NOTE. (continued 4)

Let me be permitted, before I leave Thorgeir Andunson, to add a few words about the popular music of Norway, which, the dance music included, is most intimately connected with the old ballads, often instead of instrumental music accompanying the dance, and of a peculiarly sweet, romantic character. There are myriads of these ballads, but I will select only a few. A girl meets the elf–king, who sings so enchantingly to her that she follows him to the mountain, which opens itself and closes again when they have entered. The girl’s father, hearing in the forest his daughter’s plaintive call for help, hastens to the spot. If the church bell be rung by the mountain until sunset, the elf–folks must give up their prey; so the bell is taken down from the steeple, and, with the assistance of all the village, brought to the mountain and set in motion. Already is the sun near setting, when the rope breaks, and the girl has disappeared forever. Now, at the risk of being taxed with exaggeration, I assert that through this music is heard, or felt, the demoniac power of the elf–folks; at the same time there is a wail for the loss of the girl, as if all the tender, sweet attraction of love between man and woman, all the delicacy, yearning, and devotion which man can feel, were challenged by the outrage committed on the girl.

An old Odelsbonde, renowned for his strength, would only marry his daughter to a lad who could overcome him in wrestling; a handsome youth, whose daring and love are stronger than his awe of the mighty Odelsbonde, comes to woo and wrestle. With incomparable, simple, patriarchal grace the Odelsbonde arises from his Höisæde (chair of honor), and, waving his hand, bids the wooer welcome; after which, descending the steps into the middle of the hall, he calmly begins the wrestling match. By degrees the combat becomes animated, and the wrestlers hot and passionate, each adversary forgetting in the struggle the object of it—the trembling girl; at last the old giant, lifting the youth up above his head, flings him down at his feet, a corpse. The music, which has marvelously expressed the incidents of the story throughout, here stops short with a wail of terror and compassion; and I assure you at the last note your brow will be moist, and if not ashamed of your weakness you will admit that you tremble with emotion. [I allude not to the old song only, but to Ole Bull’s composition.]

Lastly, I will give only a short legend. A lad, a violin player, unable to conquer the instrument and elicit from it what he had on his heart, held its apertures to the mouth of his dying mother, and from that time people, when he played, stood spell–bound, listening with heart and soul to tones not of this world. When Ole Bull went forth to the world, his mother, old Norway, had breathed into his violin, but not her last breath; the spell that bound his listeners had in it something healthy and cheerful joined with its magic power.

From the outside districts Ole Bull brought peasants to perform the national dances in his theatre. Thus the first winter passed, and the summer was spent in preparing with all possible energy for the next season; the actors and musicians worked con amore, and success rewarded them; the theatre could now stand on its own merits. After the enterprise had progressed so far, Ole Bull asked of the Storthing, in 1851, a yearly appropriation to ensure its perpetuity. His aim was not alone to secure a certain sum for the establishment of a permanent dramatic school, but he desired a public acknowledgment of the National Theatre itself. His petition was refused by a small majority. This grieved him, and, together with other troubles growing out of the management, made him, to a degree, lose heart and courage.

But now the Norse students determined to do all in their power to give him the desired public approval; with the aid of citizens, representing all classes of society and interests, they arranged a great musical festival in Christiania for the benefit of the Bergen Theatre. This gave Ole Bull a new impulse. He composed a chorus for male voices, which was sung after the prologue, and played several numbers on that occasion with brilliant success. Later in the evening a “Sexa” was given in his honor, and those present were touched to see the happiness he felt in the acknowledgment and acceptance of his pet idea in the Norwegian capital. On his return to Bergen a dramatic performance was given at his suggestion for the University Building Fund in Christiania, in recognition of the sympathy the students had so substantially shown the theatre.[17]

Winter Hjelm, who has supplied many of these details, continues:—

It was not alone the Norse Theatre to which Ole Bull gave thousands of dollars, but every public enterprise of importance was aided liberally by him. He assisted Tidemand and Gude at this time in a series of entertainments given for the benefit of young artists kept at home by the troubles abroad.

The theatre was too great an undertaking for one man to carry. Ole Bull not only lost much money, but he became involved in controversies and lawsuits with the authorities. It will be readily understood that the Norse national feeling he worked for and inspired was unpopular with those who represented the established order of things, and that every possible advantage was seized upon to annoy and harass him. He, as usual, left points open to his adversaries.

On the opening of the theatre the police officials thought that not only they themselves but their assistants (a term which they would have interpreted broadly enough to include their families) should have had tickets presented to them; and they threatened to take measures for closing the theatre if their claims were not conceded. Ole Bull then asked and received their demands in writing. They claimed three permanent, reserved seats for the master, adjutant, and attorney of the police, and more when desired for their assistants; the seats to have a view of stage and audience, and to be chosen before the sale was open to the public. This stupid demand the violinist met with ridicule. He reserved the seats asked for, but hung above them a placard with the inscription in large black letters, “Seats for the Police,” and over this a large green lantern to light the placard. For this offense the officials called him to answer in court; and the case being decided against him he carried it up to the Supreme Court. The distinguished advocate to the crown, Mr. Duncker, an intimate friend of Ole Bull, asked the privilege of acting as his counsel. The appeal was argued in Christiania. Mr. Duncker took the ground that the granting of the seats was a courtesy and not a legal obligation. He indulged in much sarcasm and ridicule at the expense of the complaining officials, and concluded thus: “Who does not feel that in Ole Bull’s person art and genius have been offered a grievous insult for which the police of Bergen will never be able to atone? But the satisfaction which the court can give will, I am confident, be granted to Ole Bull.” The case was decided in his favor, but not a newspaper in the kingdom dared report the defeat of a government official; and the able defense of Mr. Duncker was printed in Copenhagen by the North and South, which said: “We gladly offer our columns to print Mr. Duncker’s defense for circulation in Norway, that such a man as Ole Bull may receive the satisfaction due him.”

The police officials were naturally irritated at the result of this suit, and watched for opportunities of annoying him. On one occasion he was called upon, under an obsolete municipal regulation, to answer the charge of smoking a cigar in the street in Bergen, as the law allowed only covered pipes to be smoked on the streets. The judge and officers of the court being most of them old friends or former school comrades, the trial was very amusing. The violinist entered the court room, and having in the most courteous and natural manner offered the judge and officers each a cigar, which of course each declined, he lighted his own, remarking that he had not had time at so early an hour to enjoy his regular morning smoke. He was soon acquitted, as it was found that the indictment against him was for smoking “in the square,” whereas the regulation forbade it only on the streets.

On another occasion, when he was called to answer a charge of the same trivial character, he happened to be summoned to appear in court on the morning of his birthday, the 5th of February, an occasion for visits of congratulation in Norway. A great crowd of his friends, not finding him at home and learning where he was, assembled outside the court–house. Among the number were many peasants who had come in from the country to express their good wishes. During the forenoon the thousands in the streets became so clamorous for his appearance, to tell them what treatment he was receiving, that the officials were much disturbed. Although requested by the judge to speak to the crowd, the artist declined to do so; but at last the excitement became so intense that at the urgent entreaty of this official he took his arm and walked home to dinner with him, to satisfy and quiet the people.

The children even were interested in these contests, and would accompany Ole Bull to and from the theatre by hundreds, while they took every occasion to torment his annoyers. The affection always shown him by the children of Bergen touched him more than any demonstration on the part of their elders.

Jonas Lie, referring to the establishment of the theatre, says:—

The culture of the country which had fostered his Norse violin was not yet sufficiently advanced for the new step. After two years the theatre passed into other hands, but the 2d of January, 1850, will always be regarded as the birthday of the Norse National Drama and a memorable day in Ole Bull’s life. Johannes Brun, Mrs. Gundersen, Mrs. Brun, Mrs. Wolf, and Mrs. Juel,—these artists who have since shed so much lustre on our National Theatre at the capital,—all began their artistic careers in Ole Bull’s theatre.

In the disappointments and heartaches which the artist suffered from the misunderstanding of his best motives and most unselfish efforts, should not be forgotten the sympathy and helpfulness of the men and women of whom Norway is proud to–day. A few letters of this time have been preserved.

The following must have given him new courage and stimulus:—

Balestrand,[18] September 4, 1849.

... As I am not certain to meet you in Christiania when I go there, I write a few words to tell you what a lively interest I feel in your grand undertaking, the laying of the corner–stone of a Norse theatre. And next, I have a strong desire to thank you for the happy hours you made me pass when we were last together. It would not do for everybody to express their gratitude by letter, but my artistic conceit makes me feel that the good I gained from your playing was of another kind than that which most people received; but, be that as it may, I have often thought that I must write and thank you some time, and this present occasion is a good one, since this is to be a sort of business letter. I have studied to find if there was not some way I could give my mite to this important work. In any case my suggestion can do no harm if it should not be practicable. I am thinking naturally of painting—the decorations. The manner in which this should be done is no unimportant matter, and especially important is it that it should be done by a Norseman and be Norse in spirit. As I am pretty certain not to be depriving any fellow–countrymen of work, I offer my services. The theatre must pay for the canvas and colors, or we might procure them in some other way that may occur to us later. You will best know how the directors would receive my offer. This much is certain, that it would give me great pleasure to work for the young theatre in this way. I could have the help of some of the younger artists in Christiania, as it would be too hard a task for me alone. It will be delightful if we can talk this over a fortnight hence in Christiania. The work you have before you will demand courage and endurance, and I wish you enough of both, since of necessity many serious obstacles will surely come in your way. Therefore good courage!—as the song says. I am living amid all this glory and beauty, and know not whether to be sad or happy; for it is in every way delightful, but—what will come of it? The summer joy will soon be past, as already I must light my fire of an evening as I sit and muse in the chimney corner; but this is not so bad either. I leave for Christiania in a week and shall arrive a fortnight hence, when I hope to meet you.

