Chapter M: Ole B. Bull (6)

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.

Ole Bull had now taken his violin and given two powerful strokes
to assure himself that it was in good condition after its
dangerous journey. He then drew himself up to his full height, and
let his penetrating glance wander along the horizon for a few
moments, to scan the wonderful scene below. At his right lay the
valley of the Nile with its bright green fields stretching into
vanishing distances, the waves of that broad, majestic stream
gleaming like molten silver; to the left lay great, boundless,
golden deserts and the Libyan Mountains; before him, at his feet,
he had the wide–spreading city of the khedive, with its minarets,
domes, and palm–gardens, all bathed in the brilliant sunlight. Now
he suddenly began to play a hymn of praise, as it seemed; it was
like a cry of joy to the Fates who had vouchsafed him to stand
there and to behold, with his own eyes, the magnificent picture,
the goal of so many desires. Then he turned towards his home in
the North, and began his own mountain–song, the “Saeterbesög”....
In the pure, calm air of this height,—the loftiest of all
structures made by human hands,—the tones were so clear and
penetrating, and at the same time so powerful, that we felt
ourselves moved as by magic power and thrilled to our inmost
souls; then, again, they wailed like soft maiden voices—it was the
home longing, the cry to the Norway mountains; and then, again, we
heard the hero’s song of triumph, proud of his beautiful
fatherland.

As Uhland makes the Münster Tower shake when the young Goethe
writes his name upon it,—

“Von seinem Schlage knittern
Die hellen Funken auf,
Den Thurm durchfährt ein Zittern
Vom Grundstein bis zum Knauf,”—

so those tones must have reverberated to the centre of this royal
grave of six thousand years within the Pyramids. And that this
beautiful, poetic moment should lack nothing, there rose, just as
the master gave the last strokes of his bow, two majestic pelicans
from the valley of the Nile, which swept with the silvery sheen of
their wings towards the north, as if they would take the message
of this happy event to Ole Bull’s home. The Bedouins, children of
nature, who, during the playing, lay in a circle, motionless as
fallen statues, sprang up when the master had finished, as if
electrified, and shouted aloud and repeated “Allah! Allah!”

Thus Ole Bull had kept his promise. Returning to Cairo he
telegraphed the king, and the next forenoon received the royal
reply. The telegrams were as follows:—

“To King Oscar, Christiania, Norway,—

“According to my promise at Drotingholm, I played, on this my
sixty–sixth birthday, on the top of Cheops’ Pyramid, in honor of
Norway and its beloved king, my ‘Saeterbesög.’”

The king answered:—

“I thank you heartily for your telegram, and the queen and myself
are rejoiced at all your successes.”

The artist’s singular journey to the Pyramids was soon known in
Cairo, and the khedive, during an audience, complimented him on
his courage and youthful strength. Ole Bull gave a concert at the
Opera House, and harvested laurels, flowers, wreaths, and poems.
His “Tarentella” and “Carnival of Venice” were especially admired.
He played them with unwonted fire, accompanied as he was by the
admirable Italian orchestra, under the leadership of his old
friend Bottesini; but his Norse “Saeterbesög” was not heard again.

Ole Bull returned to America in time to visit the great Centennial Exhibition at Philadelphia. Offers from managers came at once, desiring him to appear in concerts. He arranged with local managers in the principal cities, and he never assumed again the burden of his own concert company. His engagements were made on a new plan, which relieved him of all responsibility outside his own performances. The time had come when it seemed right that his own comfort and pleasure should be the first consideration. He played by contract never more than three times a week, and the hours for travel were limited. It is but just to mention in this connection that all the engagements filled from 1876 to 1880 were satisfactory as to the management and courtesy of the gentlemen who arranged for his concerts, and he had the pleasure of being associated with many distinguished artists.

He first appeared in Music Hall, Boston, and after an absence of six years the audience seemed most kindly determined to convince him of their warm welcome. As he entered they rose to their feet, and the applause was long continued. He gave that season, in Boston, nine concerts to crowded houses, and the great desire of the public to hear him so often was a surprise and a pleasure to him. One occasion should be specially mentioned.

