In his personal habits Paganini was simplicity itself. Frugal to a degree in his repasts, a cup of chocolate sufficed for a meal when starting early on a journey, and often he would fast until evening. When in a happy mood after a concert, he would join the table d'hôte and do as others did, but the slightest indulgence was punished the next day. He preferred solitude, but when he mixed with others he would join freely in the conversation; if music were touched upon he became silent, or left the room. So long as he could find accommodation that was quiet, he cared little for its quality. Scenery had no charms for him, and all climates but his own were equally indifferent to him. His accounts were kept in a little red pocket-book (found under his pillow after his death), in a kind of arithmetical shorthand only decipherable by himself. He never had been taught the science of numbers, or he might have been made a first-rate mathematician.
Harris stated that all the time he was with Paganini he never heard him play a single note except before an audience. That may have been correct so far as Germany was concerned, but the Rev. John Edmund Cox, in his "Musical Recollections," has something very different to say about Paganini. "During his career he visited my native town,[35] and as I had the good fortune then to be able to converse in French, the friends who had engaged him for a sound of concerts in that place and its vicinity placed me in direct communication with him somewhat in the capacity of a secretary; so that I not only travelled in his company and heard him at every concert at which he appeared, but I lived in the same hotels and lodgings which had been secured for him. This kind of semi-official position necessitated my seeing much of him during his leisure hours, when he threw off the suspicious restraint which was always apparent in his manner when he was among strangers, whom he imagined were bent upon getting as much as possible out of him for their own advantage. Then, indeed, he would evince anything but a hard and ungenerous nature, his manner being not only kind but courteous; whilst any attention that was afforded to his wants or to his comforts was sure to elicit not only looks but words of gratitude. In public he confined himself almost exclusively to the performance of his own music,—... but in private—for he had his violin constantly in his hand—he would sit and dash off by the hour together snatches from the compositions of the best masters, and give readings of such originality to passages that had been heard again and again, as apparently have never been supposed to be possible by any other player. As an instance in point, he one morning, whilst I was writing several notes for him, commenced the first motivo of Beethoven's magnificent violin concerto. To write was then impossible; and he, perceiving how entranced I seemed, asked whether I knew what it was. On my replying in the negative, he promised, if it could be managed, that I should hear the whole of that movement before we separated." The promise was redeemed. The above is valuable as showing that Paganini was not quite so wanting in knowledge as was generally supposed. He could converse in French, though at that time—1831—he had only spent a few weeks in France. Education, proper, he had none; but the statement that he could speak no language but his own, is evidently incorrect. The allusion to strangers bent upon getting as much as possible out of him for their own advantage, finds an illustration in the story of the Englishman who is said to have followed Paganini for some six months, watching his every movement, lodging at the same hotels, and employing every means to get at the great secret of the violinist's art. At last his perseverance seemed about to be rewarded. Looking through the keyhole of Paganini's door, the Englishman saw the violinist take his instrument from its case—raise it to his shoulder, even shift the left hand up and down the neck; but not the ghost of a sound. It was just a study of positions, and the violin was then restored to its place. In despair, the inquisitive amateur gave up the quest.
The concerts Paganini gave for the poor were evidence of his natural goodness of heart. It is true, such efforts cost him little; he gave a few hours' time: the public found the money. One day, when walking in Vienna, he saw a poor little Italian boy playing the violin in front of a large house. He drew from him a touching story of poverty, and a sick mother; and emptying his pockets into the boy's hands, he took from him his violin and began to play. He was soon recognised, and a crowd assembled; the people were immensely diverted, and gave a generous response when the hat was handed round. With "Take that to your mother," Paganini sent the boy off rejoicing, and turning to the companion of his walk, he remarked, "I hope I've done a good turn to that little animal." He was fond of applying the word "animal" to those sometimes spoken of as "the lower classes," but was not altogether singular in that respect.
