Chapter III: Paganini (2)

“Paganini’s management of the bow is chiefly remarkable by the _tripping_ movement which he imparts to it in certain passages. His _staccato_ is no way similar to that ordinarily produced. He dashes his bow on the strings, and runs over a succession of scales with incredible rapidity, while the tones proceed from beneath his fingers, round as pearls. The _variety_ of his strokes with the bow is wonderful. I had never before heard marked with so much precision, and without the slightest disturbance of the measure, the shortest unaccented notes, in the most hurried movements. And again, what force he imparts in prolonged sounds! With what depth, in the adagio, he exhales, as it were, the sighs of a lacerated heart!”

However he might sometimes err in his doctrine, M. Guhr was at least right in his faith. The supremacy, which he assigned to the great Genoese genius, was expressed in the language of a handsome enthusiasm:—

“Rode, Kreutzer, Baillot, Spohr—those giants among violinists—seemed to have exhausted all the resources of the instrument. They had extended its mechanism, introduced the greatest imaginable variety in the use of the bow, which was made subservient to all the shades of expression and execution: they had succeeded, by the magic of their sounds, which rivalled the human voice, in painting all passions and all the movements of sentiment. In short, advancing rapidly in the path marked out by Corelli, Tartini, and Viotti, they had raised the violin to that rank which ensures to it the dominion of the human soul. In _their_ style, they are, and remain, great and unsurpassed. But, when we hear Paganini, and compare him with the other masters, it must be confessed that he has passed all the barriers which custom had hitherto raised, and that he has opened a way peculiar to himself, and which essentially separates him from those great Artists; so much so, that whoever hears him for the first time, is astonished and transported at hearing what is so completely new and unexpected;—astonished by the fiend-like power with which he rules over his instrument;—transported that, with a mechanical facility which no difficulty resists, he at the same time opens to the fancy a boundless space, gives to the violin the divinest breathings of the human voice, and deeply moves the inmost feelings of the soul.”

But we have left Paganini himself at Paris, where we must now rejoin him and his fortunes. As for the latter, in the moneyed meaning, they grew with a ratio of increase that would have been more wonderful, had it not been afterwards outdone by that of his gains in London. As it was, they were sufficient to inspire one of the Parisian dilettanti, a nicer worker in figures, with a special access of passion for calculating the value of notes—that is to say, of Paganini’s musical “notes of hand.” The result, based upon a concert given at the Opera at Paris, producing 16,500 francs, and presenting 1365 bars of _the_ fiddling, indicated a quotient of 12 francs for _each bar_, and was still more curiously distributed into proportions as follows:—for a semibreve, 12 francs; a minim, 6 francs; a crotchet, 3 francs; a quaver, 1 franc, 50 centimes; a semiquaver, 15 sous; a demisemiquaver, 7½ sous. This exemplary calculation did not overlook, moreover, the cash value of each of the occurring sorts of _rests_; besides working out a “contingent remainder” of 420 francs—that residue happening to be, by the most curious coincidence, exactly the price of such a violin as the Conservatory usually awards by way of prize to its most successful pupils![39]

The provoking impertinence of Rumour, with her thousand busy tongues darting conjecture and accusation, drew forth, at Paris, as at Vienna, some effort at self-defence on the part of the assailed Artist. His letter to the Editor of the _Révue Musicale_ may claim a place here (in translated form), as well for its pleasantry and ingenuity, as for the clue it affords to the origin of some of the slanderous liberties which had and have been taken with his character. Of this letter, it subsequently appears that the materials were furnished by Paganini, and the diction arranged by his friend, M. Fétis:—

“Sir,

_Paris, 21 April, 1831._

“So many marks of kindness have been lavished on me by the
Parisian public,—so many plaudits have been awarded to me,—that I
am bound to give credit to that celebrity which is said to have
preceded my arrival. But, if any doubt on the subject could have
remained, it must have been dissipated by the care I see taken by
your artists to make representations of my likeness,—by the
numerous portraits of Paganini, more or less like the original,
with which the walls of your capital are covered. It is not,
however, to simple portraits, Sir, that their speculations are
confined. While walking yesterday along the Boulevard des
Italiens, I saw, in a print-shop, a lithograph representing
_Paganini in prison_. “Well!” said I to myself, “here have we
some worthy citizen who, in imitation of Don Bazilio, has been
turning to account the calumny which has pursued me for the last
fifteen years.” While smilingly examining all the details of this
mystification with which the fancy of the artist had furnished
him, I perceived that a numerous circle had gathered around me,
and that every one, as he compared my features with those of the
young man represented in the lithograph, was taking pains to
satisfy himself as to the degree in which I was altered since the
period of my imprisonment! Thus I found that the thing was taken
_au sérieux_, and that the speculation, at least, was no bad one.
It occurred to me that, as every one _must live_, I might as
well, of myself, furnish a few anecdotes to those enterprising
persons who take so much interest in me and my affairs; so that,
if so disposed, they may have a few more subjects for prints, as
good, and quite as true, as that in question. It is with this
view that I beg you, Sir, to do me the favour of inserting this
letter in your Musical Review.

