I have been deputed by his Excellency Governor Rice, his Honor Mayor Cobb, and other members of the committee, with whom I have the honor to be associated, to present to you one of whom it with truth may be said that he needs no introduction to a Boston audience.... From the commencement of his career in this country, when an entranced audience listened to his wonderful melody at the Melodeon, in May, 1844, to the present time, a period of more than thirty years, the citizens of Boston, more especially those of musical culture, have recognized Ole Bull as a great musical artist, and one whose composition and performance commanded the tribute that only true genius can exact....
I have been deputed by his Excellency Governor Rice, his Honor Mayor Cobb, and other members of the committee, with whom I have the honor to be associated, to present to you one of whom it with truth may be said that he needs no introduction to a Boston audience.... From the commencement of his career in this country, when an entranced audience listened to his wonderful melody at the Melodeon, in May, 1844, to the present time, a period of more than thirty years, the citizens of Boston, more especially those of musical culture, have recognized Ole Bull as a great musical artist, and one whose composition and performance commanded the tribute that only true genius can exact....
Ole Bull’s reply in acknowledgment of his reception was thus reported in theDaily Advertiser:
Ladies and Gentlemen,—I see here among the audience stars of the first magnitude. Why should they address me? What am I that I can stand before this audience and address such stars as these? I am but an atom of failure in the universe; yet you are all united with me in that failure in that you have indorsed me. You belong to me and I belong to you. [Applause.] But to explain to you the relation in which I stand here, and the names you see about me [referring to the names Thorvald, Thorfinn, Leif, and Washington], and how they are connected together, I allow myself to say a few words. Everybody in this audience knows that in the year 984 Bjarne sailed to meet his father in Greenland. He was driven south, and after a long voyage came at last to a beautiful land, which he went back and reported he had seen. Fourteen years after, in 1000, his son, Leif Ericsson, took his ships and proceeded to seek that land; and he came along by Newfoundland and the coast of Nova Scotia, and further down to what he called Vineland, because he found vines there. He remained the fall and winter there, and then sailed back again to Iceland. Then two years after, his brother Thorvald went over and met his death near Martha’s Vineyard. In 1831 they discovered his body in armor. His body was taken to Boston, and the armor was analyzed, and they found it was the same metal that the Norsemen had used in the ninth and tenth centuries. It had the same ornaments they had used, so there couldbe no doubt to whom it belonged. But, unfortunately, the armor was lost by fire, and that calamity which we both share together was an atom of fate that clings to us. You lost the armor, but there was one who could give it to posterity, and I say, almost to eternity, and that was our illustrious star, Longfellow. [Applause.] It was given for him to do it in his “Skeleton in Armor.”Now what connection has the name of Thorfinn to Washington? Washington not only belongs to the whole world of the present generation, for that would be little to say,—he belongs to all future generations. What you educate is not for you alone, but it is for the whole world. The name of Washington stands as the greatest pinnacle of glory. It signifies liberty, it signifies every thing that ennobles man. [Applause.] We find in the recent discoveries concerning his ancestors, that they came over in a ship, but that his ancestors’ name was Thorfinn. Well, Thorfinn is a Norwegian name, and it is not very easy to see how Thorfinn could be changed to Washington. But we see every day that strangers come here, and after some little time they change their names to some other taken from the new surroundings. We see it in Norway, often, that a man who has taken a new farm takes his name, not from the ancient farm but the new farm. And this is the connection of the ideas which prompted me to come here to–night and have the honor to reply to the memory of Washington and the memory of the Revolution, which delivered not only America from oppression, but the whole world. Now I beg leave to take my instrument in order to explain the rest.
Ladies and Gentlemen,—I see here among the audience stars of the first magnitude. Why should they address me? What am I that I can stand before this audience and address such stars as these? I am but an atom of failure in the universe; yet you are all united with me in that failure in that you have indorsed me. You belong to me and I belong to you. [Applause.] But to explain to you the relation in which I stand here, and the names you see about me [referring to the names Thorvald, Thorfinn, Leif, and Washington], and how they are connected together, I allow myself to say a few words. Everybody in this audience knows that in the year 984 Bjarne sailed to meet his father in Greenland. He was driven south, and after a long voyage came at last to a beautiful land, which he went back and reported he had seen. Fourteen years after, in 1000, his son, Leif Ericsson, took his ships and proceeded to seek that land; and he came along by Newfoundland and the coast of Nova Scotia, and further down to what he called Vineland, because he found vines there. He remained the fall and winter there, and then sailed back again to Iceland. Then two years after, his brother Thorvald went over and met his death near Martha’s Vineyard. In 1831 they discovered his body in armor. His body was taken to Boston, and the armor was analyzed, and they found it was the same metal that the Norsemen had used in the ninth and tenth centuries. It had the same ornaments they had used, so there couldbe no doubt to whom it belonged. But, unfortunately, the armor was lost by fire, and that calamity which we both share together was an atom of fate that clings to us. You lost the armor, but there was one who could give it to posterity, and I say, almost to eternity, and that was our illustrious star, Longfellow. [Applause.] It was given for him to do it in his “Skeleton in Armor.”
Now what connection has the name of Thorfinn to Washington? Washington not only belongs to the whole world of the present generation, for that would be little to say,—he belongs to all future generations. What you educate is not for you alone, but it is for the whole world. The name of Washington stands as the greatest pinnacle of glory. It signifies liberty, it signifies every thing that ennobles man. [Applause.] We find in the recent discoveries concerning his ancestors, that they came over in a ship, but that his ancestors’ name was Thorfinn. Well, Thorfinn is a Norwegian name, and it is not very easy to see how Thorfinn could be changed to Washington. But we see every day that strangers come here, and after some little time they change their names to some other taken from the new surroundings. We see it in Norway, often, that a man who has taken a new farm takes his name, not from the ancient farm but the new farm. And this is the connection of the ideas which prompted me to come here to–night and have the honor to reply to the memory of Washington and the memory of the Revolution, which delivered not only America from oppression, but the whole world. Now I beg leave to take my instrument in order to explain the rest.
After an account of the concert, during which the artist “seemed stirred, by the sympathy of his hearers, to a sympathy, intensity, and vividness of style unwonted even to himself,” theAdvertisercontinues:—
Near the close of the performance, the Rev. E. E. Hale rose in his place on the floor, and said he supposed it was known to every person present that the distinguished artist had spent almost the whole of his active life in knotting those ties which connected his country with ours. It was hoped that in some future time there would be erected a physical memorial to the early discoverers of whom he had spoken. It was the wish of those about him [Mr. Hale], at whose request he spoke, that Boston should not be behind in any expression of gratitude to him [Ole Bull] for his work, as well as in expressing interest in our Norse ancestors. He was sure he spoke the mind, not only of the audience, but of all New England, when he spoke of the interest with which he regarded his countrymen, whom they regarded as almost theirs. He remembered, although it was nearly forty years ago, when much such an audience as he saw about him cheered and applauded Edward Everett, when the early discoveries had just been made, and, when in one of the last of his public poems he expressed the wish that the great discoveries of Thorvald might be commemorated by Thorvald’s great descendant, the Northern artist, Thorwaldsen. The last words of that poem as it died upon the ear were,—“Thorvald shall live for aye in Thorwaldsen.”He, the speaker, thought it was a misfortune for New England that the great northern artist died before he could accomplish this wish. But New Englanders had never forgotten it, and had never forgotten their Norse ancestors. It was an enterprise which ought to engage Massachusetts men,—the preservation of a physical memorial of Thorvald, Leif, and Thorfinn,—and he suggested that the committee which had arranged the meeting should become a committee of New England, in conjunction with Mr. Appleton, to take this matter in special charge. Mr. Hale put a motion to this effect, and it was carried, and the committee constituted.
