monotonous a course of existence as that to which Paganini condemned
himself at home; he left his room with regret, and only seemed happy
in perfect solitude. Many have thought his Violin occupied him
constantly. Never was error greater--he never touched it except to tune
it previously to going to a rehearsal or a concert. “I have laboured
enough to acquire my talent,” he would say, “it is time I should rest
myself.” The anecdote is perhaps known, of an Englishman, a passionate
admirer and amateur of the Violin, who, intent on discovering the
secret of the great artist’s study, followed in his steps for more
than six months, staying at the same hotels, and always when possible
in the next room. Vainly, however, did he seek to hear him study some
of his difficulties--the most profound silence reigned in the artist’s
apartment. It occurred, however, that on one occasion the rooms of the
amateur and the artist were only separated by a door which was not
used. Peeping through the keyhole, the curiosity of the amateur was,
as it appeared, about to be gratified. He saw Paganini, seated on a
sofa, taking from its case the precious Violin, which, on being raised
to his shoulder, assured him his long-sought happiness was about to
be realized; but not a note was heard, for Paganini merely moved his
left hand up and down the finger-board, to calculate certain positions,
without using the bow. This done, the Violin was replaced in its case.
In utter despair, the Englishman gave up the fruitless pursuit, and
returned to England.
Paganini did not seek to conceal that his constant study of the
instrument in his early years precluded his attending to his education,
and that his mind was but ill-stored with literary instruction. He
never looked into a book, not even to wile away any portion of time
by reading a romance. History and the sciences were sealed books to
him. M. Schottky, notwithstanding, found among the documents which
were furnished to him by M. Amati, an anecdote which indicates
that the great violinist’s memory retained certain smatterings of
history, mythology, and poetry, which he would apply occasionally most
oppositely. Dining one day with the celebrated poets, Monti and Ugo
Foscolo, at the residence of the beautiful, rich, and witty Comtesse
F----’s, Foscolo, who was captivated with the charms of the Comtesse,
arrived the last, and finding Monti, his rival, addressing her in
terms of gallantry, he abruptly quitted the apartment, and hastened to
allay his fierceness on the garden terrace. Here he met Paganini, and
his passion subsided. Approaching him with great warmth, and seizing
his hand, he said to him, “When I heard you at the concert yesterday,
Homer stood before me in all his sublimity. The grandeur of the first
movement of your concerto brought to my mind the arrival of the Greek
ships before Troy. The exquisite loveliness of the Adagio pictured to
me the tender love-talk of Achilles and Briséis. When will you let me
hear the despair and wailings of the hero over the body of Patroclus?”
Paganini replied, without hesitation, “When Achilles Paganini finds his
Patroclus among violinists.”
Political events had no interest for him; he consequently never read a
newspaper unless it contained something concerning himself. His whole
thoughts were occupied on projects for the future. Among these were the
founding of a musical conservatory in Italy, the publication of his
compositions, the writing of operas, and abandoning his professional
tours. While dwelling on these subjects, he would pace his room with
great rapidity, arrange his stray pieces of music, or number his red
diary, dress himself and go to dinner, or have it brought to his room,
which he preferred to the _table d’hôte_. He spent a great portion of
the day reclining on his bed, and left his room only in the evening,
to walk for about an hour. He would pass the entire evening without
light in his apartment, and rarely went to bed later than half-past
ten. He frequently remained for hours absorbed in deep thought, almost
motionless. Mistrustful, like most Italians, he complained of the
treachery of some of his most intimate friends, which necessarily
rendered him the more so; hence his dislike to society--he did not
believe he could repose the slightest confidence in any one.
Notwithstanding his extreme repugnance to receiving visits, his
world-wide fame brought sometimes from sixty to eighty visitors,
anxious to see and speak with him; many of these he would refer to his
secretary, but others he could not avoid receiving. Circumspect with
those who came on business, he was more so with artists who came to
discover the secret of his talent; he listened to these patiently. His
fatigue was so great after receiving these visits, that he would bolt
his door, and not answer anyone who knocked.
