Having traced the career of Paganini "from the cradle to the grave," let
us now look a little more closely at the man, the artist. Glimpses of
his character have already been revealed, but so curiously interesting a
personality will repay further study. Totally uneducated, he yet made
himself so much a man of the world, as to enjoy the personal friendship
of such notabilities as Lord Byron, Sir Thomas Clifford Constable, Lord
Holland, Prince Metternich and others. In his official positions at
Court he comported himself with dignity. He had the pride of the artist,
and would not play if the conditions were not suitable. One instance has
already been given. Here is another, which also occurred in Paris.
Paganini was asked to play at a Court concert at the Tuilleries. He went
the day before to inspect the _salon_ where the function was to take
place, and found the heavy draperies so numerous that the tones of his
violin would be deadened, and the effect of his playing would be lost
unless the curtains were removed or rearranged; he acquainted an
official with his wish to alter them. To that august personage a
"fiddler" was a mere nobody, and Paganini was given to understand his
proper place. Highly offended with the manner of the official, Paganini
resolved not to play. The Court was assembled for the concert, but the
great violinist was absent. A messenger was sent to his hotel, and was
informed that the Signor had retired to rest very early.
Mobbed by ill-mannered crowds whenever he appeared in the streets, (and
this especially in London, when strangers not only spoke to him, but
even felt him, to ascertain if he was really flesh and blood), Paganini,
with his sensitive nature, shrank more and more from contact with the
outer world. He was not a Milton, "whose soul was like a star, and dwelt
apart," but he was essentially a solitary, a recluse. His character was
the result of his environment. Accustomed to brutal treatment in his
childhood, he became hardened; set free from restraint, he tasted the
wild joys of youth, only to find them turn to Dead Sea apples. Schumann,
in his "Advice to young musicians," wrote: "The laws of morality are
also the laws of art." But Paganini had no mentor, and learnt by bitter
experience the lesson of life. He was accused of avarice, and many
ridiculous stories were told of him. When at Prague, it is said that
even the members of the theatre were struck off the free list, and he
was annoyed that the police who watched the upper galleries could not be
made to pay for their places! He beat down a London laundress a
halfpenny in her charge for washing his shirts, and Moscheles gives
currency to the story, though he cannot vouch for its truth, that
Paganini gave his servant a gallery ticket for one of his concerts on
condition that the man served him gratuitously for one day! All these
wretched things may have been true, more's the pity. But there is one
little story that appears to have been overlooked. The father of Nicolo
Paganini was avaricious, and compelled his son to minister to his
avarice, even robbing him of the first-fruits of his own earnings;
Nicolo in turn became avaricious, but it was for the sake of his little
son, whose life he desired might be better than his own. "He saves for
his yet uneducated child," wrote Guhr, in 1829. Yes, this man, proud,
scornful, despising the crowds whose money made him rich, in the
recesses of his heart nourished a love, pure and unselfish. That was the
fine gold; his wealth was dross. His affection for the child was
boundless, and he allowed the little fellow to tyrannise over him
completely. There are pretty stories of his playing with the boy, but
there is nothing about teaching the boy to play--the violin. The memory
of his own childhood was quite sufficient to deter him from any attempt
to force instruction on his boy, and cloud the sunshine of his young
life.
The world gave Paganini its plaudits and its money; but there never
seemed to be any bond of sympathy between the artist and the public. Yet
Paganini could appreciate kindness. Moscheles relates that the father of
his wife rendered Paganini some important service before the visit to
England. When Paganini first called upon Moscheles he was profuse in
expressions of gratitude, and taking down a miniature portrait of his
benefactor he covered it with kisses. "Meantime," Moscheles writes, "we
had leisure to study those olive-tinted, sharply defined features, the
glowing eyes, the scanty, but long black hair, and the thin, gaunt
figure, upon which the clothes hung loosely, the deep sunken cheeks, and
those long, bony fingers." Moscheles was of service to Paganini during
his first days in London, and, to use his own words, he was paid with
quite as many honied epithets as his father-in-law received. But he
suspected the Italian to be rather too sweet to be genuine. Indeed, the
friendship was too fervent to last long, and money was the cause of the
rupture. Mori commissioned Moscheles to write a piece "Gems a la
Paganini," taking the precaution of obtaining the violinist's consent.