Near the close of the performance, the Rev. E. E. Hale rose in his place on the floor, and said he supposed it was known to every person present that the distinguished artist had spent almost the whole of his active life in knotting those ties which connected his country with ours. It was hoped that in some future time there would be erected a physical memorial to the early discoverers of whom he had spoken. It was the wish of those about him [Mr. Hale], at whose request he spoke, that Boston should not be behind in any expression of gratitude to him [Ole Bull] for his work, as well as in expressing interest in our Norse ancestors. He was sure he spoke the mind, not only of the audience, but of all New England, when he spoke of the interest with which he regarded his countrymen, whom they regarded as almost theirs. He remembered, although it was nearly forty years ago, when much such an audience as he saw about him cheered and applauded Edward Everett, when the early discoveries had just been made, and, when in one of the last of his public poems he expressed the wish that the great discoveries of Thorvald might be commemorated by Thorvald’s great descendant, the Northern artist, Thorwaldsen. The last words of that poem as it died upon the ear were,—
“Thorvald shall live for aye in Thorwaldsen.”
“Thorvald shall live for aye in Thorwaldsen.”
He, the speaker, thought it was a misfortune for New England that the great northern artist died before he could accomplish this wish. But New Englanders had never forgotten it, and had never forgotten their Norse ancestors. It was an enterprise which ought to engage Massachusetts men,—the preservation of a physical memorial of Thorvald, Leif, and Thorfinn,—and he suggested that the committee which had arranged the meeting should become a committee of New England, in conjunction with Mr. Appleton, to take this matter in special charge. Mr. Hale put a motion to this effect, and it was carried, and the committee constituted.
The holidays of that year were memorable. Thanksgiving found Ole Bull at the home of Professor Horsford in Cambridge, and he shared the Christmas cheer of Craigie House with the beloved poet; while on New Year’s Eve, he watched the old year out and the new in with a few friends in the library of James T. Fields.
In the early months of that year he made an engagement for thirty concerts with his friend, Mr. Maurice Strakosch. He first gave four concerts at Steinway Hall, in New York, and had the honor of being assisted by Madame Essipoff. TheNew York Herald, of March 4, 1877, said:—
Age seems to have been contented with scattering snow upon his head, leaving untouched the fire of his genius. The lithe and agile figure has lost none of its elasticity, and the nerves are as steady as in the noon–dayof life. There is still the same nervous delicacy of touch and precision of execution, which, in the years gone by, charmed two continents and led the people of many lands in pleasant bondage after the car of the enchanting musician. The triumphs of to–day are destined to be no less great than those obtained in the past. Ole Bull, like a prince that had wandered from his own land and returned after a long absence, is restored to the throne he had abandoned by a delighted people; the memory of his great feats is not forgotten.
Age seems to have been contented with scattering snow upon his head, leaving untouched the fire of his genius. The lithe and agile figure has lost none of its elasticity, and the nerves are as steady as in the noon–dayof life. There is still the same nervous delicacy of touch and precision of execution, which, in the years gone by, charmed two continents and led the people of many lands in pleasant bondage after the car of the enchanting musician. The triumphs of to–day are destined to be no less great than those obtained in the past. Ole Bull, like a prince that had wandered from his own land and returned after a long absence, is restored to the throne he had abandoned by a delighted people; the memory of his great feats is not forgotten.
The New York audiences were remarkable for their size, as were those in the cities he visited east, south, and west. Miss Emma Thursby was now associated with him, and this first acquaintance with that great and charming artist resulted in a warm, personal friendship. The very last engagement Ole Bull filled was in conjunction with Miss Thursby, who was, he hoped, to accompany him to Norway, where he desired to present her himself to his countrymen; but, overtaken by the last fatal illness in England, he was so weak on reaching home that waiting friends were advised of the impossibility of even a visit. The following summer, Miss Thursby paid a most loving and tender tribute to her departed friend, by visiting Ole Bull’s birthplace to add her generous gift to the memorial his countrymen are to erect, and won for herself the admiration and the affection of the Northmen, as she had that of Ole Bull before.
The press notices are reminders of the large audiences of 1876, and the pleasure manifested at the efforts of the artists. In some places,—in Brooklyn and Philadelphia, for instance,—not only the audience–room was filled to overflowing, but hundreds of extra seats were placed upon the stage, while large numbers were turned away. Describing such a scene, the PhiladelphiaPresssaid:—
And when Ole Bull appeared, what a right royal shout of welcome he received! The wind waves almost could be felt, and the applause could be heard blocks away.... There is yet the delicacy of touch and the wondrous power that tells of genius without loss of lustre, and of the marvelous sympathetic instrumentation of his brightest years. Nardini’s Sonata was the first selection, and it was superbly played.... The concert throughout was a most brilliant success, and may fairly rank as one of the great events in the musical history of Philadelphia.
And when Ole Bull appeared, what a right royal shout of welcome he received! The wind waves almost could be felt, and the applause could be heard blocks away.... There is yet the delicacy of touch and the wondrous power that tells of genius without loss of lustre, and of the marvelous sympathetic instrumentation of his brightest years. Nardini’s Sonata was the first selection, and it was superbly played.... The concert throughout was a most brilliant success, and may fairly rank as one of the great events in the musical history of Philadelphia.
To the last, these great audiences welcomed Ole Bull in the Philadelphia Academy, under the able management of Mr. Pugh.
The entire season was to the violinist an enjoyable one, since he was in perfect health and condition for his work. He had time to see his friends and to visit them, playing, as he did, at intervals only. He renewed many of the intimacieshe had formed on his first visits to this country, which incessant work in previous years had compelled him, against his wish, to drop; and he found that he was not only not forgotten, but even better loved than he had thought.
After finishing his series of concerts, and only three days before his departure for Europe, a request came, signed by many distinguished names in New York, asking for still another appearance. He played, on the evening before he sailed, in Booth’s Theatre, to a very full house, the stage and boxes being occupied by his friends. The artists were all inspired to do their best, and, after the “Ave Maria” of Gounod had been sung by Miss Thursby with Ole Bull’s obligato, the audience seemed more determined than ever to recall the artist and to demand familiar airs. After the sixth encore he made a little speech, but it was not until he had responded to the tenth recall, for which he had given, “We won’t go home till morning,” that the audience, with the last waving of handkerchiefs and cheers, said good–by. Later, at a little supper at the hotel, the paper written by Dr. Crosby (printed in the Appendix to this volume) was produced and read for the first time—a surprise to Ole Bull. This labor of love so generously given when it meant hours of toil to an already overworked physician,with illness at home, was the crowning kindness of the many showered upon him by loving friends. No man ever filled a larger place in Ole Bull’s heart than Professor R. Ogden Doremus, who was present, and had made Dr. Crosby known to the artist; and how he wished that he might carry the two with him to his own beloved Norway, when they bade him good–by the next morning on the deck of the steamer! He felt a concern for Dr. Crosby’s health which proved only too well founded, for in June came the sad news of his death, the result of overwork.
