Part 7

Nothing could be more variable than the moral dispositions of Paganini; at one time melancholy and taciturn, passing several hours seated, without uttering a word; at another, he would give himself entirely up to unrestrained gaiety, without any apparent motive for either the one or the other. He seldom spoke much; but while travelling, the movement of the carriage rendered him loquacious. Mr. George Harrys, who lived for some time on terms of intimacy with him, and who has published some curious details on his private life,[O] states that his bad health rendered his speaking aloud extremely painful, but when the noise of the wheels rattling over the stones was almost deafening, he spoke loudly and rapidly. It was not, as with most persons, the beauty of the country through which he passed that made him communicative, for he paid no attention to the lovely landscapes which met his eye in every direction; rapid transit seemed to be his only aim; but there was something in the rolling of the coach which made conversation a necessity. His constant suffering did not permit him to enjoy a beautiful country, where others dwelt who were blessed with health. Besides, he was always cold, and even at a summer heat of twenty-two degrees he wrapped his large cloak around him, and ensconced himself in a corner of a carriage, with the windows hermetically closed. By a singular contradiction, he invariably kept all the windows of his apartments wide open, to take, as he called it, an air bath. He cursed the climate of Germany, of France, and above all of England, saying there was no living but in Italy. Travelling was exceedingly painful to him, suffering, as he constantly did, from pain in the abdomen; hence his wish to travel quickly. In the agony he experienced, his habitual paleness was replaced by a livid and greenish hue. Sleep to him was a source of great delight, and he would sleep uninterruptedly for two or three hours consecutively, and awake full of cheerfulness. When the horses were being changed, he either remained in the carriage, or walked about until the fresh horses were put to; but he never entered an inn or post-house until he arrived at the end of his journey. Before starting, he neither took tea nor coffee, but a basin of soup, or a cup of chocolate. If he started early in the morning, he would do so fasting, and frequently remained nearly the whole day without taking any refreshment. His luggage caused no trouble, as it consisted only of a small dilapidated trunk, containing his precious Guarnieri Violin, his jewels, his money, and a few fine linen articles, a carpet bag, and a hat-case, which was placed in the interior of the carriage. Careless of all that related to the comforts of life, he was alike negligent in his toilet. A small napkin would contain his entire wardrobe; his papers, which were of paramount importance, representing immense value, he kept in a small red pocket-book, which also contained his accounts. None but himself could decipher these hieroglyphics of his Babel-like accounts, where pell-mell were mixed up Vienna and Carlsruhe, Berlin, Frankfort, and Leipzig, receipts and outlay for post-horses, etc., and concert tickets. All was clear to him; though extremely ignorant of arithmetic, he had devised certain means of arriving at an exact account of all his affairs.

In the inns on the road, Paganini was never dissatisfied. It was a matter of indifference to him, whether he was shown into a garret or an elegantly-furnished chamber, whether the bed was good or bad, as long as he was removed from all noise. “I have enough noise in large towns,” he would say, “I wish to rest on the road.” His supper was always extremely light; frequently he would take nothing but a cupful of camomile tea, after which he would sleep soundly till the morning. However, when, about fifteen years before his death, he was attacked with the phthisis which ultimately proved fatal, a convulsive cough frequently interrupted his sleep; but as soon as the crisis was over, he was asleep again.

The most securely-guarded state prisoner never experienced so monotonous a course of existence as that to which Paganini condemned himself at home; he left his room with regret, and only seemed happy in perfect solitude. Many have thought his Violin occupied him constantly. Never was error greater--he never touched it except to tune it previously to going to a rehearsal or a concert. “I have laboured enough to acquire my talent,” he would say, “it is time I should rest myself.” The anecdote is perhaps known, of an Englishman, a passionate admirer and amateur of the Violin, who, intent on discovering the secret of the great artist’s study, followed in his steps for more than six months, staying at the same hotels, and always when possible in the next room. Vainly, however, did he seek to hear him study some of his difficulties--the most profound silence reigned in the artist’s apartment. It occurred, however, that on one occasion the rooms of the amateur and the artist were only separated by a door which was not used. Peeping through the keyhole, the curiosity of the amateur was, as it appeared, about to be gratified. He saw Paganini, seated on a sofa, taking from its case the precious Violin, which, on being raised to his shoulder, assured him his long-sought happiness was about to be realized; but not a note was heard, for Paganini merely moved his left hand up and down the finger-board, to calculate certain positions, without using the bow. This done, the Violin was replaced in its case. In utter despair, the Englishman gave up the fruitless pursuit, and returned to England.

