every means to prove their absurdity. I remarked that from the age of
fourteen, I had continued to give concerts, consequently was always
before the public; that I had been engaged as leader of the orchestra,
and musical director to the Court of Lucca; that if it were true, I
had been detained eight years in prison, for having assassinated my
mistress or my rival, it must have taken place before my appearance
in public; that I must have had a mistress and a rival at seven years
of age. At Vienna I appealed to the ambassador of my country, who
declared he had known me for upwards of twenty years as an honest man,
and I succeeded in setting the calumny aside temporarily; but there
are always some remains, and I was not surprised to find them here.
How am I to act, sir? I see nothing but resignation, and submit to
the malignity which exerts itself at my expense. I deem it, however,
a duty, before I conclude, to communicate to you an anecdote, which
gave rise to the injurious reports propagated against me. A violinist,
of the name of Duranowski, who was at Milan in 1798, connected
himself with two persons of disreputable character, and was induced
to accompany them to a village, where they purposed assassinating the
priest, who was reported to be very rich. Fortunately, the heart of
one failed him at the moment of the dreadful deed, and he immediately
denounced his accomplices. The gendarmerie soon arrived on the spot,
and took Duranowski and his companion prisoners at the moment they
arrived at the priest’s house. They were condemned to the galleys for
twenty years, and thrown into a dungeon; but General Menou, after he
became Governor of Milan, restored Duranowski to liberty, after two
years’ detention. Will you credit it?--upon this groundwork they have
constructed my history. It was necessary that the violinist should
end in _i_, it was Paganini; the assassination became that of my
mistress or my rival; and I it was who was sent to prison,--with this
exception, that I was to discover there a new school for the Violin:
the irons were not adjudged against me, in order that my arms might be
at perfect liberty. Since these reports are persisted in, against all
probability, I must necessarily bear them with resignation. One hope
remains: it is, that after my death, calumny will abandon its prey, and
that those who have so cruelly avenged my triumphs, will leave my ashes
at rest.--Receive, &c.,
“PAGANINI.”
As just stated, Paganini was deeply mortified by these reports which
affected his honour. He wrote to the editors of the journals in Vienna;
and when Mr. Schottky, of Prague, formed the project of writing his
biography, to crush his calumniators, Paganini, who rejoiced at the
idea of such a publication, urged his friend to hasten his labours. He
wrote to him from Berlin:--“It is high time I should write to you. I
have no bad news to communicate, though I suffer slightly with my eyes,
which inconveniences me a good deal. You have probably seen the Dresden
journals. I met with all kinds of gratifications at Dresden, which the
extreme kindness of the royal family completed. It is true, I learned
that you had in one of your contributions promised my biography, but
I have not heard anything since. My curiosity is at its utmost pitch.
My relation, of whom I spoke to you, joined me at Dresden; he is also
extremely anxious. Do let us see some portion of your work. My honour
is in your keeping. How fortunate to have found an avenger, whose name
alone suffices to crush the basest calumnies! Your integrity and your
talents will drive my enemies to despair, and to you will remain the
gratification of having done a generous action.”
Nothing can be more honourable or more natural than the indignation
felt by Paganini at the calumnies which his success engendered; but it
would seem that he was deceived as to the means of silencing them: for
the publication of the chronological order of his life would easily
have demonstrated the absurdity of the reports propagated against
him. It is a fact, that until he was nearly fifteen years of age,
he remained under the paternal roof. Hence he proceeded to Lucca,
where he unfortunately formed an acquaintance with some disreputable
persons, who, taking advantage of his inexperience, robbed him of the
fruits of his industry, and drove him to Pisa, Arezzo, and Leghorn,
where he gave concerts to repair the inroads his losses had made, and
improve his pecuniary position. He was at this latter place in 1801,
and was then only seventeen years of age. This date is authentically
established by Gervasoni, who was his contemporary. Some months after,
his predilection for the Violin changed, and he took up the Guitar,
acquired a mastery over that instrument nearly equal to the Violin, and
wrote for it several distinguished compositions, which are still sought
for in Italy. In 1804, we find him at Genoa, giving instructions to the
young Catarina Calcagno, who became a most worthy pupil. The following
year, he enters the service at the Court of Lucca, remains in that town
until 1808, then undertakes a professional tour, arrives at Leghorn,
and plays at several concerts. In 1809, Blangini meets him at Turin.