The Atlantic voyage was a rest in itself, for sea–sickness was unknown to Ole Bull, and he was a good person to cheer others who were unhappy on shipboard. The inevitable concert would be given the last evening of the voyage, and often on very stormy passages he had played to make others forget the fear and discomfort of the hour.
The summer of 1877 was quietly spent in Norway, and the winter was passed on the Continent in travel. In Brussels, among the friends who called on the artist was Vieuxtemps, then suffering from the effects of a paralytic stroke. When he would himself try Ole Bull’s instrument his poor, numb hand could not obey his will; and at last he exclaimed, as he handed it back,“’Tis no use, Icannotcommand my fingers!” His talk concerning style, composition, and virtuosity was most interesting, as were also the incidents of travel which he recalled. He said of Mendelssohn and Schumann, “Ils sont virtuoses parce qu’ils connaissent à fond leur art; ils sont virtuoses parce qu’ils sont de grands poètes. Ils le sont parce qu’ils ont le génie. Virtuosité, génie, sont deux termes à peu près synonymes, deux notions presque identiques.” Vieuxtemps’s indignation at the constant abuse of the term may be imagined.
Ole Bull had planned to go to Italy and Sicily for the winter, as he had long desired to revive and live over again the memories of his first visits to that sunny clime; but on his reaching Vienna in January, the time from week to week passed so delightfully, and old friends were so cordial, that all thought of going further south was given up. He had not intended to appear in public, and did so on a few occasions only. The general interest taken in his visit there and elsewhere by the press and the people surprised him. He busied himself while in Vienna with repairing violins for friends, with so much success that his acquaintances would urge him to direct the work on their instruments, which they wished adjusted according to his method, and he could seldom refusesuch a request. It sometimes seemed as if he were happier at work on an old decrepit fiddle, which he saw could be restored, than when playing on his own superb instrument.
While in that city he celebrated with friends the birthday of Madame Mathilde Marchesi. Among the guests at the musical party was Madame Christine Nilsson, and the hostess told with pride of a telegram she had just received from her favorite pupil, Gerster, whose brilliant success in America she predicted.
Nilsson recalled how when a little girl she had been admitted by the stage–door to one of Ole Bull’s concerts in Sweden, and how, while the artist stood talking to a friend, she had asked to look at his violin, which he left in her hands when called away for a moment. On venturing to draw the bow she found to her delight that it “almost played itself.”
The courtesy of Mr. Joseph Hellmesberger, Kapelmeister, with whom the artist played in public, was an incident of his stay which he remembered with much pleasure.
A visit was made to Pesth, where each day was sure to bring a charming note or thoughtful message from Liszt, whose kindly face often looked in upon his friend. The following missive was sent on the morning before Ole Bull left the city:—
Mardi, 19 Février.Mon Illustre,—Je vous prie amicalement de passer la soirée d’aujourd’hui avec Madame Ole Bull chez votre vieux collègue et dévoué ami,Franz Liszt.On se réunit à 9 heures.(Il n’y aura pas de “violon” ni même de piano.)
Mardi, 19 Février.
Mon Illustre,—Je vous prie amicalement de passer la soirée d’aujourd’hui avec Madame Ole Bull chez votre vieux collègue et dévoué ami,
Franz Liszt.
On se réunit à 9 heures.
(Il n’y aura pas de “violon” ni même de piano.)
At midnight, however, the violin was sent for at Liszt’s request, and not till after two o’clock in the morning did the company disperse. The walk to the hotel along the fine river embankment in the brilliant starlight, with the wonderful tones still sounding in one’s brain, cannot be forgotten. After a brilliant improvisation on the same motives which Ole Bull had chosen for the violin, Liszt had closed with a dreamy, tender nocturne.
The master’s real interest in his friend’s work was shown by his chiding him with warmth for the state of his musical manuscripts which he insisted on looking through, and which he earnestly entreated him to prepare for publication.
The following note brought Liszt himself in answer, and the last adieux were said:—
Illustre Ami,—En partant, le courage de vous remercier de vive voix de votre hospitalité princière me fait défaut. Vos précieux conseils, inséparables compagnons de votre âme, inséparables souvenirs de lumièrede notre réunion après tant d’années d’épreuves, sont gage sincere d’amitié—gage et promesse en même temps! Ma chère femme, toute émue sous l’influence de votre génie si gracieux, me prie d’exprimer sa reconnaissance, et permettez–moi de souhaiter que l’Etre Suprême vous rende aussi heureux que possible; voila ce que désire ardemmentVotre dévoué admirateur et ami,F. LisztOle Bull.
Illustre Ami,—En partant, le courage de vous remercier de vive voix de votre hospitalité princière me fait défaut. Vos précieux conseils, inséparables compagnons de votre âme, inséparables souvenirs de lumièrede notre réunion après tant d’années d’épreuves, sont gage sincere d’amitié—gage et promesse en même temps! Ma chère femme, toute émue sous l’influence de votre génie si gracieux, me prie d’exprimer sa reconnaissance, et permettez–moi de souhaiter que l’Etre Suprême vous rende aussi heureux que possible; voila ce que désire ardemment
Votre dévoué admirateur et ami,
F. LisztOle Bull.
A month at the baths in Wiesbaden, where friends made the stay most pleasant, and a summer in the Norse home, followed. That summer home–coming was always a delight to Ole Bull.
The grand old mountains, weird and forbidding in the early spring storms but glorified by the Northern summer, called him, and he heard. The beloved Lysekloster valley, whose wooded slopes commanded the fjord, the sea, the islands, and the great range of the Hardanger; the road his childish steps had trod, winding its way down to the sea from the church of the old ancestral home, at every turn giving a picturesque glimpse of lake or cliff; the path shaded by birches and maples, and the fields fragrant with wood violets and lilies–of–the–valley; the cottagers at work, the red jackets of the women and caps of the men giving a dash of color here and there; the workers shouting their respectful “welcome back” as hehurries down to the boat waiting to carry him to his own enchanted isle,—this was the picture which lured him every spring, and when realized gave him the happiest moment of the year.
From his eighth year he had loved Lysekloster, and often said that he would choose that of all places in the world for his home. In 1872 the estate was divided on the death of the owner, and the mansion itself came into the possession of a friend and schoolmate of Ole Bull, who, at his suggestion, bought the island opposite and decided to make a new home for himself there, thus fulfilling his boyish dream. The island had hardly been explored or its rocky shores visited by those living on the main land. Its tall pines had grown and rocked in the winds alone; its sod, except in one little spot, had never been broken; its lakes mirrored only the stars and clouds. From the foundation of the cloister on the main land seven hundred years before, it had been noted only as furnishing some of the largest and finest trees in the neighborhood for building purposes; but fortunately it was still well wooded with pine.
A visitor would find Ole Bull while there interested chiefly in the subject of drainage, the care of trees, and the grading of roads and paths, which he had himself laid out; strewn with whitesea–shells they could be seen from a height circling the lakes and opening up the island in every direction.
The little steamer gliding into the fjord at breakfast time seldom failed to bring one or more guests from town. Old or young, they were taken on walks of exploration about the island, and even the oldest were sure to catch the enthusiasm of their host. If fretted by a guidance which did not spare them a short cut over rough ground, down ravines and along never–ending turns of paths, so confusing that it was impossible to return alone, they forgave him later, when in his music they learned what such a walk had been to him.