Your very devoted Hans Gude.

The following congratulatory letter from the poet Wergeland is characteristic:—

The Grotto, 22d July.

Dear Ole,—Welcome Home! I am cursing Denmark, in which you will sympathize with me. You see that I date this from a spot unknown to you. It is my new country–place, and I look forward to having you of an evening on my balcony, which commands the most glorious view the environs of Christiania can offer. I want, too, to ask you if I should give you the text of what I am now writing. I have two delightful subjects, but both exotic; the one is Persian, the other filled with raven–black negroes from the Congo coast and copper–colored Portuguese. Or do you wish something Norse? The latter might be preferable, though the Oriental subjects are exceedingly charming. I dare suggest these, since they are not my own. Let me know your decision.... I have a Norse vaudeville lying by me, which I can send you, if you will set it to music....

Having arranged for the business management of the theatre during his absence, Ole Bull visited Hamburg and Copenhagen. He also went to Prussia, giving concerts in several cities. At the end of the year he left Bergen for America, sailing from Liverpool for New York in January, 1852.

Early in March he went to Baltimore to see his counsel, who had written him of the favorable termination of his suit with Schubert. He also visited Lexington, Kentucky, among other places; and the following note from Henry Clay must have been written at that time, though it bears no date:—

Lexington.

My dear Sir,—I am truly sorry that my bad cold, which the change of weather and the prospect of rain induce me to apprehend I might increase by going out at night, deprives me of an opportunity of witnessing your performance from which I anticipated so much pleasure to–night. All the other members of my family, who are not indisposed, have gone to enjoy that satisfaction.

I made an unsuccessful effort to see you to–day, but left no card. I hope to pay my respects to–morrow, if you do not leave the city before the afternoon.

I am, respectfully, your obedient servant, H. Clay.

Mr. Ole Bull, Lexington.

Ole Bull the next morning went to Mr. Clay’s house, taking with him his violin. He went into the room adjoining the one in which Mr. Clay was seated, and played in a low tone the great statesman’s favorite melody, “The Last Rose of Summer.” Mr. Clay’s interest was immediately aroused, and he asked if some one was not playing in the street. As the air continued, he remarked, “Ah, that must be Ole Bull; no one but he could play the old familiar air in that manner.” When the artist finished, the doors were thrown open, and they embraced.

The following correspondence is interesting from the association of distinguished names:—

Senate Chamber, Washington, March 15, 1852.

Ole Bull, Esq.:

Sir,—Understanding that your present visit to this country is not made with any professional purpose, we take occasion to state that it would give us sincere gratification to be afforded an opportunity to witness a display of your peculiar powers in that art in which, by acknowledgment of the world, you are allowed to be a master. We wish to express the hope that you may find it convenient to give a public concert, during the course of your stay in Washington, in such manner and at such time and place as you may choose to indicate.

Very respectfully, your obedient servants,

James Shields, R. M. T. Hunter, Chas. T. James, Hamilton Fish, Geo. W. Jones, S. P. Chase, John J. McRae, Richard Brodhead, Pierre Soule, J. W. Bradbury, H. Clay, A. P. Butler, Wm. M. Gwin, S. R. Mallory, Chas. Sumner, J. D. Bright, J. M. Mason, S. U. Downs, Thomas G. Pratt, H. Hamlin, Thomas J. Rusk, M. Norris, James C. Jones, Jackson Morton, W. P. Mangum, Lewis Cass, John Davis, S. A. Douglas, Truman Smith, John H. Clarke, Wm. H. Seward.

The undersigned unite cordially in the foregoing request, and hope that it may be convenient and agreeable to gratify us:

Daniel Webster, J. J. Crittenden, A. H. H. Stuart, Wm. A. Graham, Thomas Corwin, Winfield Scott, A. De Bodisco, Sartiges, John T. Crampton, F. Testa, A. Calderon de la Barca, Fr. V. Gerolt, Marcoleta, F. Molina, De Bosch Spencer, G. Sibbern, De Sodre.

In accordance with this invitation, Ole Bull gave a concert in Washington on the 26th of March. He had visited the city to learn more about the inducements and advantages offered emigrants to go to the Western States. He had now a better opportunity than ever of studying and understanding the government of this country, because of personal acquaintance with such men as Webster, Clay, and Sumner. Minister Sibbern, the resident Swedish ambassador at that time, was a friend of Ole Bull, and did everything in his power to make his stay pleasant.

He now performed by invitation in Philadelphia, Baltimore, and New York. The following notice of one of his concerts at this time (in the New York Tribune of May 24, 1852) is from the pen of Mr. George William Curtis:—

Nine years ago Ole Bull, then little known in America, made his début at the old Park Theatre. Those who remember the glowing enthusiasm of that evening, and the triumphal career of which it was the prelude, will understand the interest with which the news of his recent arrival among us was received, and the eager curiosity to know if he was again to witch our world. On Saturday evening that curiosity was satisfied by the re–appearance of the great violinist, and the revelation of undiminished power. The audience was in itself a triumph, on Saturday evening, in the midst of the present musical excitement attendant upon Madame Goldschmidt’s farewell series. To gather three thousand people in Metropolitan Hall was an evidence of cordial and admiring remembrance, and of genuine homage to genius of which any artist might be justly proud. Since Ole Bull played here before, our musical experience is enlarged and deepened. Our audience is no longer unused to fine performance. It has heard much of the best, and its approbation is more discriminating, and therefore more flattering. That Ole Bull’s success on Saturday evening was very great, it is unnecessary to say; for no audience (except the French), however critical and severe, can escape the electrical touch of his genius. One word, one glance, one sweep, if it is informed with magnetic power, leaves all rules in the rear, and asserts its own supremacy. Here is the characteristic and charm of Ole Bull. Like Paganini, he is an exceptional person. Like every man of remarkable and pronounced genius, he is a phenomenon. He is his own standard; he makes his own rules. It is useless to pursue him with the traditional rules. His orbit will not be prescribed or prophesied, for it is eccentric. In all that he does, the traditional temperament of genius betrays itself. He is tremulous and tender, but also rugged and stern, and strong as his native mountains. He is no unapt type of his Norway, with its sunny but breezy heights, with its dark and solemn depths, and, over all, the clear, blue heaven. In his mien and manner, in his music and his playing, the same thing is constantly felt. They are all wonderfully suggestive, but mainly of bold and melancholy outlines. For the pathos which inheres in air Northern story and character permeates all that he does, not as lachrymose sentiment, but as a genuine minor tone of feeling. It will not be difficult to infer the impression of his music and of his performance. It is all subjugated to himself. It is all means of expression for his own individuality. He aims not so much at a pure representation of the subject treated by his music, as at his own peculiarity of perception in regarding it. The hearer must know it as it struck him, and in the way he chooses, and all tends to impress upon that hearer the individuality of the artist. Hence Ole Bull stands in direct opposition to the “classical” school, of which the peculiarity is to subdue the artist to the music. He is essentially romantic. His performance, beyond any we have ever heard, is picturesque. He uses music as color, and it matters nothing to him if the treatment be more or less elaborate, or rhythmical, or detailed, if it succeed in striking the hearer with the vivid impression sought. It is unavoidable, therefore, that he is called a charlatan. It is natural that the classical artists are amazed at this bold buccaneer roving the great sea of musical approbation and capturing the costliest prizes of applause. But these prizes are never permanently held by weakness. They surrender only to majestic power. Hence we have the strange spectacle of an immense and miscellaneous audience hanging enchanted upon this wondrous bow, through performances of a length which, in itself, would be enough to wreck most success. Like the voice of an orator speaking for a people its hopes, its indignation, its pity and sorrow, so this violin sings for those who listen their own shifting, wild, and vague fancies. It is because the artist magnetizes them, for the time, and they think and dream as he chooses.