“These gentlemen have represented me _in prison_, but they do not
seem to know what _took me there_; and, so far, they are about as
wise as myself, or as those who have brought the story into
circulation. It bears, in fact, a great many versions, and
presents a corresponding variety for the designer. It has been
said, for instance, that, having surprised a rival in the chamber
of my mistress, I had bravely stabbed him from behind, when he
was incapable of defending himself. By others, it has been
pretended that it was against the person of my mistress herself,
that my fury had been directed; but they are not agreed as to the
_mode_ I had adopted to accomplish her destruction,—some
contending for the poniard, and others for poison; so that, as
each has indulged his imagination in describing the affair, it
would be hard to deny a similar license to the dealers in
lithographs. I will relate what occurred to me at Padua some
fifteen years ago.

“I had given a concert there, and had met with considerable
success. On the following day, I was one of sixty at a _table
d’hôte_, where I had entered the room without being recognized.
One of the guests was pleased to express himself in very
flattering terms on my public appearance the evening before.
Another concurred in the praise thus bestowed, but added, by way
of explanation, “There is nothing in the talent of Paganini which
ought to excite surprise. He is indebted for it to the sojourn he
has made for eight years of his life within the walls of a
dungeon, with nothing but his violin to mitigate the rigors of
his captivity. He was condemned to this long confinement for
having basely assassinated a friend of _mine_, who was his
rival.”

“The whole company, as you may well believe, exclaimed against
the enormity of the offence. For _my_ part, I got up, and,
addressing the person who seemed so well acquainted with my
previous history, begged him to tell me where, when and how, the
adventure had taken place. Every eye was turned towards me as I
spoke, and you may judge of the general astonishment, when one
amongst themselves was thus recognized as the chief actor in the
tragedy. The historian was sadly embarrassed. It was no longer
one of _his friends_ who had fallen; “he had heard it said,”—“he
had been credibly informed,”—“he had believed,—but it was
possible that he might have been mistaken!”

“It is thus, Sir, that the reputation of an artist is trifled
with, because others, of more indolent habits, are at a loss to
understand how a man should apply himself as effectually to
study, while at full liberty in his own house, as within the
walls of a dungeon!

“At Vienna, a still more preposterous rumour put the credulity of
the inhabitants to the test. I had been playing those variations
known by the name of _Le Stregghe_ (the Witches). A young man,
who was described to me as of a pale and melancholy aspect, with
eyes of the most inspired cast, said that he saw nothing
surprising in my performance, for, while I was executing my
variations, he had distinctly perceived the devil at my elbow,
guiding my fingers, and directing my bow; that the said devil was
dressed in red; had horns and a tail; and that, moreover, the
striking likeness of our countenances plainly established the
relationship between us! It was impossible to refuse credence to
so circumstantial and descriptive an account: and the curious
became satisfied that this was the true secret of what are called
my _tours de force_.

“For a long time, I was weak enough to allow my tranquillity to
be disturbed by such idle rumours. I tasked myself to demonstrate
their absurdity. I called attention to the fact, that, from the
age of fourteen, I had been constantly under the public eye, and
giving concerts; that I had been employed, for sixteen years, as
chief of the orchestra and director of the music, to the Court;
and that, if it were true that I had been eight years in prison
for killing my mistress or my rival, it must have been before my
first appearance in public; so that I must have had a mistress,
and a rival, before I was seven years of age. I invoked even the
testimony of my country’s ambassador at Vienna, who declared that
he had known me, for nearly twenty years, in the situation which
became an honest man; and I thus succeeded, for the moment, in
silencing the calumny; but calumny is never totally extinguished,
and it does not surprise me to find it revive in this city.

“Under such circumstances, Sir, what ought I to do? I see nothing
for it but to submit with resignation, and give free scope to
the exercise of an ingenious malignity. Before concluding,
however, I may as well communicate an anecdote, which has
probably given rise to some of these injurious rumours about me.
It is as follows:

“A performer on the violin, named D...i,[40] who was at Milan in
1798, had connected himself with two men of bad character, who
persuaded him to go with them during the night to a neighbouring
village, to assassinate the clergyman, who was reported to have
been possessed of great wealth. Happily, the heart of one of the
associates failed him at the decisive moment, and he resolved to
denounce his confederates. The gendarmerie went to the spot, and
arrested D...i, and his friend, at the moment of their arrival at
the house of the _curé_. They were condemned to twenty years’
confinement, and thrown into prison; but General Menou, then
Governor of Milan, at the end of the second year, set the artist
at liberty.

“Would you believe it, Sir? It was on this foundation, that all
my history has been raised. A performer on the violin was in
question, and his name ended in _i_—so that it _must_ have been
_Paganini_. It was _I_ who had been in prison, and the
assassination became that of my mistress, or my rival. Thus, to
explain the discovery of my new style of performance, they
encumber me with fetters which would but add to the difficulty.
Let me hope, Sir, that if I must yield to the propagators of a
calumny so obstinately persevered in against all verisimilitude,
they will at least consent to abandon their prey _after
death_,—and that those who so cruelly avenge themselves of my
success, will leave my ashes to rest in peace. Accept, Sir, the
assurance, &c.