The invitations he received for dinners and suppers were very numerous
in all the towns he visited, or remained in to give concerts; they
annoyed him, and he refused most of them, aware of his habit of
partaking of everything that was placed on the table. He could eat and
drink largely without feeling any ill effects at the time, but in a
day or two his intestinal pains would come on with redoubled force. He
would invariably, if he could do so without being observed, retire to
rest as soon as he left the table. He was infinitely gayer previous to
dinner than after. One would be inclined to suppose he was desirous
of impressing upon his host the sacrifice he made in accepting the
invitation: it was so, in fact.
At evening parties he was extremely cheerful, if no mention was made
of music; but if, with the ill-judged view of affording him amusement,
it was proposed or spoken of, his spirits immediately left him. If to
gather his opinions upon other violinists, or to question him upon his
talent, he only replied monosyllabically, and endeavoured to avoid
the inquisition by stealing away to another part of the room, or to
interrupt the conversation by observations on other subjects. In the
large cities of Germany, vocal and instrumental societies deemed it a
homage to his talent to perform before him some musical compositions;
but, although he would appear to listen with attention, his mind was
pre-occupied on other subjects, and he rarely knew what he listened to.
He occasionally avowed, with great sincerity, that the obligation of
identifying his public existence with music made him feel an imperious
desire to forget the art when he entered into ordinary life. Nor can
it be dissimulated that this idiosyncracy pertains to almost every
artist who has obtained great celebrity, and who has acquired popular
fame. With these, all their faculties are concentrated in the feeling
of their personality. Art, separated from their own glorification, does
not exist. Gluck and Grétry recognized no music but their own, nor
believed any other to be worthy of being performed. How many composers
have been imbued with the same feeling, differing with those great
men only in dissimulation! With those whose executive talents bring
them in contact with the public, it is worse still; without personal
ovations, it is not only indifference for the art, it is hatred.
Hence, when, having returned to the ordinary conditions of life, and
withdrawn from the manifestations of enthusiasm they have for so long
a period excited, artists who come into this category decline rapidly,
and present in their old age a spectacle of moral degradation, unless,
by an extraordinary exception, great intellectual faculties have been
united to their extraordinary talent.
Paganini felt great pleasure in a small circle of friends, and in quiet
conversation. The amusements of society delighted him; and he would
remain until a late hour, where he did not appear to be an object of
attention. He did not like the glare of light--his sight having been
affected by stage lights--hence his habit of playing with his back to
the lights, and of remaining in the dark when at home. His memory was
excellent, despite his habitual abstraction. When once persons had been
introduced to him, their features and names were never forgotten; but,
by some inexplicable singularity, he never remembered the name of a
town in which he gave concerts the moment he left it.
Notwithstanding the enormous number of concerts he gave, Paganini was
pre-occupied the day on which one was given. He would remain idle the
whole morning, lying on a sofa. Before going to a rehearsal, he would
open his Violin-case to examine the state of his strings, tune it, and
prepare the orchestral parts of the pieces he intended playing. During
these operations he took large quantities of snuff--a certain token
with him of great mental excitement and disquietude. On arriving at
rehearsal, his first care was to see that no person was in the room or
theatre. Should any one be there, he merely indicated to the band what
he desired by almost an imperceptible sound, or slight pizzicato. He
was extremely severe with the band; and would have a solo or a tutti
repeated for the slightest error. If this continued, he would pace to
and fro before the orchestra, and dart the most furious looks at the
musicians; but when a tutti came in too soon, before the termination of
a cadenza, he burst forth into a tempest of rage which would cause the
boldest to tremble. When, however, the accompaniment was satisfactory,
he would smile, and express his approbation aloud, in these words,
“Bravissimo! Siete tutti virtuosi!” When he came to a pause for the
introduction of a cadenza, the musicians all rose, eager to observe
what he was about to play, but Paganini would merely play a few
notes--stop suddenly--and, turning towards them, would laughingly add,
“Et cætera, Messieurs!” It was only in the evening he would put forth
all his strength. After the rehearsal, he would converse for a few
moments with the leader, to thank him for the attention that had been
paid, and sought out especial passages for his particular observation.