The great interest which he felt in the recognition of the Norsemen’s discovery of America, not only in and for itself, but because it may have given a hint to Columbus, who visited Iceland, made Ole Bull desire to bring this subject before the people of Boston; and an invitation signed by many gentlemen, prominent in social, political, and literary circles, urging him to give one more concert, afforded him an opportunity of doing this. The matter was therefore talked over with friends, and subsequently a committee was appointed for the erection of a monument to Leif Ericsson, commemorative of the event.

It is hoped that this undertaking is to be carried out and completed in the near future. Ole Bull’s friends know how earnest he was in promoting it; and in Mr. Thomas G. Appleton, the chairman of the committee, he found a liberal and enthusiastic helper. Many others, beside his own countrymen, were interested in the plan, as will be seen from the remarks made by Rev. Edward Everett Hale at the concert, and reported below.

The concert was given in Music Hall, which was elaborately and tastefully decorated for the occasion. Mr. Curtis Guild, who introduced the artist, said:—

I have been deputed by his Excellency Governor Rice, his Honor
Mayor Cobb, and other members of the committee, with whom I have
the honor to be associated, to present to you one of whom it with
truth may be said that he needs no introduction to a Boston
audience.... From the commencement of his career in this country,
when an entranced audience listened to his wonderful melody at the
Melodeon, in May, 1844, to the present time, a period of more than
thirty years, the citizens of Boston, more especially those of
musical culture, have recognized Ole Bull as a great musical
artist, and one whose composition and performance commanded the
tribute that only true genius can exact....

Ole Bull’s reply in acknowledgment of his reception was thus reported in the _Daily Advertiser_:

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,—I see here among the audience stars of the
first magnitude. Why should they address me? What am I that I can
stand before this audience and address such stars as these? I am
but an atom of failure in the universe; yet you are all united
with me in that failure in that you have indorsed me. You belong
to me and I belong to you. [Applause.] But to explain to you the
relation in which I stand here, and the names you see about me
[referring to the names Thorvald, Thorfinn, Leif, and Washington],
and how they are connected together, I allow myself to say a few
words. Everybody in this audience knows that in the year 984
Bjarne sailed to meet his father in Greenland. He was driven
south, and after a long voyage came at last to a beautiful land,
which he went back and reported he had seen. Fourteen years after,
in 1000, his son, Leif Ericsson, took his ships and proceeded to
seek that land; and he came along by Newfoundland and the coast of
Nova Scotia, and further down to what he called Vineland, because
he found vines there. He remained the fall and winter there, and
then sailed back again to Iceland. Then two years after, his
brother Thorvald went over and met his death near Martha’s
Vineyard. In 1831 they discovered his body in armor. His body was
taken to Boston, and the armor was analyzed, and they found it was
the same metal that the Norsemen had used in the ninth and tenth
centuries. It had the same ornaments they had used, so there
could be no doubt to whom it belonged. But, unfortunately, the
armor was lost by fire, and that calamity which we both share
together was an atom of fate that clings to us. You lost the
armor, but there was one who could give it to posterity, and I
say, almost to eternity, and that was our illustrious star,
Longfellow. [Applause.] It was given for him to do it in his
“Skeleton in Armor.”

Now what connection has the name of Thorfinn to Washington?
Washington not only belongs to the whole world of the present
generation, for that would be little to say,—he belongs to all
future generations. What you educate is not for you alone, but it
is for the whole world. The name of Washington stands as the
greatest pinnacle of glory. It signifies liberty, it signifies
every thing that ennobles man. [Applause.] We find in the recent
discoveries concerning his ancestors, that they came over in a
ship, but that his ancestors’ name was Thorfinn. Well, Thorfinn is
a Norwegian name, and it is not very easy to see how Thorfinn
could be changed to Washington. But we see every day that
strangers come here, and after some little time they change their
names to some other taken from the new surroundings. We see it in
Norway, often, that a man who has taken a new farm takes his name,
not from the ancient farm but the new farm. And this is the
connection of the ideas which prompted me to come here to–night
and have the honor to reply to the memory of Washington and the
memory of the Revolution, which delivered not not only America
from oppression, but the whole world. Now I beg leave to take my
instrument in order to explain the rest.

