The Atlantic voyage was a rest in itself, for seasickness was unknown to Ole Bull, and he was a good person to cheer others who were unhappy on shipboard. The inevitable concert would be given the last evening of the voyage, and often on very stormy pa.s.sages he had played to make others forget the fear and discomfort of the hour.
The summer of 1877 was quietly spent in Norway, and the winter was pa.s.sed on the Continent in travel. In Brussels, among the friends who called on the artist was Vieuxtemps, then suffering from the effects of a paralytic stroke. When he would himself try Ole Bull"s instrument his poor, numb hand could not obey his will; and at last he exclaimed, as he handed it back, ""Tis no use, I _cannot_ command my fingers!" His talk concerning style, composition, and virtuosity was most interesting, as were also the incidents of travel which he recalled. He said of Mendelssohn and Schumann, "Ils sont virtuoses parce qu"ils connaissent a fond leur art; ils sont virtuoses parce qu"ils sont de grands poetes.
Ils le sont parce qu"ils ont le genie. Virtuosite, genie, sont deux termes a peu pres synonymes, deux notions presque identiques."
Vieuxtemps"s indignation at the constant abuse of the term may be imagined.
Ole Bull had planned to go to Italy and Sicily for the winter, as he had long desired to revive and live over again the memories of his first visits to that sunny clime; but on his reaching Vienna in January, the time from week to week pa.s.sed so delightfully, and old friends were so cordial, that all thought of going further south was given up. He had not intended to appear in public, and did so on a few occasions only.
The general interest taken in his visit there and elsewhere by the press and the people surprised him. He busied himself while in Vienna with repairing violins for friends, with so much success that his acquaintances would urge him to direct the work on their instruments, which they wished adjusted according to his method, and he could seldom refuse such a request. It sometimes seemed as if he were happier at work on an old decrepit fiddle, which he saw could be restored, than when playing on his own superb instrument.
While in that city he celebrated with friends the birthday of Madame Mathilde Marchesi. Among the guests at the musical party was Madame Christine Nilsson, and the hostess told with pride of a telegram she had just received from her favorite pupil, Gerster, whose brilliant success in America she predicted.
Nilsson recalled how when a little girl she had been admitted by the stagedoor to one of Ole Bull"s concerts in Sweden, and how, while the artist stood talking to a friend, she had asked to look at his violin, which he left in her hands when called away for a moment. On venturing to draw the bow she found to her delight that it "almost played itself."
The courtesy of Mr. Joseph h.e.l.lmesberger, Kapelmeister, with whom the artist played in public, was an incident of his stay which he remembered with much pleasure.
A visit was made to Pesth, where each day was sure to bring a charming note or thoughtful message from Liszt, whose kindly face often looked in upon his friend. The following missive was sent on the morning before Ole Bull left the city:-
_Mardi, 19 Fevrier._
MON ILl.u.s.tRE,-Je vous prie amicalement de pa.s.ser la soiree d"aujourd"hui avec Madame Ole Bull chez votre vieux collegue et devoue ami,
FRANZ LISZT.
On se reunit a 9 heures.
(Il n"y aura pas de "violon" ni meme de piano.)
At midnight, however, the violin was sent for at Liszt"s request, and not till after two o"clock in the morning did the company disperse. The walk to the hotel along the fine river embankment in the brilliant starlight, with the wonderful tones still sounding in one"s brain, cannot be forgotten. After a brilliant improvisation on the same motives which Ole Bull had chosen for the violin, Liszt had closed with a dreamy, tender nocturne.
The master"s real interest in his friend"s work was shown by his chiding him with warmth for the state of his musical ma.n.u.scripts which he insisted on looking through, and which he earnestly entreated him to prepare for publication.
The following note brought Liszt himself in answer, and the last adieux were said:-
ILl.u.s.tRE AMI,-En partant, le courage de vous remercier de vive voix de votre hospitalite princiere me fait defaut. Vos precieux conseils, inseparables compagnons de votre ame, inseparables souvenirs de lumiere de notre reunion apres tant d"annees d"epreuves, sont gage sincere d"amitie-gage et promesse en meme temps! Ma chere femme, toute emue sous l"influence de votre genie si gracieux, me prie d"exprimer sa reconnaissance, et permettezmoi de souhaiter que l"Etre Supreme vous rende aussi heureux que possible; voila ce que desire ardemment
Votre devoue admirateur et ami,
F. LISZT. OLE BULL.
A month at the baths in Wiesbaden, where friends made the stay most pleasant, and a summer in the Norse home, followed. That summer homecoming was always a delight to Ole Bull.
