The Violin

The date of the event was the 27th May, 1840 – and the age of the deceased, fifty-six. The great Artist left considerable wealth, together with the title of Baron (conferred on him in Germany) to his only son, Achilles, the offspring of a union with a certain vocalist, named Antonia Bianchi – a union which, not having been secured and sanctioned by the church’s testimony, was soon severed by the lady’s temper.

The life of Paganini had been a “fitful fever” – and the desire to “sleep well” may indeed be conceived to have been as an abiding thirst within him. Even his cold remains, however, were not permitted, by jealous and jaundiced authority, to repose undisturbed. Slander had been furtively busy with his name – he had died without the stamp conferred by official religious ministrations – his Catholicity was dubious – his mortal relics could not (so decided the Bishop of Nice) be committed to consecrated ground. In vain did his son, his friends, and the chief professors of art in that city, make solicitation of leave for a solemn service to be performed in behalf of his eternal repose, under the plea that, like many another victim of consumption, he had not supposed his death to be imminent, and had departed this life suddenly; – the leave was refused; and all that could be obtained, was the offer of an authentic declaration of demise, with license to transport the corpse whithersoever it might be wished. This was declined – and the affair was brought before a public tribunal, which gave verdict in favour of the Bishop. Appeal was then had to Rome, where the Bishop’s decision was cancelled, and the Archbishop of Turin was charged, conjointly with two Canons of the Cathedral at Genoa, to make enquiry into Paganini’s Catholicity. During all this time, the corpse had remained in a room at the Hospital at Nice. It was then transferred, by sea, from the lazaretto of Villa Franca, near that city, to a country-seat in the neighbourhood of Genoa. There, a report soon got into circulation, of strange and lamentable sounds being heard by night. To arrest these popular impressions, the young Baron Paganini undertook the cost of a solemn service to the memory of his father, which was celebrated in one of the churches at Parma. After this expenditure, the friends of the deceased had permission from the Bishop of Parma to bring the corpse within that Duchy – to transfer it to the Villa Gajona– and to inter it near the village church: – and this funeral homage was at length rendered to the remains of the man of celebrity, in May 1845, but without any display, in conformity with orders from the government.

The sum bequeathed by Paganini to his son (for whom a documentary legitimacy had been procured) amounted to two millions of francs (about £80,000), charged with legacies of fifty, and sixty thousand francs, respectively, to his two sisters, and with an annual pittance of 1200 francs to the mother of his loved Achilles. He left also some valuable instruments, including an incomparable Straduarius, a charming Guarnerius, of the small pattern, an excellent Amati, a bass of Straduarius, agreeing with the violin by the same maker, and his large and favourite Guarnerius. This latter, the sole instrument associated entirely with his travels, he bequeathed to the city of Genoa, being unwilling that any other artist should possess it after him.

Some further particulars, to illustrate chiefly the habits of the man, may not be deemed superfluous.