Ole Bull’s mastery of his violin is imperial. The proud majesty of his person imparts itself in feeling to his command of the instrument; and artist, orchestra, and performance only magnify the man. We can, of course, have no quarrel with those who do not like it. If the hearer regrets the want of subtle musical elaboration in the composition; if he complains of its ponderous physique; if he is angry at the submission of the author to the virtuoso, we have nothing to say but that certainly he has reason, and that, if without these there were no beauty, no grandeur, no long–haunting imagery in the mind, then there would be little hope for our artist. But every man like Ole Bull shows that these are not essentials; he shows that the heart and imagination yield against all wishes and precedents and rules. Ole Bull is precisely “an irrefragable fact,” against which criticism may dash its head at leisure. The public heart will follow him and applaud, because he plays upon its strings as deftly as upon those of his violin. Possessed of a nature whose moods sympathize with those of the mass of men, and that in broad and striking reaches,—not too finely spun,—not of a Chopin–like dreaminess, which is rather the preternatural state of a feeble and excited organization, but of a broad humanity in his lights and shades, so full of life and overflowing vigor that he must impart that sympathy, and will scorn all rules in burning and branding it upon his audience; it is no marvel that this eccentric artist sways his hearer as he will, and is as secure of victory as Napoleon. If we turn more directly to his performance, we find a purity, a firmness, a sweetness, and breadth of tone which is unprecedented. The violin has no secrets from him. It waits upon him as Ariel upon Prospero. There is no fiddle left in it. It sings and shouts and weeps as he wills. It is an orchestra or a flute or an Æolian harp, as the mood seizes him. The brilliancy, the incredible articulation, and the rapidity of his execution—upon one string or four strings—with all kinds of marvelous effects and whims, with the intensity and precision of his bowing, are in harmony with all the rest. They are called tricks, but they are only such tricks as the wind and clouds play; they are only such tricks as an artist of his organization, who loves the sounds and capacities of his instrument for their own sake, must necessarily display. He rejoices in this bewitching of the strings with a kind of physical delight, and he uses that witchery so well, with such richness and lavishness, that the susceptible listener does not long resist. We have left ourselves no space to follow the performance in detail, which we shall do upon occasion of the next concert, at which, in the “Carnival of Venice,” his supreme mastery of the violin will be dazzlingly displayed.

Again Mr. Curtis said:—

Ole Bull was the Ole Bull of old. His andante and adagio movements revealed in a remarkable degree that singular subtlety of his playing by which the instrument and the means seem lost, and only pure sound remains. Certain of his strokes are like rays of light. They seem to flash and glisten sound, rather than produce it by mechanical means. The wild melancholy infused through all these pieces and which imparts to them rather the character of audible reveries than of formal compositions, is one of the great fascinations of his performance. It is always the individuality, always Norway and its weird interpreter, which affects you. The tenderness, the yearning plaintiveness, the subdued sweetness of the “Mother’s Prayer,” in particular, did not fail of a profound impression on the audience.

Before starting for the West and South, Ole Bull concluded the purchase of a large tract of land for a settlement of Norwegians. This land, 125,000 acres, was on the Susquehanna, in Potter County, Pennsylvania. On the inauguration of the colony, he said: “We are to found a New Norway, consecrated to liberty, baptized with independence, and protected by the Union’s mighty flag.”

The representations of his countrymen who had settled in the South and had told him their tales of privations and hardships, to which poor health was added because of the unfavorable climate, had induced him to make the experiment of a settlement in the North. Some three hundred houses were built, with a country inn, a store, and a church, erected by the founder, and hundreds flocked to the new colony. He entered heart and soul into the new project of making his countrymen happy and prosperous. He also continued his concerts for means to carry out his plans, having risked most of his fortune in the original purchase.

The company of artists with whom Ole Bull made his Western and Southern tour was a fine one, including the little Adelina Patti, her sister, Amalia Patti Strakosch, and Mr. Maurice Strakosch. They gave many concerts, some two hundred, we believe, in all.

The following, from a Southern paper, is interesting for its recognition of the early promise of the youngest member of the company:—

We are to hear Signorina Adelina Patti, a musical prodigy only eight years old. Unless the musical critics of the Union are much mistaken, this child is an extraordinary phenomenon. She sings the great songs of Malibran, Jenny Lind, Madame Sontag, and Catharine Hayes with singular power. Her voice is a pure soprano, and such are its remarkable powers that it is not necessary to make any allowance for the performance being that of a child.... It is a mark of great musical intrepidity in a child eight years of age to sing “Ah, mon giunge,” from “Sonnambula,” and Jenny Lind’s “Echo Song”; and nothing short of the testimony we have seen could make us believe such a thing possible. Yet, the whole artistic life of Ole Bull is a guarantee that nothing but sterling merit can take part in his concerts. We have no doubt that Signorina Patti will nestle herself in many a memory to–night, in company with Jenny Lind and Catharine Hayes, not because she is such a singer as they are, but because her youth will impart to her performance a charm that their matured powers cannot give.

From Georgia the violinist wrote his brother Edward, February 6, 1853, as follows:—

Not indifference, but overwhelming business has prevented my answering your dear letter,—and unfortunately my reply must be as short as possible, although I have so much on my heart that I long to tell you. Of my activity as artist and leader, and controller of my little State in Pennsylvania, you can have a conception only when you know that I am engaged simultaneously in laying out five villages, and am contracting with the Government for the casting of cannon, some ten thousand in all, for the fortresses, especially for those in California. Philadelphia has subscribed two millions to the Sunbury and Erie road, which goes near the colony on the south; New York has also given two millions to a branch of the Erie and New York road from Elmira to Oleana, the northern line of the colony, so that we shall be only twelve hours distant from New York, ten from Philadelphia, and about eleven from Baltimore.

So many have applied for land that I have been obliged to look out for more in the neighborhood; I have bought 20,000 acres to the west, and in the adjoining county (MacKean) I have the refusal of 112,000 acres. In Wyoming County I am contracting for an old, deserted foundry with forest, water–power, workshops, and dwellings, and am taking out patents in Washington for a new smelting furnace for cannon.

I am giving concerts every day, and must often go without my dinner, I am so driven. To–day, Sunday, I have a moment free; to–morrow to Columbia, and on to New Orleans; from there either to Washington, for the inauguration of President Pierce, or to California via Nicaragua; and in the latter event I return to New York to visit the colony the end of April....

This letter indicates sufficiently his plans for the colony, to carry out which successfully would require the attention and judgment of an energetic man of business.

About this time he visited California, and in crossing the Isthmus of Panama his violin case was given a native to carry, the party riding on donkeys. They soon lost sight of the man, and on arriving at Panama it was impossible to find either him or the case. The rest of the company, with Mr. Strakosch, were obliged to take the steamer, and leave Ole Bull to hunt for his instrument; but this was not his worst misfortune. While waiting for the next steamer he fell a victim to the yellow fever, and, a riot or disturbance breaking out in the place, he was wholly neglected. One night, during the worst of his illness, he was alone, and was obliged to creep off the bed upon the floor to escape the stray bullets which crashed through the windows from the affray outside. When able to get out again, he was miserably weak, but he left for San Francisco. The advertised dates for his concerts were all passed, and the time was unfavorable, because of the lateness of the season, but he played when his skin was so tender that it would break and bleed as he pressed the strings with his fingers. He had many amusing incidents to tell of the people and life in the far West. He kept no journal, and many of his letters written at this time were afterwards destroyed by fire.

He was now, in his broken state of health, to make a crushing discovery. He found that the title to the land in Pennsylvania, bought and paid for by him in full, was fraudulent, and that even the improvements he had made were a trespass on another man’s property. The forests were cleared, and 800 settlers had already made their homes there. Mr. Stewardson, a Quaker, and the rightful owner of the land, had for a long time tried to reach Ole Bull by messenger and letter; but his efforts had all been futile, so carefully had Ole Bull’s business agent watched the mail, always sent to his care, and guarded him from approach. When at last the artist, on his return to Pennsylvania, was legally notified that he was trespassing, he was dumb–founded. He mounted his fine saddle–horse, and, without rest, rode to Philadelphia to see his lawyer and agent who had made the conveyance, hoping that this man’s good standing in his profession, the church, and society, was a guarantee for fair and honest dealing. The latter tried to quiet his client by telling him that his papers were good, and insisted that he should eat something before they talked more about the matter. Seated at the table, Ole Bull felt a sudden aversion to the food, although faint from his long fast and ride, and he refused to eat or to drink even a cup of tea. At last the man, when faced by the desperately excited artist, who insisted upon his going with him to the claimant, Mr. Stewardson, if the papers were right, suddenly changed his bearing, and taunted Ole Bull with his inability to do anything to help himself, saying: “I have your money; now, do your worst!” The sister of this man met Ole Bull some years later, and told him that on her brother’s death bed he confessed to her that he had poisoned the food and cup of tea that he tried to persuade his client to take, and to which he had felt so strange an aversion.

Mr. Stewardson was interested in Ole Bull’s efforts to found his colony, and offered to make a sale of the land at a very low price; but the artist was able only to buy enough land to protect the people already settled there, and secure the improvements. He brought a suit against the swindlers, who now became his malignant and relentless persecutors. They tried to cripple him in every way; to prevent his concerts by arrests, and, having acted as his counsel, they were in possession of his papers and valuables, which they claimed for services rendered him, and attached his violin again and again for debt. While on a trip in the Western States, he was exposed to malarial influences along the Mississippi, and the illness which followed proved the most serious physical ailment he had ever suffered. He was finally prostrated by chills and fever, was abandoned by his manager, and later taken to a farm–house on a prairie in Illinois, the hotel–keeper fearing to keep him, lest the disease should prove to be small–pox. He was so ill that he was delirious. As soon as he partially recovered his strength, he resumed his concerts, but the proceeds of these were swallowed up by the expense of his suit in Pennsylvania, and by the security he was often forced to give to release his violin from the attachments put upon it by his persecutors.

