Part 24

Paganini’s last Parisian concert occurred in the year 1832, at the Grand Opéra. He played three pieces. Habeneck, professor of music at the Conservatoire, on this occasion wielded the bâton. He had been instrumental in introducing the symphonies of Beethoven for the first time, in opposition to the opinions of the other professors of the Conservatoire. The orchestra was composed of the professors, and such pupils as had taken the first prize; it was justly regarded as the finest orchestra in Europe. Habeneck wished to introduce Beethoven, but had hitherto failed in exciting an appreciation for his mighty works. Finally he hit upon a strategem. It was his birthday, and he invited the members of the orchestra to a collation to be given in the concert–hall of the Conservatoire, and he begged them to bring their instruments. When his health was proposed, he suggested in response that, if they really wished to give him great joy, they would consent to play the “Allegro in C minor” from the first symphony of Beethoven. He explained to them beforehand how he would have them handle the principal motive. Of course all agreed. He knew his success from the manner in which they struck the first chords. Exclamations of admiration followed the close of the Allegro, and the concluding movement of the symphony was played with enthusiasm to the end. Now they requested that the symphony should be played at the next concert, and after twenty rehearsals it was given with immense success. Such was the man who conducted on this occasion. He was a leader of great ability, and the players, the majority of them graduates of the Conservatoire, were entirely under his command. Paganini played, as far as I can remember, his “Concerto in B minor,” with the “Rondo Campanella,” also two variations of Haydn’s famous “Austrian National Hymn,” and concluded with his “Moto Perpetuo.” The public were accustomed to applaud (I have the whole scene before me as if it were to–day) when he appeared at the side. When his shadow was seen approaching, the audience applauded as usual, but to their astonishment Paganini did not appear, but instead a man in black, with a music–stand, which he placed on the stage near the conductor. Again a shadow was seen on the wall, and again the applause sounded. A man appeared clad in livery; he bore two candles, which he placed on the stand and lighted. He disappeared, amid the laughter of the audience. Then came the first fellow in black, this time with a manuscript in his hand. The house behaved as before, evidently confusing the black fellow. Finally came another shadow, and this time it was Paganini, but the applause was now withheld, and he was not recognized until he came forward to the foot–lights. There he made a forced salutation, accompanied with a contraction of the facial muscles, seeming much puzzled at his silent reception. He had been in another room, and knew nothing of the ludicrous scene which had preceded his appearance. Immediately Habeneck raised his bâton, as if to give his order to the orchestra, but Paganini shook his head. He took his bow in his left hand together with his violin, and thrust his right into the recesses of the pockets of his swallow–tailed coat, and brought out a pair of dark–green gloves, which he transferred to his left hand. He shook his head again, and, after a deeper plunge, produced a large white handkerchief, which he also placed in his left hand, accompanying the action with an audible expression of dissatisfaction. A still deeper thrust revealed a brown box, which he regarded with a nod and a smile, and added to the other things in his left hand. He now went through the same deliberate motions in passing the handkerchief and gloves back to his pocket. He then opened the box and took out a pair of spectacles, meditated a moment, apparently considering the next move, and finally, taking the bow in his right hand, and bending a little, put the spectacles on and looked about in a complacent manner. But how changed he was! The glasses were dark blue, giving a ghastly appearance to his emaciated face; they looked like two large holes in his countenance. Raising his foot and bringing it down promptly, he gave the signal to begin. It had been announced as his last concert in Paris for the season, and a true foreboding seemed to thrill through his listeners that they would not again see that lank, angular figure, with its haggard face, or hear again the wondrous witchery of his violin.

NOTE.—(Page 363). The oblique position of the bar has not been generally adopted. The bar is ordinarily placed with its outer side on a line parallel to the centre line or glue–joint of the top, and at a distance from it about equal to one half the width of the bridge, measured from the outer extremities of the feet. A slight spring is given to the ends of the bar, so that when glued to the top it produces an upward pressure at the centre, under the foot of the bridge. This pressure should equal the downward thrust of the bridge, the force of which will depend upon the angle of the strings over its top. Practice soon discovers a certain modicum of spring which agrees fairly with a certain height of bridge. An entirely successful result is not always insured, but a positive failure is avoided. But in the case of the oblique bar, no such common factor can be found to fit all cases even averagely well. Each instrument presents its own particular problem. The spring at each end must be accurately determined by mechanical means, which will take into account both the resistance of the top, due to its comparative strength of fibre, and the resistance due to the form of modeling. The same degree of obliquity, and position relative to the foot of the bridge which it supports, will not answer equally well in all cases. But when the required conditions are fulfilled, the oblique bar does, beyond doubt, very greatly increase the depth and volume of tone, particularly of the lower strings. Mr. Bull spent many years in endeavoring to formulate the rules which govern this most perplexing part of the organism of the violin. His observations and experiments demonstrated to him the correctness of the oblique position; and though, as was his wont, he frankly owned to more failures than one, his instances of success, illustrated by his Da Salo and many other instruments, bore most convincing witness to the truth of his theory.