“PAGANINI.”

Largely profited in honours and revenue, through his exertions in France, the great artist directed his course to the shores of England, where the reception which awaited him was destined to form a climax to his previous triumphs. Fame, that most eager, but inexact lady-usher, who had introduced him to the French with so many whispers of wild import, took similar liberties when she presented him to the marvelling Londoners. “The page will be a strange one in the history of Art, to be written some fifty years hence (says a writer in the _Athenæum_), which shall contain all the rumours that heralded Paganini’s first appearance in England, and were quoted in explanation of his outward eccentricities of person and manner. Our children will laugh at the credulity of their fathers, when they read of a magician who strung his instrument with the heart-strings of his mistress—a sort of demon Orpheus, who had been initiated into his power by the gentle ordeals of murder and solitary confinement;—and yet such reports were widely spread, and, strange to say, believed! The writer of this notice remembers having heard it gravely said in society, “that Paganini could play upon his violin when all its strings were taken off!” and, when another of the party, to expose the absurdity of the tale, declared that this wonder of the world had done more, having once actually _strung a gridiron_ (his own violin not arriving in time), on which he performed a concerto with immense applause—this second and surpassing marvel (of course fabricated in the humour of the moment) was not only swallowed, but absolutely retailed, as an accredited fact!”

The capacious area of the King’s Theatre, scarcely adequate to the large expectations founded upon his fame, was selected as the scene of his London début. An awkward collision with public opinion marked, however, the interval immediately preceding his appearance. An endeavour to elevate the prices of admission above the usual _concert-pitch_, raised a storm of opposition, that was only allayed by prompt and necessary concession. To attribute the attempt, thus properly frustrated, to an extortionate spirit on the part of Paganini, as was pretty generally done at the time, seems hardly fair. It is more reasonable to suppose that his ignorance of the English customs was taken advantage of, for the sordid purposes of others; and on this point it may be worth while here to say a few words. There is in London a class of needy and adventurous foreigners, who, with no available talent of their own, have just industry enough to make them beset those of their countrymen, whose genius or good fortune enables them to figure successfully in our metropolis. Whoever, at the period here referred to, has had occasion to direct his course through the Regent’s Quadrant, either in the twilight of a departing day, or during the brighter reign of gas and night, must have noted the loose, idle, swaggering gait, the tawdry and _outré_ habiliments, and the dark and dirty looks, of certain figures who loitered about in obstructive knots, or sauntered on in pairs or threes, among the more regulated passengers. Their equipment was ordinarily completed by a reeking cigar, which added to their sense of importance, and was an auxiliary to their impertinencies of demeanour towards the females, of whatever grade, who chanced to pass within their track. But their “high and _palmy_ state” was in the gallery of the King’s Theatre, where their pertinacious “manual exercise,” and their laudatory vociferations, in favour of the dancers who successively occupied the stage during the ballet, were a serious annoyance to all around them. Under this character, which seems to have no English term that will exactly fit it, they were (and still are) known as the _claqueurs_. Externally, they are altogether the personification of impudent pretence—and, to enable them to support their equivocal character, they seek out the private quarters of the great singer, or the fortunate artist, in whatever line, and, by all the arts of the meanest flattery, contrive to extract from his purse such tribute as his vanity, or his complaisance, may be willing to afford. It is no unnatural conjecture to suppose that, on the occasion just named, Paganini acted under a mistake produced by influence of this kind.[41]

Perhaps no achievement in the musical art, performed by one person, has ever been attended with more enthusiasm than marked the exhibition made by Paganini at his first concert in London, given on the 3rd of June, 1831. Certain it is that nothing in the way of musical performance, that had ever preceded it in this country, had exceeded it in _novelty_. It was the prevalent theme of talking wonder; and all the ingenuities of written criticism were tasked to describe and estimate it. Allowing for the difficulty of appreciating, where the singularity was so great, there was a remarkable acuteness shewn in some of the accounts that appeared in the journals of the day. From these I propose to make a few extracts, selecting such as seem best to illustrate the peculiarities with which they had to deal. Let us commence with a statement given in the first person, by Mr. Gardner, of Leicester.

