Chapter M: Ole B. Bull (7)

And when he played, the atmosphere
Was filled with magic, and the ear
Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold,
Whose music had so weird a sound,
The hunted stag forgot to bound,
The leaping rivulet backward rolled,
The birds came down from bush and tree,
The dead came from beneath the sea,
The maiden to the harper’s knee!

The following is from Part Second, written in 1872:—

Meanwhile from out its ebon case
His violin the minstrel drew,
And, having tuned its strings anew,
Now held it close in his embrace,
And poising in his outstretched hand
The bow, like a magician’s wand,
He paused, and said, with beaming face:
“Last night my story was too long;
To–day I give you but a song,
An old tradition of the North;
But first, to put you in the mood,
I will a little while prelude,
And from this instrument draw forth
Something by way of overture.”

He played; at first the tones were pure
And tender as a summer night,
The full moon climbing to her height,
The sob and ripple of the seas,
The flapping of an idle sail;
And then by sudden and sharp degrees
The multiplied, wild harmonies
Freshened and burst into a gale;
A tempest howling through the dark,
A crash as of some shipwrecked bark,
A loud and melancholy wail.

Such was the prelude to the tale
Told by the minstrel; and at times
He paused amid its varying rhymes,
And at each pause again broke in
The music of his violin,
With tones of sweetness or of fear,
Movements of trouble or of calm
Creating their own atmosphere;
As sitting in a church we hear
Between the verses of the psalm
The organ playing soft and clear,
Or thundering on the startled ear.

And again, in Part Third, is given this natural touch:—

The tall Musician walked the room
With folded arms and gleaming eyes,
As if he saw the Vikings rise,
Gigantic shadows in the gloom;
And much he talked of their emprise,
And meteors seen in northern skies,
And Heimdal’s horn and day of doom.

* * * * *

Then in the silence that ensued
Was heard a sharp and sudden sound
As of a bowstring snapped in air;
And the Musician with a bound
Sprang up in terror from his chair,
And for a moment listening stood,
Then strode across the room, and found
His dear, his darling violin
Still lying safe asleep within
Its little cradle, like a child
That gives a sudden cry of pain,
And wakes to fall asleep again;
And as he looked at it and smiled,
By the uncertain light beguiled,
Despair! two strings were broken in twain.

The future held for Ole Bull the rare fortune of being for one happy winter the neighbor of Mr. Longfellow.

Lingering as long as possible till there was but the shortest time to meet appointments, Ole Bull sailed from Norway in the fall of 1878 for the United States. So far as concerts were concerned, there is but the same story of a cordial reception by the public and a pleasant winter. A few brief extracts from the many notices in the journals will suffice. He played in the principal Northern cities only.

The Boston _Journal_ said of him:—

Ole Bull seems not a day older than he did a score of years ago,
and certainly he has not lost a whit of his wonderful command over
the violin.

The New York _Herald_ of December 15th said in a long article:—

Taken as a whole, the art of the great virtuoso is distinctive,
original, and full of rugged strength. It may be truly said of him
that he is the poet of the violin, especially when illustrating
his own splendid compositions.

And the _Tribune_ remarked:—

His fervid nature and personal magnetism are as powerful as ever,
and he sways the audience of to–day pretty much as he did their
fathers and mothers, in spite of the fact that critical taste is
not always satisfied with his methods.

The “Violin Notes,” now first published, were written out that season, during the holidays, and he was experimenting on and developing the chin–rest.

The following characteristic anecdotes were related by a Brooklyn gentleman who called on Mr. Colton to meet Ole Bull, and was shown to the door of the model work–shop. He writes:—

I knocked, at first hesitatingly, lest I might disturb the quiet
that reigned within, broken only by the tones of Ole Bull’s
violin. Taking advantage of a pause, I knocked again, this time to
be admitted by Mr. Colton, who forthwith presented me to the
violinist. All my fear and embarrassment as to my reception were
at once expelled by the pleasant greeting. His countenance was lit
up by that same genial smile so well known to us all.... He
explained that Mr. Colton was at work upon his famous Gaspar da
Salo, while he was practicing on his beautiful Nicholas Amati. He
seemed in such capital spirits that I ventured to ply question
upon question, and all were answered with a perfect grace and
simplicity. On his asking whether I had attended his last concert
at the Academy of Music in Brooklyn, I replied, regretting my own
engagement to play at a _soirée musicale_ the same evening. “You
play? What did you play at the soirée?” “‘L’Elegie’ by Ernst.”
“What, do you play that? Here,” handing me his precious violin,
“you shall play what I could not hear that night, and I will play
for you what you could not hear.” With great caution and greater
reluctance I took the fine Amati, and the studded diamonds seemed
to laugh at me from the keys they adorned. I had not proceeded far
when he suggested a different interpretation of one of the weird
phrases of that composition. I yielded and tried to express his
idea, but, failing completely, handed him the instrument, and
with eagerness watched the movement and with better result. He
then took the violin, straightened himself, and played the
Paganini Concerto as I have never heard it played. He seemed
completely lost to the surroundings. The very notes ring in my
ears as I now think of that performance. Speaking of the German
school of violinists, he objected to their heavy and coarse style
of interpretation, saying, “The German plays his violin
conveniently; that is, he would not play the larghetto in _la_ of
Mozart on the D and A strings, but use the E for the A when
convenient and A for D, and thus spoil the most beautiful of
melodies.” When I asked who was his favorite composer, he quickly
exclaimed: “Mozart, yes, Mozart, and more, he is the most
difficult composer to interpret.” I remonstrating gently, saying
that I thought his melodies were easily written, as stated by
Mozart himself, and more easily understood than a Beethoven
composition, he replied warmly, “Just so; because so easy and
graceful, the more noticeable are the breaks of coarse
interpreters, as, for instance, in their poor modulation in
changing from one string to another.” I must confess, his
illustration on the violin corroborated his theories. Referring to
Paganini, he said that it was next to impossible to play any one
of his compositions as he played them; and apropos of the silly
stories circulated throughout Europe during Paganini’s time, they
were simply the products of the conspiring minds of Lafont and his
musical friends, who but too keenly felt the superiority of the
dark Italian. “I shall never forget,” he continued, “how
Habeneck, the musical director, told me of Paganini’s reception in
Paris. When Paganini went to rehearsal for the first concert, he
was received with great coolness by the orchestra who were to
accompany him. The first violins especially showed their contempt
for their rival by playing an _ensemble pizzicato_ movement for
the left hand, as much as to say, You are not the only man that
can do that. But Paganini’s quiet remark, ‘Gentlemen, you do not
play in tune; you had better practice scales before attempting
that,’ so completely upset them that they made no further efforts
to discommode him. One of the tympani, however, persisted in
beating out of time, which so exasperated Paganini that he
shouted, ‘Wait, I’ll come there and make you play right,’ and
started towards him; whereupon the fellow beat a hasty retreat, to
the amusement of all as well as of Paganini himself.”