He invariably carried away himself the orchestral parts, of which he
was particularly careful. The principal part was never seen, as he
played from memory, to avoid his pieces being copied. When he returned
home he partook of a light repast, threw himself upon his bed, and
remained there until the carriage came to take him to the theatre. A
few minutes sufficed for his toilet, and he proceeded at once to the
concert. When he arrived he evinced as much gaiety, as he had displayed
gravity during the day. His first question was “is there a large
audience?” If answered in the affirmative, he would say, “good--good!
excellent people!” if, on the contrary, he was told the audience was
small, he expressed a fear that the effect of the music would be lost
in the empty boxes.
Paganini was not always alike disposed for his concerts. He had doubts
of himself; and, trying several difficult passages, if he failed in
executing them with his usual facility, he became angry, and exclaimed,
“If I were in Paris, I would not play to-day.” He would frequently
recover himself during the evening, and say ingeniously to his friends,
“I have played better at the end than at the commencement of the
concert.” He kept the public waiting a long time before he came on.
His departure from the theatre resembled a triumph; a crowd formed an
avenue to his carriage, and greeted him with loud acclamations; he
was received similarly on his arrival at his hotel. Paganini seemed
delighted with the homage, and frequently mixed with the crowds that
surrounded the doors. He would join the company at the _table d’hôte_
in the best possible spirits, and would sup heartily.
There are few examples of such devotion to severe study as Paganini
evinced in the accomplishment of his art. He created the difficulties
he performed, with a view of varying the effects and augmenting the
resources of his instrument--this, as it is seen, having been his
object, so soon as he was capable of reflecting on his ultimate
destiny. Having played the music of the old masters, particularly that
of Pugnani, Viotti and Kreutzer, he felt he could never attain great
fame if he followed in their path. Chance brought under his notice
the ninth work of Locatelli, entitled, “l’Arte di Nuova Modulazione,”
and he at once saw in it a new world of ideas and facts, though,
on its first appearance it was unsuccessful from its excessive
difficulty, and, perhaps, also, because it was in advance of the
period when “classic” forms should be departed from. Circumstances
were favourable to Paganini, for the necessity of innovation was at
its zenith in his day. In adopting the ideas of his predecessors, in
resuscitating forgotten effects, in superadding what his genius and
perseverance gave birth to, he arrived at that distinctive character of
performance and his ultimate greatness. The diversity of sounds--the
different methods of tuning his instrument--the frequent employment of
double and single harmonic notes--the simultaneous pizzicato and bow
passages--the various staccati--the use of the double and even triple
notes--a prodigious facility in executing wide intervals with unerring
precision, joined to an extraordinary number of various styles of
bowing--such were the principal features of Paganini’s talent--means
which were rendered perfect by his execution--his exquisite nervous
sensibility, and his enormous musical feeling. From the manner in which
he placed himself, leaning, as it were, on his hip, from the position
of his right arm, and the manner in which he held his bow, it would
have been thought its movements would be nothing less than awkward,
and the arm all stiffness; but it was soon observed that the bow and
the arm moved with equal ease, and what appeared to be the result of
some malformation, was the result of deep study of that which was most
favourable to the effect the artist wished to produce. His bow was of
ordinary dimensions; but was screwed up with more than usual tension.
It is probable Paganini found it preferable for his bounding staccato,
which differed from that of all other violinists. In the notice which
he wrote at Lucca, he says great surprise was manifested at the length
of his bow, and the thickness of his strings; but, some time after, he
evidently discovered the difficulty of producing vibration in every
part of the strings, and consequently, of obtaining a perfect tone, for
he gradually diminished their dimensions--and when he played in Paris
his strings were under the medium size. Paganini’s hands were large,
dry, and nervous. His fingers, by dint of excessive practice, had
acquired a suppleness and aptitude difficult to conceive. The thumb of
the left hand fell easily upon the palm of his hand, when necessary for
the execution of certain shifting passages.
The quality of tone which Paganini brought from his instrument was
clear and pure, without being excessively full, except in certain
effects, when it was manifest he collected all his power to arrive
at extraordinary results. But what most distinguished this portion
of his talent was the variety of voices he drew from the strings, by
means of his own, or which, after having been discovered by others,
had been neglected, their full import having been misunderstood. Thus,
the harmonic sounds, which before his time had only been considered
as curious and limited effects, rather than as a positive benefit to
a violinist, formed an important feature in Paganini’s performance.