The grand old mountains, weird and forbidding in the early spring storms but glorified by the Northern summer, called him, and he heard. The beloved Lysekloster valley, whose wooded slopes commanded the fjord, the sea, the islands, and the great range of the Hardanger; the road his childish steps had trod, winding its way down to the sea from the church of the old ancestral home, at every turn giving a picturesque glimpse of lake or cliff; the path shaded by birches and maples, and the fields fragrant with wood violets and liliesofthevalley; the cottagers at work, the red jackets of the women and caps of the men giving a dash of color here and there; the workers shouting their respectful "welcome back" as he hurries down to the boat waiting to carry him to his own enchanted isle,-this was the picture which lured him every spring, and when realized gave him the happiest moment of the year.
From his eighth year he had loved Lysekloster, and often said that he would choose that of all places in the world for his home. In 1872 the estate was divided on the death of the owner, and the mansion itself came into the possession of a friend and schoolmate of Ole Bull, who, at his suggestion, bought the island opposite and decided to make a new home for himself there, thus fulfilling his boyish dream. The island had hardly been explored or its rocky sh.o.r.es visited by those living on the main land. Its tall pines had grown and rocked in the winds alone; its sod, except in one little spot, had never been broken; its lakes mirrored only the stars and clouds. From the foundation of the cloister on the main land seven hundred years before, it had been noted only as furnishing some of the largest and finest trees in the neighborhood for building purposes; but fortunately it was still well wooded with pine.
A visitor would find Ole Bull while there interested chiefly in the subject of drainage, the care of trees, and the grading of roads and paths, which he had himself laid out; strewn with white seash.e.l.ls they could be seen from a height circling the lakes and opening up the island in every direction.
The little steamer gliding into the fjord at breakfast time seldom failed to bring one or more guests from town. Old or young, they were taken on walks of exploration about the island, and even the oldest were sure to catch the enthusiasm of their host. If fretted by a guidance which did not spare them a short cut over rough ground, down ravines and along neverending turns of paths, so confusing that it was impossible to return alone, they forgave him later, when in his music they learned what such a walk had been to him.
The autumn days were the days for study. The guests had then gone, and sometimes a week of storm would succeed the brightest sunshine, and dark nights suddenly replace the long twilight. The walks then were to the farthest points out towards the sea, where the ocean symphony sounded loudest; the paths must also be explored to protect them from the miniature waterfalls overleaping their proper channels, or to save tree or shrub from the flood which threatened its destruction; but the fiercest storms could not disturb the tranquil lakes guarded by the pineclad cliffs which furnished a quiet retreat on those wild walks.
Then came the contrast of the cozy room brightly lighted, and the tempting delicacy, or, better still, the oldfashioned dish reserved for such times by the faithful Martha.[23] How he enjoyed it all! The musicroom cheerful with woodfires and candles, while the storm without promised seclusion, tempted him to do the best work, often far into the night. When the fire and candles had burned low, and the shadows seemed the intruding spirits of the storm, then the notes would be thrown aside, and that wonderful instrument, a soul in the hand of its master, would voice the tempest outside and the peace within. Never did the picture of him drawn by Longfellow in the "Tales of the Wayside Inn"
seem more strikingly true than in that room and at that hour:-
[23] Ole Bull"s housekeeper for many years.
Before the blazing fire of wood Erect the rapt Musician stood; And ever and anon he bent His head upon his instrument, And seemed to listen, till he caught Confessions of its secret thought,- The joy, the triumph, the lament, The exultation and the pain; Then, by the magic of his art He soothed the throbbings of its heart And lulled it into peace again.
The exquisite pictures of the artist which appear later in the poem, breathing the Northern tradition and spirit, follow naturally here:-
Last the Musician, as he stood Illumined by that fire of wood; Fairhaired, blueeyed, his aspect blithe, His figure tall and straight and lithe, And every feature of his face Revealing his Norwegian race; A radiance, streaming from within, Around his eyes and forehead beamed; The angel with the violin, Painted by Raphael, he seemed.