Ole Bull once admiring the ability with which Malibran read music
at sight, she challenged him, saying, “You cannot play anything,
be it ever so intricate, but I can sing it after once hearing.”
Ole Bull played a caprice full of technical difficulties, but she
sang it correctly; and, said he, “I cannot, even at this day,
after forty–five or more years, understand how she did it.” He
played it and I confess it was a labyrinth of musical phrases to
me. And thus the afternoon glided away, telling one anecdote after
another. One which I am about to relate will show the goodness of
his heart: “I was announced to play at Hartford, Connecticut.
Arriving late in the afternoon I hurried to a barber–shop. While I
was getting shaved, the boot–black, a colored boy, rattled off
some lively tunes on a fiddle. When I praised him he seemed
pleased, saying, ‘Yes, Mister, I can beat any man in Hartford.’
Noticing how he worked and stretched to gain the high notes, I
asked him if there were no other means of obtaining them. He gave
me a look as much as to say, ‘What do you know about a fiddle any
how?’ adding that there was no other way. I took his fiddle, and
illustrated my suggestion by playing harmonics. The boy stood with
open–mouthed wonder, and I, returning the instrument, left the
shop. On reaching the street above, I could not refrain from
looking down through the window. There he sat scratching his head
and then the violin, the very picture of perplexity, trying to
solve the mystery of harmonics. I sent him a ticket to my concert.
After it was over I saw that negro boy standing in the aisle,
battling with himself whether to come forward or not. I beckoned
him, and with plaintive voice he said: ‘Mister, can’t you come
down to the shop to–morrow to get shaved and show me those tricks?
I feel powerful bad!’ I promised him I would, and I kept my word.”

The summer of 1879 was one of the happiest ever spent by the artist in Norway. One memorable day was when a party of friends went down to the little hamlet Lofthus in the Hardanger, to be immortalized, as Ole Bull told the peasants, because the composer Grieg had chosen to stay there for months and to write some of his best works. They had now come to celebrate his birthday. No spot could be more enchanting, so wonderfully blended were the beautiful and the sublime in nature. The little study of one room, erected by the composer for perfect retirement, was perched half way up a rock and near the fjord. In the field above, the apple–trees were in bloom about an old farm–house, where the guests assembled. From the summit of the beetling cliffs not far away fell a beautiful waterfall, while the opposite mountain shore of the broad fjord, clothed with heavy forests of pine above and the feathery birch below, presented range after range of lofty peaks and domes, crowned by the great Folgefond with its eternal snow. The day was as perfect as friendship, music, and lovely surroundings could make it.

King Oscar and the young prince made a visit to Bergen that summer, and Ole Bull was proud of the escort of steamers, the crowds of honest, sturdy peasant faces, the refined but hearty welcome, and the imposing pageant which Bergen presented in greeting their sovereign. While the artist was standing on a height overlooking the harbor, the procession and bands discovered his presence as they moved along to take their position and welcome the ship on its entrance to the harbor with the royal guests; and each division of the long line halted in front below, the bands playing and the men cheering Ole Bull. This instant recognition and spontaneous expression of regard was so constantly given him by his countrymen that it deserves mention. He proudly said that day that not another city in Europe could furnish so royal an escort as the fleet of steamers selected from the shipping in the Bergen harbor. Certainly, none could have given a more beautiful or loyal welcome. On the king’s departure from Bergen, Ole Bull had, with the city authorities, the honor of accompanying their guests for one day along the coast. To the toast at dinner proposed by Ole Bull for the royal princes, in which, according to those present, he eloquently referred to the royal family and to the successive sovereigns whom he had personally known, the king responded by singing the three verses of Ole Bull’s “Saeterbesög.”