WALTER E. COLTON.

Ole Bull, in the last interview which he had with Mr. Colton, said to him: “You have the tools, the knowledge, and the time for this work, and you will be able to give at last a rule by which less skilled workmen may be guided in the placing of the oblique bar.” After Mr. Colton had sent the above note, a query addressed to him brought the following response, which it is hoped he will pardon us for printing, as it gives just what ought to be known in order to save violins from being injured in the hands of ordinary workmen claiming to understand the principle of the oblique bar:—

The second attempt in placing the bar would be, in the hands of the ordinary repairer, nearly as much of an experiment as the first. In the first place, he lacks the apparatus for determining the spring. In regard to the position relative to the foot of the bridge and degree of obliquity, these appear to be governed by the height of the top and thickness of material. The higher the top, the more the obliquity; the thicker the top, the more the bar can be removed from under the foot of the bridge. I presume I have placed a hundred bars, and have used up many cheap violins in trying to arrive at something like a governing principle, and even now the first attempt may not be all I could wish. Mr. Bull, aided by his own experience, and by some marvelous intuition, compared to which the knowledge of the average repairer is mere clodhopperism, appeared to be able to determine the requirements of an instrument submitted to him. One reason why I did not speak more strongly in favor of the general adoption of the oblique position was because, apart from the spring, the ratio of which and means of determining it I believe I have settled, I could not lay down a positive and definite rule regarding the place and degree of obliquity which would apply to all cases. So I did not like to advocate on my own account, or by inference, that of Mr. Bull, the immediate advisability of an operation the result of which might be in any way doubtful. When I think of the horror with which the connoisseur contemplates even the idea of removing the top of his valued instrument, I feel that, beyond sticking stoutly to the truth of Mr. Bull’s theory, I am not in a condition to competently advise.

Mr. Bull’s second attempts were almost always successful. I honestly think I should not fail more than once. But if I say this, I am calling attention to my own work, Mr. Bull having passed away, when it belongs to him.

WALTER E. COLTON.

THE CHIN–REST.—This particular form of chin–rest was an entirely original invention of Mr. Bull. It prevents all unavoidable contact of the violin with the body, and at the same time is itself attached to a point of minimum vibration, the tail–pin block. Its use shows perfectly the deadening effect of the pressure of the chin upon the top over the end of the bar, and upon the tail–piece, and also that of the chest and shoulder upon the back. In the original form, the chin–rest and tail–pin were one. A small rib should run along the tail–pin, and an appropriate slot should be cut in the hole for its reception. This prevents any possibility of the chin–rest’s turning upon the pin while playing. Mr. Bull designed separating the pin and rest by making the former with a square instead of round head, and fitting the latter over it, a screw with a wide flat head and leather washer securing the two parts. In this way the rest could be removed without the disagreeable necessity of unstringing the violin. Each rest ought to be specially made for the violin it is to be applied to. This, and the necessity of some enlargement of the violin–case, are the two possible drawbacks to its general manufacture.

WALTER E. COLTON.

POEMS AND PERSONAL TRIBUTES.

TIL OLE BULL.

J. S. WELHAVEN.[31]

[31] See page 104 above.

Hvor södt at favnes af Aftnens Fred, Naar Droslen flöjter i Skoven, Og Birken suser ved Elvens Bred, Og Nökken spiller i Voven, Der er en vemodblandet Fryd, Som Nordens Alfer male, Med dæmpet Kvad, med Harpe lyd, Med Suk i dunkle Dale.

Han stod og lytted en Sommerkveld Og havde stemt sine Strenge, Da gik Akkorden fra Skov og Fjeld Og over duggede Enge; Og alle Strenge klang dertil Med underbare Toner, Som Droslens Kluk og Nökkens Spil, Og Suk af Birkekroner.

Og al den Smerte, al den Lyst, Der bor i Nordens Sone, Har lagt sig drömmende til hans Bryst Og sittret gjennem hans Tone. O, hör den stille Melodi, Der dæmper Stormens Harme; Din Barndom vugger sig deri Paa ömme Liljearme.

