of style, neatness and finish of execution, are _their_

distinguishing traits. They are a gay and a polished nation—they are gay

and polished fiddlers. They animate you in the _vivace_, they dazzle you

in the _allegro brillante_—but they commonly fail to reach your heart

through the _adagio appassionato_. Their violinists have all the skill

that is independent of deep feeling. In _expression_, they fall short of

what is required: they catch its lesser graces, but they seem rarely to

attain its higher powers. The violin, considered more particularly as

the _fiddle_, is an instrument too congenial to the temperament of the

French, to have escaped their especial notice and close cultivation. To

all that is mercurial in their tendencies, as well as to much that is

artificial in their habits, it lends itself with the utmost readiness:

it is the best instrument to dance to; it is the best instrument to

protect from _ennui_ your sitters at a theatre: it sharpens the pungency

of an _air de vaudeville_; it sets off the ceremonial of a ballet. In

this sense, the French have “marked it for their own,” and achieved

wonders with it. Out of this sphere—this lower empire—their power has

been less considerable. It must be confessed, however, that this

limitation applies with greater force and distinctness to the time

_preceding_ their great Revolution, than to later days. That mighty

event, which stirred up the depths of the national mind, and opened the

channels of thought in every direction, could not but exert some degree

of influence, even on those arts that have least connection with the

ordinary business of men. The French taste in music—formalistic,

ungenial, and anti-catholic as it was—has undergone _some_ change for

the better, through the convulsions that have overthrown Kings, and

scattered Courts. It still retains, albeit, much of its old, hard

idiosyncrasy. French music is still, for the most part, “_caviare_ to

the general.” It lacks cosmopolitan character. To ensure it a full and

hearty welcome, it needs a French education. If these observations be

just, it follows that our lively neighbours, in dealing with stringed

instruments, as well as with others, would not attain first-rate success

in the way of _composition_ for them—and such has been (I submit) the

fact. Their real _forte_ lies in _exposition_—in giving outward

manifestation and effect to the ideas of others.

It is the remark of one of their own countrymen (the able Mons. Choron),

that the principal merit of the French School of Music, taken

altogether, lies in the various branches of _execution_. And, with

reference always to this quality, execution, he adds, “the style in

which the French have real and undisputed merit, and indeed, in many

respects, have a marked superiority, is the instrumental in general, and

especially that of the violin. On this point, the French have always had

great pretensions, and _often_ founded in justice.” After alluding to

the alleged excellence of early French violinists, and, in particular,

of the twenty-four _petits violons_ of Louis XIV, formed by Lully, M.

Choron has the candour to acknowledge that he knows not how to reconcile

this with the following statement, given by Corette (a furious partisan,

by the way, of the French School of Music), in the Preface to his

Méthode d’Accompagnement, published at Paris about 1750.—“At the

commencement of this century,” says that author, “music was very dull

and slow, &c.... When Corelli’s Sonatas were first brought from Rome

(about 1715), nobody in Paris could play them. The Duke of Orleans,

then Regent, being a great amateur of music, and wishing to hear them,

was obliged to have them _sung_ by three voices. The violinists then

began to study them, and, at the expiration of _some years, three_ were

found who could play them. Baptiste, one of these, went to Rome to study

them under Corelli himself.”—Having quoted this embarrassing passage, M.

Choron thus continues:—“Be this as it may; since that period,

instrumental music has been studied with ardour by the French, and they

have made astonishing progress in it. France has now an excellent school

for the violin, _founded upon that of Italy_.”

The excellence of the school, thus defined as to its peculiar character,

and thus denoted as to its origin, none will probably be disposed to

deny, who are conversant with the general state of instrumental

performance at the present time. Adverting again to the question of

_composition_, we may assert, and that also on M. Choron’s authority,

that the French have only been imitators, although they are not without

names of some celebrity there likewise. M. Castil-Blaze,[44] in a

passage wherein he takes a rapid glance at a few of the French

violinists, presents us with a tolerable notion of the characteristics

of the French system, both as to playing and writing:—“Kreutzer excels

in voluble touches, whether continuous or detached into pointed notes.

Rode is distinguished by traits of _coquettish_ character, as well as by

a free vocal effect conveyed by full notes, whose whole charm is in the

quality of the tone. Lafont exhibits an admirable shake, with much grace

and refinement in his style. Baillot dazzles in rapid passages, and

surprises by the boldness of his double-stringed effects, and the magic

of his bow.” Here we find, albeit expressed in the most favorable terms,

far more of the pretty and the glittering, than of the solid or the

elevated.

