At first it appears to take the form of a little child, stretching his small fingers with loving patience from note to note, while now and again he glances timorously round, as though fearful of detection.
Surely now it is Mr Handel himself: this man before us, in full bob-wig and handsome habiliments, can be no other than the successful favourite of the highest in the land. There he sits, with an expression of “Vat de tevil do I care!” on his face, hammering out “The Harmonious Blacksmith.” Not the man to trouble himself about women, or succumb to the tender passion, yet women were ever helpful and friendly to him. As he plays, a strange medley of figures gather round him: there is handsome Sir Robert l’Estrange, smarting under the indignity of being called “Cromwell’s fiddler”: Cuzzoni—at a distance—for she has not forgotten Handel’s threat to throw her out of the window at the last rehearsal. Also there is the poet Gay, and Lord Burlington: Her Grace of Chandos, with her shadow, Mr Pope: Hogarth, Smollett, and that rogue, Colley Cibber, bursting with some merry squib, which must be bottled up until the end of Mr Handel’s piece, for fear of rousing that gentleman’s fiery temper.
Then quite suddenly the crowd fades away, leaving the lonely figure at the harpsichord. The outline has grown very faint, yet one can discern that it is the master still; older, gentler, feebler, with eyes that gaze, but cannot see. Genius is still the dominating power, neither age nor infirmity can destroy it. The groping fingers continue to pour forth that exquisite flow of music, which is with us now and will remain always, for his name is
One of the few immortal names
That were not born to die.
Turning away from the many interesting memories revived by the old harpsichord, we discover that we have turned our backs on a case of Asiatic instruments clustering round a double-bass of such ample proportions that it is impossible to ignore it.
“The Giant”—as the monster is aptly called—is massive in every way. It is tall—nearly ten feet—it is broad, stout, and, in addition to its bulky proportions, exercises a strange magnetic influence over the gazer. So forcible is its power, that one is compelled to stay and meditate beneath its shadow as though it were still part of the parent tree from which it was ruthlessly torn some hundred years ago. As we settle down to view this mighty example of the perfected form of the violin, stray facts concerning this instrument and others of its kind come to us in a hap-hazard fashion. Our memory is whipped into various whimsical recollections of big things and fat people. Irresistibly a reminiscence of the great Lablache is wafted to us. This gigantic singer was a humble double-bass in the orchestra of a theatre, in a small Italian town, before his glorious voice brought him renown. One evening, as he was preparing to finger his part in the orchestra, he heard that the principal bass singer was too indisposed to sing. Here was the chance of Lablache’s life, and—he took it. He filled the vacant bass singer’s part himself and gained such an instantaneous success that he forsook the double-bass for ever. Yet, although he discarded it, he could not quite get rid of its memory, for his very voice was reminiscent of its tones. No one noticed this resemblance more than Weber, who, hearing him a few months after his début, exclaimed involuntarily: “By heavens! he is a double-bass still!”
As for the biography of the big bass before us, it is short but honourable. Made in Italy—that happy land of lutherie—it was once the property of Domenico Dragonetti, who came to England in 1794 and gathered victorious laurels in this country until the day of his death. Amusing anecdotes are said to have flowed incessantly from the lips of this whimsical artist, yet nothing he said surpassed his ridiculous habit of making up a “no-language” out of several tongues. Although Dragonetti resided in London for upwards of forty years, yet until his dying day he could not converse for ten minutes without running into several different languages, and when he exchanged opinions with his bosom friend, Lindley, who stuttered frantically, the effect defied both description and imitation. There is a story on record that Dragonetti and Lindley were one day lounging down Wardour Street, which was then—as it is now—the haunt of the connoisseur, when they came upon a shop where, among other attractions, a parrot was put out for sale. The friends contemplated the bird for some time without speaking, until they attracted the attention of the shopman, who at once came out to them. Lindley began stumbling out endless questions to him, for the bird had taken his fancy, and Dragonetti poked in a query now and again in his own curious jargon. How old was the bird? What did it like to eat? Where did it come from? Was it a clever bird? Was it tame? and so on, ending, with a tremendous effort on Lindley’s part: “Ca-ca-can-can he-he-e et-t-t-talk?” The salesman, impatient of having been kept so long to no purpose, felt he would lose nothing by a little outburst of temper, so he turned upon his heel with the sarcastic reply: “Talk! I should think so, and a jolly sight better than either of you, or I’d wring his blooming neck.”
Dragonetti had no rival in his day, though Bottesini, about half-a-century later, could accomplish all that Dragonetti did. Indeed he did more, for he proved what wonderful effects could be produced by utilising the double-bass as a solo instrument, whereas Dragonetti was more particularly an orchestral genius. It is said that in private, however, he frequently amused his friends with wonderful flights on one string, or jocularly played a second violin part in a Quartet on his bulky instrument. Like Paganini his disproportionately long knobby fingers gave him a wonderful command and grip of the fingerboard, and he produced a tone like the great rolling pedal notes of an organ. So vast and penetrating was its quality, and so spirited his leadership of the double-basses, that his absence invariably called forth a comment from the audience on the weakness of the bass at such-and-such a concert.
Like Paganini, and many other famous artists, Dragonetti also possessed a cherished instrument, from which death alone parted him. The tone of this beautiful Gasparo da Salo is recorded to have been immense, and many were the occasions when its sonorous voice was the means of providing Dragonetti with the material for perpetrating one of his practical jokes. On the very day that the good monks of the monastery of St Pietro, near Venice, presented him with the double-bass, his high spirits led him into all kinds of pranks. Mad with delight at the possession of such a treasure, he carried it home and seated himself in the hall, with the bass planted before him. In response to a few strokes of his bow the bulky instrument emitted such thunderous rolling sounds that all the china and glass, even the pots and pans, began to rattle. Up from the kitchen department came the frightened inmates, hardly knowing what to expect, and they found nothing but—a slim lad, playing a big fiddle.