In the same year he returns to Florence, where Bartolini executes
his bust. In 1810, he travels through the Romagna, and performs
particularly at Rimini, an inhabitant of which furnished an account to
M. Conestabile. It is afterwards that his adventure at Ferrara occurs;
and the 16th of August of the following year he gives concerts at
Parma, as confirmed by M. Gervasoni. Returning to Florence, he remains
there during 1812, where, at the beginning of 1813, the affair takes
place which drives him from Court. In the same year he gives thirteen
concerts at Milan. In 1814 he is at Genoa, his native place. He then
returns to Milan, gives eleven concerts there, and proceeds to Bologna,
where he meets Rossini. In 1815, he makes his second professional
tour in Romagna, and plays at Ancona, returning again to his native
place. In March, 1816, he goes to hear Lafont at Milan, receives the
challenge, gives concerts, and proceeds to Venice in the summer of the
same year. He remains there nearly a year, according to the report of
a correspondent of the “Leipziger Musikalische Zeitung,” from which
period until his death the public journals teem with accounts of his
brilliant successes. It is manifest, and beyond contradiction, that
during an existence constantly before the public, no period can be
found where he could have suffered a detention of eight years, or even
the time necessary for undergoing a criminal procedure. Paganini, with
the design of confounding his vilifiers, should have collected the
testimonies of those he had known previously to and during all this
period, and have published the chronological table which has been thus
sketched: the whole matter would then have been set at rest.
Human credulity is prone to feed on outrageous absurdities. Not only
was his dignity as a man attacked, for endeavours were ever made to
deprive him of this, and to grant him only a fantastic existence. The
almost insuperable difficulties he had overcome as a violinist, were
not the only motives which gave birth to the reports circulated. The
extraordinary expression of his face, his livid paleness, his dark and
penetrating eye, together with the sardonic smile which occasionally
played upon his lips, appeared to the vulgar, and to certain diseased
minds, unmistakable evidences of satanic origin. It has been seen by
his letter, which has been given _in extenso_, what he himself related
on that subject. But these ridiculous ideas were not entertained in
Germany only, for there are traces of them even in Italy, and they
probably had some effect upon the difficulties which attended his
obsequies. M. Amati, a distinguished writer, has furnished M. Schottky
with an anecdote which has reference to his acquaintance with Paganini
at Florence. It will be seen what impression the extraordinary aspect
of this singular being had upon nervous temperaments. Thus speaks the
narrator:--“Near the gate of Pitti, at Florence, there is a steep hill,
on the summit of which stands the ancient Fiesole, formerly the rival
of the capital of Tuscany, but divested of its former splendour. Here
the purest air is inhaled, and the beauty of the prospect produces
rather the effect of a dream than of reality. One beautiful May
morning, when the flowers and verdure lay smiling, kissed by the sun’s
rays, and all nature was beaming with youth, I ascended this hill by
its most rugged path, from whence the most beautiful view is obtained.
In front of me was a stranger, who, from time to time, stopped to
recover his breath, and admire the enchanting landscape, which met
his eye in every direction. Insensibly I approached him. Believing
himself alone, he spoke aloud, and accompanied his monologue with rapid
gesticulations and loud laughter. Suddenly he checked himself; his
lynx-like eye had perceived in the distance a charming object, which
soon after also attracted my attention. It was a young peasant girl,
who was approaching towards us slowly, carrying a basket of flowers.
She wore a straw hat; her hair, dark and lustrous as jet, played upon
her forehead; and the regularity of her handsome features was softened
by the mildness of her looks. With a beautifully formed hand she
constantly replaced her shining ringlets, which the refreshing zephyr
displaced. The stranger, astonished at so much beauty, fixed his ardent
looks upon her; when she had got near to him, she seemed transfixed
at the appearance of the individual who stood before her, grew pale,
and trembled. Her basket seemed ready to fall from her hands. She,
however, hurried on, and soon disappeared behind a projection. During
this period, I contemplated the stranger, whose eyes were fixed in the
direction the girl had taken. Never had I seen so extraordinary a face.
He merely cast upon me a passing glance, accompanied by a most singular
smile, and pursued his way.