Det er den dejligste Strengeklang, Der letter Længselens Vinger; Da nynner Hjertet sin egen Sang, Mens Strengen bæver og klinger. Der er ej Savn, Der er ej Nag, Som ej hans Streng kan lindre; Han vækker med sit Trylleslag En Vaardag i dit Indre.

O hil dig, salige Toneskald Med Guddomsmagt i din Bue! Fra dig gaar Jubelens Fossefald, Du tænder Andagtens Lue. Naar Verden lytter til dit Kvad Og bæver ved din Vælde, Da skjælver Glemmigejens Blad Af Fryd paa dine Fjelde.

[TRANSLATION.]

TO OLE BULL.

How sweet is the quiet of eventide When the throstle his love betrayeth, And the birches sing by the riverside, While the elf in the ripples playeth! Their benison the North hills send, A chastened peace revealing; With tender voices harp–tones blend, Their sighs through dark vales stealing.

In a summer eve he listening stood, His strings all tuned together, While music burst from field and wood Across the dewy heather. Then all his strings the gift repay, With a wondrous echo ringing. Of the throstle’s love, and the elfin play, And the sighs of the birch–trees, singing;

As every joy and every smart In Norway’s borders dwelling Had lain and dreamed upon his heart, And in each note were swelling. Hark to that quiet, restful strain! It soothes the spirit’s crying, Until like babes we rest again, As if on lilies lying.

While raptures break across his strings Our longings soar to heaven; And every heart its own song sings, By joy or sorrow riven. Of haunting grief or cruel blow The memory is forsaken; A spell is in his magic bow The very spring to waken.

Then, blessed Tone–bard, hail to thee! From heaven thy bow was given: What floods of joy hast thou set free, What visions shown of heaven! To sway far thousands is thy lot, Strange peoples tell thy story, While here each blue forget–me–not Trembles to share thy glory.

NORGE TIL AMERIKA VED OLE BULLS DIDREISE.

[NORWAY TO AMERICA ON OLE BULL’S DEPARTURE.]

H. WERGELAND.

O Amerika, betro’d har jeg dig med ængstlig Ahnen Ham, min Fattigdoms Klenod, Ham, mit Hjertes bedste Blod! —Lad Platanen kjærligt ham imödebruse, Alleghannen ham i venlig Grotte huse, Susquehannen som en dæmpet Harpe suse Ham, min Elskling, ham imod!

Han med Buens lette Spil kan til Dands din Panther tvinge, og (hvad der skal mere til) Slave–Ejeren til Smiil. Han kan bringe Carolinas arme Neger til at springe gladere end Barn, som leger, sig at svinge snellere end Hjulets Eger.. O, Han kan det, om han vil.

Men, som om bans Bue blev pludselig med Tordner svanger, som om den i Luften skrev trylleformlet Frihedsbrev, Skræk og Anger fylder Herrens Hjertekammer som med Slanger, tusind Blik i Mulmet flammer hos hans Fanger.. Ve ham, ve ham! Slavens Jammer klagende min Bull beskrev.

Far da hen, far hen, min Sön! Lad din Tryllebue skjænke arme Negers Suk ilön Styrken af en bönhört Bön, saa hans Lænke for dens Strög maa sönderbriste! Da sig sænke signende Platanens Kviste, og jeg tænke kan med Stolthed, dig at miste, Ole Bull, min Sön, min Sön!

Thi hist vest, did Du vil fly, er min egen Friheds Kjerne voxet i Plataners Ly, baaret hid paa svanger Sky, Derfor gjerne vilde jeg taknemlig sende til dens fjerne Fosterland ved Havets Ende herlig Stjerne, og af dem, som hjemme brænde, straaler ingen med dit Ry.

NORGES FARVEL TIL OLE BULL.

[NORWAY’S FAREWELL TO OLE BULL.]

H. WERGELAND.

Farvel, min stolte Sön! Farvel! Fölg Kaldet i din dybe Sjel!

För bandt til mine Skjær jeg let den vilde Pelikan end det.

För standsede jeg Havets Gang og Stormens Flugt, end Skjaldens Trang.

Drag hen, min Sön! Den samme Lyst har rört sig i din Moders Bryst.

Jeg ogsaa digtet har engang. Heimskringlas Liv det er min Sang.

Jeg skrev min egen Epopee. Hver Helt var deri en Idee.

Jeg skrev med Evighedens Skrivt: med Kongers Daad og Mænds Bedrivt.

Se, ved mit Hjerte gyldenblaa den store Havets Harpe laa!

Paa den fik sjelfuld Tanke, för kun navnlös, Navn.... Hör “Frithjof!” hör!