With untiring energy, though his health was much broken by fever and over–work, he persevered with his lawsuits, and succeeded at last in wresting some thousands of dollars from the man who had swindled him. Five hard, struggling years were spent in this way. The help and succor he received, as often before, seemed Providential. The best legal talent came to his aid un–sought, and in one instance, at least, by a strange impulse. Reading his newspaper at the breakfast table one morning, Mr. E. W. Stoughton said to his wife: “I see that Ole Bull is in trouble, and believe I’ll go into court this morning and find out about the case.” He had never met the violinist personally, but he went, and just at the right moment to save some valuables and jewels, which would otherwise have been lost. A lifelong friendship commenced that day, and Ole Bull often spent weeks together with the Stoughtons. In their house he met in the most delightful way the eminent men of the Bench and Bar. Mr. Stoughton’s great and generous service to him, Ole Bull was ever delighted to mention.

The following letters written at this time will illustrate the annoyances to which the artist was exposed:—

1 Hanover St., New York. Saturday Afternoon.

Ole Bull, Esq.:

Dear Sir,—Mr. Stoughton and myself fear that you may be troubled by H. to–night.

If anything occurs, please inform the bearer, Mr. ——, of the nature of the occurrence, and let the officer, if you are arrested, explain to him the grounds of the arrest, and give him any papers which the officer may serve on you; and also tell him where Mr. Stoughton and myself can come and see you to–night.

Very respectfully yours, C. A. Seward.

The following was addressed to an eminent lawyer:—

New York, April 16, 1857.

Dear Sir,—Mr. Ole Bull, for whose welfare I feel a deep interest, leaves this morning for New Haven, where he intends to give a concert this evening. A judgment has been obtained against him by a Mr. H. of this city. Upon this judgment he was arrested on Saturday and discharged. I fear an attempt may be made to arrest him again upon the same claim in your city, and that he may be imprisoned amongst strangers. This apprehension is based upon the idea that there is a disposition to persecute him. He has lately been very ill and is not yet recovered, and I wish to preserve him from any unpleasant excitement.

The purpose of this, therefore, is to request that, should Mr. H. institute proceedings against Mr. Bull of the character I have suggested, you will procure for him the necessary bail and act as his counsel; and I will guarantee you and the bail you may procure against all liability, and will pay all counsel fees, and, should the bail prefer it, I will on your requirement immediately deposit in your hands an amount equal to their liability.

By doing this you will aid a most estimable and much injured and unfortunate man, and will confer a great favor upon

Yours truly, E. W. Stoughton.

All of Ole Bull’s correspondence shows that his friends knew how apt he was to neglect his own affairs, and that they were watchful of his interests and sympathized with him in his reverses. To such a nature as his this was everything; it gave him courage—it saved him.

When worn out and ill, both from anxiety and from physical weakness, he received one day a note from Mrs. Child. She told him that she had heard of his troubles and his need of rest, and wanted him to come to her country home at once. He followed her directions implicitly like a child, taking the train she had named without even going first to his hotel. Arrived at the station he found her and her husband waiting to drive him to their home. The peace and quiet of the country, and the presence of these kind friends, were like heaven to him. Noticing probably how tired he was, they took him to his room, a chamber with a view of trees and fields beyond, the windows shaded by muslin curtains, and suggested that he should rest before going down to tea. With one look at the quiet landscape outside he threw himself on the bed. On waking he found Mrs. Child watching by his side, and started up with an apology for having kept her, as he feared, waiting too long. She smiled and told him that it was almost twenty–four hours since he had lain down for a few moments’ rest. The anxiety of his friends was relieved when he woke refreshed, and, as he said, his reason saved.

The following letter will also show the help and encouragement his friends gave him at this hard period of his life:—

Andover, Monday, October 8.

Dear Friend,—We are all sitting around our centre table; the blaze of the fire flickering on the walls, and enlivening the hearth. We are recalling the pleasant hours spent in Hartford. My husband says to me—Did you indeed see Ole Bull? He has always been one of my ideals—how I wish he would come here! Why, says I, he did promise to come, perhaps:—so you see that you are not forgotten. Do not, my dear friend, despair of human nature—nor wholly despair of America; the experience of the past has shivered so many brilliant illusions. You remember that hope remains even at the bottom of Pandora’s box.

Meanwhile let me send you my husband’s assurance with mine that a fireside welcome is ever kept for you at the old stone cabin in Andover. It is not “the elephant,” interesting as he is, but the elephant’s master, that shall be made welcome—welcome for the music within, whether he choose or not to give it outward expression.

Come speak to us of the lovely fjords and dripping waterfalls and glittering lakes of Norway—and, if you come soon enough, we will take you to see our beautiful lakes in Andover.

But if you cannot come, let our invitation remain by you as a token of a place where you might rest for a while in kind and simple friendly welcome,—where you may at any time, if you choose, come and sleep a day without our troubling you with a word; in short, where you shall find rest and do exactly as you please. Nobody shall ask you to play a tune; nobody shall hinder your playing an opera; you shall come and go at will and be as free as in the wood. Liberty is about all that we keep here and that we offer.

I trust that your affairs in New York are not going ill; but however they go, let me hope that you will be borne above this world. God is light, and in Him is no darkness at all. When we perish with hunger there is always bread enough to spare in our Father’s house.

With kindliest feelings and remembrances,

Truly yours, H. B. Stowe.

James Gordon Bennett had been most kind to Ole Bull from the time of his first visit to the United States. When at that time the friends of Vieuxtemps were assailing him by personal attacks as well as musical criticism, Mr. Bennett called, and offered the columns of the Herald for any answer Ole Bull might like to make. With a warm pressure of the hand, he replied in his broken English: “I tink, Mr. Benneett, it is best tey writes against me and I plays against tem.” “You’re right, Ole Bull, quite right,” said the editor with a laugh; “but remember the Herald is always open to you.” The following characteristic quotation is from one of Mr. Bennett’s notes: “I am happy you are again so successful. You, and you only, can raise the devil or the angels.”

This brief note from Thalberg may be inserted here:—

New York, 26th Decembre, 1856.

Mon cher Ole Bull,—Ulmann vous aura dit, que jusqu’à présent il m’a été impossible d’aller vous voir malgré toute l’envie que j’en avais; il me fait travailler comme un nègre, et m’empêche même d’aller voir mes amis. J’ai été désolé de vous savoir malade sans même pouvoir vous offrir mes services.—Lundi prochain, par extraordinaire, j’aurai quelque liberté, et j’en profiterai pour venir causer avec vous et de vous assurer de vive voix de mes sentimens les plus dévoués.

Tout à vous, S. Thalberg.

A volume of Theodore Parker’s sermons, with an affectionate word of presentation, is among the mementos of his Boston visits.

The press of the country, as well as friends, gave him warm expressions of confidence and sympathy. A Philadelphia paper said, among other things, of a two hours’ interview with Ole Bull:—

He speaks of his wrongs with the most forbearing disposition, and shrinks from thrusting them before the public and making himself an object of sympathy. He has always firmly refused to do so, believing that justice in his case will ultimately triumph without any adventitious aid from a sympathizing public.

The Evening Post, of New York, for March 9, 1857, said:—

The Norwegian made his appearance last evening at Dodsworth Hall, and once more exercised his spell of musical witchery over a crowded audience. His well–known identity with his violin, playing on it as if the strings of his heart were strained over it, seems to be as perfect as ever, while the new story that his heart has to tell—the troubles and reverses he has undergone since he last played among us—seems to be faithfully added to its expression. He played with more intensity of concentration in the passages of force and vivid rapidity, while his lingerings upon the sadder and more pathetic strains were indescribably truthful in their mournfulness. It is the peculiarity of Ole Bull, and perhaps the secret of his charm over the sympathies of his audience, that all he plays seems so faithfully autobiographic. His expressive face tells the same story as his violin. The listeners to his music last night were evidently completely absorbed in the study of the man; and it is a strong warranty for the renewal of his success that he can now exercise, even better than before, his wonderful personal magnetism. His history and present position, we may as well add, fully entitle him to the sympathy for which his violin pleads so expressively.

In 1856, the violinist’s eldest son had joined him, and had been most kindly received by his father’s friends. Many notes, still preserved, attest the thoughtful attentions given them when ill and confined to their beds, as they both were in New York that season.

When Ole Bull gave his last concerts in Dodsworth Hall, in New York, in 1857, he was so ill that he had to be helped on and off the stage, and occasionally the applause of the audience alone kept him roused to consciousness, so weak was he from the chills and fever. No suffering ever kept him from appearing when announced, if he could possibly do it; and in his long experience he used to say with pride that he had, almost without fail, kept all his engagements with the public. He now decided that he must try what his native air would do for him, and in the autumn he returned to Bergen. He found that unfavorable reports had preceded him, and where he ought only to have met with sympathy at home, he sometimes found suspicion. It was said that he had speculated ruthlessly at the expense of his countrymen, and that they were the only sufferers by his misfortunes. American institutions and tendencies were not at all popular among a large class in Norway at that day, and Republican liberty, it was said, meant only license. Poor in health and purse, Ole Bull’s home–coming was not to be envied. Mother Nature was the same, however, and he soon gained strength and courage from his native mountain air. He resumed his direction of the theatre, having engaged Björnstjerne Björnson as dramatic instructor, which gave the enterprise a strong and fresh impulse. Björnson had recently published “Synnöve Solbakken” and “Arne,” which latter he dedicated to Ole Bull.