“The next day, dark clouds, driven by the winds, rolled along like the
sea waves; scarcely was the sun visible, yet, despite the weather, I
went out, and having traversed the bridge Delle Grazie, outside the
gate which bears that name, I directed my steps to the right, towards
the hill, on the summit of which I already perceived the ruined castle
with its drawbridge. I approached the remains of this ancient edifice,
through the dilapidated walls of which the wind was whistling. Here
everything bore the impress of destruction. Here, contemplating the
fearful ravages of time, and listening to the mournful melodies of the
hurricane, the moanings of a human voice struck upon my ear, and made
me shudder. It seemed as if the voice proceeded from a subterranean
cavity near which I was standing. I rushed forward to its mouth, where
I found a man--pale and with haggard looks, lying upon the moss. I
recognised the stranger of the previous day; his searching look was
fixed upon me; I recoiled from it, and perceiving the stranger was in
no need of assistance, I withdrew.
“On the following evening, I was walking by the side of the Arno,
the moonlight flickering as it rose. The nightingale’s note, and the
warbling of birds of every kind preparing to roost, were saluting the
departing rays of day. Sounds of a totally different nature suddenly
intermingled with these harmonized melodies of nature. Attracted by
this exquisite and unknown music, I followed the direction from whence
they seemed to proceed, and I again found myself near the singular
being who had occupied all my thoughts for the last three days.
Carelessly lying beneath a tree, his features were now as calm as
they had appeared troubled the day previous, and as he listened with
impassioned expression to the fury of the tempest in the old castle,
so did he now seem to enjoy the concert of the feathered tribe, whose
notes he was whistling with most astounding imitation. I could not
explain the strange destiny that led me constantly into his presence.
“My astonishment had not yet ceased, for, on returning the following
evening from a long walk, just as the stars began their first
scintillations, I sat down to repose myself under the Loggie degli
Uffizi. A joyous party passed me, and sat down on a marble seat some
distance from me; soon after, celestial sounds struck upon my ear,
by turns joyful and plaintive, evidently produced by the hand of a
superior artist. Silence succeeded to the hilarious shouts of the
merry party, all of whom seemed as transfixed by the divine music
as I was myself. They all rose, silently, to follow the artist, who
continued walking while he played. I also followed, to discover what
instrument it was I heard, and who the artist might be that discoursed
so enchantingly upon it. Arrived at the square of the Palazzo Vecchio,
the party entered a restaurant. I followed them. Here they regained
their former merriment, and the leader, more than his companions,
displayed extraordinary animation. To my great surprise, the instrument
was a guitar (which seemed to have become magical), and the performer,
I discovered to be the stranger I had so continuously met. He was no
longer the suffering being he had seemed: his eyes beamed, his veins
swelled with exultation, his coat and waistcoat were both unbuttoned,
his cravat loosened, and his gesticulations those of a madman. I
inquired his name. ‘None of us knows it,’ replied the individual, one
of the party, to whom I addressed myself; ‘I was in company with my
friends, who were singing and dancing to my guitar, when this singular
man pushed in among us, and snatching the guitar from my hands,
commenced playing without saying a word. Annoyed at the intrusion, we
were about to lay hands upon him, but without noticing us in the least,
he continued playing, subjugating us by his exquisite performance.
Each time we inquired his name, he resumed his playing without making
any reply. He occasionally ceased for a while, to relate to us some
extraordinary anecdote. In this manner he has brought us hither,
without more knowledge of him than you possess.’
“Some days after, Paganini was announced to give a concert. Eager to
hear the incomparable artist, whose fame was so universal, and whom I
had not yet heard, I went to the theatre, which was literally crowded
to suffocation. The utmost impatience was manifested until the concert
commenced with a symphony, which, although by a composer of eminence,
was listened to with indifference. At last the artist appeared. I was
astonished at recognising in him the stranger who had so mystified me
for some days, whom I had met at Fiesole, etc. I will not attempt to
describe the effect his performance produced--the transports of frenzy
his incomparable talent excited. Let it suffice to say, that on that
one evening, he seemed to conjoin all the delightful impressions of the
graceful appearance of the peasant girl of the mountain, the hurricane
in the ruins, the warbling of the feathered songsters on the banks of
the Arno, and the inspiring delirium of the evening at the Loggie.”