Paganini’s existence was a series of alternations betwixt excitement and exhaustion; and it is not surprising to find that his moods of mind were variable and uneven, and that he would sometimes sit, for hours together, in a sealed and sombre taciturnity, whilst, at other times, he would surrender himself to a wild effervescence of gaiety, – without any apparent motive in either case. Most commonly silentious, he was talkative when travelling. The weak state of his health made him averse from loud conversation; and yet, when the rattle of the wheels over the pavement became deafening, he would talk loud and fast. To the scenic charms out-spread before his eyes, he was insensible – his urgent impulse being to move rapidly, and to reach his journey’s end. In his later years, a low bodily temperature was habitual to him, insomuch that he would wrap a furred pelisse around him, in summer-time, and huddle himself up in a corner of his carriage, with every window closed. In-doors, on the contrary, he would have all the windows open, and called it taking an air-bath! He anathematized the climates of Germany and France, but, above all, that of England; and declared that Italy was the only country to live in. The intensity of his internal sufferings transmuted, at times, his ordinary pallor into a livid, or even a greenish hue; but his recourse was to quackery – to one empirical remedy, in which he had faith, and not to doctors, in whom he had none. Before commencing a day’s journey, he took no tea, nor coffee, but either soup or a cup of chocolate. If it were early in the morning, he would start without taking anything, and sometimes continue fasting the greater part of the day. For the encumbrances of baggage, he had almost the contempt of a Napier. A small shabby box, in which he placed his beloved Guarnerius instrument, his jewels, money, and meagre stock of linen, – a carpet bag – and a hat-box – these were his accompaniments, and were all stowed inside the vehicle. Careless of all that goes by the name of comfortable, he was also very little solicitous about his toilet. His wardrobe might have gone into a napkin. As for his papers, they were thrust into a small red portfolio, in “most admired disorder,” such as himself alone could penetrate for any immediate purpose. Arithmetician he was not, in the ordinary sense – but he managed his business calculations in a way of his own, that answered all his need. To the style of his accommodations on the road, he was quite indifferent, provided only that his rooms were quiet. At the day’s end, a light supper, or (sometimes) a cup of camomile tea, sufficed him.

In his own quarters, Paganini maintained usually the strictest solitude, and seemed always to quit his room with regret. His violin, as silent as himself, was not touched, save when he tuned it for a concert, or a rehearsal. He had worked enough– his labours had long before carried him to the summit; – his want, his craving want, was repose. There is a floating story about his having been dodged and watched for six months, from one halting-place to another, by an enthusiastic English amateur, who hoped to “pluck out the heart of his mystery,” to grasp the secret of his studies, by lodging at the same hotels, and occupying (whenever possible), a contiguous chamber. Vain expectation! a profound silence always enveloped the great Professor. At length, however, the crisis of discovery seemed imminent. Paganini was seen (through a key-hole) to seat himself on a couch – to take the incomparable fiddle from its case – to raise it to his left shoulder! Still, the silence was unbroken – not the whisper of a note could be distinguished! Paganini, absorbed doubtless in the composition of some new piece, only shifted his left hand about, upon the neck of the instrument, to study his positions, without the help of the bow – and then restored the un-awakened fiddle to its resting-place. The Englishman (says the story) renounced his hapless pursuit, and returned home in despair!

Enchained to music and its toils, from his earliest youth, Paganini had acquired very little general knowledge. Books were strange things to him and history and science, almost nullities. Political events had no interest for him: he looked at the newspapers merely for what personally concerned him. His mind was much engaged with his own projects for the future – such as forming a Musical Conservatory in Italy, publishing his compositions, writing operas, and ceasing to travel. He had a Byronic mistrust of friends, and proneness to regard them as secret plotters against his peace. As for visitors (by whom he was sometimes besieged), as many as he was not constrained to see, were passed over to his Secretary. To those Artists who sought his converse, that they might enucleate his professional secrets, he listened patiently – but maintained his reserve. Invitations to dine or sup, which at every large town came in a shower upon him, were sparingly and reluctantly accepted. On rising from the table, if he could escape unperceived, he would immediately retire, to take repose. He was more lively before than after dinner – an ill compliment, perhaps, to his host, but no bad way of signifying the real sacrifice he had made, in accepting his invitation. In evening society, he was cheerful, in the absence of music; but, if that were started, either in practice, or as a conversational topic, his good humour instantly vanished; – nor is this at all wonderful, when we remember that his public life was one enormous compound of music, and that to forget that art, when in his more private moments, must have been to him as a want and a refuge. His eyes, weakened by the glare of stage lamps, had an owl-like propensity to shun the light, as was manifest in his custom of turning his back to the chandeliers &c. in evening society, and sitting in total darkness at home. He had a faculty, like that of George the Third, for unfailing recollection of the persons and names of those who had been once presented to him; and yet (strange to say) the names of the towns, wherein he gave his concerts, would slip from his memory, as soon as he had quitted them.