“At the hazard of my ribs, I placed myself at the Opera door, two hours and a half before the concert began; presently, the crowd of musicians and violinists filled the Colonnade to suffocation, all anxious to get the front seat, because they had to pay for their places, Paganini not giving a single ticket away. The Concert opened with Beethoven’s Second Symphony, admirably performed by the Philharmonic band; after which Lablache sang _Largo al Factotum_, with much applause, and was encored. A breathless silence then ensued, and every eye was watching the action of this extraordinary violinist: and, as he glided from the side scenes to the front of the stage, an involuntary cheering burst from every part of the house, many rising from their seats to view the _spectre_ during the thunder of this unprecedented cheering—his gaunt and extraordinary appearance being more like that of a devotee, about to suffer martyrdom, than one to delight you with his art. With the tip of his bow, he set off the orchestra, in a grand military movement, with a force and vivacity as surprising as it was new. At the termination of this introduction, he commenced with a soft streamy note of celestial quality: and, with three or four whips of his bow, elicited points of sound that mounted to the third heaven, and as bright as the stars. A scream of astonishment and delight burst from the audience at the novelty of this effect. Immediately, an execution followed, that was equally indescribable, in which were intermingled tones more than human, which seemed to be wrung from the deepest anguish of a broken heart. After this, the audience were enraptured by a lively strain, in which you heard, commingled with the tones of the instrument, those of the voice, with the _pizzicato_ of the guitar, forming a compound of exquisite beauty. If it were possible to aim at a description of his manner, we should say that you would take the violin to be a wild animal which he is endeavouring to quiet in his bosom, and which he occasionally, fiend-like, lashes with his bow; this he dashes upon the strings as you would whip with a walking switch; tearing from the creature the most horrid as well as delightful tones. He has long legs and arms, and his hands, in his playing, often assume the attitude of prayer, with the fingers pointed upwards. The highest notes (contrary to every thing we have learnt) are produced as the hand recedes from the bridge; overturning all our previous notions of the art. During these effects, a book caught fire upon one of the desks, which burned for some time unobserved by the musicians, who could neither see nor hear (though repeatedly called to by the audience) any thing but the feats of this wonderful performer. Some few pieces were played by the orchestra, that gave repose to the admiring audience. He then entered upon his celebrated performance of the single string, introducing the air of _Nel cor più_ (_Hope told a flattering tale_), to which he imparted a tone so ‘plaintive and desolate that the heart was torn by it;’ in the midst of this he was so _outré_—so comic—as to occasion the loudest bursts of laughter! This feat was uproariously encored. He then retired to put on three other strings, and ended this miraculous performance with the richest _arpeggios_ and echoes, intermingled with new effects that no language can describe! Though he retired amidst a confusion of huzzas and bravos that completely drowned the full orchestra, yet he was called for to receive the homage of the audience. There was no trick in his playing; it was all fair, scientific execution, opening to us a new order of sounds, the highest of which ascended two octaves above C in alt.”

Our next demonstration is from the able pen that gave life and eloquence to the new “Tatler:”—

“Those of our readers who have heard the most eminent of violin performers, eminent for strength, sweetness, and purity of tone, will hear all these requisites to absolute perfection in Paganini. They who have heard difficulties in the way of execution overcome, which it seemed bordering on desperation to attempt, may tax their faculties to invent new enormities, and they will not only fall short in their imaginings, but he will perform all, and more, not merely without show of effort, but as if they were a fanciful prelude, or pastime, to some laborious undertaking. In the course of the concert given last evening at the Opera-house, he performed four pieces, in which, we conceive, he exhibited every feature that the instrument can display, and many more than it has hitherto been thought capable of. The first was a concerto of the most florid character, varied with movements of exquisite expression and tenderness. The second was a composition in the minor key, and which, for its own intrinsic merit, made the strongest appeal to our feelings. In it he satisfied at once any doubt we might have that he would prove unequal in a _cantabile_.—His expression in this piece was the most genuine display of passionate feeling we ever remember to have heard on any instrument. It required no explanatory chorus, no voice of accompaniment—it was the perfection of musical sighing, and gentle sorrow. The third performance was a military rondo, the whole of which he played upon one string—the fourth. In it he introduced the subject of ‘_Non più andrai_’ from _Figaro_, with variations of the most astonishing description. He introduced passages of imitation in octaves, with wonderful rapidity and neatness, and with a purity of tone that was delicious. The precision, too, with which he dashed from the lowest note of the string to the opposite extreme, and all with the utmost indifference of manner, was one of the commonest of his achievements. The last piece, which was a brilliant rondo, he played entirely without the orchestral accompaniment; and this was the triumph of the evening. It consisted of an air with variations, crowded with enharmonic passages. The subject, now legato, and now hurried, was at one time attended with a florid, and at another with a _pizzicato_ accompaniment; and, as he drew to a close, he accelerated his time to a _prestissimo, the air and the pizzicato moving on together_, and ending with a _rapid shake upon the latter_! The violin-player will fully appreciate the difficulty of this achievement. It is scarcely necessary to state that the audience were _satisfied_. The applause was showered upon him in torrents.”

Another commentator thus expresses himself:—

“Paganini’s playing is in a very high degree intellectual. It is mental, as well as physical and mechanical. The instant he seizes his violin, which he usually coquets with for a time before bringing it up to its proper place, a sudden animation passes over his countenance. He has the advantage, which all concerto players, by the way, ought to adopt, of _never using a book_. This mode, in itself, has as much the superiority as a speech delivered has over one that is read. When the first bow is drawn, Paganini is evidently lost to every other thought, and is revelling probably in a world of his own creation. All his passages seem free and unpremeditated, as if conceived on the instant. One has no impression of their having cost him either forethought or labour. The word difficulty has no place in his vocabulary, so completely is all brought under his subjection and mastery.

