“For somebody’s sorrow!” we said thoughtfully, as we watched them slowly fading from sight in the distance....
In the winter of 1860 Ole Bull went to Stockholm, giving seventeen concerts in that city, and then to Finland.
In 1861–1862 he gave forty–six concerts in England, Scotland, and Ireland. He left the settlement of his accounts with the impressario till the end of the trip, and then giving up the memorandum before the money was handed him, received not one penny of the proceeds, all of which remained in the pockets of the manager.
While he was in Paris, in 1862, the sad intelligence of his wife’s death reached him. She had suffered much the last years of her life from ill–health, and, living in an adopted country, the misfortunes and sorrows of her husband, added to her own, were more than she could bear.
The following letter to his son was written from Hamburg, September 18, 1862:—
Instead of coming myself with the steamer to Bergen, as I had hoped, I am obliged to wait for—my trunk, which went astray between Cologne and this place, and for which I have waited now three whole days. Notwithstanding my troubles, my health was better, and would have kept improving had I not broken a rib in my left side, just as I was about to leave Godesberg, after giving a concert for the benefit of the organ in the Catholic church there, by request of the authorities. The concert was a brilliant affair, but I had to pay for it. It seemed that it had been planned to convert me to Catholicism, and a young Jesuit, who was taking the water–cure, sought, partly by charges against Protestantism, partly by flattery or threats, to make himself interesting; and when I declined his entertainment he turned about suddenly and claimed to be greatly interested in my views. One morning he came to meet me just as I had returned from a walk in the mountains and was going to breakfast, handing me a newspaper. As I accepted it and bowed, he threw his arms about my neck and pressed his knee against my breast; I felt and heard a crack in my side, as I pushed him from me. I went to the hotel, but did not feel well, and the doctor found a rib was broken. I had to keep my bed day and night for a week’s time, using wet bandages to prevent inflammation. When I got out, I exerted myself too much, so the bone has not knit together as well as could be desired.
I went recently to Aix–la–Chapelle to get my Guarnerius, which I had confided to a Frenchman, Monsieur D., to repair; but on my arrival I found all the parts were separated; the side–pieces by themselves, the top and back also; the neck divided, and the man himself in despair! I was obliged to put it together again myself, but what a task! He helped me. Poor fellow, I was sorry for him. When he saw what wretched work he had made of it, I could neither take the violin from him, and thereby ruin his reputation, nor scold him more. At last it was finished, and now I have three Guarneriuses beside my pearl, the Nicholas Amati, large pattern, that has the most beautiful tone of them all. I exchanged another for it in London last year, and Mr. Plowden, an amateur, offered me a considerable advance; but I would rather part with all my other violins than this, which is remarkable for its peculiar softness and clearness. Besides, it fits the hand well, and has the greatest variety of tone–color, that is to say, versatility of expression. I have had and am having a hard time. I must try to keep up courage. If I am to go under, I will still fight as long as I can,—perhaps the sun will shine when I least expect it!...
In 1863 he visited Christiania, and hoped to induce the people there to establish an Academy of Music. It was but a continuation of his earlier programme and thought of “a Norse Orchestra in a Norse Theatre.” He explained himself in an article published in the Illustrated News:—
A NORSE MUSIC ACADEMY.