On the mornings of his concert-days, he allowed himself a liberal time for quiet – lounging at ease upon a sofa, as if conscious that composure is the cradle of strength – and then he would start up, full of decision for business. Amid the ensuing preparations, he took a good deal of snuff – the sure sign of his being earnestly engaged. At rehearsal, he was careful to exclude strangers. If they found their way in, however, he touched his solo passages almost inaudibly, or indicated them by a slight pizzicato. With the orchestra, he was rigorous in the extreme – exacting the minutest attention to every point. When he came to some special passage of display, in expectation of which, the members of the band were on their legs, all eagerness to catch what was coming, he would sometimes carelessly throw off a few notes only, and then turn towards them with a smile, and the words, Et cœtera, Messieurs! It was for the evening – for the public – that he reserved all the wonders of his talent. He always took away with him the various orchestral parts, which he would entrust to no one else. As for the principal part, it was never seen, as he played from memory, and sought to prevent the copying of his compositions. He had a way – the caprice of conscious power – of keeping the public a long time waiting, before he would show him self, and begin to play. His departure from a concert-room was the picture of a triumph. The curious and the enthusiastic formed a dense lane, extending to his carriage, and welcomed him with transports of admiration. At his hotel, a similar assemblage awaited him with their acclamations. Elate with such marks of general favour, he would then join the table-d’hôte, not without an appetite for supper, though, perhaps, depression and indigestion might constitute the experience of the following day.

Such, then, as artist and as man, was Nicholas Paganini – whom let none envy, nor deem that a world-wide fame was well acquired by the sacrifices he made for its attainment – sacrifices involving, almost of necessity, much oblivion of the higher purposes of life, along with the forfeiture of some of its best comforts. Measuring the toils and sufferings of his career against its triumphs, surely we may say, “le jeu ne valait pas la chandelle!” – the precious flame of life was too dearly expended on a perfection that allowed nothing else to be perfected!” For a fitting wreath to the memory of Paganini, the cypress should bear equal part with the laurel; since pity and admiration can hardly be dissevered, in our thoughts of him. The consummation of the artist was the spoiling of the man. To render himself, in so absolute a sense, the master of his instrument, it was essential to become, what he emphatically was – its slave. Bodily health, and moral vigour, withered alike under a dedication to one object of ambitious study, so early sighed for, and with such prolonged severity pursued. That the success, however, (be its relative worth what it may) was complete– that the bold and wild adventurer reached the highest attainable summit in those regions of art that he explored and illustrated – is a point which seems hardly capable of rational dispute. Allowing some of his eccentricities to weigh against him as defects, there will yet remain sufficient ground for regarding him, on the whole, as the greatest of all violinists, past or present; nor would he be the most hardy of prognosticators, who should venture to assign him the like pre-eminence over all future individuals of his calling; – for how can we anticipate another such happy union of the inventive with the executive power – another case in which there shall be so strange a concurrence in the various requisites of pre-disposing organization,43 inflexible will, and co-operating circumstance? The same causes, however, which have placed him so far above the level of the crowd of instrumentalists, would seem to deny to him the production of any permanent or important impression on the general state of his Art. He could hardly have been followed by others, even if he had undertaken to be their teacher, and to “ungird his strangeness” to their toiling apprehensions, disclosing to them the most subtle principles of what he himself delighted to call la filosofia del violino. His means would still have been above their means, and the end would never be reached. Thus, although the greatest of artists, he must be reckoned, as a director and propagator of his art, far less considerable than Viotti of the modern school, Corelli of the old, or even others less distinguished than these two men of fame. “In considering the discoveries of Paganini,” said once an able French critic, “as regards their application to the progress of the art, and of genuine music, I think that their influence will be very limited, and that what arises out of them is only good in his hands; for, indifferently executed, it would be insupportable. The art of Paganini stands alone: it was born and it will die with him.” It is true that we have had subsequent experience, in various instances, of a certain degree of approximation to the feats of Paganini; but, were this even closer than it is, it would not invalidate what has been here suggested as to the almost incommunicable nature of such skill as his.