A. O. Winje wrote him:—

Christiania, 20th February, 1860.

You cannot imagine, dear Ole Bull, how happy I am at your success, and that in this great work you, like the gods, are ever young.... Eight days since, when the first good news came in prose and verse (I take the Bergen papers), I had to run down to your brother Randulf, to tell him.

After a mention of the assembling of the Swedish Parliament and the outlook of the Norse interests in that stirring period, when the question of the governorship of Norway by a Swede or Norwegian was being considered, and telling Ole Bull that it would be a good time for him to make his influence felt in Sweden by a visit there, he concluded:—

Now when all with you is as you wish it, come this way and give vent to your wrath, for it is not well that you should have too much good fortune—not even you. The gods themselves could not bear it; the Roman Triumvirs, remember, had their buffoons in their triumphal cars. Do you go to Russia or England? Wherever you go, God bless you! Greet Björnson.

Thy A. O. Winje.

The following note from Fanny Elssler shows that he must have given a concert in Hamburg, en route to the German baths:—

So eben erfahre ich, wo Sie wohnen, beeile mich daher Ihnen herzlich meinen wärmsten Dank zu sagen, für die liebenswürdige Sendung einer Loge in Ihr Concert, in welchem Sie mich durch Ihr herrlich und ergreifendes Spiel wahrhaft entzückt haben, was ich so gern Ihnen mündlich sagen möchte!

Ich bin jeden Tag zwischen 3 und 4 Uhr zu Hause, und darf Ihnen wohl nicht sagen wie sehr sich eine alte Bekannte freuen würde Ihnen freundschaftlich die Hände zu drücken? Sie nennt sich

Fanny Elssler.

Den 21ten April, 1858.

Ole Bull met Fanny Elssler in Vienna, in 1877. She recalled with interest many of the incidents of her visit to the United States, which she said seemed then like a dream to her. Still handsome, the noble graceful carriage as striking as ever, her face with its winning smile was one to attract a stranger’s eye in the crowded audience room of the great Musik Verein Hall.

From Hamburg Ole Bull went to Vienna and Pesth, and his success, as reported by the papers, was extraordinary. He wrote to his son, from Vienna, May 8, 1858:—

Thanks for your dear letter, which I would have answered at once if important changes in my plans had not made it necessary to defer my return to Bergen. I received offers from the directors in Pesth and Gratz, and after the conditions and dates were fixed I was asked to make later dates. I leave for Pesth this evening. Day after to–morrow the first concert, and the fourth on the 17th! Therefore I cannot be in Bergen. I hope, though, to reach there the end of this month.

You know what stress I lay on the observance of this Thanksgiving–festival, and if pecuniary obligations did not compel me otherwise, I would instantly go to you; but ratio pro voluntate!

In Berlin I met my old friend Bettina von Arnim, who, sad to say, is fast approaching the end. She was so glad to see me that I delayed my departure two days, to celebrate her birthday with my violin. The next day Joachim came from Hanover, to make my acquaintance: I of course staid one day more on his account. I see that he is now playing in London. Ernst is very ill in Baden–Baden; he, poor man, is crippled by gout!... I have also seen Liszt after an interval of sixteen years: he has taken holy orders....

He writes on the 27th of May from Pesth, which he now revisited after the lapse of nineteen years:—

I leave in an hour for Vienna. I have taken a course of bitter salt waters at Ofen; my blood is benefitted. It was necessary, as the fever had come again, and although not so serious as in the United States, still to a degree that caused me much inconvenience. I shall now hurry home.

The enthusiasm has been so great here, that I have been obliged to promise to return at the end of the year....

He did not return directly, however, as it was deemed advisable for him to go to Carlsbad, where he spent the summer. Among the friends he especially enjoyed meeting there were Mr. and Mrs. Henry A. Wise, of Virginia, whom he had known intimately in the United States.

In October he was again in Norway, and on his return to Bergen he bought of his mother the ancestral home, Valestrand. He spent that winter in improving the place; he commenced the thorough drainage of the land, which work he pushed vigorously for years, and it was not interrupted by the winters, so mild is the climate on that coast. The estate now belongs to his son, Mr. Alexander Bull. The following picturesque description of the place is from an article by H. H. in the Atlantic Monthly for June, 1881:—

Another memorable Bergen day was a day at Valestrand, on the island Osteröen. Valestrand is a farm which has been in the possession of Ole Bull’s family for several generations, and is still in the possession of Ole Bull’s eldest son. It lies two hours’ sail north from Bergen,—two hours, or four, according to the number of lighters loaded with cotton bales, wood, etc., which the steamer picks up to draw. Steamers on Norway fjords are like country gentlemen who go into the city every day and come out at night, always doing unexpected errands for people along the road. No steamer captain going out from Bergen may say how many times he will stop on his journey, or at what hour he will reach its end: all of which is clear profit for the steamboat company, no doubt, but is worrying to travelers; especially to those who leave Bergen of a morning at seven, as we did, invited to breakfast at Valestrand at nine, and do not see Osteröen’s shore till near eleven. People who were not going to Valestrand to breakfast that day were eating breakfast on board, all around us: poor people eating cracknels and dry bread out of baskets; well–to–do people eating sausage, eggs, and coffee, neatly served at little tables on deck, and all prepared in a tiny coop below–stairs, hardly big enough for one person to turn around in. It is an enticing sight always for hungry people to see eating going on; up to a certain point it whets appetite, but beyond that it is both insult and injury.

The harbor of Valestrand is a tiny amphitheatre of shallow water. No big craft can get to the shore. As the steamer comes to a stop opposite it, the old home of Ole Bull is seen on a slope at the head of the harbor, looking brightly out over a bower of foliage to the southern sun. It appears to be close to the water, but, on landing, one discovers that he is still a half hour’s walk away from it. A little pathway of mossy stones, past an old boat–house, on whose thatched roof flowering grasses and a young birch–tree were waving, leads up from the water to the one road on the island. Wild pansies, white clover and dandelions, tinkling water among ferns and mosses along the roadsides, made the way beautiful; low hills rose on either side, softly wooded with firs and birches feathery as plumes; in the meadows peasant men and women making hay,—the women in red jackets and white blouses, a delight to the eye. Just in front of the house is a small, darkly shaded lake, in which there is a mysterious floating island, which moves up and down at pleasure changing its moorings often.

The house is wooden, and painted of a pale flesh color. The architecture is of the light and fantastic order of which so much is to be seen in Norway,—the instinctive reaction of the Norwegian against the sharp, angular, severe lines of his rock–made, rock–bound country,—and it is vindicated by the fact that fantastic carvings, which would look trivial and impertinent on houses in countries where Nature herself had done more decorating, seem here pleasing and in place. Before the house were clumps of rose–bushes in blossom, and great circles of blazing yellow eschscholtzias. In honor of our arrival, every room had been decorated with flowers and ferns; and clumps of wild pansies in bloom had been set along the steps to the porch. Ole Bull’s own chamber and music–room are superb rooms, finished in yellow pine, with rows of twisted and carved pillars, and carved cornices and beams and panels, all done by Norwegian workmen.

Valestrand was his home for many years, abandoned only when he found one still more beautiful on the island of Lysöen, sixteen miles southwest of Bergen.

A Norwegian supper of trout freshly caught, and smothered in cream, croquettes, salad, strawberries, goat’s–milk cheese, with fine–flavored gooseberry wine, served by a Norwegian maid in a white–winged head–dress, scarlet jacket, and stomacher of gay beads, closed our day. As we walked back to the little moss–grown wharf, we found two peasants taking trout from the brook. Just where it dashed foaming under a little foot–bridge, a stake–lined box trap had been plunged deep in the water. As we were passing, the men lifted it out, dripping, ten superb trout dashing about wildly in it, in terror and pain; the scarlet spots on their sides shone like garnet crystals in the sun, as the men emptied them on the ground, and killed them, one by one, by knocking their heads against a stone with a sharp, quick stroke, which could not have been so cruel as it looked.

On our way back to Bergen we passed several little row–boats, creeping slowly along, loaded high with juniper boughs. They looked like little green islands broken loose from their places, and drifting out to sea.

“For somebody’s sorrow!” we said thoughtfully, as we watched them slowly fading from sight in the distance....

In the winter of 1860 Ole Bull went to Stockholm, giving seventeen concerts in that city, and then to Finland.

In 1861–1862 he gave forty–six concerts in England, Scotland, and Ireland. He left the settlement of his accounts with the impressario till the end of the trip, and then giving up the memorandum before the money was handed him, received not one penny of the proceeds, all of which remained in the pockets of the manager.

While he was in Paris, in 1862, the sad intelligence of his wife’s death reached him. She had suffered much the last years of her life from ill–health, and, living in an adopted country, the misfortunes and sorrows of her husband, added to her own, were more than she could bear.