The autumn days were the days for study. The guests had then gone, and sometimes a week of storm would succeed the brightest sunshine, and dark nights suddenly replace the long twilight. The walks then were to the farthest points out towards the sea, where the ocean symphony sounded loudest; the paths must also be explored to protect them from the miniature waterfalls overleaping their proper channels, or to save tree or shrub from the flood which threatened its destruction; but the fiercest storms could not disturb the tranquil lakes guarded by the pine–clad cliffs which furnished a quiet retreat on thosewild walks. Then came the contrast of the cozy room brightly lighted, and the tempting delicacy, or, better still, the old–fashioned dish reserved for such times by the faithful Martha.[23]How he enjoyed it all! The music–room cheerful with wood–fires and candles, while the storm without promised seclusion, tempted him to do the best work, often far into the night. When the fire and candles had burned low, and the shadows seemed the intruding spirits of the storm, then the notes would be thrown aside, and that wonderful instrument, a soul in the hand of its master, would voice the tempest outside and the peace within. Never did the picture of him drawn by Longfellow in the “Tales of the Wayside Inn” seem more strikingly true than in that room and at that hour:—
Before the blazing fire of woodErect the rapt Musician stood;And ever and anon he bentHis head upon his instrument,And seemed to listen, till he caughtConfessions of its secret thought,—The joy, the triumph, the lament,The exultation and the pain;Then, by the magic of his artHe soothed the throbbings of its heartAnd lulled it into peace again.
Before the blazing fire of woodErect the rapt Musician stood;And ever and anon he bentHis head upon his instrument,And seemed to listen, till he caughtConfessions of its secret thought,—The joy, the triumph, the lament,The exultation and the pain;Then, by the magic of his artHe soothed the throbbings of its heartAnd lulled it into peace again.
The exquisite pictures of the artist which appear later in the poem, breathing the Northern tradition and spirit, follow naturally here:—
Last the Musician, as he stoodIllumined by that fire of wood;Fair–haired, blue–eyed, his aspect blithe,His figure tall and straight and lithe,And every feature of his faceRevealing his Norwegian race;A radiance, streaming from within,Around his eyes and forehead beamed;The angel with the violin,Painted by Raphael, he seemed.He lived in that ideal worldWhose language is not speech, but song;Around him evermore the throngOf elves and sprites their dances whirled;The Strömkarl sang, the cataract hurledIts headlong waters from the height;And mingled in the wild delightThe scream of sea–birds in their flight,The rumor of the forest trees,The plunge of the implacable seas,The tumult of the wind at night,Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing,Old ballads and wild melodiesThrough mist and darkness pouring forth,Like Elivagar’s river flowingOut of the glaciers of the North.The instrument on which he playedWas in Cremona’s workshops made,By a great master of the past,Ere yet was lost the art divine;Fashioned of maple and of pine,That in Tyrolian forests vastHad rocked and wrestled with the blast;Exquisite was it in design,Perfect in each minutest part,A marvel of the lutist’s art;And in its hollow chamber, thus,The maker from whose hands it cameHad written his unrivaled name,—“Antonius Stradivarius.”And when he played, the atmosphereWas filled with magic, and the earCaught echoes of that Harp of Gold,Whose music had so weird a sound,The hunted stag forgot to bound,The leaping rivulet backward rolled,The birds came down from bush and tree,The dead came from beneath the sea,The maiden to the harper’s knee!
Last the Musician, as he stoodIllumined by that fire of wood;Fair–haired, blue–eyed, his aspect blithe,His figure tall and straight and lithe,And every feature of his faceRevealing his Norwegian race;A radiance, streaming from within,Around his eyes and forehead beamed;The angel with the violin,Painted by Raphael, he seemed.He lived in that ideal worldWhose language is not speech, but song;Around him evermore the throngOf elves and sprites their dances whirled;The Strömkarl sang, the cataract hurledIts headlong waters from the height;And mingled in the wild delightThe scream of sea–birds in their flight,The rumor of the forest trees,The plunge of the implacable seas,The tumult of the wind at night,Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing,Old ballads and wild melodiesThrough mist and darkness pouring forth,Like Elivagar’s river flowingOut of the glaciers of the North.The instrument on which he playedWas in Cremona’s workshops made,By a great master of the past,Ere yet was lost the art divine;Fashioned of maple and of pine,That in Tyrolian forests vastHad rocked and wrestled with the blast;Exquisite was it in design,Perfect in each minutest part,A marvel of the lutist’s art;And in its hollow chamber, thus,The maker from whose hands it cameHad written his unrivaled name,—“Antonius Stradivarius.”
And when he played, the atmosphereWas filled with magic, and the earCaught echoes of that Harp of Gold,Whose music had so weird a sound,The hunted stag forgot to bound,The leaping rivulet backward rolled,The birds came down from bush and tree,The dead came from beneath the sea,The maiden to the harper’s knee!
The following is from Part Second, written in 1872:—
Meanwhile from out its ebon caseHis violin the minstrel drew,And, having tuned its strings anew,Now held it close in his embrace,And poising in his outstretched handThe bow, like a magician’s wand,He paused, and said, with beaming face:“Last night my story was too long;To–day I give you but a song,An old tradition of the North;But first, to put you in the mood,I will a little while prelude,And from this instrument draw forthSomething by way of overture.”He played; at first the tones were pureAnd tender as a summer night,The full moon climbing to her height,The sob and ripple of the seas,The flapping of an idle sail;And then by sudden and sharp degreesThe multiplied, wild harmoniesFreshened and burst into a gale;A tempest howling through the dark,A crash as of some shipwrecked bark,A loud and melancholy wail.Such was the prelude to the taleTold by the minstrel; and at timesHe paused amid its varying rhymes,And at each pause again broke inThe music of his violin,With tones of sweetness or of fear,Movements of trouble or of calmCreating their own atmosphere;As sitting in a church we hearBetween the verses of the psalmThe organ playing soft and clear,Or thundering on the startled ear.
Meanwhile from out its ebon caseHis violin the minstrel drew,And, having tuned its strings anew,Now held it close in his embrace,And poising in his outstretched handThe bow, like a magician’s wand,He paused, and said, with beaming face:“Last night my story was too long;To–day I give you but a song,An old tradition of the North;But first, to put you in the mood,I will a little while prelude,And from this instrument draw forthSomething by way of overture.”
He played; at first the tones were pureAnd tender as a summer night,The full moon climbing to her height,The sob and ripple of the seas,The flapping of an idle sail;And then by sudden and sharp degreesThe multiplied, wild harmoniesFreshened and burst into a gale;A tempest howling through the dark,A crash as of some shipwrecked bark,A loud and melancholy wail.
Such was the prelude to the taleTold by the minstrel; and at timesHe paused amid its varying rhymes,And at each pause again broke inThe music of his violin,With tones of sweetness or of fear,Movements of trouble or of calmCreating their own atmosphere;As sitting in a church we hearBetween the verses of the psalmThe organ playing soft and clear,Or thundering on the startled ear.