With a people so imaginative as the Italians, so extraordinary a
looking person as Paganini, his wondrous talent, and the eccentricity
of his mode of life, naturally conduced to superstitious ideas, and
the belief in the supernatural. Many believed he had entered into
a compact with the devil. In Germany these prejudices were greater
even than among the Italians. It has been seen in his letter already
given what was said of him at Vienna, when he played his variations on
the “Witches’ Dance.” At Leipzig, the “Zeitung für die elegant Welt”
gave the following account of one of his concerts:--“In the Hotel de
Pologne, resided a lady of exceeding beauty, whose tresses were the
object of much admiration, but whose features wore an aspect of deep
melancholy, though a sweet yet sad smile was ever playing on her lips.
I had seen her once: this sufficed to imprint her features upon my
memory, and I sought every means to see her at all times. The evening
Paganini gave his last concert, I was near the stage, and although my
eyes wandered all over the theatre, I did not discover her I sought
so anxiously. Paganini appeared. Can I describe the magic of his bow?
The marvellous tones he extracted from the melancholy and plaintive G
string touched every heart; and upon this occasion more so than I ever
remember. At this moment, the sound of a sigh, such as proceeds from
some person dying, struck upon my ear. I looked around, and I saw my
_incognita_, white as marble, unconscious, apparently, of the tears
which fell in showers down her cheeks. I uttered a cry of surprise,
which was heard throughout the theatre; every voice being at the time
hushed into silence. Paganini, who was only a few paces from me, turned
round and looked at me. An extraordinary smile, such as I had never
before seen, played upon his face; but it did not seem either intended
for me or the lady. I watched its direction, and perceived, not without
emotion, dressed in the English fashion, and seated next the lady, my
not very reputable acquaintance of Elbingerode, who returned the smile
with one no less extraordinary. They were then intimate? I understand
that smile now. In reality, it had been generally observed, and for
a long time surmised, that Paganini and Satan were most intimately
connected, or that they were one and the same person. My discovery made
me forget my lady; but judge of my horror, when upon turning round I
saw her neighbour take her hand, squeeze it with affection, and the
lady grow paler than before. I was thunderstruck; but at this moment
the applause increased. Paganini had finished playing. The audience
rose, as did the lady and her friend. I followed them to the door,
before which stood a carriage with two black horses. The lady got in,
followed by her cavalier, when the carriage flew off, bright flashes
of lightning bursting forth from the horses’ eyes. Greatly agitated,
I returned to the theatre; but Paganini’s marvels no longer astounded
me. The concert concluded, I left by the same door through which the
mysterious lady had passed, and then found there was no place where a
carriage could stand.”
Paganini was deeply affected by these rumours, which not only detracted
from his position, but tended to render his talent valueless. It is
not improbable that in his youth he had himself contributed to the
propagation of such fabrications by his eccentricities. But when age
crept on--when honours and successes had accumulated--he discovered
that none, however great his fame, however favoured by fortune, could
be great when general esteem is withheld. With the view of ending the
ridiculous reports concerning his origin, he published at Prague the
following letter, which his mother had written to him on the 21st of
July, 1828:--
“DEAREST SON,--At last, after seven months have elapsed since I wrote
to you at Milan, I had the happiness of receiving your letter of the
9th current, through the intermediary of Signor Agnino, and was much
rejoiced to find that you were in the enjoyment of good health. I am
also delighted to find that, after your travels to Paris and London,
you purpose visiting Genoa expressly to embrace me. I assure you, my
prayers are daily offered up to the Most High, that my health may be
sustained, also yours, so that my desire may be realized.
“My dream has been fulfilled, and that which God promised me has been
accomplished. Your name is great, and art, with the help of God, has
placed you in a position of independence. Beloved, esteemed by your
fellow citizens, you will find in my bosom and those of your friends,
that repose which your health demands.
“The portraits which accompanied your letter have given me great
pleasure. I had seen in the papers all the accounts you give me of
yourself. You may imagine, as your mother, what an infinite source of
joy it was to me. Dear son, I entreat you to continue to inform me of
all that concerns you, for with this assurance I shall feel that it
will prolong my days, and be convinced that I shall still have the
happiness of embracing you.