The following letter to his son was written from Hamburg, September 18, 1862:—

Instead of coming myself with the steamer to Bergen, as I had hoped, I am obliged to wait for—my trunk, which went astray between Cologne and this place, and for which I have waited now three whole days. Notwithstanding my troubles, my health was better, and would have kept improving had I not broken a rib in my left side, just as I was about to leave Godesberg, after giving a concert for the benefit of the organ in the Catholic church there, by request of the authorities. The concert was a brilliant affair, but I had to pay for it. It seemed that it had been planned to convert me to Catholicism, and a young Jesuit, who was taking the water–cure, sought, partly by charges against Protestantism, partly by flattery or threats, to make himself interesting; and when I declined his entertainment he turned about suddenly and claimed to be greatly interested in my views. One morning he came to meet me just as I had returned from a walk in the mountains and was going to breakfast, handing me a newspaper. As I accepted it and bowed, he threw his arms about my neck and pressed his knee against my breast; I felt and heard a crack in my side, as I pushed him from me. I went to the hotel, but did not feel well, and the doctor found a rib was broken. I had to keep my bed day and night for a week’s time, using wet bandages to prevent inflammation. When I got out, I exerted myself too much, so the bone has not knit together as well as could be desired.

I went recently to Aix–la–Chapelle to get my Guarnerius, which I had confided to a Frenchman, Monsieur D., to repair; but on my arrival I found all the parts were separated; the side–pieces by themselves, the top and back also; the neck divided, and the man himself in despair! I was obliged to put it together again myself, but what a task! He helped me. Poor fellow, I was sorry for him. When he saw what wretched work he had made of it, I could neither take the violin from him, and thereby ruin his reputation, nor scold him more. At last it was finished, and now I have three Guarneriuses beside my pearl, the Nicholas Amati, large pattern, that has the most beautiful tone of them all. I exchanged another for it in London last year, and Mr. Plowden, an amateur, offered me a considerable advance; but I would rather part with all my other violins than this, which is remarkable for its peculiar softness and clearness. Besides, it fits the hand well, and has the greatest variety of tone–color, that is to say, versatility of expression. I have had and am having a hard time. I must try to keep up courage. If I am to go under, I will still fight as long as I can,—perhaps the sun will shine when I least expect it!...

In 1863 he visited Christiania, and hoped to induce the people there to establish an Academy of Music. It was but a continuation of his earlier programme and thought of “a Norse Orchestra in a Norse Theatre.” He explained himself in an article published in the Illustrated News:—

A NORSE MUSIC ACADEMY.

I saw the new flag hoisted above our nation: that flag which adorns the harbors of the world, and which, at half–mast, has mourned many of the men who, in the face of opposition, labored to raise it. In this flag, floating above us, and the Constitution under us, the Norse house has its roof and floor. The house can now be seen, and has a name among the nations. But this does not complete it, and it would be a sin to leave it half finished, exposed to wind and weather. There are still many rooms to be furnished, if the house is to be occupied by a nation claiming civilization and culture. Between the Danish and the Norse drama there is now drawn a tolerably definite line; but round about on the home walls hang the pictures of all nations, brought by wanderers from every corner of the globe—as might be expected in a sailor’s home, which ours is. There is so much that is foreign and so little of our own! Even our home subjects are worked up in foreign lands, by our own homesick artists, it is true, but bearing on them the servile mark of exile, set there by a borrowed, foreign brush. I have spent many a sad hour with these men,—exiled not so much because of our national poverty as of our national lack of culture,—wanderers, to be met with the world over. We have talked of the dream cherished in common by all Norse artists: the coming home and uniting all the forces in schools in which the national art could be developed to an independent manhood, and Norway be given the honor which foreigners now take from her. When these longings become too intense for control, the exiles fly haphazard home—painters, sculptors, and musicians striking against the old, gray, naked cliffs of their country’s insensibility. Forgetting old and futile efforts in the new, one now and then manages to gain a slight foot–hold; but the rest must abroad again, to repeat the old story. This, the history of our country’s attitude towards art is a disgrace to the nation, and a crime against those men who have given their all to art, and are driven to sell our honor abroad.

My calling in this world is the Norse music. I am no painter, no sculptor, no writer. I am a musician, and, being one, I ought to be trusted when I say that I hear a wonderfully deep and characteristic sound–board vibrating in the breasts of my people. The desire of my life has been to give it strings; that it may find voice, and its deep tones penetrate the temple as Norway’s church music bears the words of the minister to the hearts of the congregation; that on the battle–field it may remind the country’s defenders of their hearth–stones; that it may be heard from our orchestras and from a National art which can rise only from this source; that it may sound from the pianos round the land, cultivating, ennobling the family–life more than all the languages of the world, in charm and intelligibility unsurpassed! I have spent my life in striving to climb these gray cliffs with the other Norse artists, by trying to overcome the denationalized musical taste. Now, I propose to my colleagues, the musicians, that we each lend a hand in a united effort to scale the rocks and reach the height; that we found an Academy for musical instruction. It may be that we shall at last plant the flag on the heights, and be able to reach a helping hand down to others who are toiling upward!

Ole Bull.

To his son he wrote from Christiania, February 27, 1863:—

To–day I spoke with the King; he has signed the petition for an Academy, asking for an appropriation of $1200 a year from the Exchequer. Subscriptions are now being privately arranged. We have the offer of the free use of the dramatic company’s rooms,—in accordance with the will of the donor (Collet), who gave them for the benefit and advancement of the dramatic and musical arts, and also to be a preparatory school for the Norse stage.

I have much to do, and meet, as always, a great deal of opposition; but I do not doubt that it will go. One must strike with all one’s force. Poor Thorvald![19] I try to quiet myself with the thought that I did everything in my power to prevent his going to sea, but he would make his own way for himself....

Jonas Lie says:—

The Academy, as we know, was not founded; but the seed—the thought—was at that time planted. Since then it has grown and matured, and to–day we have a body of artists and composers, and quite another musical culture ready to receive it.

From 1863 to 1867 Ole Bull gave concerts in Germany, Poland, and Russia. He was honored in Berlin and Copenhagen by special festivities. In Copenhagen, at a banquet given by the “Norse Union,” the eminent Danish poet, Carl Ploug, proposed the toast to “the king of the realm of art.” He traveled in Russia during the seasons of 1866–1867. He used to say that no professional trip ever gave him more pleasure, and he would not venture to repeat it. He wrote a musical friend in Christiania, from Königsberg, June 4, 1866, as follows:—

It was strange that the notice of my death should have been dated the 10th of April, the very day that a silver music–rest was presented to me by the students of Moscow. I had given a concert for them, on which occasion we had made a great demonstration, because of the attempted assassination. How fortunate that it all turned out so well! The students had asked me to lead them, and I began by calling on the people (the first time it had been done!) to sing the royal hymn....

I have sent two Arabian horses from St. Petersburg: one black, by name Godolfin; the other Caraguese, a golden bronze with black mane and tail. They are of different breed, the black being south–Arabian blood, and the other Persian–Arabian. You will also see a beautiful violoncello[20] which will make your mouth water, as well as a glorious Antonius and Hieronimus Amati; I have also bought a Joseph Guarnerius in Moscow....

From Wiesbaden, July 2, 1865, he wrote his son:—

I am to leave Hamburg by the Saturday steamer for Bergen. This coming Wednesday I am to give a concert in the Theatre, for the benefit of the actors’ fund, and leave Thursday, going direct to Hamburg. I long to see you again, and to pass two months in quiet at Valestrand. I am much benefited by the baths, and it was well that I could give the time, as the same old symptoms of chills and fever had returned. I am now almost well, and hope, with the friendly action of the fine Valestrand air, to be entirely quit of this oppressive burden. I have in hand a work on the violin, which I hope to finish during my summer rest—and to go out again in the autumn with new vigor. I trust you will think that I look better. I passed some days with the Duke of Nassau, at his palace in Weilburg, and he courteously gave me the Adolf cross; he claims a special value for it, since it was never before given to an artist.

But think, Alexander! I have been so foolish as to buy a delightful Gaspar da Salo,[21] which is now my favorite. It has a much more majestic and noble tone than my other violins, and is adapted for concert purposes.

After invitations and messages to friends and relatives to visit the new house which he had built, but had not yet seen, he continues:—

I sent 2000 willows from Amsterdam. You have planted them by the stream, the best place for them? Have you bridged the brook and filled the slope, and remembered the poor birch–trees, which must have lived only on hope and air? You have papered some of the walls; we can pother and putter about these for a change, can we not? Serious conferences shall be held, and furnish us amusement....

I hope the low land by the lake looks well with its crop of oats. Their movement is so light and billowy as they are swayed by the wind, that they remind me of

[22]

and they break the monotony of a space without trees near the water....

I am now going to the musical festival at Coblentz, and am to return this evening. I breakfast with the Prince of Holstein (the highest in command), and am to sup with Mayor Schott in Biebrich....

P. S.—We should make some excursions to the interior of the island this summer, with the fiddle on our back.

This extract from a letter to his son, in Paris, dated at Bergen, September 4, 1866, is interesting for its prescience of political events:—

Take care, Alexander! political events are following closely on one another; the French have an enemy in the United States not to be ignored [since the affair in Mexico]; they must also beware of Germany; their fleets and finance would soon be ruined by a war. The times have changed, and the turn has come for Prussia to play the master in Europe. She has a solid basis, a sound exchequer; while in France all is unsettled and can easily fall out of equilibrium. The French are to be banished from Rome, too; and they must create new surprises and new gloires in time, or fail. The great man [Napoleon III.] is seriously ill; France knows it, and is silent; but events will speak. Be careful,—never take part in political discussions, I pray you!