But only too soon came the time for departure from his home. On the last day and evening every part of the island was visited. It was in truth a farewell, and it now seems as if the last lingering looks rested with more than wonted tenderness on the spot he so loved; for it was the last time his foot pressed the soil, as on his next return he was borne in the arms of others to his home. His feeling for that scene is best expressed by himself. He once wrote:—

I have suffered so much,—no one knows how much, but He whose
everlasting, superhuman love you have to sustain you in
everything noble and elevated.... How I am longing for Norway, for
Lysö! If you only knew the beauty of the “Clostrûm vallis lucida,”
as it was called in the year 1146, you would pine for it. I have
never seen anything that attracts me so mysteriously; so grand, so
sweet, so sad, so joyous! I cannot account for it. The atmosphere
there has certainly a rare charm, and the woods, the ravines, and
the lakes are so varied in expression; but the grand views from
the mountains must be seen with caution, or they will overpower
you; they make me feel thankful to God and weep in prayer for all
enemies and friends.

On his return to the United States in the fall of 1879 it was decided to spend the winter quietly with family friends, and a residence with them was taken in Cambridge, Mass. It is pleasant to dwell upon the charming intercourse that made the months pass so swiftly, and two occasions may be mentioned here. The first was the celebration of Ole Bull’s seventieth birthday, which has been so gracefully recalled by Mr. Appleton; and the other, which came soon after, was the seventy–third anniversary of Mr. Longfellow’s birth, when he invited the artist with a few friends to dine and spend the evening with him. The beautiful presence of the poet was a benediction to those about him; and this, the last evening Ole Bull was with him, Mr. Longfellow, as it is now pleasant to recall, seemed especially to enjoy. A friend of the poet, who was present, sent to the violinist just as he was to leave Cambridge this sonnet, which was written while his playing for Mr. Longfellow was still fresh in her memory:

TO OLE BULL.

How full of music’s harmony and state
Thy presence is, ere inspiration stirs!
As on thy Norseland mountains tower the firs,
Light with Norse glory when the hour is late;
But as when through their branches penetrate
The winds, those gentle, mighty conquerors,
Swelling their music all along the spurs,
So breath of heaven thy form can agitate,
Thy searching power can in a little space
Undo the door where wordless thoughts are pent.
Philosopher and poet, even these
Expression of their dimmest secrets trace,
As if their soul were in thine instrument,
Unprisoned slowly and by sweet degrees.

CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES.

Among the valued letters written in answer to the birthday summons was this pleasant response from Mr. Whittier:—

OAKKNOLL, DANVERS, _2^{nd} Mo. 1, 1880_.

DEAR MRS. BULL,—I am extremely sorry that the state of my health
will not permit me the great pleasure of calling on thee and thy
gifted husband on the occasion of his seventieth birthday. I have
a happy memory of meeting him some years ago and talking with him
of his wonderful art. While it is a matter of regret to me that I
know little of music, and can scarcely distinguish one tone from
another, I am not insensible of “the concord of sweet sounds,” and
I know something of the delight of those who “carry music in their
hearts.” I would be glad to join with those who are able to
testify in person their high regard for the great musician, who,
as one of the rare interpreters of poetry and harmony, has made
the world his debtor; and who brings to us from his native land
its voices and melodies, the lapsing waves of its fjords, the
storm–song of the wind, the rustic of the birch groves, the murmur
of its pines and the laugh of children, and the low of cattle and
song of milk–maids on its summer mountains.

Give him the best wishes of one who is two years his senior that,
to use an Irish phrase, the years to come may only bring “more
power to his elbows” and make him happy in making others happy.

Very truly thy friend, JOHN G. WHITTIER.

Mr. Thomas G. Appleton’s account of the birthday gathering is as follows:—

OLE BULL’S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY.

The date, February 5, 1880, is a very memorable one to many of us,
for in some sense then we heard the swan–song of the great
Norwegian.

It was one of those impromptu _fêtes_ which, when successful,
snatch a grace beyond the reach of art. Such occasions have the
freshness of a rose suddenly plucked, with the dew and the bloom
which disappear if kept waiting too long. It was the seventieth
birthday of Mr. Ole Bull, and soon after he left us for his
native land, never to return.

There was a little domestic conspiracy shared in somewhat by
outside friends to make this _fête_ a pleasant surprise to the
object of it. The nearest intimates of Mr. Ole Bull were summoned
secretly and in time to prepare their tributes of respect and
affection, and the scene of this gathering had memories of its
own, suitable, harmonious, and poetic. For Mr. Bull was then
living at Elmwood, the home of our present ambassador to London,
Mr. J. R. Lowell. In his drawing–room, where pictures of J. R.
Stillman, Christopher Cranch, and other friends hung upon the
paneled walls, there was an aroma of scholarship, of wit and
fancy, in keeping with the old mansion, which shares with the
residence of Mr. Longfellow an old–time dignity, a colonial pomp,
as if to emphasize the genius of the poets with the added charm of
antiquity. Communicating with the drawing–room is Mr. Lowell’s
study. It was those study–windows which gave the title of one of
his pleasantest books, and there indignation sharpened the shaft
of satire which made the humor of the “Biglow Papers” a national
event.