Potent to stir the vibratory string,And wonders from the realms of sound to bring!Skilled, through the ear, to reach the awakened heart,Or bid the Fancy play her picturing part!Conqu’ror, whose captives, gladdened with soft strains,Clung to thy sway, and revelled in their chains,And came in crowds, their homage to renew,And heaped the tribute still, as still thy due!How void the space that thou were wont to fill!Thy throne, how vacant, now – and mute thy skill!Hast thou – hast found, far, far from earthly din,The rest thy glittering triumphs could not win?– Farewell! –  What chief soe’er may seek to reign,Thy like we shall not look upon again!

The compositions of Paganini, replete as they are with the most surprising difficulties, and the boldest in novations, form prominent examples of what may be called the romance of instrumental music. The design entertained by their author, of giving them to the world in his own life-time, as well as of imparting the secret that should make their execution seem no longer super-human, was destined to have no fulfilment; and it is to be regretted that his death rendered impossible the complete publication of all that he had composed, as not a few of the manuscript pieces were left by him in an imperfect state. Of twenty-four several pieces, enumerated as forming the whole of the MS. original works of Paganini, preserved by his son, nine only were discovered to be in a completed state. An edition of all that is presentable, however, has been undertaken in Paris, to gratify at length a twenty-years expectation but it is very doubtful whether a London edition will be ventured on, since it is only for the higher class of professors – for a very select minority – that such a collection can have any attractiveness, beyond that of mere curiosity.

Monsieur Fétis, in his literary notice, written to accompany the Collection just referred to, has given some able critical remarks on the compositions in detail. His pamphlet may be consulted with advantage by the enquiring reader. Alluding to the compositions in their general character, M. Fétis observes that great merit is displayed in them – novelty as to the ideas, elegance as to the forms, richness of harmony, and variety in the effects of instrumentation. These qualities (he adds) shine out particularly in the Concertos, however much they may differ from the classic type of those of Viotti, which, with all their charming sentiment, left something yet to be desired, on the score of variety, in the more rapid passages.

In his own compositions (which he always played with more satisfaction to himself than those of any other master) the mind of the great artist was highly developed; but to execute his peculiar intentions, in all their complexity, he needed the beautiful, exemplary, unfailing accuracy of intonation, that so distinguished him. How nicely exact, in the softest passages, his double notes! With what marvellous certainty did his bow pitch down upon the strings, no matter what the relative distance of the intervals! His hand (says M. Fétis) was a geometrical compass, that divided, with mathematical exactness, the neck of the violin – and his fingers always came plump upon the very point at which the intonations of his double-note intervals were to be obtained.

As some sort of antidote to positive despair, I will conclude this chapter with a passage in which, despite their thorny intricacies, the above-named writer recommends the practical study of Paganini’s Works: —

“It will perhaps be asked, what can be the advantage of introducing fresh difficulties into Art! In Music, it will be reasonably contended, the object is not to astonish, by the conquest of difficulties, but to charm, by means of sentiment. Against this principle, I would be the last to declaim; but I would observe, first, that there is no preventing those cases of exception, in which certain artists will seek the triumphs of their talent in extreme perils of execution, which, if successful, the public will as surely applaud; – and, secondly, that the study of what is most arduous, leads to certainty in what is more simple. A violinist who should attain the power of playing the Concertos of Paganini, with truth of tune, and in perfect proportion, would possess, à fortiori, an undeviating accuracy in ordinary music.

”

CHAPTER IV

THE FRENCH SCHOOL

… furnished out with arts. —

Dryden.