“Each of these masters,” continues M. Castil-Blaze, “has lavished upon

his compositions those peculiar traits which he most affected, and has

made sparing use of such as were remote from his own style of execution.

It is certain that those favorite traits would not come beneath his

hand, in equal proportion, in a composition of Viotti’s; nay, he would

there meet with some that would not admit of his displaying all the

extent of his resources, &c. It is therefore indispensable that the

virtuoso, who desires to show himself in the most favorable light,

should compose his own music, or, at least, should direct him who is

charged with its composition.”—This, it needs scarcely to be observed,

may be well enough calculated to favor the triumphs of individual

vanity, by giving prominence to mechanical dexterity; but it is

obviously not founded on a regard for the higher principles of art.

Having glanced at the great national Revolution, as to its agency in

modifying French musical taste, let us give a momentary attention,

likewise, to another influential agency—that of the _Conservatoire de

Musique_—an institution which has done much, during the last half

century, to foster and develop merit in the Art under consideration. M.

Castil-Blaze, in his work, “De l’Opéra en France,” thus notifies its

origin and effects:—

“In 1793, a union took place of all which France possessed that was most

illustrious in the line of composers, singers, and instrumentalists. The

_Conservatoire_ of France, that monument of our musical glory, was

raised on the foundation of the old _Ecole de Chant_. All the scattered

documents, the varying and sometimes contradictory theories, the

principles professed by each master, were brought together, examined,

revised;—and then was formed a universal code of music, a system of

instruction clear in its elements, methodical as well as rapid in its

progression, and certain in its results. * * * * * * * * Then, and only

then, were heard in France the sublime productions of Haydn and Mozart,

which came forth with all the charms of novelty, though our predecessors

had been essaying them for twenty years before.”

It may be here incidentally mentioned, that, in 1802, there sprang up so

violent a dissention among the professors at the above valuable

Institution, as to excite some fears about the continuation of its

existence. Subjoined is an epigram that was born of that occasion:—

“J’admire leurs talents, et même leur génie,

Mais, au fait, ils ont un grand tort;

C’est de s’intituler professeurs d’harmonie,

Et de n’être jamais d’accord.”

Or, as we might phrase it in our own tongue:—

The force, the skill, for which they’re fam’d,

I praise;—yet one great fault I see:

Of _harmony_ Professors nam’d,

How comes it that they _can’t agree?_

Let us now proceed to consider the principal French violinists in their

order—commencing with Lully, who, though not a Frenchman, but rather (as

Burney styles him) a Frenchified Tuscan, belonged entirely to France,

both by his education, and the results of it. It has been already

observed that Baltazarini, the Italian (who became, _Gallicè_, Monsieur

de Beaujoyeux, and who flourished about eighty years earlier than

Lully), was the first who introduced the violin to Court favour and

fashion in France; where, however, till the time of Lully, it appears to

have had no higher province than that which it enjoyed in association

with the dance and the ballet—a condition which may, perhaps, be termed

“frivolous and vexatious,” but which must be allowed to have coincided

pretty exactly with the national taste, at the time.

JEAN BAPTISTE DE LULLY was born of obscure parents at Florence, in 1633

or 34. The bias towards music which he shewed, while yet a child,

induced a worthy Cordelier, from no other consideration than the hope of

his some time becoming eminent in the art, to undertake his tuition on

the guitar—an instrument which, in the sequel, he was always fond of

singing to. The Chevalier de Guise, a French gentleman, who had been

travelling, brought Lully into France, in 1646, _as a present to his

sister_, according to Dr. Burney’s phrase and statement, or, in the more

qualified language of another account, to serve as a page to

Mademoiselle de Montpensier, a niece of Louis XIV, who had commissioned

the Chevalier to find her out some pretty little Italian boy for this

latter purpose. If such were the lady’s instructions, the _countenance_

of the youth did not answer to them; but his vivacity and ready wit, in

addition to his skill on the guitar, determined the Chevalier, as it

appears, to engage him. On his arrival and presentation to the lady, he

found her so dissatisfied with his looks, as to induce a change in her

intentions—and, instead of her page, he was made to fill the office of

her under-scullion!

