Chapter M: Ole B. Bull (5)

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....

[19] This son had fallen from the mast of a sailing vessel in the Mediterranean; he was buried at Malta.

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....

[20] The violoncello was given by Ole Bull to this same friend.

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.

[21] This instrument was used by him in his concerts from that time.

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] A Norwegian melody.

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:—