One by one in the fading twilight the friendly conspirators
arrived. Mr. Bull was detained by unsuspected constraint in a
neighboring family till the suitable moment for his appearance
arrived. He could hardly have forgotten the date of so important
an anniversary, yet in the fine simplicity of his nature one could
see how unconscious he was of the delightful plot in which he was
involved. When it broke upon him little by little it was
beautiful to witness the mild surprise, the questioning
astonishment, displaced by an affectionate ardor and cordial
recognition of its significance. As the world knows, there is
something fascinating, individual, and characteristic in the
countenance of the great artist. Geniuses often, while most
individual themselves, are yet the highest expression of national
characteristics. Mr. Bull looked the mystic land to which he owes
his birth. Seeing him, one better understood the Sagas which tell
of the heroes who launched, a thousand years ago, their galleys
over stormy seas to conquest. His smile, so sweet and genuine,
lingered round his mouth, as the sunshine sweetens the northern
valleys, while fancy could think it saw in his streaming locks of
silver the icy crests above or the flickering of the pale aurora
of the North. Among the presents of this birthday was a violin
wholly composed of flowers, their harmonies, though silent,
suggesting in a fresh way the melodies which lingered in the
memory of all. A disk, also of flowers, displayed at its centre
the word “skaal,” the proper word for the occasion. There were
aquarelles and heaped–up baskets of flowers, and whatever suitable
gift individual love prompted to bring. When the artist had
received our salutes and hand–shakings, and smiles had warmed all
with a common purpose, Ole Bull felt that he had but one thing to
do, to reply to the spoken and silent messages of good–will in the
language he loved best,—the one best suited to the occasion. And,
standing in our midst, his snowy locks falling forward across his
bent and sympathetic face, he bade his violin speak for him. He
played with his whole heart an answer, a swan–song of melody, on
which, as upon a great river, we were carried away into dreamland,
into the Valhalla and the halls of Odin. His skill, the vigor and
power of his bow arm, belied the seventy years they celebrated.
Time had left as iron that wonderful right arm which never could
grow old. A distinguished artist answered the violin with a voice
into which was gathered the responsive cordial enthusiasm of all,
and with these two musical expressions Mr. Ole Bull’s _fête_ was
accomplished. Supper and the tumult of chat, laughter, and content
took off pleasantly the acute edge of excitement. Then later we
were summoned away from the piano to the drawing–room, where a
huge cake in frosted sugar displayed the name and age of the great
artist. Amid much merriment it was cut and shared, each one
eagerly hunting for the symbolic tiny golden violin, somewhere hid
in its capacious flanks. When the little treasure was discovered
it was found to have most suitably fallen to one of the oldest and
dearest of friends, who was, perhaps, the nearest neighbor of them
all in Cambridge. After the cake had been divided and the golden
violin discovered, a venerable bottle of Tokay was produced, which
Professor Horsford had brought home from his Austrian sojourn:
this liqueur–like wine having been distributed in little glasses,
Mr. Longfellow proposed the health and happiness of Ole Bull,
which was drunk in a silence meaning more than words.

Thus ended a happy evening, a memorable birthday, sacred now as
the last communion of love and music, between the poet of the
North and that throng which could have been multiplied a hundred
times over if all those who have held in dear regard the great
artist could have found admittance to that little room.

In March and April Ole Bull appeared in a few concerts in the principal Eastern cities with Miss Thursby. His last appearance but one in New York was for the benefit of the _Herald_ Fund for the starving Irish, at the request of Mr. Edwin Booth, who planned and carried out most successfully a dramatic and musical entertainment. Good as was the cause, it was more for the sake of the originator of the plan that Ole Bull responded with pleasure. During that winter he had the opportunity of giving the Boston Philharmonic Society his assistance; and he also played for the Philharmonic Association in Cambridge, where he was honored by an audience that might well inspire any artist to his best efforts.

Late in June, with a pleasant party of friends, Ole Bull sailed the last time for Europe. He had not been feeling well for a month before, but the physicians consulted assured him that a sea–trip was all that he needed to bring relief. The first days out revived him somewhat, and no anxiety was felt; but later, what seemed a violent attack of sea–sickness, the first he had ever suffered, reduced his strength. At Liverpool he revived, and the physician thought a few days’ rest would quite restore him, but more violent symptoms soon appeared, and great concern was felt as to his being able to bear the journey to Norway, on which he insisted when he found he was not improving. Dr. Moore, of Liverpool, accompanied him. The trip across the North Sea was finally accomplished, but at great risk, and when at last the little fjord steamer came alongside to bear the invalid to his home, a prayer of thanksgiving filled all hearts. As the steamer glided gently onward the restful calm brought a sweet sleep, and all the surroundings seemed to breathe a promise of health. As Ole Bull approached Lysö he wakened, and how earnestly, how gratefully he gazed on his beloved mountains in their calm majestic beauty at that early morning hour! After the first day of exhaustion the sufferer seemed to gain steadily, until a complete recovery was looked for. Those days were full of happiness and blessing.