His style is imitated, and he expresses his admiration of the piece. A
second and third book of "Gems" are published, and down comes Paganini
with the charge of musical piracy. His permission extended only to the
first book. A lawsuit was commenced, but Paganini effected a compromise
with Moscheles, conceding the free sale of the three books of "Gems" in
return for pianoforte accompaniments to twelve small violin pieces.
Moscheles reluctantly consented to write the accompaniments, but refused
to allow his name (which Paganini wanted) to appear on the title-page.
Mori had to pay something by way of damages, and Moscheles at last
rejoiced at being quit of an episode so little worthy of an artist, and
at having done with those dreadful lawyers.[32]
But quite enough has been said in reference to Paganini's avarice: it
has been shown that he had a motive for saving money. Is it as easy to
account for other traits of his character? That aloofness, that scorn
of the world, that hard bargaining: "Take me or leave me," revealing
callous indifference, was there no cause for all that? There is a very
graphic, and at the same time, appalling, account of the impression
produced by Paganini among the Parisians, which is translated at length
in Dubourg's "The Violin." Berlioz wrote of the weird genius making his
appearance in France during the uproar of the collapse of a dynasty, and
arriving in Paris--with the cholera. The terrors of the scourge were
powerless to check the tide of curiosity: the people were mad for the
time being. This is the conclusion of the notice just mentioned: "Of
such a public, and such an artist, how saddening is the sight!... The
public, made up of idlers--of beings isolated, 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 now 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 finger's-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 who 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!" Unhappy artist;
miserable public! How shall we account for this pitiful state of things,
this gulf between the performer and the auditor? We must seek the
explanation in the letter to the _Revue_, referred to more than once,
but now claiming our attention more directly.
[Illustration: _Plate XIV.--See Appendix._
PAGANINI IN PRISON.]
The pictures of "Paganini in Prison," exhibited so lavishly while the
artist was in Paris in 1831, provoked him to remark that there were some
"honest fellows" making money of a calumny that had pursued his steps
for the last fifteen years. He then referred to the different versions
of the crime imputed to him: that he killed a rival whom he found in
company with his mistress; or that it was his mistress who had been the
victim of his jealous fury; the only point of agreement was the
imprisonment. "Let me tell you," the letter continued, "what happened to
myself in Padua about fifteen years ago (1816), on this very subject. I
had given a concert with some success: the next day I went to a
table-d'hote; I entered the room late; was, perhaps, the sixtieth guest,
and took my seat unnoticed. One of the company expressed himself in
flattering terms of the effect produced by my performance the evening
before. His next neighbour agreed in the praises bestowed on me, but
added, 'Nobody ought to be surprised at Paganini's ability: he owes it
all to an eight years' solitary imprisonment in a dungeon, with nothing
but his violin to occupy his time, or soften the rigours of his
confinement. He was condemned to this long incarceration for having
assassinated a friend of _mine_, who was unfortunate enough to be his
rival.' As you may easily believe, every one was loud in denouncing the
enormity of my crime; when I addressed myself to the speaker, begging
him to inform me where and when this tragical adventure had occurred.
All eyes were in an instant turned upon me, and you may judge the
astonishment of the company at finding the hero of this tale of murder
and imprisonment one amongst them. The relater of the story was not a
little embarrassed. 'It was not a friend of his own that had fallen--he
had heard--he had been told--he believed--but after all it was very
possible he might have been deceived,' etc. Now see, Sir, how easy it
is to play with the reputation of an artist merely because men, inclined
to indulge in idleness themselves, cannot conceive it possible that he
may have studied as closely in his own chamber and in full possession of
his liberty, as he would if he had been chained up in a dungeon."
