But there was a sequel. Rossini died in November, 1868, and Berlioz passed away in March, 1869. His Autobiography was published in 1870, with the Paganini incident as it has already been related. To the last, Berlioz believed that the money came from Paganini. In 1880, Hiller published a work entitled "Künstlerleben," in which a chapter was devoted to Berlioz. Again reference is made to the princely gift, incredible from so mean a man as Paganini. "Rossini gave me the key to this enigma," writes Hiller, "and I do not hesitate to communicate the same, as it can no longer be unpleasant to anyone concerned in the matter." He then goes on to say that Paganini consented to be the agent of Armand Bertin, who really found the money. "Are you sure that this was true?" asked Hiller; "I know it," replied Rossini, seriously. Hiller then states his conviction that Rossini's account must be correct.[40] Now was this the outcome of a subsequent conversation with Rossini, or an amplification of the "gossip" at Trouville? Hiller is candid enough to say that some may doubt, and I should confess to being among the doubters if his evidence was the sole support of the story.

But in 1896, appeared the evidence of one whose testimony was unimpeachable. The late Sir Charles Hallé went to Paris in 1836, when a youth of seventeen. In 1838, he was introduced to Paganini, was invited to visit him, and often played to him; and, once, nearly heard Paganini play! An extract from Hallé's "Autobiography" will show what he thought of the great violinist: "From my earliest childhood I had heard of Paganini and his art as of something supernatural, and there I actually sat opposite to the man himself, but only looking at the hands that had created such wonders. On one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, after I had played and we had enjoyed a long silence, Paganini rose and approached his violin case. What then passed in me can hardly be imagined; I was all in a tremble, and my heart thumped as if it would burst my chest; in fact, no young swain going to the first rendezvous with his beloved could possible feel more violent emotions. Paganini opened the case, took the violin out, and began to tune it carefully with his fingers without using the bow; my agitation became almost intolerable. When he was satisfied, and I said to myself, with a lump in my throat, 'Now, now, he'll take the bow!' he carefully put the violin back and shut the case. And this is how I heard Paganini." Hallé also became acquainted with Berlioz and acquaintance ripened into a close friendship. He saw the change worked in Berlioz through the Paganini incident; how his courage was strengthened, and from a morose, he became a cheerful companion. Then he divulges what had been a life-secret: "Armand Bertin, the wealthy and distinguished proprietor of the Journal des Débats, had a high regard for Berlioz and knew of all his struggles, which he, Bertin, was anxious to lighten. He resolved therefore to make him a present of 20,000 fr., and in order to enhance the moral effect of this gift he persuaded Paganini to appear as the donor of the money. How well Bertin had judged was proved immediately; what would have been a simple gracieuseté from a rich and powerful editor towards one of his staff became a significant tribute from one genius to another, and had a colossal retentissement. The secret was well kept and never divulged to Berlioz. It was known, I believe, to but two of Bertin's friends besides myself, one of whom is (Victor) Mottez, the celebrated painter; I learned it about seven years later when I had become an intimate friend of the house, and Madame Armand Bertin had been for years one of my best pupils."[41] This must be accepted as a true statement of the case, but it proves no more than that Paganini became a party to a benevolent conspiracy; he never boasted of the gift, nor claimed any credit for it. Even when Berlioz, relieved of his financial troubles, set to work with a light heart at the composition which was to be worthy of dedication to the illustrious artist to whom he owed so much (his own words), even when he wrote to Paganini about a subject, all the answer he could get was: "I can give you no advice." He chose Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet" as a theme, worked at it for seven months, and produced a masterpiece. Paganini inspired him, but never heard the work "undertaken chiefly to please him."

To Paganini the world owes still more. It has been already stated that Paganini's playing when in Paris in 1831 exerted an extraordinary influence over Franz Liszt, and gave the direction to his genius. I use the word "genius" advisedly, believing that Liszt is one of that sacred band to whom the term belongs of right. This is not the place to discuss the position Liszt occupies among composers; nor is this country yet qualified properly to judge him. Wagner, Schumann and Chopin have passed the ordeal; from persecution they have arrived at deification, so to speak, and even their faults are regarded as merits. But prejudice dies hard, and Liszt has yet to suffer. His earnest disciple Walter Bache sacrificed time and means in his Liszt propaganda, but with scant success. My point here is to try and show that Paganini, despite all shortcomings as a man and as an artist, had a mission—whether he knew it or not—and fulfilled it through others.

Beethoven's pianoforte playing, and pianoforte compositions, led makers of that instrument to extend its compass; Liszt led the way to a new system for the pianoforte, with effects hitherto undreamt of, and the impulse came from Paganini. No other instance is on record of an instrument like the violin absolutely revolutionising the treatment of the pianoforte. I have already referred to Liszt in Paris, how, depressed and suffering, he withdrew from art and buried himself in solitude. The revolution of 1830 aroused him, but it was Paganini who rekindled the flame of art. Here I must have recourse to Lina Ramann's "Franz Liszt."

