Of Antonia Bianchi, the mother of his son Achille, Paganini tells us that, after many years of a most devoted life, the lady's temper became so violent that a separation was necessary. "Antonia was constantly tormented," he says, "by the most fearful jealousy. One day she happened to be behind my chair when I was writing some lines in the album of a great pianiste, and, when she read the few amiable words I had composed in honor of the artist to whom the book belonged, she tore it from my hands, demolished it on the spot, and, so fearful was her rage, would have assassinated me."
He was very fond of his little son Achille. A French gentleman tells us that he called once to take Paganini to dine with him. He found the artist's room in great disorder. A violin on the table with manuscript music, another upon a chair, a snuff-box on the bed along with his child's toys, music, money, letters, articles of dress—all pêle-mêle; nor were the tables and chairs in their proper places. Everything was in the most conspicuous confusion. The child was out of temper; something had vexed him; he had been told to wash his hands; and, while the little one gave vent to the most violent bursts of temper, the father stood as calm and quiet as the most accomplished of nurses. He merely turned quietly to his visitor, and said, in melancholy accents: "The poor child is cross; I do not know what to do to amuse him; I have played with him ever since morning, and I can not stand it any longer."
"It was rather amusing," says the same writer, "to see Paganini in his slippers doing battle with his child, who came about up to his knees. The little one advanced boldly with his wooden sword, while the father retired, crying out, 'Enough, enough! I am already wounded.' But it was not enough; the young Achilles was never satisfied until his father, completely vanquished, fell heavily on the bed."
In the early part of the present century the facilities for travel were far less convenient than at the present time, and it was always an arduous undertaking to one in Paganini's frail condition of health. He was, however, generally cheerful while jolting along in the post-chaise, and chatted incessantly as long as his voice held out. Harris tells us that the artist was in the habit of getting out when the horses were changed, to stretch his long limbs after the confinement of the carriage. Often he extended his promenades when he became interested in the town through which he was passing, and would not return till long after the fresh horses had been harnessed, thereby causing much annoyance to the driver. On one occasion Jehu swore, if it occurred again, he would drive on, and leave his passenger behind, to get along as best he could. The secretary, Harris, was enjoying a nap, and the driver was true to his resolution at the next stopping-place, leaving Paganini behind. This made much trouble, and a special coach had to be sent for the enraged artist, who was found sputtering oaths in half a dozen languages. Paganini refused to pay for the carriage, and it was only by force of law that he reluctantly settled the bill.
His baggage was always of the plainest description; in fact, ludicrously simple. A shabby box contained his precious Guarnerius fiddle, and served also as a portmanteau wherein to pack his jewelry, his linen, and sundry trifles. In addition to this he carried a small traveling-bag and a hat-box. Mr. Harris tolls us that Paganini was in eating and drinking exceedingly frugal. Table indulgence was forbidden him by the condition of his health, as any deviation from the strictest diet resulted in great suffering. He was a thorough Italian in all his habits and ideas. Among other traits was a great disdain for the lower classes, though he was by no means subservient to people of rank and wealth. It was his habit, when an inferior addressed him, to inquire of his companion, "What does this animal want with me?" If he was pleased with his coachman, he would say, "That animal drives well." This seemed not so much the vulgar arrogance of a small nature, elevated above the class in life from which it sprang, as that pride of great gifts which made the freemasonry of genius the measure by which he judged all others, noble and simple. Like all men of highly nervous constitution, he was keenly susceptible to both enjoyment and suffering. He was so sensitive to atmospheric changes that his irritability was excessive during a thunderstorm. He would then remain silent for hours together, while his eyes rolled and his limbs twitched convulsively. Such fragile, nervous, highly sensitive organizations are not unfrequently characteristic of men of great genius, and in the great Italian violinist it was developed in an abnormal degree.
The circumstances accompanying the last scenes of Paganini's life are very interesting. He had been intimate with most of the great people of Europe, among them Lord Byron, Sir Clifford Constable, Lord Holland, Rossini, Ugo Fascolo, Monti, Prince Jerome, the Princess Eliza, and most of the great painters, poets, and musicians of his age. For Lord Byron he had a most ardent and exaggerated admiration. Paganini had stopped at Nice on his way from Paris, detained by extreme debility, for his last hours were drawing near. Under the blue sky and balmy air of this Mediterranean paradise the great musician somewhat recovered his strength at first. One night he sat by his bedroom window, surrounded by a circle of intimate friends, watching the glories of the Italian sunset that emblazoned earth, air, and sky, with the richest dyes of nature's palette. A soft breeze swept into the room, heavy with the perfumes of flowers, and the twittering of the birds in the green foliage mingled with the hum of talk from the throngs of gay promenaders sauntering on the beach. For a while Paganini sat silently absorbed in watching the joyous scene, when suddenly his eyes turned on the picture of Lord Byron that hung on the wall. A flash of enthusiasm lightened his face, as if a great thought were struggling to the surface, and he seized his violin to improvise. The listeners declared that this "swan song" was the most remarkable production of his life. He illustrated the stormy and romantic career of the English poet in music. The accents of doubt, irony, and despair mingled with the cry of liberty and the tumult of triumph. Paganini had scarcely finished this wonderful musical picture when the bow fell from the icy fingers that refused any longer to perform their function, and the player sank into a dead swoon.