“Nothing can be more intense in feeling than his conception and delivery of an adagio passage. His tone is not, perhaps, so full and round as that of some other players—as Baillot, or De Beriot, for example: it is delicate, rather than strong; but that delicacy is inconceivable, unless one has heard it, and was probably never possessed equally by any other player. His touch is occasionally so fine, that the note seems to float in the air, and not to spring from any instrument. In point of expression, it is impossible to imagine any thing more perfect. The melancholy or tender (as should be the case in slow movements) mostly predominates; but there is no shade or form of expression which the genius of Paganini does not draw forth. His adagios are intermixed with passages of rapid execution, which go off with the rapidity of a rocket, or a falling star—a break of the subject, or an impertinence, in any hands but his own—but, if analyzed, all is in perfect keeping.

“The only thing that can be said to lessen the wonder of Paganini’s powers in the way of mere mechanism, is that he is indebted for them, in some measure, to his own peculiar conformation. His long arms, and slender frame, allow him to place the instrument in the most advantageous position that is possible; and his left arm is brought so completely under it, that his hand seems to cover the whole extent of the finger-board. Such is the flexibility, besides, of his joints, that he can throw his thumb nearly back upon his wrist, and extend his little finger, at the same time, in the opposite direction. By these means, when in the first position, as it is called, of the violin, he can reach, without shifting, to the second octave. His extreme high notes—for he contrives to play three octaves on each string—are given, consequently, with a precision and certainty never heard before. This flexibility, without doubt, is indispensable to the execution of many of the passages, though it is, probably, not wholly natural to him, but acquired, in part, by his long and severe practice. His solo on the fourth or G string (the other three being discarded for the occasion) we consider among the most charming, as well as the most wonderful, specimens. There are few players, we apprehend, who, in point of mere difficulty, could do on four strings what Paganini does on one; but that is nothing. The charm lies in the peculiar effect—in the soft and silvery tone of that string, which one almost imagines to be increased, though, perhaps, without reason, by taking the others away. No defect is felt, as regards compass, in this piece. There appear to be as many notes as in the violin in its ordinary state; and, in fact, by the aid of the harmonics, he does make nearly as many.”

Such were the wonders achieved, and such the impressions created, by this superlative master of the most versatile of instruments. After he had performed at this his first concert, Mori went about with the jesting enquiry, “Who’ll buy a fiddle and bow for eighteen-pence?” and John Cramer exclaimed, “Thank Heaven, I am not a violin-player!” It seemed, in short, to be commonly admitted, that, as nothing had been heard before, in violin performance, equal to this exhibition, so nothing could be expected ever to exceed it—that “the force of fiddling could no further go.” One of the numerous critics whom he kindled into rapture, observed that in the style of Paganini were united the majesty of Rode, the vigour of Baillot, the sentiment of Spohr, the _sensibilité_ of Kiesewetter, the suavity of Vaccari, the mastery of Maurer, the _justesse_ of Lafont, and the elegant expression of De Beriot!

The excitement produced by the first public display of these powers in our metropolis was fully sustained on the subsequent occasions. It would fill a volume of itself, were I to treat, “avec circonstance,” of the successive concerts at theatres and other places, in which the Genoese genius electrified attending mortals

“With heav’nly touch of instrumental sounds.”

With no intention to be thus particular, I must beg permission, nevertheless, to extract a few more passages of contemporary notice. The celebrated _Capriccio_, in which he introduced the air from the _Carnaval de Venise_, merits a separate description:—

“On reaching his position in the centre of the stage, he seemed at once to lose all consciousness of the presence of mortals, and to live and breathe for his violin alone. He touched its strings lightly and trippingly, as if to awaken it, and then, after having given it three or four of those sweeping, switching strokes, which almost justify the expression that he thinks to lash it into submission to his spirit, he threw off a most singular mutilation of the Venetian Air, “Oh! come to me!” in which, while he appeared to retain only the sad part of the original, he communicated to it an odd wailing character. On this subject he _capriccio’d_ some four or five variations, all in a consistent style, in which he introduced most of his peculiar movements of hand and bow. At the end, he was rapturously applauded, and he retired as he had entered. The applause, however, being continued, mixed with some cries of _encore_, he came forth again, but without his violin, and, making a most eloquent bow, retired once more. The plaudits were, however, now redoubled, and the wicked audience, having got the crotchet into their heads, pretty unanimously vociferated _encore_; when, after some delay, the good Signor absolutely did make his appearance with his second self—or his _pickaninney_—his violin; and did vouchsafe two little variations more, of the wizard strain:—the last was altogether performed by the hand which held the instrument, and without the aid of the bow. On the whole, so strange, so whimsical an outpouring of melancholy we never heard before, and probably never shall again:—one really did not know whether to laugh or cry at it. Nothing upon record, that we know of, comes near it, with the exception of _Corporal Trim’s_ pathos in the kitchen.”

In the region of the harmonic notes, which was before (comparatively speaking) almost a “terra incognita,” Paganini may claim the undoubted merit of having made extensive discoveries:—

“The _staccato_ runs, performed with the bow and concluded with a guitar note, are quite original with Paganini; and this is one of the few novelties in which he may find successful imitators. But his manner of producing the harmonic notes, which ascend to a height never before imagined, will probably remain a perpetual mystery[42]; it is not their least marvellous characteristic that, exquisitely attenuated as they are, the distinctness and strength of the sound is not, in the smallest degree, impaired. In performing on the fourth string only, he introduces the harmonics as part of the regular scale, thus obviating, in effect, all deficiency as to compass. The introduction of _pizzicato_ runs, on this solitary string, is another inexplicable mechanical feat.”