There was an occurrence that gave rise to these reports, and which
Paganini related in the same letter. "A violin player, named D----i,[33]
who was at Milan in 1798, associated himself with two other men of bad
character, and engaged with them in a plot to assassinate, by night, the
curate of a neighbouring village, supposed to be in possession of much
wealth. Luckily for the curate the heart of one of the conspirators
failed him, and he denounced his companions. The gendarmes watched the
spot, and took D----i and his accomplice into custody at the moment they
arrived at the curate's dwelling. They were condemned to twenty years'
confinement in irons, but General Menou, after he had been appointed
governor of Milan, at the end of two years restored the violinist to
liberty. Would you believe it, Sir? this is the sole foundation upon
which the whole history of my incarceration has been erected. A violin
player, whose name ended in _i_, had been engaged in a murder and
imprisoned--it could only be _Paganini_--the assassinated party
was converted into either my rival or my mistress, and it was I,
_Paganini_, who had been so many years loaded with chains, and immured
in a dungeon. Solely with the view of wringing from me the secret of my
new system, have they complimented me with fetters, whose only effect
would have been to paralyze my arms."
Paganini further stated that he called on the Italian ambassador
resident in Vienna, to testify that he had known the artist for nearly
twenty years, during all which time his conduct has been that of an
honest man. He also pointed out that having been constantly before the
public from the age of fourteen, he must have had a mistress and a rival
when he was seven! for there was no room for an interval of eight years
afterwards. It was at Vienna that one of the audience, while Paganini
was playing "The Witches' Dance," distinctly saw the devil close to the
violinist, guiding his fingers and directing his bow; the said devil was
dressed in red and had horns and a tail, and the striking likeness of
the countenances of the two, plainly proved the relationship between
them. That pretty story followed Paganini everywhere: and, as has been
seen, in Prague he had to publish a letter from his mother disproving
the rumour of his Satanic parentage. There is something intensely
pathetic in Paganini's conclusion: "I see nothing else for it but to
leave malignity at liberty to disport itself at my expense."
In this prosaic, materialistic twentieth century, which believes in
little besides money, there is no fear of any of our violin wonders
being associated with the arch-fiend. They may be regarded as physic
problems, but the supernatural is eliminated from the study. But
Paganini did not live in the twentieth century, and in his day the devil
was a very real personage, notwithstanding the temporary overthrow of
much belief through the French Revolution, and the enthronement of the
"Goddess of Reason" in the Church of Notre Dame, Paris. It may seem
absurd, now, even to recall these calumnies; but we have to deal with
the environment of a great genius, to study the cause of his failing to
become great as a man; for surely he had the making of a fine character.
That he should traverse the greater part of Europe, pursued by tales of
devilry and murder, is one of the saddest comments on that period; that
the "iron entered into his soul," and the man capable of affection
became a miser and a misanthrope, is more mournful still. He was the
"Flying Dutchman" of the violin.
How was it that the devil and the violin came into relationship? We have
it on the authority of Martin Luther that the devil hates music. Luther
not only believed in the devil, but he fancied he saw him: and in the
room of the Castle of Wartburg may still be seen the mark on the wall,
where he threw his inkpot at the fiend, who tried to thwart his work of
translating the Bible. It is curious that the only instrument which, to
the present writer's knowledge, Satan has been represented as playing
upon, is one of the precursors of the violin. There is a piece of
sculpture in the Cathedral of Amiens, depicting Satan playing on an oval
three-stringed Vielle, of the thirteenth century.[34] The story of
Tartini and his dream, when the devil played so marvellously on the
violin, is known to everyone, and is, moreover, perpetuated in the
sonata _Il Trillo del Diavolo_. It is related of Thomas Baltzar, the
first great violinist ever heard in England, that when he played at
Oxford he astonished everyone by "running up his fingers to the end of
the finger-board." John Wilson, the Oxford Professor of Music, "the
greatest judge of musick that ever was," according to Anthony a Wood,
"did, after his humoursome way, stoop down to Baltzar's feet, to see
whether he had a huff on, that is to say, whether he was a devil or not,
because he acted beyond the parts of man." As this took place in 1658
there was some excuse for the grim pleasantry; moreover music had
suffered an eclipse, and performers in this country were comparatively
few. Even the gentle and polite Corelli forgot himself so far as to
apply the term, devil, to another violinist. As the story may not be so
well known as the foregoing, I shall briefly repeat it. Nicolaus Adam
Strungk (or Strunck), violinist to Ernest Augustus, Elector of Hanover,
when in Rome (_circa_ 1684) made it his business to see Corelli.