Hör længe fra dens Strenge skjalv Lyd af dit Navn, Sjökonning Alf!

Min Harald er et Heltedigt. Hvo maler Verden et saa rigt?

Saa skjön en Fantasi har knapt en Skjald som blonde Gyda skabt.

Alnorden bævte for de Ord, jeg grov i röden Hafursfjord.

Et herligt höit Haleluja var Sigurds Fart til Jorsala.

I haarde Birkebeengeled jeg fantaserte Noder ned.

Ved Fimbureid hvor löd de vildt! Paa Hvitingsö hvor fredsomt mildt!

Ved Holmengraa din _Guerriera_, i Nidaros din _Preghiera_.

Se Hakon i bans Kongesal! Hvor majestætiskt et Final!

Nu er der visseligen i min Sjel meer Klögt end Poesi.

Dog flöd endnu i fyrig Stund en Frihedshymne af min Mund.

Jeg ligner egen Mark, som den nu ligger der höstblegnet hen.

Som sparsom fattig Pige, lagt Min Dal har hen sin Höitidsdragt.

Dog vil jeg gjennemlede hver, om ei en Blomst til Dig der er.

Til dig, min Sön! min Sön, som gav mig större Glands end Konnings Grav.

O, vant til Sönners Verdensry, mit Öje funkler op paany.

Hvor arm jeg er, man dog Demant meer dyr end Glædesblik ei fandt,

Ak, er der i den Glands ei Glöd? Bli’r dig for koldt din Moders Skjöd?

Nei, flyv! udbred din Moders Navn! Din Hæder tröster da mit Savn.

TIL OLE BULL.

[ON HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY.]

JONAS LIE.

Skjönt Purpuret ruller ej over din Skulder, en Konge dog er Du forvist,— Geniet er Kaaben, Du bar ifra Daaben, og Buen din Önskekvist!

OLE BULLS DÖD.

[THE DEATH OF OLE BULL.]

ANDREAS MUNCH.[32]

[32] Poet Laureate of Norway.

Gamle Gran med Sne paa Lokker Fast i haarde Fjeldbund staar, Vinterstormen ei den rokker, Rank den grönnes som i Vaar.

Saa til Norges Pryd og Ære Ole Bull for Verden stod, Kunde Sölverkronen bære Blussende i Ungdomsmod.

Aldrig syntes han at ældes, Frisk hans Toneström end löd, Og den kom med vore Fjeldes Rene Luft til Sydens Glöd.

Over Verdenshavet drog han Til et Hjem i fjerne Vest, Aldrig helt det dog betog ham, Han var der kun hædret Gjæst.

Altid droges han tilbage Til sin elskte Födestavn, Altid maatte han dog tage Fæste i den gamle Havn.

Det var som ny Kraft han hented Fra sin haarde Barndomsjord.— Og iaar man did ham vented, Som’ren kaldte ham til Nord.

Lysö ved de blanke Sunde, Nær den gamle Klostermark, Havde smykket sine Lunde, Hvor han bygged sig en Ark.

Flaget vaied alt fra Taarne, Prydet var den lyse Hal, Blomsterdufte bleve baarne Ud mod ham, der komme skal.

Ak, da hörtes dunkle Rygter: Han laa syg i fremmed Land! Ingen Fare dog man frygter, Ole Bull ei segne kan!

Og han kom. Alt Skibet glider Fjorden ind med dyre Fragt, Og fra Klippekystens Sider Hilses han af Sommerpragt.

Men han ei fra Borde springer Rank og ungdomslet som för— Varsomt man en Syg kun bringer Op til Hjemmets aabne Dör.

Det var altsaa sandt!—Den Stærke Rammet var af Sygdoms Pil, Men dog kunde man bemærke Om hans blege Mund et Smil.

Mildt han hilste til dem Alle, Glæden lyste af hans Blik. Maaske Hjemmet kunde kalde Til hans Bryst en Helsens Drik?

Ak, som Walter Scott fra Syden Droges til sit Abbotsford, Vilde ikkun dö ved Lyden Af Flodbölgen om bans Gaard,

Saa den norske Sanger stunded Til sit norske Ölands Hus. Blidelig han der nu blunded Dysset ind af Bölgens Sus.

Men en Dag han vaagned rolig, Saa sig om i skjönne Hjem, Bad sin Viv, som fulgte trolig, Spille Mozarts Reqviem.

Og paa disse Himmeltoner Toneskjaldens Aand sig svang Op til hine lyse Zoner, Hvor der lyder Englesang.

Men hans Fædreland tilbage Havde dog hans Legem end. Under hele Folkets Klage Förtes det til Bergen hen.

