Our Norwegian artist now revisited Paris, under happier auspices. Welcomed and introduced with eager kindness by the composer of “Robert le Diable,” he was several times listened to with delight on the stage of the Opera, and obtained the greatest success that has been known since the displays made by Paganini.
Opinions were not agreed as to the extent to which Ole Bull was to be considered an imitator of Paganini. It appears certain that the example of the latter first led him to attempt the more strange and remote difficulties of the instrument. It was during the time of his distressed condition, that he found means to hear the great Italian artist, by actually selling his last shirt, with the produce of which he joined the crowd in the saloon of the French Opera. Every one around him, after the electrifying strains of the magical performer, was exclaiming that he had reached the farthest limits of what was possible on the violin. Ole Bull (says the writer of the French account), after applauding like the rest, retired in thoughtful mood, having just caught the notion that something beyond this was yet possible; nor did the idea cease to occupy his mind, but gathered fresh strength during his rambles in Switzerland and Italy, until it impelled him, at Trieste, to abandon the old track, and resign himself to the dictates of his own genius.
In justice to Paganini, it must never be forgotten that he was the first who, in modern days, conceived the principle of its being possible to extract a variety of new effects from the versatile instrument that had been supposed to have surrendered all its secrets to the great antecedent Masters; and that his practice lent marvellous illustration to what he proceeded, under that impulse, to explain;—nor does the supremacy of Paganini in the nouveau genre, for the reasons previously touched upon in these pages, seem likely to be seriously shaken by any who may seek the encounter of a comparison. It may certainly be averred, how ever, that, of all who have attempted to follow in the direction taken by the great Genoese genius, Ole Bull has been, owing to the fire and enthusiasm of his own temperament, decidedly the farthest removed from servility of imitation. It speaks much for the originality of the Norwegian artist, that, in the early practice of his instrument, instead of a fostering excitement, he had to encounter the decided opposition of adverse views; and, instead of the open aid of a master, had only for his guide the secret impulses of his own mind. On the whole, he must be acknowledged a man of fine genius, who forced his way through no common difficulties to a distinguished rank in the musical art, and who presents, to the contemplation of the persevering student, one of the most cheering of those examples which the history of human struggles in pursuit of some absorbing object is so useful to enforce. It must add not a little to our admiration of him, to find that, in the mysteries of composition, he has discovered and shaped his own course. The ingenuity of construction evident in the orchestral accompaniments to his pieces, would suggest a methodical study of the harmonic art: yet it was said, on the contrary, that he was quite unacquainted with even the elementary rules of that art; and that it would have puzzled him to tell the conventional name of any one chord. How then did he arrive at the power of writing music in parts? He opened a score, studied it, thought over it, made a relative examination of its parts after his own way, and then, setting to work, as the result of this progress, became a composer himself. In the character of his compositions, we may trace the effect of this unusual and (it must be confessed) somewhat too self-dependent “moyen de parvenir.” They are impulsive and striking—enriched with occasional passages of fine instrumentation, and touched with sweet visitations of melody—but they are deficient in coherence of structure, and in the comprehensiveness of a well-ordered design. They may serve as fresh examples to illustrate the old maxim—that genius itself cannot with safety neglect that ordinary discipline which gives familiarity with the rules and methods of art.
The most surprising thing (amounting indeed to an enigma), in connection with Ole Bull’s powers of execution, was the very small amount of manual practice which he stated himself to have been in the habit of bestowing on the instrument—a thing quite at variance with all the received notions, as well as usage, on the subject. His labour was, it appears, in by far the greater part, that of the head; and a very limited application of the hands sufficed to “carry out” what he ex-cogitated—to work out his purposes and “foregone conclusions.” It sounds nobly, as a proposition, that it is “the mind’s eye,” and not the blind gropings of practice, that should shew the violinist the way to greatness, and give him the knowledge which is power: but, alas! common natures—nay, all that are not marvellously uncommon—find it necessary to draw to the utmost on both these resources, and cannot spare their hands from the neck of the instrument. This comparatively trifling amount of manual cultivation, however, while it remains on the whole “a marvel and a mystery,” may be accepted as a proof in itself of how little trick (setting aside his extravagant “quartett on one string”) there was in Ole Bull’s performance: for the successful display of tricks is essentially dependent on the most assiduous manipulation;—the charlatanerie of the instrument being the triumph of the hand, as distinguished from that of the mind. To particularize the various merits which belong to his execution, would lead beyond the limit here proposed—else might his sweet and pure tone—his delicate harmonics—his frequent and winning duplicity of notes and shakes—his rapid and exact staccato, &c. be severally dwelt upon in terms of delight.—I cannot forbear referring, however, to the “ravishing division” of his consummate arpeggios, forming a finely regulated shower of notes, rich, round, and most distinct, although wrought out by such slight undulations of the bow, as to leave in something like a puzzle our notions of cause and consequence. To suit the wide range of effects which his fancy sometimes dictated, it appears (another marvel!) that he subjected his violin to some kind of alterative process; for which purpose he would open it (to use his own expression) like an oyster!
The manners and conversation of this young artist, at the time when he was exciting attention in England, bore an impress of genius which it was impossible to mistake; and his occasional sallies of enthusiasm served to impart an increased interest to the abiding modesty which tempered and dignified his character. In describing the state of his own mind, under the immediate domination of musical ideas, he pictured it under the forcible figure of an alternate heaven and hell; while he would speak of the object and intention of his playing as being to raise a curtain, for the admission of those around him, as participants in the mysteries open to himself. In his habits, he was very temperate—wisely avoiding to wear out, by artificial excitements, the spontaneous ardour of his eminently vital temperament.
All the ordinary arts and intrigues by which it is so common, and is sometimes thought so necessary, for men to seek professional advancement, seemed completely alien to the nature of this child of the north. In person, he was tall, with a spare but muscular figure, light hair, a pale countenance, and a quick, restless eye, which became extremely animated whilst he was in the act of playing. When I add that he entertained an invincible antipathy to cats—exhibiting unequivocal signs of distress whenever one of those sleek and sly animals was discovered in the social circle—I shall have furnished all the information I am able to give (his latter career being unknown to me) concerning a man well entitled to commemoration.
Before concluding this chapter, a few words of record are due to the two sons of one of the most gifted musicians of the present day. I allude to the associate brothers Labitsky, who, after a training in the Musical Conservatory at Prague, and subsequent studies prosecuted at Leipsig, have become candidates for public favour in England, where (for the present, at least) they appear to be settled. Their first appeal to notice in this country took place at Her Majesty’s Theatre, during the progress of the late Grand National Concerts. Their style is said to be characterized by firmness and evenness in the bowing, with a correspondent fulness and purity of intonation.