And again, in Part Third, is given this natural touch:—
The tall Musician walked the roomWith folded arms and gleaming eyes,As if he saw the Vikings rise,Gigantic shadows in the gloom;And much he talked of their emprise,And meteors seen in northern skies,And Heimdal’s horn and day of doom.Then in the silence that ensuedWas heard a sharp and sudden soundAs of a bowstring snapped in air;And the Musician with a boundSprang up in terror from his chair,And for a moment listening stood,Then strode across the room, and foundHis dear, his darling violinStill lying safe asleep withinIts little cradle, like a childThat gives a sudden cry of pain,And wakes to fall asleep again;And as he looked at it and smiled,By the uncertain light beguiled,Despair! two strings were broken in twain.
The tall Musician walked the roomWith folded arms and gleaming eyes,As if he saw the Vikings rise,Gigantic shadows in the gloom;And much he talked of their emprise,And meteors seen in northern skies,And Heimdal’s horn and day of doom.
Then in the silence that ensuedWas heard a sharp and sudden soundAs of a bowstring snapped in air;And the Musician with a boundSprang up in terror from his chair,And for a moment listening stood,Then strode across the room, and foundHis dear, his darling violinStill lying safe asleep withinIts little cradle, like a childThat gives a sudden cry of pain,And wakes to fall asleep again;And as he looked at it and smiled,By the uncertain light beguiled,Despair! two strings were broken in twain.
The future held for Ole Bull the rare fortune of being for one happy winter the neighbor of Mr. Longfellow.
Lingering as long as possible till there was but the shortest time to meet appointments, Ole Bull sailed from Norway in the fall of 1878 for the United States. So far as concerts were concerned, there is but the same story of a cordialreception by the public and a pleasant winter. A few brief extracts from the many notices in the journals will suffice. He played in the principal Northern cities only.
The BostonJournalsaid of him:—
Ole Bull seems not a day older than he did a score of years ago, and certainly he has not lost a whit of his wonderful command over the violin.
Ole Bull seems not a day older than he did a score of years ago, and certainly he has not lost a whit of his wonderful command over the violin.
The New YorkHeraldof December 15th said in a long article:—
Taken as a whole, the art of the great virtuoso is distinctive, original, and full of rugged strength. It may be truly said of him that he is the poet of the violin, especially when illustrating his own splendid compositions.
Taken as a whole, the art of the great virtuoso is distinctive, original, and full of rugged strength. It may be truly said of him that he is the poet of the violin, especially when illustrating his own splendid compositions.
And theTribuneremarked:—
His fervid nature and personal magnetism are as powerful as ever, and he sways the audience of to–day pretty much as he did their fathers and mothers, in spite of the fact that critical taste is not always satisfied with his methods.
His fervid nature and personal magnetism are as powerful as ever, and he sways the audience of to–day pretty much as he did their fathers and mothers, in spite of the fact that critical taste is not always satisfied with his methods.
The “Violin Notes,” now first published, were written out that season, during the holidays, and he was experimenting on and developing the chin–rest.
The following characteristic anecdotes were related by a Brooklyn gentleman who called on Mr.Colton to meet Ole Bull, and was shown to the door of the model work–shop. He writes:—
I knocked, at first hesitatingly, lest I might disturb the quiet that reigned within, broken only by the tones of Ole Bull’s violin. Taking advantage of a pause, I knocked again, this time to be admitted by Mr. Colton, who forthwith presented me to the violinist. All my fear and embarrassment as to my reception were at once expelled by the pleasant greeting. His countenance was lit up by that same genial smile so well known to us all.... He explained that Mr. Colton was at work upon his famous Gaspar da Salo, while he was practicing on his beautiful Nicholas Amati. He seemed in such capital spirits that I ventured to ply question upon question, and all were answered with a perfect grace and simplicity. On his asking whether I had attended his last concert at the Academy of Music in Brooklyn, I replied, regretting my own engagement to play at asoirée musicalethe same evening. “You play? What did you play at the soirée?” “‘L’Elegie’ by Ernst.” “What, do you play that? Here,” handing me his precious violin, “you shall play what I could not hear that night, and I will play for you what you could not hear.” With great caution and greater reluctance I took the fine Amati, and the studded diamonds seemed to laugh at me from the keys they adorned. I had not proceeded far when he suggested a different interpretation of one of the weird phrases of that composition. I yielded and tried to express his idea, but, failing completely, handed him the instrument, and witheagerness watched the movement and with better result. He then took the violin, straightened himself, and played the Paganini Concerto as I have never heard it played. He seemed completely lost to the surroundings. The very notes ring in my ears as I now think of that performance. Speaking of the German school of violinists, he objected to their heavy and coarse style of interpretation, saying, “The German plays his violin conveniently; that is, he would not play the larghetto inlaof Mozart on the D and A strings, but use the E for the A when convenient and A for D, and thus spoil the most beautiful of melodies.” When I asked who was his favorite composer, he quickly exclaimed: “Mozart, yes, Mozart, and more, he is the most difficult composer to interpret.” I remonstrating gently, saying that I thought his melodies were easily written, as stated by Mozart himself, and more easily understood than a Beethoven composition, he replied warmly, “Just so; because so easy and graceful, the more noticeable are the breaks of coarse interpreters, as, for instance, in their poor modulation in changing from one string to another.” I must confess, his illustration on the violin corroborated his theories. Referring to Paganini, he said that it was next to impossible to play any one of his compositions as he played them; and apropos of the silly stories circulated throughout Europe during Paganini’s time, they were simply the products of the conspiring minds of Lafont and his musical friends, who but too keenly felt the superiority of the dark Italian. “I shall never forget,” he continued,“how Habeneck, the musical director, told me of Paganini’s reception in Paris. When Paganini went to rehearsal for the first concert, he was received with great coolness by the orchestra who were to accompany him. The first violins especially showed their contempt for their rival by playing anensemble pizzicatomovement for the left hand, as much as to say, You are not the only man that can do that. But Paganini’s quiet remark, ‘Gentlemen, you do not play in tune; you had better practice scales before attempting that,’ so completely upset them that they made no further efforts to discommode him. One of the tympani, however, persisted in beating out of time, which so exasperated Paganini that he shouted, ‘Wait, I’ll come there and make you play right,’ and started towards him; whereupon the fellow beat a hasty retreat, to the amusement of all as well as of Paganini himself.”Ole Bull once admiring the ability with which Malibran read music at sight, she challenged him, saying, “You cannot play anything, be it ever so intricate, but I can sing it after once hearing.” Ole Bull played a caprice full of technical difficulties, but she sang it correctly; and, said he, “I cannot, even at this day, after forty–five or more years, understand how she did it.” He played it and I confess it was a labyrinth of musical phrases to me. And thus the afternoon glided away, telling one anecdote after another. One which I am about to relate will show the goodness of his heart:“I was announced to play at Hartford, Connecticut. Arriving late in the afternoon I hurried to a barber–shop. While I was getting shaved, the boot–black, a colored boy, rattled off some lively tunes on a fiddle. When I praised him he seemed pleased, saying, ‘Yes, Mister, I can beat any man in Hartford.’ Noticing how he worked and stretched to gain the high notes, I asked him if there were no other means of obtaining them. He gave me a look as much as to say, ‘What do you know about a fiddle any how?’ adding that there was no other way. I took his fiddle, and illustrated my suggestion by playing harmonics. The boy stood with open–mouthed wonder, and I, returning the instrument, left the shop. On reaching the street above, I could not refrain from looking down through the window. There he sat scratching his head and then the violin, the very picture of perplexity, trying to solve the mystery of harmonics. I sent him a ticket to my concert. After it was over I saw that negro boy standing in the aisle, battling with himself whether to come forward or not. I beckoned him, and with plaintive voice he said: ‘Mister, can’t you come down to the shop to–morrow to get shaved and show me those tricks? I feel powerful bad!’ I promised him I would, and I kept my word.”