Professor E. N. Horsford, a valued and dear friend of many years, made his first and long–promised visit to Norway that summer. His description of the island and of the artist’s home–coming was written shortly after. He says:—

I first saw Lysö in the twilight of Norwegian mid–summer. It was
from the steamer Domino, on my voyage across the North Sea from
Hull, by way of Stavanger, to Bergen. The island may have been
seven or eight miles away. Its irregular domes of dusky green were
but dimly outlined upon the bank of wooded mountains beyond. It
was too late to see clearly. Distant objects had begun to look
weird, and the sky was shadowy. We were approaching the region of
long twilights—the kingdom of the midnight sun; besides, the eyes
were fatigued with the endless succession of unfamiliar forms. All
day we had been sailing along inhospitable shores, and among rocky
islands, scantily covered with vegetation. Now and then, in less
exposed situations, fishing hamlets with sunny red roofs had come
in sight; we had taken in review the openings into narrow fjords
with opposing cliffs, and repeated collections of runic columns,
with the commanding monument to Harold Haarfager, the first king
of Norway. All these were in the foreground, while in the distant
eastern horizon, spread upon the table–land and covering the lofty
mountain range, was the majestic glacier of the Folgefond. These
had challenged attention, and in their novelty, or
picturesqueness, or grandeur, had fascinated us; but the spot
about which the abiding interest centred only came into view when
it was too late to more than make out its general position in the
Björne Fjord at the foot of the Lyshorn. Soon after crossing the
Björne Fjord, we swept past a column of ships of the inward bound
Loffoden fishing fleet, stern and stately, with their antique
prows and huge single square sails; and entered the crowd of
countless lesser fishing vessels and iron steamers, and came to
anchor in the harbor of Bergen.

My next view of the island was from the little steamboat landing
near Lysekloster, the point on the mainland where one takes boat
for Lysö. The island is scarcely more than half a mile from the
wharf, and from other points on the mainland the distance is less.

We had driven from Bergen, some eighteen miles over a mountain
road. Near the end, the way led down past the ruins of
Lysekloster, a relic of the eleventh century, with its many
remains of halls, refectory, chapter–house, cloisters, rude stone
coffins, and ruder inscriptions; past the fine old mansion of the
Nicolaysons, whose estate shares the name of Lysekloster; past the
antique chapel, where the gathering peasant women still wear a
costume suggesting the monastery; down to the wharf where we were
to cross the narrow Lysefjord to the home of Ole Bull. On our
left, the high mainland stretched away in a southerly direction
for a mile or more, and then turned sharply to the west beyond the
island. On the right, the bare, rocky headlands jutted irregularly
out for many miles toward the broad entrance to the Björne Fjord.
In a little bay under the slope of the Lyshorn, and a few rods
from the wharf, giving a touch of surprising grace to the scene,
were two stately swans. This was, we learned, a favorite resort,
to which they made occasional excursions from their island home.
Immediately before us was Lysö, a series of granite domes of
unequal height, half covered with birch and evergreen above, half
carpeted with heather and moss below. No trees had been felled.
There was scarcely a trace of disturbed surface except in the
narrow foot–paths that led up from the shore. There were two
little wharves, one near the boat–house, and low, red tile–roofed
cottage of Haldor–Lysö, the family servant; the other under the
bluff on which stood the imposing mansion of the proprietor.

Of other structures there were none on the island. There were no
beaches; there was no gravel. The rocky cliffs of Norway, here as
elsewhere, and uniformly, rise almost with the sharpness of a wall
from the sea. If gravel there be at the foot of the precipices, it
must be far down in the water. Above, the pines and spruces and
feathery birches start from fissures in the rocks, and soar away
to great heights, giving to the island a fleecy air of
indescribable beauty, and to the inner fjord the soft seclusion of
an inland sea.

Across this sheet of water we were rowed by Haldor. In the
distance, the American and Norwegian flags were waving their
welcome. The deep green of the Norway pines gave the finest relief
to the Hall. It stands upon a shelf. The first story leans against
the mountain. The second story, and the Byzantine turret rising
above the roof at the corner nearest the brow of the bluff, are
clearly defined against the dark foliage.

A large, open tower, with winding stairs midway on the long side
of the Hall, and rising from the ground far above the eaves,
gives, with its richly–decorated panels, brilliant entrance to the
reception room below and the music hall above. The apartment
devoted to music, occupying the whole width of the house, with two
thirds of its length, and the entire height of the second story to
the roof, is finished throughout in unstained spruce. Rows of
slender clustered and twisted columns rise to support an
elaborate system of delicately and curiously wrought arches. The
two concert grand pianos, embodying the inventions to which so
much thought had been given, and from which the inventor hoped so
much of advancement to the art, were here.

Turkish and Persian carpets and rugs were spread upon the floor or
suspended between the columns. On one side, the whispers of the
mountain pines came in through the open windows. Through the
windows opposite you saw the fjord and the highlands beyond in
undisturbed natural beauty. How fitting! In what keeping with the
spirit that inspired the whole! Without and within, the perpetual
fragrance of the balsam and birch. Everywhere quiet; no rattle of
carts, no noise of hurrying trains, no hum of business. Everywhere
repose, only to be invaded by human voices or music, or the soft
lapping of the waves at the base of the cliff, or the soughing of
the south wind among the swaying pines.

The shelf of rock on which the Hall stands is about fifty feet
above the water, and some two or three hundred feet below the
highest point on the island. Immediately around the narrow plot
which spreads out on the sides and front is a dense border of
roses and flowering and decorative shrubbery; and along the
retreating slopes, here and there, room has been found for beds of
strawberries and small groups of fruit–trees. A quarter of a mile
northward is the cottage of the servant who cares for the grounds
and mans the yacht and row–boat. Of roadways, properly speaking,
there are none; but bridle and foot–paths penetrate every part of
the six hundred acres of the island, winding in and out, and up
and down, through the dells and glens, and by the caverns, for
twenty miles or more in all, from the shores to the summits of the
highest peaks. As there are no beaches, so there are no pebbles
for walks, and the surface, a coating of broken shells, is
gathered from below the sea, at some distant point, from which
they were brought in vessels. There are two little lakes nestling
among the hills, and there are two or three little meadows,
resting upon beds of peat, from which the product is annually
gathered.