After an account of the concert, during which the artist “seemed stirred, by the sympathy of his hearers, to a sympathy, intensity, and vividness of style unwonted even to himself,” the _Advertiser_ continues:—

Near the close of the performance, the Rev. E. E. Hale rose in his
place on the floor, and said he supposed it was known to every
person present that the distinguished artist had spent almost the
whole of his active life in knotting those ties which connected
his country with ours. It was hoped that in some future time there
would be erected a physical memorial to the early discoverers of
whom he had spoken. It was the wish of those about him [Mr. Hale],
at whose request he spoke, that Boston should not be behind in any
expression of gratitude to him [Ole Bull] for his work, as well as
in expressing interest in our Norse ancestors. He was sure he
spoke the mind, not only of the audience, but of all New England,
when he spoke of the interest with which he regarded his
countrymen, whom they regarded as almost theirs. He remembered,
although it was nearly forty years ago, when much such an audience
as he saw about him cheered and applauded Edward Everett, when the
early discoveries had just been made, and, when in one of the last
of his public poems he expressed the wish that the great
discoveries of Thorvald might be commemorated by Thorvald’s great
descendant, the Northern artist, Thorwaldsen. The last words of
that poem as it died upon the ear were,—

“Thorvald shall live for aye in Thorwaldsen.”

He, the speaker, thought it was a misfortune for New England that
the great northern artist died before he could accomplish this
wish. But New Englanders had never forgotten it, and had never
forgotten their Norse ancestors. It was an enterprise which ought
to engage Massachusetts men,—the preservation of a physical
memorial of Thorvald, Leif, and Thorfinn,—and he suggested that
the committee which had arranged the meeting should become a
committee of New England, in conjunction with Mr. Appleton, to
take this matter in special charge. Mr. Hale put a motion to this
effect, and it was carried, and the committee constituted.

The holidays of that year were memorable. Thanksgiving found Ole Bull at the home of Professor Horsford in Cambridge, and he shared the Christmas cheer of Craigie House with the beloved poet; while on New Year’s Eve, he watched the old year out and the new in with a few friends in the library of James T. Fields.

In the early months of that year he made an engagement for thirty concerts with his friend, Mr. Maurice Strakosch. He first gave four concerts at Steinway Hall, in New York, and had the honor of being assisted by Madame Essipoff. The _New York Herald_, of March 4, 1877, said:—

Age seems to have been contented with scattering snow upon his
head, leaving untouched the fire of his genius. The lithe and
agile figure has lost none of its elasticity, and the nerves are
as steady as in the noon–day of life. There is still the same
nervous delicacy of touch and precision of execution, which, in
the years gone by, charmed two continents and led the people of
many lands in pleasant bondage after the car of the enchanting
musician. The triumphs of to–day are destined to be no less great
than those obtained in the past. Ole Bull, like a prince that had
wandered from his own land and returned after a long absence, is
restored to the throne he had abandoned by a delighted people; the
memory of his great feats is not forgotten.

The New York audiences were remarkable for their size, as were those in the cities he visited east, south, and west. Miss Emma Thursby was now associated with him, and this first acquaintance with that great and charming artist resulted in a warm, personal friendship. The very last engagement Ole Bull filled was in conjunction with Miss Thursby, who was, he hoped, to accompany him to Norway, where he desired to present her himself to his countrymen; but, overtaken by the last fatal illness in England, he was so weak on reaching home that waiting friends were advised of the impossibility of even a visit. The following summer, Miss Thursby paid a most loving and tender tribute to her departed friend, by visiting Ole Bull’s birthplace to add her generous gift to the memorial his countrymen are to erect, and won for herself the admiration and the affection of the Northmen, as she had that of Ole Bull before.

The press notices are reminders of the large audiences of 1876, and the pleasure manifested at the efforts of the artists. In some places,—in Brooklyn and Philadelphia, for instance,—not only the audience–room was filled to overflowing, but hundreds of extra seats were placed upon the stage, while large numbers were turned away. Describing such a scene, the Philadelphia _Press_ said:—

And when Ole Bull appeared, what a right royal shout of welcome he
received! The wind waves almost could be felt, and the applause
could be heard blocks away.... There is yet the delicacy of touch
and the wondrous power that tells of genius without loss of
lustre, and of the marvelous sympathetic instrumentation of his
brightest years. Nardini’s Sonata was the first selection, and it
was superbly played.... The concert throughout was a most
brilliant success, and may fairly rank as one of the great events
in the musical history of Philadelphia.