I knocked, at first hesitatingly, lest I might disturb the quiet that reigned within, broken only by the tones of Ole Bull’s violin. Taking advantage of a pause, I knocked again, this time to be admitted by Mr. Colton, who forthwith presented me to the violinist. All my fear and embarrassment as to my reception were at once expelled by the pleasant greeting. His countenance was lit up by that same genial smile so well known to us all.... He explained that Mr. Colton was at work upon his famous Gaspar da Salo, while he was practicing on his beautiful Nicholas Amati. He seemed in such capital spirits that I ventured to ply question upon question, and all were answered with a perfect grace and simplicity. On his asking whether I had attended his last concert at the Academy of Music in Brooklyn, I replied, regretting my own engagement to play at asoirée musicalethe same evening. “You play? What did you play at the soirée?” “‘L’Elegie’ by Ernst.” “What, do you play that? Here,” handing me his precious violin, “you shall play what I could not hear that night, and I will play for you what you could not hear.” With great caution and greater reluctance I took the fine Amati, and the studded diamonds seemed to laugh at me from the keys they adorned. I had not proceeded far when he suggested a different interpretation of one of the weird phrases of that composition. I yielded and tried to express his idea, but, failing completely, handed him the instrument, and witheagerness watched the movement and with better result. He then took the violin, straightened himself, and played the Paganini Concerto as I have never heard it played. He seemed completely lost to the surroundings. The very notes ring in my ears as I now think of that performance. Speaking of the German school of violinists, he objected to their heavy and coarse style of interpretation, saying, “The German plays his violin conveniently; that is, he would not play the larghetto inlaof Mozart on the D and A strings, but use the E for the A when convenient and A for D, and thus spoil the most beautiful of melodies.” When I asked who was his favorite composer, he quickly exclaimed: “Mozart, yes, Mozart, and more, he is the most difficult composer to interpret.” I remonstrating gently, saying that I thought his melodies were easily written, as stated by Mozart himself, and more easily understood than a Beethoven composition, he replied warmly, “Just so; because so easy and graceful, the more noticeable are the breaks of coarse interpreters, as, for instance, in their poor modulation in changing from one string to another.” I must confess, his illustration on the violin corroborated his theories. Referring to Paganini, he said that it was next to impossible to play any one of his compositions as he played them; and apropos of the silly stories circulated throughout Europe during Paganini’s time, they were simply the products of the conspiring minds of Lafont and his musical friends, who but too keenly felt the superiority of the dark Italian. “I shall never forget,” he continued,“how Habeneck, the musical director, told me of Paganini’s reception in Paris. When Paganini went to rehearsal for the first concert, he was received with great coolness by the orchestra who were to accompany him. The first violins especially showed their contempt for their rival by playing anensemble pizzicatomovement for the left hand, as much as to say, You are not the only man that can do that. But Paganini’s quiet remark, ‘Gentlemen, you do not play in tune; you had better practice scales before attempting that,’ so completely upset them that they made no further efforts to discommode him. One of the tympani, however, persisted in beating out of time, which so exasperated Paganini that he shouted, ‘Wait, I’ll come there and make you play right,’ and started towards him; whereupon the fellow beat a hasty retreat, to the amusement of all as well as of Paganini himself.”
Ole Bull once admiring the ability with which Malibran read music at sight, she challenged him, saying, “You cannot play anything, be it ever so intricate, but I can sing it after once hearing.” Ole Bull played a caprice full of technical difficulties, but she sang it correctly; and, said he, “I cannot, even at this day, after forty–five or more years, understand how she did it.” He played it and I confess it was a labyrinth of musical phrases to me. And thus the afternoon glided away, telling one anecdote after another. One which I am about to relate will show the goodness of his heart:“I was announced to play at Hartford, Connecticut. Arriving late in the afternoon I hurried to a barber–shop. While I was getting shaved, the boot–black, a colored boy, rattled off some lively tunes on a fiddle. When I praised him he seemed pleased, saying, ‘Yes, Mister, I can beat any man in Hartford.’ Noticing how he worked and stretched to gain the high notes, I asked him if there were no other means of obtaining them. He gave me a look as much as to say, ‘What do you know about a fiddle any how?’ adding that there was no other way. I took his fiddle, and illustrated my suggestion by playing harmonics. The boy stood with open–mouthed wonder, and I, returning the instrument, left the shop. On reaching the street above, I could not refrain from looking down through the window. There he sat scratching his head and then the violin, the very picture of perplexity, trying to solve the mystery of harmonics. I sent him a ticket to my concert. After it was over I saw that negro boy standing in the aisle, battling with himself whether to come forward or not. I beckoned him, and with plaintive voice he said: ‘Mister, can’t you come down to the shop to–morrow to get shaved and show me those tricks? I feel powerful bad!’ I promised him I would, and I kept my word.”
The summer of 1879 was one of the happiest ever spent by the artist in Norway. One memorable day was when a party of friends went down to the little hamlet Lofthus in the Hardanger, to be immortalized, as Ole Bull told the peasants, because the composer Grieg had chosen to stay there for months and to write some of his best works. They had now come to celebrate his birthday. No spot could be more enchanting, so wonderfully blended were the beautiful and thesublime in nature. The little study of one room, erected by the composer for perfect retirement, was perched half way up a rock and near the fjord. In the field above, the apple–trees were in bloom about an old farm–house, where the guests assembled. From the summit of the beetling cliffs not far away fell a beautiful waterfall, while the opposite mountain shore of the broad fjord, clothed with heavy forests of pine above and the feathery birch below, presented range after range of lofty peaks and domes, crowned by the great Folgefond with its eternal snow. The day was as perfect as friendship, music, and lovely surroundings could make it.
King Oscar and the young prince made a visit to Bergen that summer, and Ole Bull was proud of the escort of steamers, the crowds of honest, sturdy peasant faces, the refined but hearty welcome, and the imposing pageant which Bergen presented in greeting their sovereign. While the artist was standing on a height overlooking the harbor, the procession and bands discovered his presence as they moved along to take their position and welcome the ship on its entrance to the harbor with the royal guests; and each division of the long line halted in front below, the bands playing and the men cheering Ole Bull. This instant recognition and spontaneous expression ofregard was so constantly given him by his countrymen that it deserves mention. He proudly said that day that not another city in Europe could furnish so royal an escort as the fleet of steamers selected from the shipping in the Bergen harbor. Certainly, none could have given a more beautiful or loyal welcome. On the king’s departure from Bergen, Ole Bull had, with the city authorities, the honor of accompanying their guests for one day along the coast. To the toast at dinner proposed by Ole Bull for the royal princes, in which, according to those present, he eloquently referred to the royal family and to the successive sovereigns whom he had personally known, the king responded by singing the three verses of Ole Bull’s “Saeterbesög.”