Next in importance to the Italian School of Violinists, that of France now offers its claims to our notice. If the palm, indeed, were to be awarded according to the comparative merits of the living (or recently living) Masters of each School, it must be given in favour of France; for, though we might admit the Italian Paganini to have been “facile princeps,” the greatest of all performers – and though we might overlook the consideration of his belonging, in fact, to no class or acknowledged system whatever – he is, still, but one man of might, – a Goliah, without an army to back him, since his qualified countrymen, in modern days, are few – whereas the French have a redoubtable band of champions, present or recent, whose united force is able to defy living competition. It is in the aggregate of the past with the present, however, that the Italians are found to predominate. The probable originators of the art of violin-playing (in so far, at all events, as it was worthy to be called such), they have been likewise its steady and decisive improvers in every department, from the days of Corelli to those of Viotti, a space of about a century; – while the excellence of the French is of more modern growth, and, it should be remarked, of more limited character. Brilliancy of style, neatness and finish of execution, are their distinguishing traits. They are a gay and a polished nation – they are gay and polished fiddlers. They animate you in the vivace, they dazzle you in the allegro brillante– but they commonly fail to reach your heart through the adagio appassionato. Their violinists have all the skill that is independent of deep feeling. In expression, they fall short of what is required: they catch its lesser graces, but they seem rarely to attain its higher powers. The violin, considered more particularly as the fiddle, is an instrument too congenial to the temperament of the French, to have escaped their especial notice and close cultivation. To all that is mercurial in their tendencies, as well as to much that is artificial in their habits, it lends itself with the utmost readiness: it is the best instrument to dance to; it is the best instrument to protect from ennui your sitters at a theatre: it sharpens the pungency of an air de vaudeville; it sets off the ceremonial of a ballet. In this sense, the French have “marked it for their own,” and achieved wonders with it. Out of this sphere – this lower empire – their power has been less considerable. It must be confessed, however, that this limitation applies with greater force and distinctness to the time preceding their great Revolution, than to later days. That mighty event, which stirred up the depths of the national mind, and opened the channels of thought in every direction, could not but exert some degree of influence, even on those arts that have least connection with the ordinary business of men. The French taste in music – formalistic, ungenial, and anti-catholic as it was – has undergone some change for the better, through the convulsions sions that have overthrown Kings, and scattered Courts. It still retains, albeit, much of its old, hard idiosyncrasy. French music is still, for the most part, “caviare to the general.” It lacks cosmopolitan character. To ensure it a full and hearty welcome, it needs a French education. If these observations be just, it follows that our lively neighbours, in dealing with stringed instruments, as well as with others, would not attain first-rate success in the way of composition for them – and such has been (I submit) the fact. Their real forte lies in exposition– in giving outward manifestation and effect to the ideas of others.

It is the remark of one of their own countrymen (the able Mons. Choron), that the principal merit of the French School of Music, taken altogether, lies in the various branches of execution. And, with reference always to this quality, execution, he adds, “the style in which the French have real and undisputed merit, and indeed, in many respects, have a marked superiority, is the instrumental in general, and especially that of the violin. On this point, the French have always had great pretensions, and often founded in justice.” After alluding to the alleged excellence of early French violinists, and, in particular, of the twenty-four petits violons of Louis XIV, formed by Lully, M. Choron has the candour to acknowledge that he knows not how to reconcile this with the following statement, given by Corette (a furious partisan, by the way, of the French School of Music), in the Preface to his Méthode d’Accompagnement, published at Paris about 1750. – “At the commencement of this century,” says that author, “music was very dull and slow, &c… When Corelli’s Sonatas were first brought from Rome (about 1715), nobody in Paris could play them. The Duke of Orleans, then Regent, being a great amateur of music, and wishing to hear them, was obliged to have them sung by three voices. The violinists then began to study them, and, at the expiration of some years, three were found who could play them. Baptiste, one of these, went to Rome to study them under Corelli himself.” – Having quoted this embarrassing passage, M. Choron thus continues: – “Be this as it may; since that period, instrumental music has been studied with ardour by the French, and they have made astonishing progress in it. France has now an excellent school for the violin, founded upon that of Italy.”