It was not only for an isolated effect that he employed them, but as
an artificial means to reach certain intervals, which the largest
hand could never embrace. It was from the harmonic sounds that he
obtained on the fourth string a compass of three octaves. Before
Paganini, none had imagined that beyond natural harmonics, it was
possible to execute thirds, fifths, sixths; in fact, that at the
octaves in diatonic succession, natural and harmonic sounds could be
produced. All these Paganini executed in every position with the utmost
facility. In singing he frequently produced a vibratory effect, which
greatly resembled the human voice, but when, by sliding the hand, the
voice became like that of an old woman, the effect was affected and
exaggerated. Paganini’s intonation was perfect; this rare quality was
not the least of the advantages he possessed over other violinists.
After having spoken of the great qualities of Paganini’s talent, it
is necessary to consider it from the general impression it produced
upon the public. Many overleap the bounds of reason in expatiating on
the poetry of his playing, particularly upon his singing. He was cited
as the great Violin singer--as the creator of a pathetic and dramatic
school, applied to the art of bowing. I confess that I do not look at
his prodigious talent in this light. What I experienced in listening to
him was astonishment--unbounded admiration; but I was seldom moved by
that feeling which appears to me inseparable from the true expression
of music. The poetry of the great violinist consisted, principally, in
his brilliancy; and, if I may be allowed the expression, the mastery of
his bow. There was fulness and grandeur in his phrasing--but there was
no tenderness in his accents. In the prayer from “Mosè,” for example,
he was great when the baritone voice was heard on the fourth string,
from the elevated character he gave to it; but when he came to the
part of Elcia, an octave higher on the same string, he fell into an
affected strain of heavy, tremulous sounds, which good taste would
have rejected. His triumph was in the last major strain; here he was
sublime--and he then left an impression bordering on enthusiasm.
To pronounce judgment upon Paganini, it was necessary to hear him in
his own especial style--that which most characterized his talent. In
his concerts in Paris, he thought it necessary to flatter the national
feeling by playing a concerto by Kreutzer and one by Rode--but he
scarcely rose above mediocrity in their performance. His secretary,
Mr. Harrys, tells us the opinion Paganini formed of himself as regards
these attempts. He said to him, “I have my own peculiar style; in
accordance with this, I regulate my composition. To play those of
other artists, I must arrange them accordingly: I had much rather
write a piece in which I can trust myself entirely to my own musical
impressions.” The unfavourable impression he made in Paris, with
these two pieces, was a lesson to him; he never played from that time
any music but his own. Paganini’s art did not apply to any species
of composition--his was a specialty, of which he alone could be the
interpreter--an art born with him, the secret of which he has carried
with him to the grave.
I have used a word he often repeated--for he frequently insisted
that his talent resulted from a secret discovered by him--and which
he would reveal before his death, in a “study for the Violin,” that
should only contain a small number of pages, but that should cause the
utmost consternation to all violinists. He cited, in support of the
infallibility of his secret, the experiment that he had made at Naples,
upon a violoncellist of little talent, named Gaetano Ciandelli, who, by
the revelation of the mystery, became transformed in one morning into
a _virtuoso_. Apart from the study of mechanism--for which there is
no substitute--no secret can exist from talent, but that which nature
implants in the heart of the artist; there is, however, something
astounding and mysterious in the faculty which Paganini possessed, of
invariably overcoming the almost unheard-of difficulties, without ever
touching the Violin except at concerts and rehearsals. Mr. Harrys, who
was his secretary, and did not leave him for more than a year, never
saw him take his Violin from its case. Be it, however, as it may, death
has not permitted the secret, of which Paganini spoke, to be divulged.
Many notices of the life and talent of this great artist have been
published, either in collections or separately; the most important are
the following:--
1. “Paganini’s Leben und Treiben als Künstler und als Mensch,” (Life
and Adventures of Paganini, as an Artist, and as a Man). Prague,
Calve, 1830, in 8vo of 410 pages. This work, of which M. Schottky is
the author, is but a compilation, without order, of correspondence,
anecdotes, and German newspaper reports, as far as concerns the travels
of the artist, from his first leaving Italy. An abridgment of this
work, in which many doubtful facts and positive false accounts have
been introduced, was published by M. L. Vinela, under the title of
“Paganini’s Leben und Charakter,” (Life and Character of Paganini).