But only too soon came the time for departure from his home. On the last day and evening every part of the island was visited. It was in truth a farewell, and it now seems as if the last lingering looks rested with more than wonted tenderness on the spot he so loved; for it was the last time his foot pressed the soil, as on his next return he was borne in the arms of others to his home. His feeling for that scene is best expressed by himself. He once wrote:—
I have suffered so much,—no one knows how much, but He whose everlasting, superhuman love you haveto sustain you in everything noble and elevated.... How I am longing for Norway, for Lysö! If you only knew the beauty of the “Clostrûm vallis lucida,” as it was called in the year 1146, you would pine for it. I have never seen anything that attracts me so mysteriously; so grand, so sweet, so sad, so joyous! I cannot account for it. The atmosphere there has certainly a rare charm, and the woods, the ravines, and the lakes are so varied in expression; but the grand views from the mountains must be seen with caution, or they will overpower you; they make me feel thankful to God and weep in prayer for all enemies and friends.
I have suffered so much,—no one knows how much, but He whose everlasting, superhuman love you haveto sustain you in everything noble and elevated.... How I am longing for Norway, for Lysö! If you only knew the beauty of the “Clostrûm vallis lucida,” as it was called in the year 1146, you would pine for it. I have never seen anything that attracts me so mysteriously; so grand, so sweet, so sad, so joyous! I cannot account for it. The atmosphere there has certainly a rare charm, and the woods, the ravines, and the lakes are so varied in expression; but the grand views from the mountains must be seen with caution, or they will overpower you; they make me feel thankful to God and weep in prayer for all enemies and friends.
On his return to the United States in the fall of 1879 it was decided to spend the winter quietly with family friends, and a residence with them was taken in Cambridge, Mass. It is pleasant to dwell upon the charming intercourse that made the months pass so swiftly, and two occasions may be mentioned here. The first was the celebration of Ole Bull’s seventieth birthday, which has been so gracefully recalled by Mr. Appleton; and the other, which came soon after, was the seventy–third anniversary of Mr. Longfellow’s birth, when he invited the artist with a few friends to dine and spend the evening with him. The beautiful presence of the poet was a benediction to those about him; and this, the last evening Ole Bull was with him, Mr. Longfellow, as it is now pleasant to recall, seemed especially to enjoy.A friend of the poet, who was present, sent to the violinist just as he was to leave Cambridge this sonnet, which was written while his playing for Mr. Longfellow was still fresh in her memory:
TO OLE BULL.How full of music’s harmony and stateThy presence is, ere inspiration stirs!As on thy Norseland mountains tower the firs,Light with Norse glory when the hour is late;But as when through their branches penetrateThe winds, those gentle, mighty conquerors,Swelling their music all along the spurs,So breath of heaven thy form can agitate,Thy searching power can in a little spaceUndo the door where wordless thoughts are pent.Philosopher and poet, even theseExpression of their dimmest secrets trace,As if their soul were in thine instrument,Unprisoned slowly and by sweet degrees.Charlotte Fiske Bates.
How full of music’s harmony and stateThy presence is, ere inspiration stirs!As on thy Norseland mountains tower the firs,Light with Norse glory when the hour is late;But as when through their branches penetrateThe winds, those gentle, mighty conquerors,Swelling their music all along the spurs,So breath of heaven thy form can agitate,Thy searching power can in a little spaceUndo the door where wordless thoughts are pent.Philosopher and poet, even theseExpression of their dimmest secrets trace,As if their soul were in thine instrument,Unprisoned slowly and by sweet degrees.
Charlotte Fiske Bates.
Among the valued letters written in answer to the birthday summons was this pleasant response from Mr. Whittier:—
Oakknoll, Danvers,2ndMo. 1, 1880.Dear Mrs. Bull,—I am extremely sorry that the state of my health will not permit me the great pleasure of calling on thee and thy gifted husband on the occasion of his seventieth birthday. I have a happy memory of meeting him some years ago and talking withhim of his wonderful art. While it is a matter of regret to me that I know little of music, and can scarcely distinguish one tone from another, I am not insensible of “the concord of sweet sounds,” and I know something of the delight of those who “carry music in their hearts.” I would be glad to join with those who are able to testify in person their high regard for the great musician, who, as one of the rare interpreters of poetry and harmony, has made the world his debtor; and who brings to us from his native land its voices and melodies, the lapsing waves of its fjords, the storm–song of the wind, the rustic of the birch groves, the murmur of its pines and the laugh of children, and the low of cattle and song of milk–maids on its summer mountains.Give him the best wishes of one who is two years his senior that, to use an Irish phrase, the years to come may only bring “more power to his elbows” and make him happy in making others happy.Very truly thy friend,John G. Whittier.
Oakknoll, Danvers,2ndMo. 1, 1880.
Dear Mrs. Bull,—I am extremely sorry that the state of my health will not permit me the great pleasure of calling on thee and thy gifted husband on the occasion of his seventieth birthday. I have a happy memory of meeting him some years ago and talking withhim of his wonderful art. While it is a matter of regret to me that I know little of music, and can scarcely distinguish one tone from another, I am not insensible of “the concord of sweet sounds,” and I know something of the delight of those who “carry music in their hearts.” I would be glad to join with those who are able to testify in person their high regard for the great musician, who, as one of the rare interpreters of poetry and harmony, has made the world his debtor; and who brings to us from his native land its voices and melodies, the lapsing waves of its fjords, the storm–song of the wind, the rustic of the birch groves, the murmur of its pines and the laugh of children, and the low of cattle and song of milk–maids on its summer mountains.
Give him the best wishes of one who is two years his senior that, to use an Irish phrase, the years to come may only bring “more power to his elbows” and make him happy in making others happy.
Very truly thy friend,John G. Whittier.