Paganini did not seek to conceal that his constant study of the instrument in his early years precluded his attending to his education, and that his mind was but ill-stored with literary instruction. He never looked into a book, not even to wile away any portion of time by reading a romance. History and the sciences were sealed books to him. M. Schottky, notwithstanding, found among the documents which were furnished to him by M. Amati, an anecdote which indicates that the great violinist’s memory retained certain smatterings of history, mythology, and poetry, which he would apply occasionally most oppositely. Dining one day with the celebrated poets, Monti and Ugo Foscolo, at the residence of the beautiful, rich, and witty Comtesse F----’s, Foscolo, who was captivated with the charms of the Comtesse, arrived the last, and finding Monti, his rival, addressing her in terms of gallantry, he abruptly quitted the apartment, and hastened to allay his fierceness on the garden terrace. Here he met Paganini, and his passion subsided. Approaching him with great warmth, and seizing his hand, he said to him, “When I heard you at the concert yesterday, Homer stood before me in all his sublimity. The grandeur of the first movement of your concerto brought to my mind the arrival of the Greek ships before Troy. The exquisite loveliness of the Adagio pictured to me the tender love-talk of Achilles and Briséis. When will you let me hear the despair and wailings of the hero over the body of Patroclus?” Paganini replied, without hesitation, “When Achilles Paganini finds his Patroclus among violinists.”

Political events had no interest for him; he consequently never read a newspaper unless it contained something concerning himself. His whole thoughts were occupied on projects for the future. Among these were the founding of a musical conservatory in Italy, the publication of his compositions, the writing of operas, and abandoning his professional tours. While dwelling on these subjects, he would pace his room with great rapidity, arrange his stray pieces of music, or number his red diary, dress himself and go to dinner, or have it brought to his room, which he preferred to the _table d’hôte_. He spent a great portion of the day reclining on his bed, and left his room only in the evening, to walk for about an hour. He would pass the entire evening without light in his apartment, and rarely went to bed later than half-past ten. He frequently remained for hours absorbed in deep thought, almost motionless. Mistrustful, like most Italians, he complained of the treachery of some of his most intimate friends, which necessarily rendered him the more so; hence his dislike to society--he did not believe he could repose the slightest confidence in any one.

Notwithstanding his extreme repugnance to receiving visits, his world-wide fame brought sometimes from sixty to eighty visitors, anxious to see and speak with him; many of these he would refer to his secretary, but others he could not avoid receiving. Circumspect with those who came on business, he was more so with artists who came to discover the secret of his talent; he listened to these patiently. His fatigue was so great after receiving these visits, that he would bolt his door, and not answer anyone who knocked.

The invitations he received for dinners and suppers were very numerous in all the towns he visited, or remained in to give concerts; they annoyed him, and he refused most of them, aware of his habit of partaking of everything that was placed on the table. He could eat and drink largely without feeling any ill effects at the time, but in a day or two his intestinal pains would come on with redoubled force. He would invariably, if he could do so without being observed, retire to rest as soon as he left the table. He was infinitely gayer previous to dinner than after. One would be inclined to suppose he was desirous of impressing upon his host the sacrifice he made in accepting the invitation: it was so, in fact.

At evening parties he was extremely cheerful, if no mention was made of music; but if, with the ill-judged view of affording him amusement, it was proposed or spoken of, his spirits immediately left him. If to gather his opinions upon other violinists, or to question him upon his talent, he only replied monosyllabically, and endeavoured to avoid the inquisition by stealing away to another part of the room, or to interrupt the conversation by observations on other subjects. In the large cities of Germany, vocal and instrumental societies deemed it a homage to his talent to perform before him some musical compositions; but, although he would appear to listen with attention, his mind was pre-occupied on other subjects, and he rarely knew what he listened to. He occasionally avowed, with great sincerity, that the obligation of identifying his public existence with music made him feel an imperious desire to forget the art when he entered into ordinary life. Nor can it be dissimulated that this idiosyncracy pertains to almost every artist who has obtained great celebrity, and who has acquired popular fame. With these, all their faculties are concentrated in the feeling of their personality. Art, separated from their own glorification, does not exist. Gluck and Grétry recognized no music but their own, nor believed any other to be worthy of being performed. How many composers have been imbued with the same feeling, differing with those great men only in dissimulation! With those whose executive talents bring them in contact with the public, it is worse still; without personal ovations, it is not only indifference for the art, it is hatred. Hence, when, having returned to the ordinary conditions of life, and withdrawn from the manifestations of enthusiasm they have for so long a period excited, artists who come into this category decline rapidly, and present in their old age a spectacle of moral degradation, unless, by an extraordinary exception, great intellectual faculties have been united to their extraordinary talent.