Skib paa Skib Ligsnekken fulgte Som en Konges Jordefærd, Og den Drot, hvem Kisten dulgte, Var vel saadan Hyldning værd.

Rundtom Vaagen, graadkvalt, stille Trængtes Folket, Rad bag Rad, Alle de ham fölge vilde Sidste Gang i Födestad.

Der, i Ly af Barndomsfjelde. Hviler nu hans ædle Stöv, Birk og Hæg fortroligt hælde Sig mod Graven med sit Löv.

Trosten synger södt derover Hver en Vaar sin Morgenbön— Han, som blidt derunder sover, Var en ægte Norges Sön.

Derfra vil hans Eftermæle Naa til fjerne Tiders Gang, Vække mange Kunstnersjæle Til at fölge ham i Sang.

Norges Folk! Giv dette Minde Og de ydre Formers Vægt! Lad hans skjönne Billed finde Vei til senest Efterslægt!

TIL OLE BULL.

[SUNG AT THE FUNERAL SERVICE.]

JOHN LUND.

Du godt har holdt Ord, talt Norriges Sag Og baaret dets Ry viden Lande; Du löftet har höit dit Fædrelands Flag Rundt om paa de fjerneste Strande. Ja Fyrster og Folk sin Hyldning har bragt Din blöde og malmstærke Bue; Et Scepter den blev, som Storme har lagt, Og tændt har Begeistringens Lue.

Naar Buen Du strög, om borte Du var, Det klang som et: “Leve vort Norge!” Thi altid din Hug til Norge Dig bar, Alt kan for din Kjærlighed borge. Du elsked dit Land, dets veirbidte Strand, Og aldrig Du kunde det glemme, Og Folket Dig elsked, Kvinde som Mand, De vidste, kun her var Du hjemme.

Saa Tak da for alt, for Toner, for Sang, For Glöden, Du tændte og vakte. Hav Tak for din kjække, mandige Gang, Hav Tak for hvert Offer, Du bragte. Nu nedlagt er Buen, Tonen dör hen, Dit Minde dog aldrig skal svinde: Det Norge, Du var saa fuldtro en Ven, En Evighedskrans vil Dig binde.

TO OLE BULL.

BY BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ.

[From his Preface to his “Selected Works,” where he introduces it as “a song of salutation to one who, honored by me as master, is not less dear to me as a man” (Tracy’s translation).]

Profoundly dreamt a youth on Norland waste; But no—it is not waste where fairy rings Reflect the past as well as future things, When love and woe in boding tones are drest. They greeted him, they kissed him, and retreated; They left for him an instrument of sound, Whose forceful strings with highest deeds could bound, And yet with childish frolics be entreated. He wakes—the gift he seizes, comprehending Its sweet mysterious pleasure how to prove, And pours it forth in pure harmonious blending. O mayst thou, ever victor, joyful move, Thou Northland sailor, on life’s voyage wending, Conscious of God within thee and above.

ON HEARING OLE BULL IN 1879.

BY PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

What note is this of infinite appeal That wakes beneath thy hand’s inspired control? Is it a prayer from man’s most secret soul To the dim gods Death only can reveal,— Whose hands we know can wound, yet trust may heal? Hark, now, for ’twixt the prayer and the prayer’s goal, From far away, beyond where planets roll, Something I hear, or something subtly feel:

Down all the deep, untraveled, star–watched way, Faint as a wind at dawn of a June day, Comes a divine response: Ah! now ’tis here. Lo! prayer is turned to passionate triumphing, And in thy music’s moon–thrilled atmosphere My soul drinks deep of some immortal spring.

OLE BULL.

BY JULIA R. ANAGNOS.

There’s a fairy in the violin, A Norse imprisoned fay; She struggles in her master’s arms, And fain would flit away.

But, like the bird whose prison pours Song’s gold upon the air, Stretching our Northern frost–framed walls To Southern forests rare,

The gentle chord that binds her breaks The fetters of our care; The song of her captivity Makes all our lives more fair.

O gentle Fairy! Lead the way Through realms of fiction sweet, The cradles of Sicilian day, The North–King’s halls of sleet.

The whirlwind and the icy blast Meet in thy captive wail; Flowers and gems are round thee cast, Flung from thy forehead pale;

But, though we glean a golden glow From the sweet spirit’s strife, Say, is it fair to hold her so, A prisoner for life?

O Master, set the fairy free! End her poetic pain: Nay, tastes she but the common air, She’ll soon fly home again!

IN MEMORY OF OLE BULL.

[ON BOARD THE CITY OF CHESTER, APRIL, 1881.]

BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.