To the last, these great audiences welcomed Ole Bull in the Philadelphia Academy, under the able management of Mr. Pugh.

The entire season was to the violinist an enjoyable one, since he was in perfect health and condition for his work. He had time to see his friends and to visit them, playing, as he did, at intervals only. He renewed many of the intimacies he had formed on his first visits to this country, which incessant work in previous years had compelled him, against his wish, to drop; and he found that he was not only not forgotten, but even better loved than he had thought.

After finishing his series of concerts, and only three days before his departure for Europe, a request came, signed by many distinguished names in New York, asking for still another appearance. He played, on the evening before he sailed, in Booth’s Theatre, to a very full house, the stage and boxes being occupied by his friends. The artists were all inspired to do their best, and, after the “Ave Maria” of Gounod had been sung by Miss Thursby with Ole Bull’s obligato, the audience seemed more determined than ever to recall the artist and to demand familiar airs. After the sixth encore he made a little speech, but it was not until he had responded to the tenth recall, for which he had given, “We won’t go home till morning,” that the audience, with the last waving of handkerchiefs and cheers, said good–by. Later, at a little supper at the hotel, the paper written by Dr. Crosby (printed in the Appendix to this volume) was produced and read for the first time—a surprise to Ole Bull. This labor of love so generously given when it meant hours of toil to an already overworked physician, with illness at home, was the crowning kindness of the many showered upon him by loving friends. No man ever filled a larger place in Ole Bull’s heart than Professor R. Ogden Doremus, who was present, and had made Dr. Crosby known to the artist; and how he wished that he might carry the two with him to his own beloved Norway, when they bade him good–by the next morning on the deck of the steamer! He felt a concern for Dr. Crosby’s health which proved only too well founded, for in June came the sad news of his death, the result of overwork.

The Atlantic voyage was a rest in itself, for sea–sickness was unknown to Ole Bull, and he was a good person to cheer others who were unhappy on shipboard. The inevitable concert would be given the last evening of the voyage, and often on very stormy passages he had played to make others forget the fear and discomfort of the hour.

The summer of 1877 was quietly spent in Norway, and the winter was passed on the Continent in travel. In Brussels, among the friends who called on the artist was Vieuxtemps, then suffering from the effects of a paralytic stroke. When he would himself try Ole Bull’s instrument his poor, numb hand could not obey his will; and at last he exclaimed, as he handed it back, “’Tis no use, 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 à fond leur art; ils sont virtuoses parce qu’ils sont de grands poètes. Ils le sont parce qu’ils ont le génie. Virtuosité, génie, sont deux termes à peu près synonymes, deux notions presque identiques.” Vieuxtemps’s indignation at the constant abuse of the term may be imagined.

Ole Bull had planned to go to Italy and Sicily for the winter, as he had long desired to revive and live over again the memories of his first visits to that sunny clime; but on his reaching Vienna in January, the time from week to week passed so delightfully, and old friends were so cordial, that all thought of going further south was given up. He had not intended to appear in public, and did so on a few occasions only. The general interest taken in his visit there and elsewhere by the press and the people surprised him. He busied himself while in Vienna with repairing violins for friends, with so much success that his acquaintances would urge him to direct the work on their instruments, which they wished adjusted according to his method, and he could seldom 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 stage–door to one of Ole Bull’s concerts in Sweden, and how, while the artist stood talking to a friend, she had asked to look at his violin, which he left in her hands when called away for a moment. On venturing to draw the bow she found to her delight that it “almost played itself.”

The courtesy of Mr. Joseph Hellmesberger, Kapelmeister, with whom the artist played in public, was an incident of his stay which he remembered with much pleasure.

A visit was made to Pesth, where each day was sure to bring a charming note or thoughtful message from Liszt, whose kindly face often looked in upon his friend. The following missive was sent on the morning before Ole Bull left the city:—

_Mardi, 19 Février._

MON ILLUSTRE,—Je vous prie amicalement de passer la soirée
d’aujourd’hui avec Madame Ole Bull chez votre vieux collègue et
dévoué ami,

FRANZ LISZT.

On se réunit à 9 heures.

(Il n’y aura pas de “violon” ni même de piano.)