Neither the disappointment he experienced, however, nor the employment

to which he was destined, affected the spirits of Lully. In the moments

of his leisure from the kitchen, he used to scrape upon a wretched

fiddle, which he had contrived to procure. That fiddle it was which

caused him to emerge from his obscurity! A person employed about the

Court, happening one day to hear him, informed the Princess that the

youth had an excellent taste for music. She directed that a master

should be employed to teach him the violin; and, in the course of a few

months, he became so great a proficient, that he was elevated to the

rank of Court Musician. In consequence of an unlucky accident, he was

dismissed from this situation; he afterwards, however, found means to

get admitted into the King’s _band of violins_, and applied himself so

closely to the study of music, that, in a little time, he began to

compose. Some of his airs having been noticed by the King, Louis XIV,

the author was sent for, and his performance of them was thought so

excellent, that a new band was formed, called “_Les petits Violons_,”

and he was placed at the head of it. Under his direction, they soon

surpassed the famous band of twenty-four, which had previously enjoyed

an extent of reputation attributable rather to the low state of musical

taste and knowledge among the French, at that period, than to the skill

of the performers; for they were incompetent (according to De la Borde)

to play any thing they had not made a special study of, and gotten by

heart. This was about the year 1660, at which time the favorite

diversion of the French Court was a species of _ballet_, that consisted

of dancing, intermixed with dramatic action, and musical recitative. The

agency of Lully’s musical talent in these entertainments soon procured

him the favor of _le Grand Monarque_, who liked music in so far as it

conduced to dancing, and had a taste which found its satisfaction in

airs _de rigueur_, containing a stated number of bars, accented with

the utmost reference to saltatory convenience.[45]

In the soul of Louis, vanity supplied the place of musical ardour, and

led him to consider the establishment of an Opera necessary to the

splendour of his Court. Lully became, after that event, the great

dramatic musician of France. Of his importance in that relation,

however, and of his fortunate league with the lyrical genius of

Quinault, &c. it is not within my purpose to treat. Possessing, now, the

situation of Composer and joint Director to the French Opera, he

relinquished the connection with his former Band, and instituted one of

his own. On becoming appointed superintendent of the King’s private

music, he neglected almost entirely the practice of the violin; yet,

whenever he could be prevailed on to play, his excellence astonished all

who heard him. The Maréchal de Grammont had a valet named Lalande, who

afterwards attained some distinction as a violin-player. One day, after

dinner, the Maréchal desired Lully to hear Lalande, and to bestow on him

a few directions. Lalande accordingly played; but Lully, whenever he did

not please him, snatched the instrument out of his hand, made use of it

himself preceptively, and, at length, became warmed into such

excitement, through the train of ideas produced by his own playing,

that he did not lay down the violin for three hours.[46]

In the year 1686, the King was seized with an indisposition that

threatened his life; and on his recovering from it, Lully was required

to compose a _Te Deum_, in grateful celebration of the deliverance.

Accordingly he wrote one, which was not more remarkable for its

excellence, than for the unhappy accident with which its performance was

attended. Nothing had been neglected in the preparations for the

execution of it, and, the more to demonstrate his zeal, Lully himself

beat the time. With the cane that he used for this purpose, in the heat

of action (from the difficulty of keeping the band together), he struck

his foot; this caused a blister to arise, which increasing, his

physician advised him immediately to have a toe taken off, and, after a

delay of some days, his foot, and at length the whole limb. At this

dreadful juncture, an empiric offered to perform a cure without

amputation. Two thousand pistoles were promised him, if he should

accomplish it; but all his efforts were in vain. Lully died on the 22nd

of March, 1687, and was interred at Paris, where an elegant monument was

erected to his memory.

A strange story is extant, in relation to the closing scene of Lully’s

life. His confessor prescribed to him, as the condition of his

absolution, that he should commit to the flames his latest opera. Lully,

after many excuses, at length acquiesced, and, pointing to a drawer in

which the rough draught of _Achille et Polixène_ was deposited, it was

taken out and burnt, and the confessor went away satisfied. Lully grew

better, and was thought out of danger, when one of the young Princes

came to visit him. “What, Baptiste,” says he to him, “have you thrown

your _opera_ into the fire? You were a fool for thus giving credit to a

gloomy Jansenist, and burning good music.”—“Hush, hush!” answered Lully,

in a whisper, “I knew well what I was about—I have another copy of it!”