Introducing himself to the Italian master as a musician, Corelli asked
what was his instrument. Strungk replied that he could play upon the
harpsichord, and a little upon the violin; but he particularly wished to
hear Corelli on the latter instrument, his fame being widely known.
Corelli obligingly consented, and played a piece to the harpsichord
accompaniment of Strungk. Strungk afterwards played a toccata, with
which Corelli was so much taken that he laid aside his instrument in his
transport of admiration. When Strungk had finished at the harpsichord,
he took up the violin, and began handling it in a careless manner,
whereupon Corelli remarked that he had a good bow-hand, and wanted
nothing but practice to become a master of his instrument. At that
moment Strungk put the violin out of tune, and played on with such
dexterity, attempering the dissonances occasioned by the mistuning with
such amazing skill, that Corelli cried out in broken German: "I am
called Arcangelo, a name that in the language of my country signifies an
Archangel; but let me tell you, that you, Sir, are an Arch-devil!"
There is nothing malicious in these stories of the devil and the
fiddler; and if Paganini had experienced nothing worse than what has
just been related, he might have treated the matter as a joke. But that
which malice or envy originated, a "reptile press" promulgated. Innocent
of crime, Paganini was branded as a felon; gifted with genius of the
rarest order, cultivated to a perfection absolutely unique, his skill
was attributed to the aid received from the devil. Add to this his
wretched health, and there is both mental and bodily suffering. In his
later years he was cut off from intercourse with others, like
Beethoven--but with this difference: Beethoven employed a tablet or
note-book for his friends to convey their words to him; Paganini
transmitted, through a similar medium, his thoughts to others. He was
dumb! Is there no brighter side to this picture? If there be, let us
turn to it.
It is, perhaps, fortunate that no man can be consistent throughout his
life; the morose must smile at times, and the misanthrope mitigate his
hatred of mankind. Paganini was but human, and his life was not all
shadow. Though his intimate friends were few, there were some who were
able to place on record details of the private life of the great
violinist. Of such, the most useful to biographers was George Harris. He
was an Englishman, attached to the Court at Hanover then connected with
Britain; a dramatist of a certain order, he accompanied Paganini on his
tours in Germany, acting for a time as his secretary, and apparently
he was with him when in England. From him we learn a good deal.
Paganini was always on the move, and travelling in his day was not
the rapid, comfortable, even luxurious process it is now. In the
post-chaise Paganini stowed his luggage, which was of the simplest--and
shabbiest--description. A dilapidated box held his beloved violin, his
linen, cash and jewellery; a carpet-bag and a hat-box completed his
outfit. He was philosophically indifferent to comfort, but in his later
years he always had the windows of his carriage closed. When he arrived
at his quarters, the windows of his room were thrown open, and he
indulged in a sun-bath--again anticipating modern medical advice.
Paganini, when travelling, was fond of taking a stroll when the horses
were changed. It was a relief to stretch his legs after the close
confinement of the post-chaise, but sometimes his rambles were so
prolonged that there was weary waiting for him when all was ready to
resume the journey, and drivers became exasperated. Paganini was made to
suffer on one occasion. That was when travelling from London to
Birmingham. He had already tried the patience of his coachman by causing
loss of time, and the man declared he would drive on without him, rather
than wait again. At the next stopping place Paganini walked off as
usual, leaving Harris asleep in the vehicle. The horses being changed,
the driver started, leaving Paganini behind. This caused some trouble,
for a post-chaise had to be sent from the next station in search of the
derelict, and Paganini in his rage refused to pay the extra expense. He
was summoned before the Birmingham magistrates, and the case going
against him he was compelled to discharge the debt. Poor Paganini, he
always suffered when he came into contact with the law.