He lived in that ideal world Whose language is not speech, but song; Around him evermore the throng Of elves and sprites their dances whirled; The Stromkarl sang, the cataract hurled Its headlong waters from the height; And mingled in the wild delight The scream of seabirds in their flight, The rumor of the forest trees, The plunge of the implacable seas, The tumult of the wind at night, Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing, Old ballads and wild melodies Through mist and darkness pouring forth, Like Elivagar"s river flowing Out of the glaciers of the North.
The instrument on which he played Was in Cremona"s workshops made, By a great master of the past, Ere yet was lost the art divine; Fashioned of maple and of pine, That in Tyrolian forests vast Had rocked and wrestled with the blast; Exquisite was it in design, Perfect in each minutest part, A marvel of the lutist"s art; And in its hollow chamber, thus, The maker from whose hands it came Had written his unrivaled name,- "Antonius Stradivarius."
And when he played, the atmosphere Was filled with magic, and the ear Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold, Whose music had so weird a sound, The hunted stag forgot to bound, The leaping rivulet backward rolled, The birds came down from bush and tree, The dead came from beneath the sea, The maiden to the harper"s knee!
The following is from Part Second, written in 1872:-
Meanwhile from out its ebon case His violin the minstrel drew, And, having tuned its strings anew, Now held it close in his embrace, And poising in his outstretched hand The bow, like a magician"s wand, He paused, and said, with beaming face: "Last night my story was too long; Today I give you but a song, An old tradition of the North; But first, to put you in the mood, I will a little while prelude, And from this instrument draw forth Something by way of overture."
He played; at first the tones were pure And tender as a summer night, The full moon climbing to her height, The sob and ripple of the seas, The flapping of an idle sail; And then by sudden and sharp degrees The multiplied, wild harmonies Freshened and burst into a gale; A tempest howling through the dark, A crash as of some shipwrecked bark, A loud and melancholy wail.
Such was the prelude to the tale Told by the minstrel; and at times He paused amid its varying rhymes, And at each pause again broke in The music of his violin, With tones of sweetness or of fear, Movements of trouble or of calm Creating their own atmosphere; As sitting in a church we hear Between the verses of the psalm The organ playing soft and clear, Or thundering on the startled ear.
And again, in Part Third, is given this natural touch:-
The tall Musician walked the room With folded arms and gleaming eyes, As if he saw the Vikings rise, Gigantic shadows in the gloom; And much he talked of their emprise, And meteors seen in northern skies, And Heimdal"s horn and day of doom.
Then in the silence that ensued Was heard a sharp and sudden sound As of a bowstring snapped in air; And the Musician with a bound Sprang up in terror from his chair, And for a moment listening stood, Then strode across the room, and found His dear, his darling violin Still lying safe asleep within Its little cradle, like a child That gives a sudden cry of pain, And wakes to fall asleep again; And as he looked at it and smiled, By the uncertain light beguiled, Despair! two strings were broken in twain.
The future held for Ole Bull the rare fortune of being for one happy winter the neighbor of Mr. Longfellow.
Lingering as long as possible till there was but the shortest time to meet appointments, Ole Bull sailed from Norway in the fall of 1878 for the United States. So far as concerts were concerned, there is but the same story of a cordial reception by the public and a pleasant winter.
A few brief extracts from the many notices in the journals will suffice.
He played in the princ.i.p.al Northern cities only.
The Boston _Journal_ said of him:-
Ole Bull seems not a day older than he did a score of years ago, and certainly he has not lost a whit of his wonderful command over the violin.
The New York _Herald_ of December 15th said in a long article:-
Taken as a whole, the art of the great virtuoso is distinctive, original, and full of rugged strength. It may be truly said of him that he is the poet of the violin, especially when ill.u.s.trating his own splendid compositions.
And the _Tribune_ remarked:-
His fervid nature and personal magnetism are as powerful as ever, and he sways the audience of today pretty much as he did their fathers and mothers, in spite of the fact that critical taste is not always satisfied with his methods.