And again, as to these wonder-working harmonics:—

“Signor Paganini having, through vast exertion, procured himself the aid of two entire additional octaves with their half-notes, making in all 28 notes _on the fourth string_, by means of the harmonics, is able to execute pieces of a very extensive scale on that string alone. The labour he must have gone through, before he could so completely obtain the command of the harmonic notes, none but violin performers of experience can form a notion of. The most surprising part of the use he makes of them is in the clearness and strength of their tone, which render them as audible as the full notes, at any distance.”

At his (so called) farewell Concert at the King’s Theatre, on the 20th of August, two of the pieces he selected for his display were especially remarkable in the treatment. One of them, a _fandango_ of very bizarre character, performed on the fourth string, consisted, in part, of a sort of whiningly amorous colloquy between two birds. An incidental _crowing_, like that of a cock, was privately conjectured, by one of the musical men present, to be the artist’s medium of conveying an oblique satire upon _the audience_, as the subdued vassals of his will. No impression of the kind, however, existed with _them_, for they demanded the repetition of the affair. The other piece was our National Anthem of God save the King, certainly an ill-selected subject for exhibition on a single instrument, and, in the treatment of it (if I may venture to advance my own impressions experienced at the time), too full of sliding, and, as it were, _puling_, to satisfy the pre-conceptions derived from the fullness, steadiness and grandeur, characteristic of the original composition. Indeed, as it appeared to my own humble judgment, there was intermixed in the general performances of this wonderful artist, “something too much” of this sliding and tremulous work, the result, seemingly, of an overstraining at expression—of an attempt, if I may so speak, to make the note carry more than it could _bear_. The effect, in such cases, was in some degree analogous to that of Velluti’s singing; it bespoke intentions outstripping the possibility of execution. But then, amid so much splendid achievement, must we not always expect to find some mark or other of the imperfection belonging to that poor human nature which is the agent?

Whatever may have been, in the _artistic_ sense, the relative appreciation of Paganini’s talent, in the various European countries that had witnessed its display—it is certain that he was no where so highly estimated, according to the _monetary_ scale, as in England, where it has been supposed (though the exact computation of such matters is difficult) that his receipts amounted to about twenty-four thousand pounds. Whilst the golden shower was descending on him, he was not so absorbed in its fascination, as to forget the silent claims of the penny-less;—nor would it be fair to measure his impulses in this direction, by the side of that largeness of soul which we have all so greatly delighted to honour in the excellent Jenny Lind.

In the summer of 1834, after an absence of six years, spent partly in Europe and partly in America, Paganini revisited Italy—where, looking wistfully towards the sweets of retirement, he invested a portion of his accumulated funds in the purchase of an agreeable country-residence in the environs of Parma, called the _Villa Gajona_. Among the projects he at that time entertained, was the thought of preparing his various compositions for publication—a measure towards which the eager curiosity, of those especially interested in the violin, had long been pointedly turned, under the impression that all which was mysterious in the production of his extraordinary effects would thus be freely elucidated. Exaggerated notions, however, as to the pecuniary value of such a work, seem to have possessed the mind of Paganini; for, an enterprising Parisian publisher, who had made hopeful approaches to him whilst in London, had been frightened away by the discovery, that if he were to enter on the speculation by payment of the sum expected, he must look through a vista of ten years, for the commencement of his profits!

Received every where with honour in his own country, as the result of his foreign ovations, and decorated, by Maria Louisa, Duchess of Parma, with the Imperial Order of St. George, the caressed Artist was, nevertheless, incapable of any continuous enjoyment, for the want of that health which his restless and transitive spirit had no where been able to attain. A speculation of no sound character, with which he was induced to connect himself (in ignorance, as it is believed, of its real nature), drew him away to Paris, in 1838, and, in the result, damaged his pocket, and did not wholly spare his reputation. In that project, designed professedly for concerts, but covertly for gambling, he became involved, through a legal verdict, to the extent of 50,000 francs.

In the midst of the troubles associated with that affair, his ailments had deepened into consumption; and he made a painful journey through France, under medical prescription, to reach Marseilles. There, in retirement, beneath the roof of a friend, a brief return of energy enabled him to take up, now and then, his violin or his guitar; and he one day showed so much animation as to join effectively in a certain quartett of Beethoven’s, which he passionately admired. The necessity for change, so peculiarly felt by consumptive patients, impelled him again to his own Genoa; but the _great_ change was at hand—and another journey brought him to his last earthly scene, which was at Nice. The closing process was rapid. His voice became hardly distinguishable from silence itself—and sharp attacks of cough, that grew daily more obstinate, completed the exhaustion of his strength.