Liszt went to hear Paganini: "Charmed, stunned, yet seeing clearly at the same time, he could have cried out for sorrow and exultation. This playing! it was the vision of his soul, after which he had sought and grasped and yet could never find or seize. Now here he felt it realised before him. With kindling power it seized his artistic will. Until then Liszt had groped and sought without any conscious aim; following the hidden impulse of his spirit, he had given place to all kinds of whims.... Now, all at once, he was led by Paganini into fixed paths and the lost thread of his development was found again. By Paganini's playing the veil had been torn away which lay between him and his artistic will.... Paganini's playing had fanned the Promethean spark of his genius to a brilliant flame. That for which the poets of the time strove in their literary productions—freedom of form and of subject—he saw here in the domain of reproducing music. With all this the serious defects and onesidedness of the great violinist's capabilities and genius did not escape the youthful pianist. He measured him by the ideals of artistic culture which shone before his own eyes.... He recognised plainly the limits of the influence which Paganini exercised over him, and saw how human was the mission of the artist—a consciousness was awakened that artistic culture is inseparable from human sympathies, that only a great man can become a great artist. This conviction drew from his lips the proud but noble words 'Génie oblige.'[42] With indescribable eagerness, and at the same time with exulting triumph, Liszt, after having heard Paganini, turned again to his instrument. He was seldom seen; in public, as a pianist, never. His mother alone was the silent witness of his perseverance and restless working. As Wieland, he hammered at his piano. He, who, already as a boy, had climbed the Parnassus of study, now sat at the instrument often six hours a day and practised; yes, he exercised the language of his spirit, and created for it an organ of expression." The author then goes on to describe the new ideas that came to Liszt when studying the Twenty-four Capricii of Paganini, and how he discovered new combinations, and also that the hand of the pianist had yet much to learn. "With this perception a bridge was built to new technical triumphs in the art of pianoforte playing.... On the one hand he increased the beauty and breadth of sound of this instrument in a marvellous degree, while on the other, he gave at the same time a fatal blow to the modern pianoforte music of his day. This was the new discovery which Liszt made through Paganini, and on the foundation of which he has created an extension of the arena of sound.... Thus Paganini's capriccios gave Liszt the first impulse towards the modern system for the pianoforte, and at the same time prompted him to enter on the territory till then unknown of transferring effects."[43]

What the influence of Liszt has been, is beyond the present purpose to inquire. But, blot out Paganini and every note he has written, and he reappears in the art work of at least one great French composer, and in that of the greatest pianist the world has yet seen—one to whom the high compliment has been paid in the epithet—"The Paganini of the Pianoforte."

CHAPTER X.

Is it worth while at this distance of time to refer to the actual playing of Paganini? Can one recall "the touch of a vanished hand?" This memoir would not be complete without some account of Paganini's art beyond that given in the story of his life. Here I do not venture to write as a violin expert, and I shall only quote from Guhr's "On Paganini's Art of Playing the Violin"—which is presumably still accessible to students—in so far as it may be serviceable to the general reader. Leaving æsthetic, and higher considerations generally, out of count for the moment and limiting our attention to matters technical, we find much that was absolutely new. As regards mere extravagance and eccentricity of execution, Paganini was surpassed by Locatelli. We have to take into consideration the concert-pitch in use at the time of Paganini's public career. That, I take it, corresponded very closely with the Diapason normal now coming into general use. Paganini employed thin strings, and, for purposes to be named presently, often tuned his violin a semitone higher than the pitch of the band which accompanied him—equivalent to the English pitch, or high pitch still in use in some places. These thin strings served another purpose—the easy production of harmonics. If there was one thing more novel than any other in Paganini's playing it was the introduction of harmonics, melodies, double notes, and double shakes in harmonics. The natural harmonics were of course known to all violinists, but the artificial harmonics, if not the invention of Paganini, were first employed by him as integral features of his compositions as well as of his performances. Then there was his particular kind of staccato, produced by throwing his bow forcibly on the string, "letting it spring while he runs through the scales with incredible rapidity, the tones rolling like pearls" (Guhr). The Rev. Dr. Fox said the bow seemed to act with the elasticity of a spring fixed at one end, and made to vibrate. The combination of bowing, with pizzicato by the left hand, if not new, was employed by Paganini to a degree never attempted before. Lastly, there was his wonderful performance on the fourth string, which he tuned up to B flat, and sometimes even a semitone higher. Much of his use of these devices is put down as clap-trap, yet since his day many violinists have employed the same means, if they have not achieved the same result.