Ole Bull: A Memoir

by Sara Chapman Thorp Bull

In March and April Ole Bull appeared in a few concerts in the principal Eastern cities with Miss Thursby. His last appearance but one in New York was for the benefit of the Herald Fund for the starving Irish, at the request of Mr. Edwin Booth, who planned and carried out most successfully a dramatic and musical entertainment. Good as was the cause, it was more for the sake of the originator of the plan that Ole Bull responded with pleasure. During that winter he had the opportunity of giving the Boston Philharmonic Society his assistance; and he also played for the Philharmonic Association in Cambridge, where he was honored by an audience that might well inspire any artist to his best efforts.

Late in June, with a pleasant party of friends, Ole Bull sailed the last time for Europe. He had not been feeling well for a month before, but the physicians consulted assured him that a sea–trip was all that he needed to bring relief. The first days out revived him somewhat, and no anxiety was felt; but later, what seemed a violent attack of sea–sickness, the first he had ever suffered, reduced his strength. At Liverpool he revived, and the physician thought a few days’ rest would quite restore him, but more violent symptoms soon appeared, and great concern was felt as to his being able to bear the journey to Norway, on which he insisted when he found he was not improving. Dr. Moore, of Liverpool, accompanied him. The trip across the North Sea was finally accomplished, but at great risk, and when at last the little fjord steamer came alongside to bear the invalid to his home, a prayer of thanksgiving filled all hearts. As the steamer glided gently onward the restful calm brought a sweet sleep, and all the surroundings seemed to breathe a promise of health. As Ole Bull approached Lysö he wakened, and how earnestly, how gratefully he gazed on his beloved mountains in their calm majestic beauty at that early morning hour! After the first day of exhaustion the sufferer seemed to gain steadily, until a complete recovery was looked for. Those days were full of happiness and blessing.

Professor E. N. Horsford, a valued and dear friend of many years, made his first and long–promised visit to Norway that summer. His description of the island and of the artist’s home–coming was written shortly after. He says:—

I first saw Lysö in the twilight of Norwegian mid–summer. It was from the steamer Domino, on my voyage across the North Sea from Hull, by way of Stavanger, to Bergen. The island may have been seven or eight miles away. Its irregular domes of dusky green were but dimly outlined upon the bank of wooded mountains beyond. It was too late to see clearly. Distant objects had begun to look weird, and the sky was shadowy. We were approaching the region of long twilights—the kingdom of the midnight sun; besides, the eyes were fatigued with the endless succession of unfamiliar forms. All day we had been sailing along inhospitable shores, and among rocky islands, scantily covered with vegetation. Now and then, in less exposed situations, fishing hamlets with sunny red roofs had come in sight; we had taken in review the openings into narrow fjords with opposing cliffs, and repeated collections of runic columns, with the commanding monument to Harold Haarfager, the first king of Norway. All these were in the foreground, while in the distant eastern horizon, spread upon the table–land and covering the lofty mountain range, was the majestic glacier of the Folgefond. These had challenged attention, and in their novelty, or picturesqueness, or grandeur, had fascinated us; but the spot about which the abiding interest centred only came into view when it was too late to more than make out its general position in the Björne Fjord at the foot of the Lyshorn. Soon after crossing the Björne Fjord, we swept past a column of ships of the inward bound Loffoden fishing fleet, stern and stately, with their antique prows and huge single square sails; and entered the crowd of countless lesser fishing vessels and iron steamers, and came to anchor in the harbor of Bergen.

My next view of the island was from the little steamboat landing near Lysekloster, the point on the mainland where one takes boat for Lysö. The island is scarcely more than half a mile from the wharf, and from other points on the mainland the distance is less.

We had driven from Bergen, some eighteen miles over a mountain road. Near the end, the way led down past the ruins of Lysekloster, a relic of the eleventh century, with its many remains of halls, refectory, chapter–house, cloisters, rude stone coffins, and ruder inscriptions; past the fine old mansion of the Nicolaysons, whose estate shares the name of Lysekloster; past the antique chapel, where the gathering peasant women still wear a costume suggesting the monastery; down to the wharf where we were to cross the narrow Lysefjord to the home of Ole Bull. On our left, the high mainland stretched away in a southerly direction for a mile or more, and then turned sharply to the west beyond the island. On the right, the bare, rocky headlands jutted irregularly out for many miles toward the broad entrance to the Björne Fjord. In a little bay under the slope of the Lyshorn, and a few rods from the wharf, giving a touch of surprising grace to the scene, were two stately swans. This was, we learned, a favorite resort, to which they made occasional excursions from their island home. Immediately before us was Lysö, a series of granite domes of unequal height, half covered with birch and evergreen above, half carpeted with heather and moss below. No trees had been felled. There was scarcely a trace of disturbed surface except in the narrow foot–paths that led up from the shore. There were two little wharves, one near the boat–house, and low, red tile–roofed cottage of Haldor–Lysö, the family servant; the other under the bluff on which stood the imposing mansion of the proprietor.

Of other structures there were none on the island. There were no beaches; there was no gravel. The rocky cliffs of Norway, here as elsewhere, and uniformly, rise almost with the sharpness of a wall from the sea. If gravel there be at the foot of the precipices, it must be far down in the water. Above, the pines and spruces and feathery birches start from fissures in the rocks, and soar away to great heights, giving to the island a fleecy air of indescribable beauty, and to the inner fjord the soft seclusion of an inland sea.

Across this sheet of water we were rowed by Haldor. In the distance, the American and Norwegian flags were waving their welcome. The deep green of the Norway pines gave the finest relief to the Hall. It stands upon a shelf. The first story leans against the mountain. The second story, and the Byzantine turret rising above the roof at the corner nearest the brow of the bluff, are clearly defined against the dark foliage.

A large, open tower, with winding stairs midway on the long side of the Hall, and rising from the ground far above the eaves, gives, with its richly–decorated panels, brilliant entrance to the reception room below and the music hall above. The apartment devoted to music, occupying the whole width of the house, with two thirds of its length, and the entire height of the second story to the roof, is finished throughout in unstained spruce. Rows of slender clustered and twisted columns rise to support an elaborate system of delicately and curiously wrought arches. The two concert grand pianos, embodying the inventions to which so much thought had been given, and from which the inventor hoped so much of advancement to the art, were here.