Hamburg, Hoffmann and Campe, 1830, in 8vo.
2. “Paganini in seinem Reisewagen und Zimmer, in seinen redseligen
Stunden, in gesellschaftlichen Zirkeln, und seinen Concerten,”
(Paganini in his Post-chaise, in his Room, in his hours of Privacy,
in Society, and his Concerts). Brunswick, Vieweg, 1830, in 8vo of 68
pages. A work written in simplicity and good faith, indicating sound
judgment. Mr. George Harrys, or Harris, the writer of this opusculum,
was an Englishman, attached to the Court of Hanover. With a view of
studying Paganini as a man and an artist, and to publish this notice,
he became his interpreter and secretary, and remained with him an
entire year.
3. “Leben, Character und Kunst N. Paganini’s. Eine Skizze,” (Sketch of
the Life, Character, and Talent of Paganini, by M. F. C. J. Schütz,
Professor at Halle). Leipzig, Rein, 1830, in 8vo.
4. “Notice sur le célèbre violoniste Nicolo Paganini,” by M. J. Imbert
de la Phalèque. Paris, E. Guyot, in 8vo, of 66 pages, with portrait.
5. “Paganini, his Life, his Person, and a few Words upon his Secret,”
by G. L. Anders. Paris, Delaunay, 1831, in 8vo.
6. “Paganini et Bériot, ou Avis aux artistes qui se destinent à
l’enseignement du Violon,” by Fr. Fayolle. Paris, Legouest, 1831, in
8vo.
7. “Vita di Nicolo Paganini di Genova, scritta ed illustrata da
Giancarlo Conestabile, socio di varie Academie.” Perugia, tipografia di
Vincenzo Bartelli, 1831, 1 vol. in 8vo, 317 pages. An excellent work,
carefully edited, and in a good spirit of criticism, from documents
chosen with discernment. The portrait of Paganini is given from M.
Schottky’s, but softened and idealized.
Independently of the portraits which accompany most of the above works,
many were published in Italy, in Germany, and in France. The most
sought for are the following:--1st. Portrait of Paganini, lithographed
by Maurin, in the 7th volume of the Revue Musicale; 2nd, one
lithographed by Mauzaise, in 4to, Paris, Bénard; 3rd, Milan, Ricordi;
4th, drawn and lithographed by Begas, Berlin, Sachse, in 4to; 5th,
without name of author, in 4to, Berlin, Trautwein and Co.; 6th, drawn
by Hahn, Munich, Falter; 7th, lithographed by Krätzschmar, Leipzig,
Breitkopf and Härtel; 8th, without name of author, Vienna, Artaria,
1828; 9th, ditto, Hamburg, Niemeyer; 10th, ditto, Leipzig, Pönicke;
11th, ditto, Mannheim, Heckel.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Paganini Appreciated as a Composer.
ANALYSIS OF HIS WORKS.
Long ere the talent of Paganini had acquired popularity beyond Italy, a
collection of studies for the Violin, under his name, still unknown to
French violinists, had been published, and created a deep impression;
so many novelties were there accumulated, and the difficulties they
presented were so problematical, and under forms so peculiar, that many
professors doubted the possibility of their execution, and went so
far as to look upon the publication of that work as a mystification.
However, the composer, Andreozzi, who had brought to Paris the copy
from which Pacini published his edition, attested that there was
in Italy a man who executed those difficulties as though they were
mere trifles, and who would astound the professors and pupils of the
Conservatoire, if they heard him. This man was the author himself--it
was Paganini.
At the same time, Blangini, on his return from Italy, also spoke of
this artist with enthusiasm, and likewise attested that his art bore no
affinity with the manner of playing the Violin that all great masters
had propagated until his day; that all was the invention of his talent,
and that he was destined to revolutionize the style of playing the
Violin. Some young artists, among whom was Habeneck, attempted to solve
these musical enigmas, but finally abandoned them, as they could not
discover the application of these novelties to the pure music of the
great composers.