Ole Bull was an eager reader of the newspapers, and kept up always with the daily telegraphic news. In the war between Germany and France he was an enthusiastic advocate of the German cause as against the imperialism of Napoleon. A fortnight before the event, he predicted to a friend in Wisconsin the compulsory resignation of McMahon as president of the republic and the election of Grévy, and, with almost faultless accuracy, the members of Grévy’s cabinet. He had a personal acquaintance with leading men and workers in every country of Europe, and this, together with his profound sympathy with the thoughts and aspirations of the people as a whole, enabled him to arrive at his own conclusions.

From St. Petersburg he wrote his son, April 17, 1867:—

These lines to tell you in haste that I have determined to visit Paris as soon as possible. To–morrow to Warsaw, where I am to give two concerts, and then direct to Paris....

I have just composed a fantasy on a Russian air, “The Nightingale,”—my adieu to Moscow,—and was obliged to repeat it. It has no great musical worth,—only effective. Perhaps you will like it; there is a sad thought running through it. I will rewrite it at Valestrand. My “Gaspar da Salo” is full of joy, and bears its virtuoso like an Arab; it is really matchless since I had a bar of seven–hundred–years’–old wood put in by Weihe; and I have discovered a new method for measuring and placing the bar in its relation to the building and playing of the violin.

Greet our countrymen in Paris most cordially....

In November, 1867, Ole Bull again visited the United States. He went directly to the West, giving his first concert in Chicago. In the Northwestern States were some 300,000 of his own countrymen, and they received him everywhere with rejoicing. In many towns they met him with torchlight processions and speeches of welcome, and he often left substantial proofs of his sympathy in gifts to their churches and libraries.

One evening in Milwaukee he played Paganini’s “Second Concerto” with so much spirit that his audience caught the enthusiasm of the player. On leaving the stage he whispered to his son: “I believe Paganini himself would have been pleased to–night, had he heard me.”

A Philadelphia writer, speaking of this visit of Ole Bull, says:—

It is probable that the artist was never in his life so acceptable to the American people as during his concert tour of 1868–1869. But no kindliness of fortune could prevent the constantly recurring incidents and accidents of this extremely interesting life. In the autumn of 1868 Ole Bull was a passenger down the Ohio River, when a collision between two steamboats occasioned a terrible accident, which involved the loss of many lives. “On that evening,” as he narrated afterwards, “without having any reason for what I did, I put on my coat and overcoat and went up on deck with my violin–case in hand. It was then past midnight.” Soon afterward the shock occurred. One boat had a quantity of petroleum, which, igniting, poured out upon the river and surrounded both vessels with a circle of fire. He was obliged to spring overboard, but reached the shore with violin and person alike intact, and after a tough struggle up the precipitous and clayey bank of the stream found a firm footing at the top. He was obliged to walk till daylight before he found a shelter.

There was enough music, fortunately, in the violin–case for immediate use; and although the company had lost all their luggage, only one concert was given up. The second night after the accident Ole Bull performed in Cincinnati as announced, but was obliged to appear in his traveling dress.

In the summer of 1869 he gave his services to the great Peace Jubilee in Boston, conducted by Mr. P. S. Gilmore, and this so delayed his departure for Europe that he could make only a flying visit to Norway. He returned again in the autumn. The winter following, he gave concerts and traveled constantly. He was everywhere warmly received by the public, both East and West.

In April, 1870, he sailed for Norway. The New York Tribune made the following mention of his departure:—

“Herr Ole Bull, from the N. Y. Philharmonic Society,” was the inscription upon a beautiful silken flag presented to the great violinist, yesterday, on the deck of the United States revenue cutter, which conveyed him from the barge–office at the Battery to the steamship Russia. The flag was the Norwegian colors, with the Star–Spangled Banner inserted in the upper staff section. The committee of presentation were Messrs. Hill, Schaad, and Doremus, the latter being the spokesman. Ole Bull was accompanied on board the steamer by quite a large number of friends, among whom were Miss Adelaide Phillips, Miss Alide Topp, Mrs. Belknap and sister, Dr. and Mrs. Doremus, General Banks, Senator Conkling, Mr. F. S. Appleton, and others. Dr. Doremus’s presentation speech, happily conceived, was responded to in the warm–hearted and impulsive manner peculiar to the artist, whose impulsiveness has ever characterized the products of his genius, and whose warm–heartedness is known to hundreds who have blessed him for his generosity. Senator Conkling and General Banks also made appropriate speeches. As the cutter left the steamer, the company waved together their regrets and their farewells; and the form of the fine old gentleman, bare–headed and swinging his hat, was seen as long as forms could be distinguished in the distance.

This beautiful flag was, according to Ole Bull’s promise on its acceptance, always carried in the 17th of May processions in Bergen, and floated on the 4th of July.

A beautiful silver vase presented by the N. Y. Philharmonic Society that season, a piece of silver plate given by the Young Men’s Christian Association of New York city, for whom he had played, and a very rich and beautiful gold crown given him in San Francisco, were among the mementos which he carried home to Norway.

A still closer tie was soon to bind him to the United States, the country which seemed already his by adoption. In Madison, Wis., in the winter of 1868, Ole Bull first made the acquaintance which resulted in his second marriage. He took a kindly interest in the musical studies of his friend there, and later in New York. To others this delightful relation of teacher, adviser, and friend seemed the only one permissible; but he wrote: “Other than human powers have decided my fate.... The sunbeams I shut out, but the sun itself I could not annihilate.”

The marriage was delayed in deference to the wishes of others for some months, but without resulting in a modification of their fears concerning the disparity of years and other conditions. It was later decided to have a private marriage. This was consummated in Norway, and publicly announced and confirmed on the return to the United States, three months later, in the autumn of 1870.

During the years 1867–69 Ole Bull had worked on his improvement of the piano–forte. This attempt to build a piano outside a manufactory would have been a very doubtful experiment even if the principle of construction had not been itself an experiment. He would not permit the use of any of the old means for strengthening and sustaining the sounding–board, which necessarily in time destroy its power of giving out a good quality of tone. His principal effort was to sustain the board at the ends, leaving the sides free, not permitting the board to be pierced for the insertion of screws to unite the upper and lower frame–work, as is generally done. The wooden strips employed to strengthen the great surface of the board should, he thought, be made to help the tone as well, on the principle of the bar in the violin; the whole to be so adjusted that the wood might grow better with use and age.

The first instrument was made under very great disadvantages. The workmen had it in hand while Ole Bull was absent on his concert tour. A telegram would announce to him the breaking of the frame, which he would try to remedy by suggestions sent by telegram or letter. This instrument cost some $15,000. Not satisfied with this, he commenced another, and met the same old difficulties in the frame, or new ones quite as serious. John Ericsson learned of his trouble, had him explain his idea, made a frame of the right weight and strength, only insisting upon one condition,—the acceptance of it by Ole Bull as a present. This second piano proved satisfactorily that the theory was sound and practicable. Ole Bull had hoped to perfect his invention and introduce the instruments to the public. This would have given him the greatest satisfaction; for even the best pianos give only for a short time a musical quality of tone, and necessarily deteriorate from use, not only because of the wear in the action, which can be replaced, but also on account of the destruction and breaking down of the woody cells and tissues of the sounding–board itself, under the improperly distributed strain brought to bear upon it.

The opportunity never came to Ole Bull of doing more than to satisfy himself that his theory could be realized. Two pianos only were made; but these proved the possibility of doing away with the objectionable features in the present construction of the instrument, which, in time, must destroy the vitality of the sounding–board and its power to produce a pure tone. It is well known that none but new pianos are used by professional players; and an instrument which has been used for any length of time positively vitiates a musical ear.

No friendly service ever touched Ole Bull more deeply than the generous helpfulness of John Ericsson, whom he admired and loved. It is with a sense of grateful recognition that the following letter is now given in concluding this mention of the piano:—

New York, December 13, 1880.

My dear Mrs. Bull,—In adverting to the fact,—when I had the pleasure of addressing you last week,—that everything connected with Ole Bull’s memory is dear to me, I omitted to refer to his admirable conception of securing the strings of pianos to a separate frame, composed of metal, so formed that it may be applied to any wooden stand more or less ornamented. It was my privilege, often, to listen to my lamented friend’s disquisitions relating to the violin, showing his clear mechanical conceptions of the laws which govern the construction of that most perfect of all musical instruments. The great violinist possessed a singularly accurate knowledge of the necessary relations between the capability of resisting the tension of the strings, and the elasticity requisite to admit of a perfectly free movement of the sounding–board, and other parts of the delicate structure, indispensable to produce infinitely minute vibrations, the control of which by his master hand created tones which enabled him to charm his hearers as none of his rivals could.

I regard the independent metallic frame for holding the strings of pianos as an invention which would do honor to any professional mechanician; and I contemplate with much satisfaction the circumstance that my departed friend intrusted to me the construction of the first specimen of his important improvement.

I am, my dear Mrs. Bull,

Yours very sincerely, J. Ericsson.