Of the final moments of this memorable man, an Italian writer has furnished some account, in terms which, touching as they are, yet leave in the heart a sense of something to be desired—something which no reflecting mind will be at any loss to understand. The account is (in English) as follows:—

“During the evening that was his last, he manifested more tranquillity than was habitual to him. On awaking, after a short slumber, he had the curtains of his bed drawn aside, that he might contemplate the full moon, serenely marching through the immensity of the clear heaven. In the midst of that contemplation, he again sank into drowsiness; but the whispering of the contiguous trees excited in his bosom that stir of gentle emotion, which is the very life of the beautiful. As if he would have rendered back to Nature the sweet sensations he was receiving from her in that final hour—he extended his hand toward his charm-haunted violin—toward the faithful companion of his wanderings—toward the magic thing that had been as an opiate to his troubles;—and then—he sent up to heaven, along with its expiring sounds, the last sigh of a life that had been all melody!”

The date of the event was the 27th May, 1840—and the age of the deceased, fifty-six. The great Artist left considerable wealth, together with the title of Baron (conferred on him in Germany) to his only son, Achilles, the offspring of a union with a certain vocalist, named Antonia Bianchi—a union which, not having been secured and sanctioned by the church’s testimony, was soon severed by the lady’s temper.

The life of Paganini had been a “fitful fever”—and the desire to “sleep well” may indeed be conceived to have been as an abiding thirst within him. Even his cold remains, however, were not permitted, by jealous and jaundiced authority, to repose undisturbed. Slander had been furtively busy with his name—he had died without the _stamp_ conferred by official religious ministrations—his Catholicity was dubious—his mortal relics could not (_so_ decided the Bishop of Nice) be committed to consecrated ground. In vain did his son, his friends, and the chief professors of art in that city, make solicitation of leave for a solemn service to be performed in behalf of his eternal repose, under the plea that, like many another victim of consumption, he had not supposed his death to be imminent, and had departed this life suddenly;—the leave was refused; and all that could be obtained, was the offer of an authentic declaration of demise, with license to transport the corpse whithersoever it might be wished. This was declined—and the affair was brought before a public tribunal, which gave verdict in favour of the Bishop. Appeal was then had to Rome, where the Bishop’s decision was cancelled, and the Archbishop of Turin was charged, conjointly with two Canons of the Cathedral at Genoa, to make enquiry into Paganini’s Catholicity. During all this time, the corpse had remained in a room at the Hospital at Nice. It was then transferred, by sea, from the lazaretto of Villa Franca, near that city, to a country-seat in the neighbourhood of Genoa. There, a report soon got into circulation, of strange and lamentable sounds being heard by night. To arrest these popular impressions, the young Baron Paganini undertook the cost of a solemn service to the memory of his father, which was celebrated in one of the churches at Parma. After this expenditure, the friends of the deceased had permission from the Bishop of Parma to bring the corpse within that Duchy—to transfer it to the _Villa Gajona_—and to inter it near the village church:—and this funeral homage was at length rendered to the remains of the man of celebrity, in May 1845, but without any display, in conformity with orders from the government.

The sum bequeathed by Paganini to his son (for whom a documentary legitimacy had been procured) amounted to two millions of francs (about £80,000), charged with legacies of fifty, and sixty thousand francs, respectively, to his two sisters, and with an annual _pittance_ of 1200 francs to the mother of his loved Achilles. He left also some valuable instruments, including an incomparable _Straduarius_, a charming _Guarnerius_, of the small pattern, an excellent _Amati_, a _bass_ of Straduarius, agreeing with the violin by the same maker, and his large and favourite _Guarnerius_. This latter, the sole instrument associated entirely with his travels, he bequeathed to the city of Genoa, being unwilling that any other artist should possess it after him.

Some further particulars, to illustrate chiefly the habits of the _man_, may not be deemed superfluous.

Paganini’s existence was a series of alternations betwixt excitement and exhaustion; and it is not surprising to find that his moods of mind were variable and uneven, and that he would sometimes sit, for hours together, in a sealed and sombre taciturnity, whilst, at other times, he would surrender himself to a wild effervescence of gaiety,—without any apparent motive in either case. Most commonly silentious, he was talkative when travelling. The weak state of his health made him averse from loud conversation; and yet, when the rattle of the wheels over the pavement became deafening, he would talk loud and fast. To the scenic charms out-spread before his eyes, he was insensible—his urgent impulse being to move rapidly, and to reach his journey’s end. In his later years, a low bodily temperature was habitual to him, insomuch that he would wrap a furred pelisse around him, in summer-time, and huddle himself up in a corner of his carriage, with every window closed. In-doors, on the contrary, he would have all the windows open, and called it taking an air-bath! He anathematized the climates of Germany and France, but, above all, that of England; and declared that Italy was the only country to live in. The intensity of his internal sufferings transmuted, at times, his ordinary pallor into a livid, or even a greenish hue; but his recourse was to quackery—to _one_ empirical remedy, in which he had faith, and not to doctors, in whom he had none. Before commencing a day’s journey, he took no tea, nor coffee, but either soup or a cup of chocolate. If it were early in the morning, he would start without taking anything, and sometimes continue fasting the greater part of the day. For the encumbrances of baggage, he had almost the contempt of a _Napier_. A small shabby box, in which he placed his beloved _Guarnerius_ instrument, his jewels, money, and meagre stock of linen,—a carpet bag—and a hat-box—these were his accompaniments, and were all stowed inside the vehicle. Careless of all that goes by the name of _comfortable_, he was also very little solicitous about his toilet. His wardrobe might have gone into a napkin. As for his papers, they were thrust into a small red portfolio, in “most admired disorder,” such as himself alone could penetrate for any immediate purpose. Arithmetician he was _not_, in the ordinary sense—but he managed his business calculations in a way of his own, that answered all his need. To the style of his accommodations on the road, he was quite indifferent, provided only that his rooms were _quiet_. At the day’s end, a light supper, or (sometimes) a cup of camomile tea, sufficed him.