Standing on one of the higher peaks of the island, you look
northward upon the Lyshorn, a bold, rocky cone, skirted with
evergreens, and lifting its bare summit twelve hundred feet from
the sea. At its foot are the undulating meadows and picturesque
group of Lysekloster. On the west, the eye, glancing down the
Björne Fjord, takes in the chain of lofty, dark islands beyond the
channel pursued by the steamers approaching Bergen from the south.
On the east the mainland half embraces the island, approaching at
the nearest point within a few rods of the bold cliffs that fall
sheer into the sea. On the south lies the broad entrance to the
Hardanger Fjord, the most extended, unique, and famed of the
Norwegian water highways.

A few days after our arrival at the island, the great musician and
sufferer was brought to his longed–for home. The tender care of
thoughtful kindred, and the ever busy, lifelong friend of the
family, Martha,[24] full of affectionate solicitude, had made
every needed preparation. Gentle hands bore him on his couch from
the steamer to the centre of the grand music hall. Faint and worn
and weak, he was at last under his own roof. How gratefully fell
on his waiting sense every familiar sound and form! Above and
around him were the vistas of arches and clustered columns he had
planned; a very Alhambra of fairy architecture. How often through
these galleries, in happier days, he remembered, had so sweetly
thrilled the strains of his favorite Gaspar da Salo! There was the
organ that later, at his wish, yielded from the touch of love and
anguish the sweet requiem of Mozart. The windows, distantly
screened by oriental hangings, were open to the sympathetic trees,
whose incense was so full of the associations of youth and the
days of strength. The moan of the burdened pines was hushed. Was
it too much to hope there might be, in this spontaneous
recognition and welcome, the breath of life to the prostrate
friend? What air could be more grateful than one’s native air,
washed with all the waves of the Atlantic, and surcharged with the
balm of the evergreens of Norway? Did the fevered invalid need
water to quench his thirst or to bathe his brow? The
freshly–fallen dew could not be purer or more clear than the water
that welled from Lysekilde, under the rock a few rods away.

[24] The housekeeper.

Was there a delicacy that affection or medical skill could suggest
or devise for a reluctant and fastidious palate? Devotion and
utmost culinary art had provided for its instant preparation.
Every attention that never–wearying love and forethought could
secure were bestowed upon the dear sufferer. A few days in this
restful home so far revived his strength that he was able to see
the friends who had come to visit him; but as the physician saw
ground for believing that, with absolute quiet, the lost health
might be regained, the stay was not prolonged.

During the visit a most touching incident occurred, illustrating
the tender affection felt for Ole Bull throughout Norway. The
annual encampment of militia troops at Ulven, a few miles from
Lysö, broke up. The regiments, embarked upon a fleet of steamers,
on their way to Bergen, the point for disbanding, necessarily
passed a short distance outside of Lysö. The fleet was conducted
through the inner fjord, that opportunity might be given to show
the sympathy and affection of the troops for the man whose music
had so often entranced them. The foremost vessel of the fleet,
with the military band, came slowly to rest immediately under the
windows of the music hall. Ole Bull, too feeble to present
himself, directed his great American flag with the Norwegian arms
in the escutcheon (the gift of the New York Philharmonic Society)
to be run out from the window overlooking the fjord. Immediately
the band played with infinite sweetness an original composition of
the master. This was followed by a superb ancient Norwegian air,
to which Björnson had written the words, and this was succeeded by
the proud national hymn. At the close, dipping its flag, the head
of the fleet silently moved away. The successive vessels slowly
following, dipped their flags in turn, and passed on around the
island to resume their course.

Alas! that this fleet should have been the herald of the convoy of
steamers that, a few weeks later, gave such mournful and
impressive dignity to the sorrow of Norway, when the mortal
remains of Ole Bull were borne by sea to their last resting–place
in Bergen, where he was born.

A few days only after Mr. Horsford left came the sudden change,—the loss of strength, and the fear, on the part of those in charge of the case, that the illness would prove fatal. Never had a patient kinder physicians; Dr. Moore being in constant attendance, and Dr. Wiesener, of Bergen, in daily consultation. The sick one bravely fought the disease at every step, and calmly awaited the issue. It has been said of another: “A devoted lover of religious liberty, he was an equal lover of religion itself, not in any precise dogmatic form, but in its righteousness, reverence, and charity.” This was true of Ole Bull. As his body weakened, his soul seemed the stronger, “and full of endearment and hope for humanity,” as Mr. Fields wrote of him. He gave the sweet assurance that life had been precious to him, and the dear smile lighted the way for all, as he passed beyond. One who was present wrote of that hour:—

Everything made the change remarkably free from the dark and
terrible in death. The day was a beautiful, quiet one, full of
sunshine and gladness, and the fragrance of flowers. You know how
lovely the surroundings are. I hope death may always seem to me as
here, a happy, peaceful ending of suffering, and a quiet passing
away into something nobler and better.

Another quotation from a letter written only for the eyes of friends will give the public feeling of the time and its expression:—

All honor is being paid our beloved by king and people. The king
sent a telegram of condolence to Mrs. Bull, expressing his
personal as well as the national loss. The city is in mourning,
with hundreds of flags at half–mast, among them the royal
standard. The common council of Bergen at once met, and offered a
spot in the very centre of the old cemetery for the place of
burial. It is a beautiful location. The newspapers are enclosed
with broad lines of black, as never before, except for members of
the royal family, and contain many tributes and accounts of his
life.