Mr. Ericsson had previously written of Ole Bull: “So warm a heart and so generous a disposition as his I have never known.” These words, it may be truthfully said, express the sentiment and the judgment of the violinist concerning the great engineer and inventor.

Professor H. Helmholtz, whose works on tone Ole Bull had carefully studied, says of the violinist in a letter written in May, 1881:—

I saw that he was thoroughly well informed as to the mechanical problems concerning the violin, which came in question.... I was much impressed by his personal character; he was at the same time so enthusiastic and so intelligent, interested in all the great problems of humanity.

The pleasantest incident of his concert tour in the season of 1871–72 was a visit he made to his friend, Mr. William H. Seward, in Auburn, N. Y. The two delightful days spent at Mr. Seward’s house relieved the tedium of the whole trip.

The summer of 1872 he was in Norway, and in the fall returned again to the United States, giving some seventy–five concerts, with his usual success, during the winter. The last concerts announced were given up, on account of the illness of his infant daughter.

In the spring he returned to Norway, and occupied for the first time the new house which had been built at Lysö during his absence. The winter following was mostly passed in Southern France. While on a visit to Florence, he met again his old friend Prince Poniatowsky, and also many others whom he had known nearly forty years before, when he had been made an honorary member of the Philharmonic Society of that city. Professor Sbolczis urged Ole Bull to permit his friends to hear him, offering the aid of his own orchestra; and not only the importunity of his friends, but the thought of again trying his power over such an audience as the city of the Arno can offer, tempted him to play. The hall was crowded, the tickets having been taken by storm, and the performers suffered considerable inconvenience therefrom. But to this an Italian readily accommodates himself under such circumstances.

Brizzi, the leader of the “Orfeo,” now claimed that what Ole Bull had done for Sbolczis should also be granted to his celebrated band of performers, and offered to secure for the concert the largest hall in the city, one that could hold nearly five thousand people. Ole Bull consented, and the greatest enthusiasm prevailed. In the orchestra sat old men who had accompanied Paganini—“And here he is again,” they cried. The Corriere Italiano said of the concert:—

The Teatro Pagliano yesterday presented an imposing scene. Every part was full to overflowing. The most distinguished families and the ladies of the highest circles, including the Grand Duchess Marie of Russia, whose frequent applause showed how intensely she enjoyed the music, were present at the concert; also Commodore Peruzzi and wife, Princess Carolath, Princess Strozzi, and an immense number of musical amateurs of our artistic and aristocratic society.... The chief honors of the concert were given to the Norse Paganini, the original, inspiring, great violinist, Ole Bull, who kindly contributed his valuable assistance, and paid his respects to the “Orfeo.” His artistic nature prompted him to this graceful act of fraternal courtesy, the value of which is extraordinary, because he himself is extraordinary,—he, the king of all violinists of the present time, the old formidable rival of Paganini. In the fantasy of the “Nightingale” he gave us an idea of his charming and wonderful skill.... In the “Carnival of Venice,” the frantic dance of the notes combined with the most graceful execution could not be excelled. Both pieces produced a storm of deafening applause. The audience desired the latter repeated, but, instead of this, the musician gave them the celebrated fantasy of Paganini on the no less celebrated song of Paisiello, “Nel cor non più mi sento,” and in this we heard from Ole Bull the most secret beauties of song, the sweetness of the flute, the transitions of the violin to the viola, and to the sadness of the violoncello. In the “Polacca Guerriera,” one of his own compositions, burst forth the exciting and powerful notes of war. As a composer he was graceful, wild, full of imagination, feeling, and originality; as a performer he was mighty, wonderful, indescribable. At this point a golden wreath from the “Orfeo” was presented to Ole Bull, while the audience applauded rapturously. The old and handsome hero was visibly moved by the enthusiasm which he had evoked.

He wrote of that evening:—

My violin did not fail me. I was never more thrilled by its tone myself, and I cannot describe to you the pitch to which the excitement ran, or the warmth of my reception. I am so thankful that I have not disappointed my old friends.

From Florence he went to Rome to see Liszt, and he found there quite a colony of his countrymen.

The year following was spent in Norway. He had many vexations and troubles at that time; but the hospitable cheer and ever–affectionate welcome of his dear Lysekloster neighbors made these easier to bear. During the summer he visited the North of Norway—the “Land of the Midnight Sun”—for the first time. That trip was ever afterward a source of delightful reminiscences, and, every successive winter, a repetition of it for the coming summer would be suggested. He used graphically to picture for us the morning which gave him his first sight of the Lofoden Islands: the changeful, illusive beauty of sea and sky through the long day, every feature and outline of isle and coast being sharpened or softened by the play of brilliant light, now and then dimmed by the fitful shadow of a fleecy cloud; and how, towards midnight, all this culminated in a glory indescribable, the warm prismatic colors flooding sky and sea, not followed by twilight, but kindled anew by the beams of the rising sun suddenly shooting athwart the sky, the warmth and glow at last giving way to the tender flush of morning, and then to the white light of day. Then, too, he would tell how his fellow–travelers, mostly Englishmen, were ennuied and indifferent the first days of the trip, but as they approached the North, and felt the influence of the champagne–like atmosphere, how they gradually yielded themselves to the charm of a new sensation, becoming social and even gay, some of them climbing the shrouds like boys, and confiding to him that they had never beheld a scene comparable for beauty, or felt such exhilaration.

At one of the coast villages, which was so small that a concert had not been thought of, they found the whole population turned out, and, with the recruits from the surrounding country, making an imposing array on the quay, which was decorated with evergreens and flags. Surprised at such a welcome, the captain and passengers good–naturedly agreed to wait till the concert could be given. As the steamer, gay with flags from stem to stern, passed out of the fjord, the mountains echoed with the repeated shouts and peals of cannon.

His countrymen received him everywhere with the warm–hearted hospitality they know so well how to dispense. But the dream of a repetition of that trip was never realized. Three years later he went as far north as Throndhjem, but mists and rain prevented a continuation of the voyage.

The celebration of his birthday in 1876 deserves some mention here. The following account is taken, with a few corrections, from Adolf Ebeling’s “Bilder aus Kairo” (Stuttgart, 1878):—

On a beautiful September day in 1875, Ole Bull, by invitation, visited Drotingholm, the charming summer palace near Stockholm, and a favorite residence of the queen. A fine park and inviting gardens separate it from the busy world. Still it is only necessary to climb the heights near by, and a glorious panorama is spread out below. The bay of the Malar is seen filled with islands, and the sea dotted with large and small sails; and, on the other side, Stockholm itself, with its towers and palaces, its forest of masts in the harbor, and the dark–green mountains in the background.

The queen, now convalescent from a recent illness, was giving no audiences, but had expressed a desire to see the artist, and invited him to breakfast with the royal family. While at table the queen happened to mention Ole Bull’s “Saeterbesög,” her favorite composition. He was on the point of telling her that it was on the programme for one of his Stockholm concerts, but a glance from the king checked him, as she was not yet permitted the excitement of hearing music. At the same moment his majesty laughingly suggested: “You are about to undertake a new professional trip, Ole Bull. Perhaps you will visit Egypt. What do you say to playing the ‘Saeterbesög’ on the top of the Pyramid of Cheops? Nothing of the kind has ever been done, and it seems to me that the idea might tempt a virtuoso.” Ole Bull accepted the plan heartily, and the king further suggested the 5th of February, the artist’s birthday, as an appropriate time for the pyramid–concert. On taking leave, the royal pair most warmly wished him all success on his trip, especially the Egyptian portion of it.

After playing in Copenhagen, Berlin, Stettin, Hamburg, Lübeck, and Bremen, awakening the same enthusiasm as of old, we find him on the last day of January, 1876, in Brindisi, taking passage for Egypt, accompanied by an impressario and his pianist, the young Emil Bach. The trip was a pleasant one. At early dawn on the 4th of February Ole Bull stepped on shore at Alexandria, determined to carry out the “royal idea,” as he called it. The same evening he reached Cairo, where the Swedish consul, to whom a telegram had been sent, met him at the station and took him to his hospitable home. Early the next morning, the 5th of February, several carriages were ready before the villa of the consul, who had sent word in haste to a few friends to invite them to share the trip; and about ten o’clock the party found themselves at the Pyramids, the goal of Ole Bull’s journey. Some of the company were to ascend the Pyramid, and some to remain below; the latter were in the minority, and were mostly ladies with a few elderly gentlemen. The oldest of all was Ole Bull himself, but he had already mounted the first ten blocks of the huge structure alone and unaided. The powerful son of the Norse mountains, to whom, in his boyhood, no crag or peak was too high to be scaled, declared that, in spite of the sixty–six years which he was celebrating, he should be ashamed to have foreign arms help him to the top. But the carrying up of his violin was a matter of great concern and anxiety to him. Wrapped in a silk handkerchief, it was intrusted to one of the most stalwart of the Bedouins, and the bow, protected in the same way, was given to another muscular fellow. After a quarter of an hour’s climb, Ole Bull stood first of all upon the small world–famed plateau, and greeted the Norse flag which the consul had had raised there. Gradually the rest of the guests came also; but from all sides clambered and crowded the Bedouins, for the report had quickly circulated that a king of the North had sent a player down to the Pyramids. Had they known of it in Cairo, the tourists would certainly have flocked thither in crowds.