Mr. Thomas G. Appleton’s account of the birthday gathering is as follows:—
OLE BULL’S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY.The date, February 5, 1880, is a very memorable one to many of us, for in some sense then we heard the swan–song of the great Norwegian.It was one of those impromptufêteswhich, when successful, snatch a grace beyond the reach of art. Such occasions have the freshness of a rose suddenly plucked, with the dew and the bloom which disappear if kept waiting too long. It was the seventieth birthday ofMr. Ole Bull, and soon after he left us for his native land, never to return.There was a little domestic conspiracy shared in somewhat by outside friends to make thisfêtea pleasant surprise to the object of it. The nearest intimates of Mr. Ole Bull were summoned secretly and in time to prepare their tributes of respect and affection, and the scene of this gathering had memories of its own, suitable, harmonious, and poetic. For Mr. Bull was then living at Elmwood, the home of our present ambassador to London, Mr. J. R. Lowell. In his drawing–room, where pictures of J. R. Stillman, Christopher Cranch, and other friends hung upon the paneled walls, there was an aroma of scholarship, of wit and fancy, in keeping with the old mansion, which shares with the residence of Mr. Longfellow an old–time dignity, a colonial pomp, as if to emphasize the genius of the poets with the added charm of antiquity. Communicating with the drawing–room is Mr. Lowell’s study. It was those study–windows which gave the title of one of his pleasantest books, and there indignation sharpened the shaft of satire which made the humor of the “Biglow Papers” a national event.One by one in the fading twilight the friendly conspirators arrived. Mr. Bull was detained by unsuspected constraint in a neighboring family till the suitable moment for his appearance arrived. He could hardly have forgotten the date of so important an anniversary, yet in the fine simplicity of his nature one could see how unconscious he was of the delightful plot in which he was involved. When it broke upon himlittle by little it was beautiful to witness the mild surprise, the questioning astonishment, displaced by an affectionate ardor and cordial recognition of its significance. As the world knows, there is something fascinating, individual, and characteristic in the countenance of the great artist. Geniuses often, while most individual themselves, are yet the highest expression of national characteristics. Mr. Bull looked the mystic land to which he owes his birth. Seeing him, one better understood the Sagas which tell of the heroes who launched, a thousand years ago, their galleys over stormy seas to conquest. His smile, so sweet and genuine, lingered round his mouth, as the sunshine sweetens the northern valleys, while fancy could think it saw in his streaming locks of silver the icy crests above or the flickering of the pale aurora of the North. Among the presents of this birthday was a violin wholly composed of flowers, their harmonies, though silent, suggesting in a fresh way the melodies which lingered in the memory of all. A disk, also of flowers, displayed at its centre the word “skaal,” the proper word for the occasion. There were aquarelles and heaped–up baskets of flowers, and whatever suitable gift individual love prompted to bring. When the artist had received our salutes and hand–shakings, and smiles had warmed all with a common purpose, Ole Bull felt that he had but one thing to do, to reply to the spoken and silent messages of good–will in the language he loved best,—the one best suited to the occasion. And, standing in our midst, his snowy locks falling forward across his bent and sympathetic face, he bade his violin speak forhim. He played with his whole heart an answer, a swan–song of melody, on which, as upon a great river, we were carried away into dreamland, into the Valhalla and the halls of Odin. His skill, the vigor and power of his bow arm, belied the seventy years they celebrated. Time had left as iron that wonderful right arm which never could grow old. A distinguished artist answered the violin with a voice into which was gathered the responsive cordial enthusiasm of all, and with these two musical expressions Mr. Ole Bull’sfêtewas accomplished. Supper and the tumult of chat, laughter, and content took off pleasantly the acute edge of excitement. Then later we were summoned away from the piano to the drawing–room, where a huge cake in frosted sugar displayed the name and age of the great artist. Amid much merriment it was cut and shared, each one eagerly hunting for the symbolic tiny golden violin, somewhere hid in its capacious flanks. When the little treasure was discovered it was found to have most suitably fallen to one of the oldest and dearest of friends, who was, perhaps, the nearest neighbor of them all in Cambridge. After the cake had been divided and the golden violin discovered, a venerable bottle of Tokay was produced, which Professor Horsford had brought home from his Austrian sojourn: this liqueur–like wine having been distributed in little glasses, Mr. Longfellow proposed the health and happiness of Ole Bull, which was drunk in a silence meaning more than words.Thus ended a happy evening, a memorable birthday, sacred now as the last communion of love and music, between the poet of the North and that throng whichcould have been multiplied a hundred times over if all those who have held in dear regard the great artist could have found admittance to that little room.
OLE BULL’S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY.
The date, February 5, 1880, is a very memorable one to many of us, for in some sense then we heard the swan–song of the great Norwegian.
It was one of those impromptufêteswhich, when successful, snatch a grace beyond the reach of art. Such occasions have the freshness of a rose suddenly plucked, with the dew and the bloom which disappear if kept waiting too long. It was the seventieth birthday ofMr. Ole Bull, and soon after he left us for his native land, never to return.
There was a little domestic conspiracy shared in somewhat by outside friends to make thisfêtea pleasant surprise to the object of it. The nearest intimates of Mr. Ole Bull were summoned secretly and in time to prepare their tributes of respect and affection, and the scene of this gathering had memories of its own, suitable, harmonious, and poetic. For Mr. Bull was then living at Elmwood, the home of our present ambassador to London, Mr. J. R. Lowell. In his drawing–room, where pictures of J. R. Stillman, Christopher Cranch, and other friends hung upon the paneled walls, there was an aroma of scholarship, of wit and fancy, in keeping with the old mansion, which shares with the residence of Mr. Longfellow an old–time dignity, a colonial pomp, as if to emphasize the genius of the poets with the added charm of antiquity. Communicating with the drawing–room is Mr. Lowell’s study. It was those study–windows which gave the title of one of his pleasantest books, and there indignation sharpened the shaft of satire which made the humor of the “Biglow Papers” a national event.
One by one in the fading twilight the friendly conspirators arrived. Mr. Bull was detained by unsuspected constraint in a neighboring family till the suitable moment for his appearance arrived. He could hardly have forgotten the date of so important an anniversary, yet in the fine simplicity of his nature one could see how unconscious he was of the delightful plot in which he was involved. When it broke upon himlittle by little it was beautiful to witness the mild surprise, the questioning astonishment, displaced by an affectionate ardor and cordial recognition of its significance. As the world knows, there is something fascinating, individual, and characteristic in the countenance of the great artist. Geniuses often, while most individual themselves, are yet the highest expression of national characteristics. Mr. Bull looked the mystic land to which he owes his birth. Seeing him, one better understood the Sagas which tell of the heroes who launched, a thousand years ago, their galleys over stormy seas to conquest. His smile, so sweet and genuine, lingered round his mouth, as the sunshine sweetens the northern valleys, while fancy could think it saw in his streaming locks of silver the icy crests above or the flickering of the pale aurora of the North. Among the presents of this birthday was a violin wholly composed of flowers, their harmonies, though silent, suggesting in a fresh way the melodies which lingered in the memory of all. A disk, also of flowers, displayed at its centre the word “skaal,” the proper word for the occasion. There were aquarelles and heaped–up baskets of flowers, and whatever suitable gift individual love prompted to bring. When the artist had received our salutes and hand–shakings, and smiles had warmed all with a common purpose, Ole Bull felt that he had but one thing to do, to reply to the spoken and silent messages of good–will in the language he loved best,—the one best suited to the occasion. And, standing in our midst, his snowy locks falling forward across his bent and sympathetic face, he bade his violin speak forhim. He played with his whole heart an answer, a swan–song of melody, on which, as upon a great river, we were carried away into dreamland, into the Valhalla and the halls of Odin. His skill, the vigor and power of his bow arm, belied the seventy years they celebrated. Time had left as iron that wonderful right arm which never could grow old. A distinguished artist answered the violin with a voice into which was gathered the responsive cordial enthusiasm of all, and with these two musical expressions Mr. Ole Bull’sfêtewas accomplished. Supper and the tumult of chat, laughter, and content took off pleasantly the acute edge of excitement. Then later we were summoned away from the piano to the drawing–room, where a huge cake in frosted sugar displayed the name and age of the great artist. Amid much merriment it was cut and shared, each one eagerly hunting for the symbolic tiny golden violin, somewhere hid in its capacious flanks. When the little treasure was discovered it was found to have most suitably fallen to one of the oldest and dearest of friends, who was, perhaps, the nearest neighbor of them all in Cambridge. After the cake had been divided and the golden violin discovered, a venerable bottle of Tokay was produced, which Professor Horsford had brought home from his Austrian sojourn: this liqueur–like wine having been distributed in little glasses, Mr. Longfellow proposed the health and happiness of Ole Bull, which was drunk in a silence meaning more than words.
Thus ended a happy evening, a memorable birthday, sacred now as the last communion of love and music, between the poet of the North and that throng whichcould have been multiplied a hundred times over if all those who have held in dear regard the great artist could have found admittance to that little room.
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 theHeraldFund 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’ restwould 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:—