Famous Violinists of To-day and Yesterday

by Henry Charles Lahee

It is doubtful whether any violinist ever lived concerning whom more fantastic stories were told. His gruesome aspect, his frequent disappearances from public life, his peculiar habits, all tended to make him an object of interest,—and interest is sometimes shown in eagerness to hear anything at all about the subject.

He enjoyed conversation when he was in the company of a small circle of friends. He was cheerful at evening parties,—if music was not mentioned. He had an excellent memory for features and names of persons whom he had met, but it is said that he never remembered the names of towns at which he had given concerts. He was very severe with orchestras, and any mistakes made by them would bring forth a tempest of rage, though satisfactory work would be rewarded with expressions of approval. When he came to a pause for the introduction of a cadenza, at rehearsal, the musicians would frequently rise, eager to watch his performance, but Paganini would merely play a few notes, and then stopping suddenly would smile and say, "Et cetera, messieurs!" and reserve his strength for the public performance.

His peculiarities were shown strongly in his arrangements for personal comfort while travelling, for his constant suffering precluded the enjoyment of the beauties of nature. He was always cold, and even in summer kept a large cloak wrapped around him, and the windows of the carriage care fully closed. Before starting he took merely a basin of soup or a cup of chocolate, and though he frequently remained nearly the whole day without further refreshment, he slept a great deal and thus escaped some of the pain which the jolting of the carriage caused him. His luggage consisted of a small dilapidated trunk, which contained his violin, his jewels, his money, and a few fine linen articles. Besides this he had only a hat-case and a carpet-bag, and frequently a napkin would contain his entire wardrobe. In a small red pocketbook he kept his accounts and his papers, which represented an immense value, and nobody but himself could decipher the hieroglyphics which indicated his expenses and receipts. He cared not whether his apartment, at the inns on the road, was elegantly furnished or a mere garret, but he always kept the windows open in order to get an "air-bath," contrary to his custom while in a carriage.

While the secret of Paganini's marvellous technique was incessant hard work, to which he was urged not less by his own ambition than by his father's cruelty, yet in later years he seldom practised, and his playing was chiefly confined to his concerts and rehearsals. There are several good stories dealing with this peculiarity. One man is said to have followed him around for months, taking the adjoining room at hotels, in order to find the secret of his success by hearing him practise. Once, when looking through the keyhole, he saw the virtuoso go to the violin case, take out the instrument, and after seeing that it was in tune,—put it back again.

Sir Charles Hallé tells about seeing Paganini in Paris, where he used to spend an hour every day sitting in a publisher's shop, "a striking, awe-inspiring, ghostlike figure." Hallé was introduced to him, but conversation was difficult, for Paganini sat there taci turn, rigid, hardly ever moving a muscle of his face. He made the young pianist play for him frequently, indicating his desire by pointing at the piano with his long, bony hand, without speaking. Hallé was dying to hear the great violinist play, and one day, after they had enjoyed a long silence, Paganini rose and went to his violin case. He took the violin out, and began to tune it carefully with his fingers, without using the bow. Hallé's agitation was becoming intolerable, for he thought that the moment had arrived at which his desire was to be gratified. But when Paganini had satisfied himself that his violin was all right, he carefully put it back in the case and shut it up.

Paganini was notoriously parsimonious, and it was related that one evening in Florence he left his hotel rather late, jumped into a coach and ordered the man to drive him to the theatre. The distance was short, but he felt that it would not do to keep the public waiting. He was to play the prayer from "Moses" on one string. On arrival at the theatre he asked the driver, "How much?" "For you," replied the Jehu, "ten francs." "What? Ten francs? You joke," replied the virtuoso. "It is only the price of a ticket to your concert," was the excuse. Paganini hesitated a moment, and then handed to the man what he considered to be a fair remuneration, saying, "I will pay you ten francs when you drive me on one wheel."

At one time Paganini astonished the world by making to Hector Berlioz the magnificent present of twenty thousand francs. Berlioz was at that time almost in a state of despair. His compositions were not appreciated, and he was at a loss to know which way to turn. He made a final effort and gave a last concert, at which Paganini was present and congratulated him.

Jules Janin, the celebrated critic and writer, went into ecstasies over the affair. Paganini, he said, who had been attacked for hard-heartedness and avarice, was present at the concert, and at the end prostrated himself before Berlioz, and shed tears. Hope returned and Berlioz went home in triumph, for he had satisfied one great musical critic. The next day he received a note from Paganini enclosing twenty thousand francs, to be devoted to three years of repose, study, liberty, and happiness.

In Sir Charles Hallé's biography, however, this story receives important modifications. It appears that Armand Bertin, the wealthy proprietor of the Journal des Debates, had a high regard for Berlioz, who was on his staff, and knew of his struggles, which he was anxious to lighten. He resolved, therefore, to make him a present of twenty thousand francs, and to enhance the moral effect of this gift he persuaded Paganini to appear as the donor of the money. What would have appeared as a simple gratuity from a rich and powerful editor toward one of his staff, became a significant tribute from one genius to another. The secret was well kept and was never divulged to Berlioz. It was known only to two of Bertin's friends, and Hallé learned it about seven years later, when he had become an intimate friend of Madame Bertin, and she had been for years one of his best pupils.

Paganini created the difficulties which he performed. He had a style of his own, and was most successful in playing his own compositions. In Paris, when, out of respect to the Parisians, he played a concerto by Rode, and one by Kreutzer, he scarcely rose above mediocrity, and he was well aware of his failure. He adopted the ideas of his predecessors, resuscitated forgotten effects and added to them, and the chief features of his performance were, the diversity of tones produced, the different methods of tuning his instrument, the frequent employment of double and single harmonics, the simultaneous use of pizzicato and bow passages, the use of double and triple notes, the various staccati, and a wonderful facility for executing wide intervals with unerring accuracy, together with a great variety of styles of bowing. The quality of tone which he produced was clear and pure, but not excessively full, and, according to Fétis, he was a master of technique and phrasing rather than a pathetic player,—there was no tenderness in his accents.