In his own quarters, Paganini maintained usually the strictest solitude, and seemed always to quit his room with regret. His violin, as silent as himself, was not touched, save when he tuned it for a concert, or a rehearsal. He had worked _enough_—his labours had long before carried him to the summit;—his want, his craving want, was _repose_. There is a floating story about his having been dodged and watched for six months, from one halting-place to another, by an enthusiastic English amateur, who hoped to “pluck out the heart of his mystery,” to grasp the secret of his studies, by lodging at the same hotels, and occupying (whenever possible), a contiguous chamber. Vain expectation! a profound silence always enveloped the great Professor. At length, however, the crisis of discovery seemed imminent. Paganini was seen (through a key-hole) to seat himself on a couch—to take the incomparable fiddle from its case—to raise it to his left shoulder! Still, the silence was unbroken—not the whisper of a note could be distinguished! Paganini, absorbed doubtless in the composition of some new piece, only shifted his left hand about, upon the neck of the instrument, to study his positions, without the help of the bow—and then restored the un-awakened fiddle to its resting-place. The Englishman (says the story) renounced his hapless pursuit, and returned home in despair!

Enchained to music and its toils, from his earliest youth, Paganini had acquired very little general knowledge. Books were strange things to him and history and science, almost nullities. Political events had no interest for him: he looked at the newspapers merely for what personally concerned him. His mind was much engaged with his own projects for the future—such as forming a Musical Conservatory in Italy, publishing his compositions, writing operas, and ceasing to travel. He had a _Byronic_ mistrust of friends, and proneness to regard them as secret plotters against his peace. As for visitors (by whom he was sometimes besieged), as many as he was not constrained to see, were passed over to his Secretary. To those Artists who sought his converse, that they might enucleate his professional secrets, he listened patiently—but maintained his reserve. Invitations to dine or sup, which at every large town came in a shower upon him, were sparingly and reluctantly accepted. On rising from the table, if he could escape unperceived, he would immediately retire, to take repose. He was more lively _before_ than _after_ dinner—an ill compliment, perhaps, to his _host_, but no bad way of signifying the real sacrifice he had made, in accepting his invitation. In evening society, he was cheerful, in the absence of _music_; but, if that were started, either in practice, or as a conversational topic, his good humour instantly vanished;—nor is this at all wonderful, when we remember that his public life was one enormous compound of music, and that to _forget_ that art, when in his more private moments, must have been to him as a want and a refuge. His eyes, weakened by the glare of stage lamps, had an owl-like propensity to shun the light, as was manifest in his custom of turning his back to the chandeliers &c. in evening society, and sitting in total darkness at home. He had a faculty, like that of George the Third, for unfailing recollection of the persons and names of those who had been once presented to him; and yet (strange to say) the names of the towns, wherein he gave his concerts, would slip from his memory, as soon as he had quitted them.

On the mornings of his concert-days, he allowed himself a liberal time for quiet—lounging at ease upon a sofa, as if conscious that composure is the cradle of strength—and then he would start up, full of decision for business. Amid the ensuing preparations, he took a good deal of snuff—the sure sign of his being earnestly engaged. At rehearsal, he was careful to exclude strangers. If they found their way in, however, he touched his solo passages almost inaudibly, or indicated them by a slight _pizzicato_. With the orchestra, he was rigorous in the extreme—exacting the minutest attention to every point. When he came to some special passage of display, in expectation of which, the members of the band were on their legs, all eagerness to catch what was coming, he would sometimes carelessly throw off a few notes only, and then turn towards them with a smile, and the words, _Et cœtera, Messieurs!_ It was for the evening—for the public—that he reserved all the wonders of his talent. He always took away with him the various orchestral _parts_, which he would entrust to no one else. As for the _principal_ part, it was never seen, as he played from _memory_, and sought to prevent the copying of his compositions. He had a way—the caprice of conscious power—of keeping the public a long time waiting, before he would show himself, and begin to play. His departure from a concert-room was the picture of a triumph. The curious and the enthusiastic formed a dense lane, extending to his carriage, and welcomed him with transports of admiration. At his hotel, a similar assemblage awaited him with their acclamations. Elate with such marks of general favour, he would then join the _table-d’hôte_, not without an appetite for supper, though, perhaps, depression and indigestion might constitute the experience of the following day.