The hasty, animated lines which he wrote to his wife that day, in which he mentions his exertions, his many disappointments, and his persevering, energetic hope for the undertaking, strike one very forcibly.
The selection of plays was restricted, since they were necessarily adapted to the limited powers of the actors. Ole Bull conducted the orchestra and played, as did also his friend, Möllar–gutten, or Thorgeir Andunson of Haukelid–Rock. Mr. Goldschmidt thus speaks of this peasant–violinist, celebrated all over Norway:[16]—
He used to play at dancing parties, and in him many of the old legends, pointing to the demoniac power of music, were revived. In order to understand this, one must have seen the national dances of Norway—the Halling–dance especially. It commences with a slow, majestic measure, and it is surprising to see with what dignity and grace the powerful forms of old and young move; by degrees it becomes quicker, the elder folk retire, and at last it turns into a leaping dance, which only the strongest young people can safely perform, and during which formidable leaps are executed by the lads.
“Oh, never talk again to me
Of Spanish girls and Southern dancers,”
you would say, paraphrasing Byron, if you saw this passionate, frantic, though serious and chaste dance, that exhibits the fierce, martial spirit of Norwegian youth. It once happened that, whilst the dance whirled to the wild, fiery music—to the strain proceeding, as it were, from the depths of earth, from the foaming waterfall from the howling tempest of the mountains—the knives of the lads “became loose in their sheaths,” and blood flowed along the floor. The cellar–man, on proceeding to the cellar to bring up beer, saw seated behind a hogshead Old Nick himself playing the fiddle; then, understanding why blood flowed so freely above, he came up and cried out: “Stop your ears, the devil plays the fiddle!” Well, it was said that Thorgeir Andunson could play in like manner, having on his lonely rock of Haukelid learnt it from the spirit reigning in the foaming river below, although his appearance was quiet and gentle and frequently sad. He had married a girl of the same station of life as himself, but always looked up to her as to a peculiar being that had descended to him. Being once asked what was his ambition in life, he answered: “To be able to buy a pair of shoes and a silk neckerchief for my wife.” Having heard of Ole Bull, he came to pay him a visit, and was quite bewildered when he heard one of Mozart’s compositions. “Well,” he said, “this is music!” and strolling about the garden all night, tried to play it from memory; but in his hands it turned into mere Halling–dance. His fine sense showed him in Ole Bull the happier artist, and far from envying, he attached himself to him with a kind of devotion that proved itself afterwards when the violinist established at Bergen the first Norwegian theatre. When the messenger came to Thorgeir, bidding him to gird his loins, and come down to play before a public, the shy artist overcame his bashfulness, and followed the messenger at once, “for I must do something to see and hear Ole.” The farmers along the mountain road, meanwhile, having heard the tidings that Thorgeir was going to Ole to establish an independent Norse theatre, gave him a mounted escort as a prince. One great farmer, a descendant of the old kings, wished to retain Thorgeir for a night to give a soirée, as we should say, and on Thorgeir declining and escaping from his house,—“for Ole expects me at the Norse theatre,”—it nearly came to a battle between the squads, which was prevented by Thorgeir’s solemn promise that he would return and play to the dancers “three entire nights.” He returned home a wealthy man. Ole Bull had made him earn 2000 specie dollars (about £400),—an immense fortune for the fiddler on Haukelid–Rock.
Let me be permitted, before I leave Thorgeir Andunson, to add a few words about the popular music of Norway, which, the dance music included, is most intimately connected with the old ballads, often instead of instrumental music accompanying the dance, and of a peculiarly sweet, romantic character. There are myriads of these ballads, but I will select only a few. A girl meets the elf–king, who sings so enchantingly to her that she follows him to the mountain, which opens itself and closes again when they have entered. The girl’s father, hearing in the forest his daughter’s plaintive call for help, hastens to the spot. If the church bell be rung by the mountain until sunset, the elf–folks must give up their prey; so the bell is taken down from the steeple, and, with the assistance of all the village, brought to the mountain and set in motion. Already is the sun near setting, when the rope breaks, and the girl has disappeared forever. Now, at the risk of being taxed with exaggeration, I assert that through this music is heard, or felt, the demoniac power of the elf–folks; at the same time there is a wail for the loss of the girl, as if all the tender, sweet attraction of love between man and woman, all the delicacy, yearning, and devotion which man can feel, were challenged by the outrage committed on the girl.
An old Odelsbonde, renowned for his strength, would only marry his daughter to a lad who could overcome him in wrestling; a handsome youth, whose daring and love are stronger than his awe of the mighty Odelsbonde, comes to woo and wrestle. With incomparable, simple, patriarchal grace the Odelsbonde arises from his Höisæde (chair of honor), and, waving his hand, bids the wooer welcome; after which, descending the steps into the middle of the hall, he calmly begins the wrestling match. By degrees the combat becomes animated, and the wrestlers hot and passionate, each adversary forgetting in the struggle the object of it—the trembling girl; at last the old giant, lifting the youth up above his head, flings him down at his feet, a corpse. The music, which has marvelously expressed the incidents of the story throughout, here stops short with a wail of terror and compassion; and I assure you at the last note your brow will be moist, and if not ashamed of your weakness you will admit that you tremble with emotion. [I allude not to the old song only, but to Ole Bull’s composition.]
Lastly, I will give only a short legend. A lad, a violin player, unable to conquer the instrument and elicit from it what he had on his heart, held its apertures to the mouth of his dying mother, and from that time people, when he played, stood spell–bound, listening with heart and soul to tones not of this world. When Ole Bull went forth to the world, his mother, old Norway, had breathed into his violin, but not her last breath; the spell that bound his listeners had in it something healthy and cheerful joined with its magic power.
From the outside districts Ole Bull brought peasants to perform the national dances in his theatre. Thus the first winter passed, and the summer was spent in preparing with all possible energy for the next season; the actors and musicians worked con amore, and success rewarded them; the theatre could now stand on its own merits. After the enterprise had progressed so far, Ole Bull asked of the Storthing, in 1851, a yearly appropriation to ensure its perpetuity. His aim was not alone to secure a certain sum for the establishment of a permanent dramatic school, but he desired a public acknowledgment of the National Theatre itself. His petition was refused by a small majority. This grieved him, and, together with other troubles growing out of the management, made him, to a degree, lose heart and courage.