[Illustration: PLATE 15. (_See Appendix._)]
[Illustration: PLATE 16. (_See Appendix._)]
[Illustration: PLATE 17. (_See Appendix._)]
In his personal habits Paganini was simplicity itself. Frugal to a
degree in his repasts, a cup of chocolate sufficed for a meal when
starting early on a journey, and often he would fast until evening. When
in a happy mood after a concert, he would join the table d'hote and do
as others did, but the slightest indulgence was punished the next day.
He preferred solitude, but when he mixed with others he would join
freely in the conversation; if music were touched upon he became silent,
or left the room. So long as he could find accommodation that was quiet,
he cared little for its quality. Scenery had no charms for him, and all
climates but his own were equally indifferent to him. His accounts were
kept in a little red pocket-book (found under his pillow after his
death), in a kind of arithmetical shorthand only decipherable by
himself. He never had been taught the science of numbers, or he might
have been made a first-rate mathematician.
Harris stated that all the time he was with Paganini he never heard him
play a single note except before an audience. That may have been correct
so far as Germany was concerned, but the Rev. John Edmund Cox, in his
"Musical Recollections," has something very different to say about
Paganini. "During his career he visited my native town,[35] and as I
had the good fortune then to be able to converse in French, the friends
who had engaged him for a round of concerts in that place and its
vicinity placed me in direct communication with him somewhat in the
capacity of a secretary; so that I not only travelled in his company and
heard him at every concert at which he appeared, but I lived in the same
hotels and lodgings which had been secured for him. This kind of
semi-official position necessitated my seeing much of him during his
leisure hours, when he threw off the suspicious restraint which was
always apparent in his manner when he was among strangers, whom he
imagined were bent upon getting as much as possible out of him for their
own advantage. Then, indeed, he would evince anything but a hard and
ungenerous nature, his manner being not only kind but courteous; whilst
any attention that was afforded to his wants or to his comforts was
sure to elicit not only looks but words of gratitude. In public he
confined himself almost exclusively to the performance of his own
music,--... but in private--for he had his violin constantly in his
hand--he would sit and dash off by the hour together snatches from the
compositions of the best masters, and give readings of such originality
to passages that had been heard again and again, as apparently have
never been supposed to be possible by any other player. As an instance
in point, he one morning, whilst I was writing several notes for him,
commenced the first _motivo_ of Beethoven's magnificent violin concerto.
To write was then impossible; and he, perceiving how entranced I seemed,
asked whether I knew what it was. On my replying in the negative, he
promised, if it could be managed, that I should hear the whole of that
movement before we separated." The promise was redeemed. The above is
valuable as showing that Paganini was not quite so wanting in knowledge
as was generally supposed. He could converse in French, though at that
time--1831--he had only spent a few weeks in France. Education, proper,
he had none; but the statement that he could speak no language but his
own, is evidently incorrect. The allusion to strangers bent upon getting
as much as possible out of him for their own advantage, finds an
illustration in the story of the Englishman who is said to have followed
Paganini for some six months, watching his every movement, lodging at
the same hotels, and employing every means to get at the great secret of
the violinist's art. At last his perseverance seemed about to be
rewarded. Looking through the keyhole of Paganini's door, the
Englishman saw the violinist take his instrument from its case--raise it
to his shoulder, even shift the left hand up and down the neck; but not
the ghost of a sound. It was just a study of positions, and the violin
was then restored to its place. In despair, the inquisitive amateur gave
up the quest.
