NICOLO PAGANINI.
The Birth of the Greatest of Violinists.—His Mother's Dream—Extraordinary Character and Genius.—Heine's Description of his Playing.—Leigh Hunt on Paganini.—Superstitious Rumors current during his Life.—He is believed to be a Demoniac.—His Strange Appearance.—Early Training and Surroundings.—Anecdotes of his Youth.—Paganini's Youthful Dissipations.—His Passion for Gambling.—He acquires his Wonderful Guarnerius Violin.—His Reform from the Gaming-table.—Indefatigable Practice and Work as a Young Artist.—Paganini as a Preux Chevalier.—His Powerful Attraction for Women.—Episode with a Lady of Rank.—Anecdotes of his Early Italian Concertizing.—The Imbroglio at Ferrant.—The Frail Health of Paganini.—Wonderful Success at Milan, where he first plays One of the Greatest of his Compositions, "Le Streghe."—Duel with Lafont.—Incidents and Anecdotes.—His First Visit to Germany.—Great Enthusiasm of his Audiences.—Experiences at Vienna, Berlin, and other German Cities.—Description of Paganini, in Paris, by Castil-Blaze and Fetis.—His English Reception and the Impression made.—Opinions of the Critics.—Paganini not pleased with England.—Settles in Paris for Two Years, and becomes the Great Musical Lion.—Simplicity and Amiability of Nature.—Magnificent Generosity to Hector Berlioz.—The Great Fortune made by Paganini.—His Beautiful Country Seat near Parma.—An Unfortunate Speculation in Paris.—The Utter Failure of his Health.—His Death at Nice.—Characteristics and Anecdotes.—Interesting Circumstances of his Last Moments.—The Peculiar Genius of Paganini, and his Influence on Art.
I.
In the latter part of the last century an Italian woman of Genoa had a dream which she thus related to her little son: "My son, you will be a great musician. An angel radiant with beauty appeared to me during the night and promised to accomplish any wish that I might make. I asked that you should become the greatest of all violinists, and the angel granted that my desire should be fulfilled." The child who was thus addressed became that incomparable artist, Paganini, whose name now, a glorious tradition, is used as a standard by which to estimate the excellence of those who have succeeded him.
No artist ever lived who so piqued public curiosity, and invested himself with a species of weird romance, which compassed him as with a cloud. The personality of the individual so unique and extraordinary, the genius of the artist so transcendant in its way, the mystery which surrounded all the movements of the man, conspired to make him an object of such interest that the announcement of a concert by him in any European city made as much stir as some great public event. Crowds followed his strange figure in the streets wherever he went, and, had the time been the mediaeval ages, he himself a celebrated magician or sorcerer, credited with power over the spirits of earth and air, his appearance could not have aroused a thrill of attention more absorbing. Over men of genius, as well as the commonplace herd, he cast the same spell, stamping himself as a personage who could be compared with no other.
The German poet Heine thus describes his first acquaintance with this paragon of violinists:
"It was in the theatre at Hamburg that I first heard Paganini's violin. Although it was fast-day, all the commercial magnates of the town were present in the front boxes, the goddesses Juno of Wandrahm, and the goddesses Aphrodite of Dreckwall. A religious hush pervaded the whole assembly; every eye was directed toward the stage, every ear was strained for hearing. At last a dark figure, which seemed to ascend from the under world, appeared on the stage. It was Paganini in full evening dress, black coat and waistcoat cut after a most villainous pattern, such as is perhaps in accordance with the infernal etiquette of the court of Proserpine, and black trousers fitting awkwardly to his thin legs. His long arms appeared still longer as he advanced, holding in one hand his violin, and in the other the bow, hanging down so as almost to touch the ground—all the while making a series of extraordinary reverences. In the angular contortions of his body there was something so painfully wooden, and also something so like the movements of a droll animal, that a strange disposition to laughter overcame the audience; but his face, which the glaring footlights caused to assume an even more corpse-like aspect than was natural to it, had in it something so appealing, something so imbecile and meek, that a strange feeling of compassion removed all tendency to laughter. Had he learned these reverences from an automaton or a performing dog? Is this beseeching look the look of one who is sick unto death, or does there lurk behind it the mocking cunning of a miser? Is that a mortal who in the agony of death stands before the public in the art arena, and, like a dying gladiator, bids for their applause in his last convulsions? or is it some phantom arisen from the grave, a vampire with a violin, who comes to suck, if not the blood from our hearts, at least the money from our pockets? Questions such as these kept chasing each other through the brain while Paganini continued his apparently interminable series of complimentary bows; but all such questionings instantly take flight the moment the great master puts his violin to his chin and began to play.
"Then were heard melodies such as the nightingale pours forth in the gloaming when the perfume of the rose intoxicates her heart with sweet forebodings of spring! What melting, sensuously languishing notes of bliss! Tones that kissed, then poutingly fled from another, and at last embraced and became one, and died away in the ecstasy of union! Again, there were heard sounds like the song of the fallen angels, who, banished from the realms of bliss, sink with shame-red countenance to the lower world. These were sounds out of whose bottomless depth gleamed no ray of hope or comfort; when the blessed in heaven hear them, the praises of God die away upon their pallid lips, and, sighing, they veil their holy faces." Leigh Hunt, in one of his essays, thus describes the playing of this greatest of all virtuosos: "Paganini, the first time I saw and heard him, and the first moment he struck a note, seemed literally to strike it, to give it a blow. The house was so crammed that, being among the squeezers in the standing room at the side of the pit, I happened to catch the first glance of his face through the arms akimbo of a man who was perched up before me, which made a kind of frame for it; and there on the stage through that frame, as through a perspective glass, were the face, the bust, and the raised hand of the wonderful musician, with the instrument at his chin, just going to begin, and looking exactly as I describe him in the following lines:
"His hand, Loading the air with dumb expectancy,
Suspended, ere it fell, a nation's breath.
He smote; and clinging to the serious chords
With Godlike ravishment drew forth a breath,
So deep, so strong, so fervid, thick with love—
Blissful, yet laden as with twenty prayers—
That Juno yearned with no diviner soul
To the first burthen of the lips of Jove.
The exceeding mystery of the loveliness
Sadden'd delight; and, with his mournful look,
Dreary and gaunt, hanging his pallid face
Twixt his dark flowing locks, he almost seemed
Too feeble, or to melancholy eyes
One that has parted from his soul for pride,
And in the sable secret lived forlorn.