Unhappily, this ill-timed pleasantry was followed by a relapse; and the

prospect of inevitable death threw him into such pangs of remorse, that

he submitted to be laid on a heap of ashes, with a cord round his neck;

and, in this situation, he expressed a deep sense of his late

transgression. On being replaced in his bed, he became more composed,

and (as the relation goes) he expired singing, to one of his own airs,

the emphatic words, “Il faut mourir, pécheur, il faut mourir!”

The high estimation which the once _sous-marmiton_, and afterwards

regenerator of the music of France, had enjoyed, enabled him to amass

considerable money. In natural disposition, he was gay and cheerful;

and, although he was rather thick and short in person, somewhat rude in

speech, and little able to shape his manners to the formal refinements

of the French Court, he was not without a certain dignity, which

intellect succeeds in conferring.

The musical style of Lully was characterized by vivacity and

originality; by virtue of which qualities, his compositions, chiefly

operas, and other dramatic entertainments, kept possession of the French

stage till the middle of the last century, when Rameau came into vogue.

Lully is considered to have invented the _overture_, or at least to have

given to it its most distinctive marks of character. He composed

_symphonies for violins_, in three parts; but these are not to be met

with in print.

If we may judge of the old French violin-players, _en masse_, from the

kind of business assigned to them by Lully, in his operas, we must draw

a very moderate conclusion as to their proficiency; or, to borrow the

words of Dr. Burney, we must regard them as “musicians not likely, by

their abilities, to continue the miraculous powers ascribed to Orpheus

and Amphion.” Even for half a century after Lully’s time, the French

progress on the instrument appears to have been far from considerable.

Their performers had as yet borrowed but little of the true spirit of

their great Italian originals; nor do we come to any very important name

among them until that of

JEAN MARIE LE CLAIR (or LECLER), who was born at Lyons, in 1697. This

artist may, perhaps, be regarded as presenting, in his performance and

his compositions, a distinct commencement of the French Violin-school,

as divaricating from that of Italy. His father was a musician, and, from

his instructions, aided by assistance from other masters (and from

Somis, in particular), he became an excellent performer. He went abroad

for several years, to reap improvement from the professors and

performances in other countries; after which, on an invitation from the

Duke de Grammont, who had been his pupil, he went to Paris, and was

allowed a handsome pension from him. By the recommendation of this

nobleman, Le Clair obtained the situation of symphonist to Louis the

Fifteenth, in which he laboured incessantly to improve the practice of

the violin among his countrymen. With this view, he composed, and

published in the year 1723, a collection of _solos for the violin_; and

soon afterwards another of the same kind, in both of which he has

displayed much knowledge of the instrument, combined with the resources

of a well-regulated fancy. Besides these two Collections of Solos, Le

Clair was the author of _Six Sonatas for two violins and a bass_; two

books of _Duos_, two of _Trios_, two of _Concertos_, and two under the

title of _Recreations_.

The character and conduct of Le Clair were of a nature to attract the

attention and esteem of all who knew him. He lived, for the most part, a

retired and contemplative life; yet, he at last fell a sacrifice, as it

has been supposed, to envy. He was assassinated whilst walking alone in

the streets of Paris, in the evening of the 22nd of October, 1764.

Le Clair was celebrated for the spirit and energy of his performance;

and his compositions afford, in some measure, a proof of his powers. At

least, it may be said, that, for boldness and dignity of style, there

are no instrumental compositions by any of the older French authors, not

excepting those of Lully, which can be compared with them. It is true

that they are difficult of execution, and this, for some time, was an

obstacle to their currency. The modern school, which laughs at any

impediments in the way of execution, would do ample justice of hand to

his hardest passages, were it _now_ the fashion to present them to the

public ear.

JEAN BAPTISTE SENAILLÉ, who may also be considered as having had some

share in the foundation of the French Violin School, was a contemporary

of the artist just recorded; and drew his first breath in Paris. His

early lessons were received from Queversin, one of the four-and-twenty

who formed the King’s band of violinists. His next instructor was

Baptiste Anet; but the completion of his studies took place in Italy,

whither he was attracted by the high celebrity of the artists there. He

returned to Paris in 1719, with a well-earned reputation, and

subsequently formed some good pupils, among whom were Guignon, and

(probably) Guillemain.