The concerts Paganini gave for the poor were evidence of his natural
goodness of heart. It is true, such efforts cost him little; he gave a
few hours' time: the public found the money. One day, when walking in
Vienna, he saw a poor little Italian boy playing the violin in front of
a large house. He drew from him a touching story of poverty, and a sick
mother; and emptying his pockets into the boy's hands, he took from him
his violin and began to play. He was soon recognised, and a crowd
assembled; the people were immensely diverted, and gave a generous
response when the hat was handed round. With "Take that to your mother,"
Paganini sent the boy off rejoicing, and turning to the companion of his
walk, he remarked, "I hope I've done a good turn to that little animal."
He was fond of applying the word "animal" to those sometimes spoken of
as "the lower classes," but was not altogether singular in that respect.
At the anniversary dinner of the Royal Society of Musicians, in 1832,
among the donations announced was one of ten guineas from Paganini. This
was thought so excessively mean an acknowledgment of the generosity of
the English nation, that the announcement was received with groans and
hisses. That was distinctly rude on the part of those who, having dined
well, ought to have been in a genial state of mind.
At least one generous action must be placed on record. It was told by
George Augustus Sala many years ago.[36] The mother of that voluminous
writer was a vocalist, and made her _debut_ at Covent Garden Theatre in
1827, as the Countess in Bishop's version (or perversion) of Mozart's
"Marriage of Figaro." In 1828 she became a widow, and supported her
family by teaching singing and giving annual concerts, chiefly at
Brighton, where she lived. For one of her benefit concerts she engaged
Paganini. The most distinguished artists of her day had gladly given
their gratuitous assistance at similar functions, and Paganini accepted
the small fee of twenty-five guineas. Sala was a very small boy at that
time (born in 1828), and possibly drew upon his imagination when
recounting the event so many years later. This is what he wrote:--"'Take
your little boy with you, Madame Sala,' was the shrewd counsel of ----,
a valued friend of my mother; 'take the boy with you when you pay Pag.;
perhaps _that_ will soften him a little.' I was the smallest and
chubbiest of the tribe; then, duly washed, combed and made spruce, my
parent took me in her hand, and led me to the Old Ship, where Paganini
was staying. We were ushered, not without fear and trembling on my part,
into the presence of the mighty musician, who was at breakfast. Then my
mother, alluding as far as she in delicacy could to her large family
and small means, proceeded to count out--sovereign by sovereign,
shilling by shilling--Paganini's fee of five and twenty guineas. I can
see with the eye of memory the whole man before me now, his gaunt
angular form, his black elf-like locks falling in weird confusion over
his neck and shoulders, his cadaverous face and shaggy brows, his long
bony hands with the veins standing out like cordage, his amazingly large
feet, and especially his neck, disproportionately long, scraggy, and
corrugated. I can see the glare--so it seemed to me--which, when he
raised his bent brows, darted upon the pile of money, and the spasmodic
avidity with which he extended his hand and swept the pile towards
him.... 'A very nice little boy,' he was good enough to say, alluding to
myself; 'but time is bad, and there is no monish in de vorld: no, never
no monish at all.' My mother rose with a heavy heart to depart. 'Stop,
little boy,' said the great violinist, and he beckoned to me with a
skinny finger, which any of the witches in Macbeth would have been proud
to own; 'stop, take this, it will buy you a cake.' He thrust a crumpled
piece of paper into my hand, rose from his chair, and, without more ado
'bolted'--that is the only word suited to the action--into his bedroom.
He had given me a bank note for fifty pounds! Superstitious people used
to whisper that Paganini had sold himself to the enemy of mankind;
spiteful people used to draw him as a greedy, flint-hearted miser.... I
only know how he acted towards my mother."
FOOTNOTES:
[32] Life of Moscheles (English Edition), I., p. 252-7.
[33] Duranowski, a talented Polish violinist. He entered the French army
and was _aide-de-camp_ to a General. He lost his rank when released;
returned to his violin, and was living at Strassburg up to 1834.
[34] An engraving of it is in Naumann's "History of Music" (English
Edition), p. 255.
[35] Norwich.
[36] In the "Bow Bell's Annual" for 1878 (?)