On Friday last the Kong Sverre, one of the largest of the coast
steamers, came out with friends to see the remains as they lay in
state in the music room. On Monday the funeral ceremonies took
place, and honors more than royal were indeed shown to our dear
one. It seemed that all the patriotism, all the love of people and
country, which have so characterized and distinguished his nature
during all his long life, wherever he might have been, were now
returned to him in this spontaneous outpouring of respect and
love. On the morning of the day of burial the Kong Sverre came
again, bringing the family and intimate friends to attend the
services here, which were held in the hall, and were very
impressive, especially so to us, for whom the place has so many
beautiful associations connected with his life and music. After a
prelude on the organ played by his friend, Edward Grieg, there was
prayer by the pastor, and singing of a poem written for the
service; then followed an address, eloquent with feeling, by Mr.
Konow (the grandson of Öhlenschläger), a neighbor and warm friend
of Ole Bull. After music again, the casket, covered deep with most
beautiful flowers, the gifts of friends, was borne by peasants
down to the steamer, followed by the family and friends, leaving
desolate the island which he had made a home, and so much loved.
The sad ride to Bergen was happily brightened by the sun. The
steamer, on entering the large fjord which lies outside the
harbor, was met by a convoy of sixteen steamers, ranged on either
side—a wonderfully impressive escort. As the fleet approached the
harbor slowly, guns fired from the fort and answered by the
steamers echoed and reëchoed among the mountains. The harbor and
shipping were covered with flags of all nations, at half–mast, the
whole world paying its last tribute to a genius which the whole
world had learned to know and love. The quay was covered thick
with green juniper, and festoons of green draped its whole front
to the water’s edge. Every shop and place of business was shut;
the whole population of the city stood waiting silent, reverent.
As the boat touched the quay, and while the casket was being borne
to the high catafalque, one of the artist’s own melodies was
played.
Young girls, dressed in black, bore the trophies of his foreign
success; his gold crown and orders were carried by distinguished
men of Bergen. As the procession passed slowly along the streets
strewn with green, flowers were showered on the coffin, and tears
were seen on many faces; but the silence was unbroken save by the
tones of Chopin’s funeral march, and the tolling of the church
bells. At the house where Ole Bull was born, the procession halted
while a verse of a poem written by a friend was sung. At the
grave, pastor Wallum read the service, and spoke with feeling of
the work and life of the departed, and the gratitude of his
country.

Then Björnstjerne Björnson spoke to the assembled thousands as follows:—

Ole Bull was loved; this we see to–day; he was honored, but it is
more to be loved than to be honored!

If we would understand this deep attachment from its inception,
understand him, what he was, what he is to us, then we must go far
back to the time when he first appeared among us.

We were a poor, a small nation, with glorious traditions of
earlier times, starting afresh with longings not soon to be
realized, longings for which we were sometimes mocked.

Even of our own intellectual and spiritual inheritance but few
crumbs had fallen to us, Denmark having taken the loaf. They said
we were incapable of an independent intellectual existence, and
our best men believed this. A Norse literature was deemed an
impossibility, though the ample foundations were there to build
upon; an individual Norse school of history, a thing to be laughed
at; even our language was not acceptable unless spoken with a
Danish accent and soft consonants; a national theatre not even to
be thought of.

Our political situation was equally unfortunate. We had been newly
bought and sold, and what little liberty we had presumed to seize,
and had succeeded in extending, gave us no security, but much
concern.

We dared have no official celebrations, since it might offend in
high places. But a young generation came, nourished on freedom,
and without the fear and prudence of their elders, but with more
of defiance, more of anger. They lived in the morning of freedom
and honor, and in this dawn came Ole Bull’s tones like the first
rays of the sun over the mountain tops.

At that time the folk–melodies invaded our music, the democratic
invaded the aristocratic, the national the abstract, the
individual the formulated ideal. To our honor be it said, we
followed.

Older men have told you of the giant form which suddenly stood
forth, not in the low, no, in the highest places, before kings and
the most cultured, and played with a wild power, possessed by only
one man before, but in Ole Bull more original, more humanly
sympathetic,—a power for the first time Norse. When they read how
he stood and sang Norwegian melodies from his violin to other
nations, we felt that they were one with us while they were moved
to laughter and tears as they caught glimpses back of him of our
people and grand, beautiful nature; thus one may understand the
confidence, the faith, the pride he awakened,—he the foremost of
all in our Norse independence. Henrik Wergeland expresses this
when he makes Norway thus sing to Ole Bull:—

“Oh, world–wide is my son’s fair fame!
Anew my eye is proud aflame.

“On, on, my son! when thou art blest,
’Tis blessing in thy Mother’s breast.

“A poet I, for ages long;
The Norsemen’s legends are my song.

“My epic have I written too,
A noble thought each hero true.”

On his first return from his triumphs abroad it was a festival but
to look at him. When he played the folk–songs, which had been
timidly hidden, though cherished in memory, now through him
applauded by mighty rulers, that generation felt themselves borne
to the same heights; Ole Bull became the first and greatest
festival in this people’s life; he gave us self–respect, the
greatest gift possible at that time.

This is Ole Bull’s undying honor, this the supreme accomplishment
of his life.

