I saw the new flag hoisted above our nation: that flag which adorns the harbors of the world, and which, at half–mast, has mourned many of the men who, in the face of opposition, labored to raise it. In this flag, floating above us, and the Constitution under us, the Norse house has its roof and floor. The house can now be seen, and has a name among the nations. But this does not complete it, and it would be a sin to leave it half finished, exposed to wind and weather. There are still many rooms to be furnished, if the house is to be occupied by a nation claiming civilization and culture. Between the Danish and the Norse drama there is now drawn a tolerably definite line; but round about on the home walls hang the pictures of all nations, brought by wanderers from every corner of the globe—as might be expected in a sailor’s home, which ours is. There is so much that is foreign and so little of our own! Even our home subjects are worked up in foreign lands, by our own homesick artists, it is true, but bearing on them the servile mark of exile, set there by a borrowed, foreign brush. I have spent many a sad hour with these men,—exiled not so much because of our national poverty as of our national lack of culture,—wanderers, to be met with the world over. We have talked of the dream cherished in common by all Norse artists: the coming home and uniting all the forces in schools in which the national art could be developed to an independent manhood, and Norway be given the honor which foreigners now take from her. When these longings become too intense for control, the exiles fly haphazard home—painters, sculptors, and musicians striking against the old, gray, naked cliffs of their country’s insensibility. Forgetting old and futile efforts in the new, one now and then manages to gain a slight foot–hold; but the rest must abroad again, to repeat the old story. This, the history of our country’s attitude towards art is a disgrace to the nation, and a crime against those men who have given their all to art, and are driven to sell our honor abroad.
My calling in this world is the Norse music. I am no painter, no sculptor, no writer. I am a musician, and, being one, I ought to be trusted when I say that I hear a wonderfully deep and characteristic sound–board vibrating in the breasts of my people. The desire of my life has been to give it strings; that it may find voice, and its deep tones penetrate the temple as Norway’s church music bears the words of the minister to the hearts of the congregation; that on the battle–field it may remind the country’s defenders of their hearth–stones; that it may be heard from our orchestras and from a National art which can rise only from this source; that it may sound from the pianos round the land, cultivating, ennobling the family–life more than all the languages of the world, in charm and intelligibility unsurpassed! I have spent my life in striving to climb these gray cliffs with the other Norse artists, by trying to overcome the denationalized musical taste. Now, I propose to my colleagues, the musicians, that we each lend a hand in a united effort to scale the rocks and reach the height; that we found an Academy for musical instruction. It may be that we shall at last plant the flag on the heights, and be able to reach a helping hand down to others who are toiling upward!
Ole Bull.
To his son he wrote from Christiania, February 27, 1863:—
To–day I spoke with the King; he has signed the petition for an Academy, asking for an appropriation of $1200 a year from the Exchequer. Subscriptions are now being privately arranged. We have the offer of the free use of the dramatic company’s rooms,—in accordance with the will of the donor (Collet), who gave them for the benefit and advancement of the dramatic and musical arts, and also to be a preparatory school for the Norse stage.
I have much to do, and meet, as always, a great deal of opposition; but I do not doubt that it will go. One must strike with all one’s force. Poor Thorvald![19] I try to quiet myself with the thought that I did everything in my power to prevent his going to sea, but he would make his own way for himself....
Jonas Lie says:—
The Academy, as we know, was not founded; but the seed—the thought—was at that time planted. Since then it has grown and matured, and to–day we have a body of artists and composers, and quite another musical culture ready to receive it.
From 1863 to 1867 Ole Bull gave concerts in Germany, Poland, and Russia. He was honored in Berlin and Copenhagen by special festivities. In Copenhagen, at a banquet given by the “Norse Union,” the eminent Danish poet, Carl Ploug, proposed the toast to “the king of the realm of art.” He traveled in Russia during the seasons of 1866–1867. He used to say that no professional trip ever gave him more pleasure, and he would not venture to repeat it. He wrote a musical friend in Christiania, from Königsberg, June 4, 1866, as follows:—