At midnight, however, the violin was sent for at Liszt’s request, and not till after two o’clock in the morning did the company disperse. The walk to the hotel along the fine river embankment in the brilliant starlight, with the wonderful tones still sounding in one’s brain, cannot be forgotten. After a brilliant improvisation on the same motives which Ole Bull had chosen for the violin, Liszt had closed with a dreamy, tender nocturne.

The master’s real interest in his friend’s work was shown by his chiding him with warmth for the state of his musical manuscripts which he insisted on looking through, and which he earnestly entreated him to prepare for publication.

The following note brought Liszt himself in answer, and the last adieux were said:—

ILLUSTRE AMI,—En partant, le courage de vous remercier de vive
voix de votre hospitalité princière me fait défaut. Vos précieux
conseils, inséparables compagnons de votre âme, inséparables
souvenirs de lumière de notre réunion après tant d’années
d’épreuves, sont gage sincere d’amitié—gage et promesse en même
temps! Ma chère femme, toute émue sous l’influence de votre génie
si gracieux, me prie d’exprimer sa reconnaissance, et
permettez–moi de souhaiter que l’Etre Suprême vous rende aussi
heureux que possible; voila ce que désire ardemment

Votre dévoué admirateur et ami,

F. 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 home–coming was always a delight to Ole Bull.

The grand old mountains, weird and forbidding in the early spring storms but glorified by the Northern summer, called him, and he heard. The beloved Lysekloster valley, whose wooded slopes commanded the fjord, the sea, the islands, and the great range of the Hardanger; the road his childish steps had trod, winding its way down to the sea from the church of the old ancestral home, at every turn giving a picturesque glimpse of lake or cliff; the path shaded by birches and maples, and the fields fragrant with wood violets and lilies–of–the–valley; the cottagers at work, the red jackets of the women and caps of the men giving a dash of color here and there; the workers shouting their respectful “welcome back” as 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 shores visited by those living on the main land. Its tall pines had grown and rocked in the winds alone; its sod, except in one little spot, had never been broken; its lakes mirrored only the stars and clouds. From the foundation of the cloister on the main land seven hundred years before, it had been noted only as furnishing some of the largest and finest trees in the neighborhood for building purposes; but fortunately it was still well wooded with pine.

A visitor would find Ole Bull while there interested chiefly in the subject of drainage, the care of trees, and the grading of roads and paths, which he had himself laid out; strewn with white sea–shells they could be seen from a height circling the lakes and opening up the island in every direction.

The little steamer gliding into the fjord at breakfast time seldom failed to bring one or more guests from town. Old or young, they were taken on walks of exploration about the island, and even the oldest were sure to catch the enthusiasm of their host. If fretted by a guidance which did not spare them a short cut over rough ground, down ravines and along never–ending turns of paths, so confusing that it was impossible to return alone, they forgave him later, when in his music they learned what such a walk had been to him.

The autumn days were the days for study. The guests had then gone, and sometimes a week of storm would succeed the brightest sunshine, and dark nights suddenly replace the long twilight. The walks then were to the farthest points out towards the sea, where the ocean symphony sounded loudest; the paths must also be explored to protect them from the miniature waterfalls overleaping their proper channels, or to save tree or shrub from the flood which threatened its destruction; but the fiercest storms could not disturb the tranquil lakes guarded by the pine–clad cliffs which furnished a quiet retreat on those wild walks. Then came the contrast of the cozy room brightly lighted, and the tempting delicacy, or, better still, the old–fashioned dish reserved for such times by the faithful Martha.[23] How he enjoyed it all! The music–room cheerful with wood–fires and candles, while the storm without promised seclusion, tempted him to do the best work, often far into the night. When the fire and candles had burned low, and the shadows seemed the intruding spirits of the storm, then the notes would be thrown aside, and that wonderful instrument, a soul in the hand of its master, would voice the tempest outside and the peace within. Never did the picture of him drawn by Longfellow in the “Tales of the Wayside Inn” seem more strikingly true than in that room and at that hour:—

[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;
Fair–haired, blue–eyed, 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 Strömkarl sang, the cataract hurled
Its headlong waters from the height;
And mingled in the wild delight
The scream of sea–birds in their flight,
The rumor of the forest trees,
The plunge of the implacable seas,
The tumult of the wind at night,
Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing,
Old ballads and wild 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.”