If one would measure the depth of an impression, he must seek its
expression in literature. Read Welhaven’s poem at that time to Ole
Bull. Any man with a knowledge of European literature will not
hesitate to say that it is one of the most beautiful lyrics ever
written.

How happened it that he was the one to accomplish all this? His
birth of a musical race had not sufficed without the fervor of his
patriotism. During our war for independence he was still a boy at
play, and his childish voice was among the first to shout for our
young freedom. When a youth—I speak whereof I know—his violin,
with its boundless, exultant joy, sang our first national songs in
Henrik Wergeland’s college–room, and became the overture to
Wergeland’s inspiration of our national observance of the 17th of
May. These feelings Ole Bull carried with him to other lands.

Patriotism was the creative power in his life. When he established
the Norse theatre, assisted Norse art, helped the national museum,
his mighty instrument singing for other patriotic ends; when he
helped his countrymen and others wherever he found them, it was
not so much for the object, or the person, but for the honor of
Norway. He always felt himself our representative; and, if he felt
there was need, let it be at home or abroad, that “Ole Olsen Viol,
Norse Norman from Norway”[25] should appear, he never failed us.

[25] His own nickname for himself.

His patriotism had a certain tinge of _naïveté_, of morbidity,
about it; it was a consequence of the times. But it was of
importance to us that our finest gentleman, coming from Europe’s
most cultured salons, could and would go arm in arm with our poor
Norse beginnings. It lies in the nature of things that first
attempts are never popular; they only become so when developed and
recognized by all; but, as a rule, they have then outlived their
usefulness.

It was this sturdy faithfulness in Ole Bull, spite of his
impulsive temperament, that made him dear to our people; in other
words, it was his patriotism.

So it was with Henrik Wergeland. Ole Bull and Henrik Wergeland
were of the same age and temperament. The one responded to the
other as in the spring the wood–song answers the green of the
meadows, or on the western coast the sea skerries and irregular
mountain groups—the flickering sunshine on their grassy slopes,
their shifting lights and shadows—answer the wooded ridges, the
great, broad, rich landscape of the east, with Mjosen’s gleaming
surface in its midst. The one was the blue boy of the west, with
the ocean’s salt flavor, the restless spirit of the Vikings; the
other, the gray boy of the east.[26] There was western blood in
Henrik Wergeland; but his genius had the color of the mild, broad
outlook of an eastern landscape, with the mountains in the
distance.

[26] Gray and blue are the colors worn by the peasants in Norway.

When Ole Bull talked of his art, he was wont to say that he had
learned to “sing” of the Italians. Without doubt this was true;
the outer form he had learned from them, but the genius and the
colors were from the soul of our soul, the most spontaneous
message of the folk–song, as love of country made it glow in his
consciousness. An old, world–renowned artist[27] said to me:
“Faults in Ole Bull’s playing are more noticeable as he advances
in age; but no artist in our time has possessed Ole Bull’s poetic
power; no one has ever surpassed his playing of the ‘Adagio.’ I
think all his cultivated auditors will say the same.”

[27] Joachim.

The criticism has been made that Ole Bull has failed in not leaving behind him great musical works. This is unjust. A man that could so fully give what he at times gave us could not do more. In proportion to the ability for the one, is the other impossible.

But it was important for us at that time, as it is always important for a small nation, that we had a man of the first rank among us. It was a direct connection with the outside world. It exalted our aims. As far as human power could, it spurred our ambition,—and that in all directions. Let us then, at the grave of our greatest citizen, say honor to him beyond all the artists who have broken a way for us,—he who not alone inspired followers in his profession, but also awakened ambition and happiness wherever he was known; helping the moral and intellectual forces,—the greatest legacy one can bequeath.

I love to remember him on the great 17th of May celebrations; for he was a celebration himself, majestic, fascinating, as he walked among us. And a gesture of his hand, a look, raised in him who received it a holiday mood.

Thus hand in hand with all our national development, ennobling it, cherishing in his love the least with the greatest, always ennobling,—this was his life, this his inspiration. Such a love of country rewards, as by miracle, him who cherishes it. When I read every year how he came home with summer, like the bird of passage, how he came this summer, and that his love of country, of home, bore him on, spite of distance, the advice of physicians, and all hindrances, I thought of Henrik Wergeland’s words of Robert Major: “First thence and then to heaven would the old gray republican.” His eye would fondly rest on that land he loved before it closed in death.

Countrymen! let us not leave this spot till we have thanked her who did what a nation could not—opened to his age a home of beauty and comfort....

Always before when we have spoken in Ole Bull’s honor we have closed with a “Long live Ole Bull!” This we may never say again—though dead to us he is not,—he will be with us when we return to our homes. Let my last words be an appeal to the young here present. True to the dead one, as your elders who knew him, ye cannot be; but by this grave, mark the wonders worked by love of country, the miracle revealed forever in this rich life of which we solemnize the earthly close.

Again a hymn was sung, and Edward Grieg then said with emotion:—

Because more than any other thou wast the glory of our land,
because more than any other thou hast carried our people with thee
up towards the bright heights of art, because thou wast more than
any other a pioneer of our young national music, more, much more,
than any other the faithful, warm–hearted conqueror of all hearts,
because thou hast planted a seed which shall spring up in the
future and for which coming generations shall bless thee—with the
gratitude of thousands upon thousands, for all this, in the name
of our Norse memorial art, I lay this laurel wreath on thy coffin.
Peace be with thy ashes!

Mr. Bendixen, on behalf of the National Theatre, said:—