“We are all well. In the name of all your relations, I thank you for
the sums of money you have sent. Omit nothing that will render your
name immortal. Eschew the vices of great cities, remembering that
you have a mother who loves you affectionately, and whose fondest
aspirations are your health and happiness. She will never cease her
supplications to the All-powerful for your preservation.
“Embrace your amiable companion for me, and kiss little Achille. Love
me as I love you.
“Your ever affectionate mother,
“TERESA PAGANINI.”
This letter was not necessary to prove to reasoning mortals that the
great artist was not a son of Satan. But the ignorant mass listens not
to reason, nor are its superstitious beliefs easily removed. Opinion
in France did justice to these follies, but they seemed to revive
afterwards, and acquired renewed strength after the decease of him who
had been so calumniated during his life.
Nothing could be more variable than the moral dispositions of Paganini;
at one time melancholy and taciturn, passing several hours seated,
without uttering a word; at another, he would give himself entirely
up to unrestrained gaiety, without any apparent motive for either the
one or the other. He seldom spoke much; but while travelling, the
movement of the carriage rendered him loquacious. Mr. George Harrys,
who lived for some time on terms of intimacy with him, and who has
published some curious details on his private life,[O] states that his
bad health rendered his speaking aloud extremely painful, but when the
noise of the wheels rattling over the stones was almost deafening, he
spoke loudly and rapidly. It was not, as with most persons, the beauty
of the country through which he passed that made him communicative,
for he paid no attention to the lovely landscapes which met his eye in
every direction; rapid transit seemed to be his only aim; but there
was something in the rolling of the coach which made conversation
a necessity. His constant suffering did not permit him to enjoy a
beautiful country, where others dwelt who were blessed with health.
Besides, he was always cold, and even at a summer heat of twenty-two
degrees he wrapped his large cloak around him, and ensconced himself
in a corner of a carriage, with the windows hermetically closed. By
a singular contradiction, he invariably kept all the windows of his
apartments wide open, to take, as he called it, an air bath. He cursed
the climate of Germany, of France, and above all of England, saying
there was no living but in Italy. Travelling was exceedingly painful to
him, suffering, as he constantly did, from pain in the abdomen; hence
his wish to travel quickly. In the agony he experienced, his habitual
paleness was replaced by a livid and greenish hue. Sleep to him was a
source of great delight, and he would sleep uninterruptedly for two
or three hours consecutively, and awake full of cheerfulness. When
the horses were being changed, he either remained in the carriage, or
walked about until the fresh horses were put to; but he never entered
an inn or post-house until he arrived at the end of his journey. Before
starting, he neither took tea nor coffee, but a basin of soup, or a
cup of chocolate. If he started early in the morning, he would do so
fasting, and frequently remained nearly the whole day without taking
any refreshment. His luggage caused no trouble, as it consisted only of
a small dilapidated trunk, containing his precious Guarnieri Violin,
his jewels, his money, and a few fine linen articles, a carpet bag, and
a hat-case, which was placed in the interior of the carriage. Careless
of all that related to the comforts of life, he was alike negligent
in his toilet. A small napkin would contain his entire wardrobe; his
papers, which were of paramount importance, representing immense value,
he kept in a small red pocket-book, which also contained his accounts.
None but himself could decipher these hieroglyphics of his Babel-like
accounts, where pell-mell were mixed up Vienna and Carlsruhe, Berlin,
Frankfort, and Leipzig, receipts and outlay for post-horses, etc.,
and concert tickets. All was clear to him; though extremely ignorant
of arithmetic, he had devised certain means of arriving at an exact
account of all his affairs.
In the inns on the road, Paganini was never dissatisfied. It was a
matter of indifference to him, whether he was shown into a garret or
an elegantly-furnished chamber, whether the bed was good or bad, as
long as he was removed from all noise. “I have enough noise in large
towns,” he would say, “I wish to rest on the road.” His supper was
always extremely light; frequently he would take nothing but a cupful
of camomile tea, after which he would sleep soundly till the morning.
However, when, about fifteen years before his death, he was attacked
with the phthisis which ultimately proved fatal, a convulsive cough
frequently interrupted his sleep; but as soon as the crisis was over,
he was asleep again.