JEAN PIERRE GUIGNON was born, in 1702, at Turin, probably of French

parents, and became further Gallicized by going early into France, where

he had a long career of distinction. He brought to the exercise of his

art a liberality conducive to its diffusion and repute, as well as

redounding to his own honor—for he gave gratuitous lessons to many young

violinists whom the “res angusta domi” might else have left to struggle

on without encouragement. His talents gave further aid to the

_fidicinal_ cause by the valuable compositions which they enabled him to

devote to it, consisting of Sonatas, Duetts, Trios and Concertos.

Guignon had the support of courtly patronage, and gave instructions to

the Dauphin, father of Louis XVI. During thirty years, he held an

appointment rather suggestive of mock-heroic associations, than either

flattering or useful—that of _Roi des Violons, et Maître des

Ménestriers_, an office which, as already stated in these recording

pages, had given rise to our English dignity, more ridiculed than

respected, of _King of the Fiddlers_. Guignon died at Versailles in

1774.

GABRIEL GUILLEMAIN, born at Paris, in 1705, produced some sonatas for

the instrument that have been held in considerable estimation, and was

also admired as a performer. In the decline of his life, he lost his

faculties, and, in that melancholy state, became his own destroyer (in

1770), inflicting on his person no less than fourteen wounds.

PIERRE GAVINIÈS, a native of Bordeaux, claims some distinction, both as

composer and as performer. So great was his aptitude for the latter

character, that he made his _début_ at the _Concert Spirituel_ in

Paris, when he had attained but fourteen years of age; nor were his

pretensions those of mere vulgar precocity, that makes a dash at music,

as parrots do at language; for he gained the approbation of the best of

all judges, Viotti. The estimation in which the talents of Gaviniès were

held, procured for him, in 1794, the honour of being appointed Professor

of the Violin at the then newly formed institution, the Paris

_Conservatoire_. His works consist of three collections (or operas) of

Sonatas, several Concertos, and a series of violin music entitled _Les

vingt-quatre Matinées_, the pieces in which are, for the most part, very

difficult. He died in 1799, at the advanced aged of 73.

FRANÇOIS JOSEPH GOSSEC, a composer of some eminence, though not

expressly for the violin, fixed his residence at Paris in 1751, and was

soon afterwards attached to the suite of the Prince de Condé, as leader

of his band. In 1770, he founded the Concert of Amateurs, which enjoyed

a marked success during ten seasons, and had the accomplished but

volatile Chevalier de St. George for its “premier violon.” Gossec

subsequently filled an important post at the _Conservatoire_, and was,

in other respects, actively connected with the progress of music in

France. He died “full of days.” The symphonies of this master, and the

Quartetts of Davaux, which preceded, in France, those of Haydn, are

cited as advantageous specimens of French instrumental music of the

concerted kind; and some of them are still heard with pleasure.

PAGIN, who drew his excellence from that best fountain, the Italian

school, was born in France, in the year 1730. Addicting himself early to

the violin, and prompted by the desire to form his style on the purest

model, he travelled into Italy, expressly to receive instructions from

Tartini. His happy disposition for the art was turned to speedy

advantage by that master, and Pagin had scarcely reached his twentieth

year ere he returned to Paris, where the success that attended him, in

various performances at the _Concert Spirituel_, attested the value of

the means which he had taken for his proficiency. His enthusiasm,

however, in relation to his great preceptor, occasioned a check to his

career. He chose to play, exclusively, the music of Tartini and the

French musicians, resenting his choice, set about to oppose him. Their

jealousy, whether alarmed for national or for individual credit, took an

ingenious method of working out its purpose: it was by the ironical

applauses and sinister compliments which he received, at one of the

above concerts, that the unwelcome innovator was compelled to forego

appearing at any more of them. He was subsequently engaged in the suite

of the Count de Clermont. Dr. Burney, who heard him in 1770, has

recorded his admiration of the expression and lightness that

distinguished his performance.