At the anniversary dinner of the Royal Society of Musicians, in 1832, among the donations announced was one of ten guineas from Paganini. This was thought so excessively mean an acknowledgment of the generosity of the English nation, that the announcement was received with groans and hisses. That was distinctly rude on the part of those who, having dined well, ought to have been in a genial state of mind.
At least one generous action must be placed on record. It was told by George Augustus Sala many years ago.[36] The mother of that voluminous writer was a vocalist, and made her début at Covent Garden Theatre in 1827, as the Countess in Bishop's version (or perversion) of Mozart's "Marriage of Figaro." In 1828 she became a widow, and supported her family by teaching singing and giving annual concerts, chiefly at Brighton, where she lived. For one of her benefit concerts she engaged Paganini. The most distinguished artists of her day had gladly given their gratuitous assistance at similar functions, and Paganini accepted the small fee of twenty-five guineas. Sala was a very small boy at that time (born in 1828), and possibly drew upon his imagination when recounting the event so many years later. This is what he wrote:—"'Take your little boy with you, Madame Sala,' was the shrewd counsel of ——, a valued friend of my mother; 'take the boy with you when you pay Pag.; perhaps that will soften him a little.' I was the smallest and chubbiest of the tribe; then, duly washed, combed and made spruce, my parent took me in her hand, and led me to the Old Ship, where Paganini was staying. We were ushered, not without fear and trembling on my part, into the presence of the mighty musician, who was at breakfast. Then my mother, alluding as far as she in delicacy could to her large family and small means, proceeded to count out—sovereign by sovereign, shilling by shilling—Paganini's fee of five and twenty guineas. I can see with the eye of memory the whole man before me now, his gaunt angular form, his black elf-like locks falling in weird confusion over his neck and shoulders, his cadaverous face and shaggy brows, his long bony hands with the veins standing out like cordage, his amazingly large feet, and especially his neck, disproportionately long, scraggy, and corrugated. I can see the glare—so it seemed to me—which, when he raised his bent brows, darted upon the pile of money, and the spasmodic avidity with which he extended his hand and swept the pile towards him.... 'A very nice little boy,' he was good enough to say, alluding to myself; 'but time is bad, and there is no monish in de vorld: no, never no monish at all.' My mother rose with a heavy heart to depart. 'Stop, little boy,' said the great violinist, and he beckoned to me with a skinny finger, which any of the witches in Macbeth would have been proud to own; 'stop, take this, it will buy you a cake.' He thrust a crumpled piece of paper into my hand, rose from his chair, and, without more ado 'bolted'—that is the only word suited to the action—into his bedroom. He had given me a bank note for fifty pounds! Superstitious people used to whisper that Paganini had sold himself to the enemy of mankind; spiteful people used to draw him as a greedy, flint-hearted miser.... I only know how he acted towards my mother."
CHAPTER IX.
From the man we now turn to the artist. Schiller wrote: "The artist is the son of his age, but pity for him if he is its pupil or even its favourite." It has been shown how truly Paganini was the child of his age; the pity was that he became its pupil and its favourite; in consequence he failed to attain the supreme height where dwell the spirits of the greatest. But he was a great artist, in spite of his concessions to the public taste; and he held in reverence that which he found great in others. When in Vienna in 1828, exactly a year after the death of Beethoven, Paganini attended a concert, and heard a performance of the great master's Symphony, No. 7, in A. Profoundly moved by that sublime composition, he remained mute, his gaze fixed and mournful; suddenly the tears rolled from his eyes; his grief and emotion wrung from him the words: E morto! Anders, who relates the incident, adds: "Never was the immortal author of Fidelio more worthily extolled than by those tears, by that simple word. The day may come when some disciple, some friend of the Genoese artist, will say in his turn, seized with bitter sadness, E morto!" Strange, that Chorley should have employed the very words, in the premature obituary notice which has been already referred to.
When in Paris, Paganini once visited the Institution for the Blind. He was so much struck with the beauty and purity of intonation that characterised the singing of the pupils, that he declared that never before had he an adequate notion of what harmony was.