The shock had been too great, and Paganini never quitted his bed afterward. The day before his death he seemed a little better, and directed his servant to buy a pigeon for him, as he had a slight return of appetite. On the last evening of his life he seemed very tranquil, and ordered the curtains to be drawn that he might look out of the window at the beautiful night. The full moon was sailing through the skies, flooding everything with splendor. Paganini gazed eagerly, gave a long sigh of pleasure, and fell back on his pillow dead.
VII.
Paganini was the first to develop the full resources of the violin as a solo instrument. He departed entirely from the traditions of violin-playing as practiced by earlier masters, as he believed that great fame could never be acquired in pursuing their methods. A work of Locatelli, one of the cleverest pupils of Corelli, and a great master of technique, first seems to have inspired him with a conception of the more brilliant possibilities of the violin. What further favored Paganini's new departure was that he lived in an age when the artistic mind, as well as thought in other directions, felt the desire of innovation. The French Revolution stirred Europe to its deepest roots, intellectually as well as politically. At a very early date in his career Paganini seems to have begun experimenting with the new effects for which he became famous, though these did not reach their full fruitage until just before he left Italy on his first general tour. Fetis says: "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 which contributed to his ultimate greatness. The diversity of sounds, the different methods of tuning his instrument, the frequent employment of harmonics, single and double, the simultaneous pizzicato and bow passages, the various staccato effects, the use of double and even triple notes, a prodigious facility in executing wide intervals with unerring precision, together with an extraordinary knowledge of all styles of bowing—such were the principal features of Paganini's talent, rendered all the more perfect by his great execution, exquisitely nervous sensibility, and his deep musical feeling." In a word, Paganini possessed the most remarkable creative power in the technical treatment of an instrument ever given to a player. Franz Liszt as a pianist approaches him more nearly in this respect than any other virtuoso, but the field open to the violinist was far greater and wider than that offered to the great Hungarian pianist. It was not, however, mere perfection of technical power that threw Europe into such paroxysms of admiration; it was the irresistible power of a genius which has never been matched, and which almost justified the vulgar conclusion that none but one possessed with a demon could do such things. Paganini possessed the oft-quoted attribute of genius, "the power of taking infinite pains," but behind this there lay superlative gifts of mind, physique, and temperament. He completely dazzled the greatest musical artists as well as the masses. "His constant and daring flights," writes Moscheles, "his newly discovered flageolet tones, his gift of fusing and beautifying objects of the most diverse kinds—all these phases of genius so completely bewilder my musical perceptions that for days afterward my head is on fire and my brain reels." His tone lacked roundness and volume. His use of very thin strings, made necessary by his double harmonics and other specialties, necessarily prevented a broad, rich tone. But he more than compensated for this defect by the intense expression, "soft and melting as that of an Italian singer," to use the language of Moscheles again, which characterized the quality of sound he drew from his instrument. Spohr, a very great player, but, with all his polish, precision, and classical beauty of style, somewhat phlegmatic and conventional withal, critcised Paganini as lacking in good taste. He could never get in sympathy with the bent of individuality, the Southern passion and fire, and the exceptional gifts of temperament which made Paganini's idiosyncrasies of style as a player consummate beauties, where imitations of these effects on the part of others would be gross exaggeration. Spohr developed the school of Viotti and Rode, and in his attachment to that school could see no artistic beauty in any deviation. Paganini's peculiar method of treating the violin has never been regarded as a safe school for any other violinist to follow. Without Paganini's genius to give it vitality, his technique would justly be charged with exaggeration and charlatanism. Some of the modern French players, who have been strongly influenced by the great Italian, have failed to satisfy serious musical taste from this cause. On the German violinists he has had but little influence, owing to the powerful example of Spohr and the musical spirit of the great composers, which have tended to keep players within the strictly legitimate lines of art. Some of the principal compositions of Paganini are marked by great originality and beauty, and are violin classics. Schumann and Liszt have transcribed several of them for the piano, and Brahms for the orchestra. But the great glory of Paganini was as a virtuoso, not as a composer, and it has been generally agreed to place him on the highest pedestal which has yet been reached in the executive art of the violin.