PIERRE LAHOUSSAYE, another venerator and follower of Tartini, commenced

his date of life at Paris, in 1735. At a still earlier age than Pagin,

he gave public manifestation of his talent. He first found his infant

way upon the instrument, unaided, and then, after some tuition from the

solo-player, Piffet (styled _le grand nez_), made his _début_ at the

_Concert Spirituel_, when only nine years old. Shortly afterwards, the

little Lahoussaye had the fortunate opportunity of hearing, at a musical

party where he was introduced, the greatest violinists of the time,

including especially—Pugnani, Giardini, Pagin, Gaviniès, Vanmalder,

Domenico Ferrari, &c. A solo was played by each of these men of mark:

and the eager astonishment with which the “tender juvenal” listened to

their successive outpourings of expression, or feats of dexterity, could

not but attract the attention of all. On Ferrari’s putting a violin into

the boy’s hand, he not only made some brilliant preludings, but repeated

from memory several passages in a sonata of Tartini’s that Pagin had

just before played. An enthusiast himself, Pagin was so delighted with

the boy, that he at once undertook his further instruction, and

prevailed on the Count de Clermont to assign to him a post as his

chamber-musician. Thus advantageously placed, the young Lahoussaye was,

however, restless till he could accomplish his favorite wish—that of

_seeing Tartini_. Under this impulse, he attached himself to the suite

of the Prince of Monaco, and went with him to Italy. Repairing with all

speed to Padua, he found the wondrous master in the church, in the act

of commencing a concerto. To express the surprise and admiration of the

young Frenchman, at the purity of tone, spirit and accuracy of

execution, truth and delicacy of expression, that triumphed in the

performance of the Italian, would be difficult indeed. He felt at once

so humbled as to the sense of his own powers, as almost to abandon the

hazardous wish for an introduction to him whom he had so eagerly sought

out. Creditable as was this diffidence to the character of the aspirant,

the kind disposition of Tartini rendered it unnecessary. He received him

favourably, was gratified to observe in his performance something of the

manner of his own school, and engaged to advance him in it. Lahoussaye

was reluctantly drawn away to Parma, through his situation with the

Prince of Monaco: but, after delighting the court there by his talent,

he found means to return to Tartini at Padua, and continued for a long

time under his tuition, remaining in Italy, altogether, for the space of

fifteen years. In 1769, he visited London; and, after passing three

years there, returned to his native Paris, to diffuse, according to his

means, and as far as the musical habit of his countrymen might admit it,

the benefits of the Italian style. He arrived at the situation of _Chef

d’Orchestre_ to the _Concert Spirituel_, and to the Italian Opera in

Paris. In 1789, he had the honor to succeed Mestrino as

_Chef-d’Orchestre_ of the Theatre of Monsieur; and he afterwards filled

the same post at the Feydeau Theatre. On the establishment of the Paris

_Conservatoire_, he was appointed Professor of the First Class. The

compositions of Lahoussaye are numerous, and have had some celebrity,

although, for the most part, they have remained in the manuscript state.

PAISIBLE (pupil of Gaviniès) whose gentle name contrasts painfully with

his violent end, was born in 1745, at Paris, and was one of those able

artists who contributed to give éclat to the _Concert Spirituel_. Full

of youthful hope derived from the impression he had there created, he

made a musical “progress” through a part of France, the Netherlands,

Germany, and as far as St. Petersburg. Here, however, the tide of his

success was suddenly turned. His desire to exhibit his talents before

the Russian Empress was baffled, owing, as it has been supposed, to the

intrigues of Antonio Lolli, who was then in the service of the Imperial

Court. Failing also in his endeavour to obtain notice by means of public

concerts, Paisible engaged in the service of a Russian Count, with whom

he went to Moscow. This resource did not last long; and the concerts he

attempted at Moscow were even more discouraged than those at St.

Petersburgh. Distracted by misfortune and debt, he closed his career in

1781, by the act of his own hand—having written a touching letter of

farewell to his friends, in which he desired them to sell his violin (a

valuable one), with the object of defraying the claims against him.

SIMON LEDUC, another distinguished pupil of Gaviniès, and one of the

directors of the _Concert Spirituel_, was born in 1748. Two books of

Solos, and several Concertos and Symphonies, are his works as a

composer. There is extant, in connection with his name, a little

anecdote of some interest. About a month after his decease, in 1777,

there was a rehearsal of one of his symphonies for the _Concert des

Amateurs_. In the middle of the adagio, the Chevalier de St. George, who

had been his friend, and was then leading the orchestra, was so affected

by the expression of the movement, combined with his recollection of the

composer, that he let fall his bow, and burst into tears!

The Violin Some Account of That Leading Instrument and Its Most Eminent Professors, from Its Earliest Date to the Present Time; with Hints to Amateurs, Anecdotes, etc. · 第 12 / 16 章

Prague, Dresden, Berlin and Warsaw were successively visited by the