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.
The most securely-guarded state prisoner never experienced so 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.