Paganini felt great pleasure in a small circle of friends, and in quiet conversation. The amusements of society delighted him; and he would remain until a late hour, where he did not appear to be an object of attention. He did not like the glare of light--his sight having been affected by stage lights--hence his habit of playing with his back to the lights, and of remaining in the dark when at home. His memory was excellent, despite his habitual abstraction. When once persons had been introduced to him, their features and names were never forgotten; but, by some inexplicable singularity, he never remembered the name of a town in which he gave concerts the moment he left it.

Notwithstanding the enormous number of concerts he gave, Paganini was pre-occupied the day on which one was given. He would remain idle the whole morning, lying on a sofa. Before going to a rehearsal, he would open his Violin-case to examine the state of his strings, tune it, and prepare the orchestral parts of the pieces he intended playing. During these operations he took large quantities of snuff--a certain token with him of great mental excitement and disquietude. On arriving at rehearsal, his first care was to see that no person was in the room or theatre. Should any one be there, he merely indicated to the band what he desired by almost an imperceptible sound, or slight pizzicato. He was extremely severe with the band; and would have a solo or a tutti repeated for the slightest error. If this continued, he would pace to and fro before the orchestra, and dart the most furious looks at the musicians; but when a tutti came in too soon, before the termination of a cadenza, he burst forth into a tempest of rage which would cause the boldest to tremble. When, however, the accompaniment was satisfactory, he would smile, and express his approbation aloud, in these words, “Bravissimo! Siete tutti virtuosi!” When he came to a pause for the introduction of a cadenza, the musicians all rose, eager to observe what he was about to play, but Paganini would merely play a few notes--stop suddenly--and, turning towards them, would laughingly add, “Et cætera, Messieurs!” It was only in the evening he would put forth all his strength. After the rehearsal, he would converse for a few moments with the leader, to thank him for the attention that had been paid, and sought out especial passages for his particular observation. He invariably carried away himself the orchestral parts, of which he was particularly careful. The principal part was never seen, as he played from memory, to avoid his pieces being copied. When he returned home he partook of a light repast, threw himself upon his bed, and remained there until the carriage came to take him to the theatre. A few minutes sufficed for his toilet, and he proceeded at once to the concert. When he arrived he evinced as much gaiety, as he had displayed gravity during the day. His first question was “is there a large audience?” If answered in the affirmative, he would say, “good--good! excellent people!” if, on the contrary, he was told the audience was small, he expressed a fear that the effect of the music would be lost in the empty boxes.

Paganini was not always alike disposed for his concerts. He had doubts of himself; and, trying several difficult passages, if he failed in executing them with his usual facility, he became angry, and exclaimed, “If I were in Paris, I would not play to-day.” He would frequently recover himself during the evening, and say ingeniously to his friends, “I have played better at the end than at the commencement of the concert.” He kept the public waiting a long time before he came on. His departure from the theatre resembled a triumph; a crowd formed an avenue to his carriage, and greeted him with loud acclamations; he was received similarly on his arrival at his hotel. Paganini seemed delighted with the homage, and frequently mixed with the crowds that surrounded the doors. He would join the company at the _table d’hôte_ in the best possible spirits, and would sup heartily.

There are few examples of such devotion to severe study as Paganini evinced in the accomplishment of his art. He created the difficulties he performed, with a view of varying the effects and augmenting the resources of his instrument--this, as it is seen, having been his object, so soon as he was capable of reflecting on his ultimate destiny. Having played the music of the old masters, particularly that of Pugnani, Viotti and Kreutzer, he felt he could never attain great fame if he followed in their path. Chance brought under his notice the ninth work of Locatelli, entitled, “l’Arte di Nuova Modulazione,” and he at once saw in it a new world of ideas and facts, though, on its first appearance it was unsuccessful from its excessive difficulty, and, perhaps, also, because it was in advance of the period when “classic” forms should be departed from. Circumstances were favourable to Paganini, for the necessity of innovation was at its zenith in his day. In adopting the ideas of his predecessors, in resuscitating forgotten effects, in superadding what his genius and perseverance gave birth to, he arrived at that distinctive character of performance and his ultimate greatness. The diversity of sounds--the different methods of tuning his instrument--the frequent employment of double and single harmonic notes--the simultaneous pizzicato and bow passages--the various staccati--the use of the double and even triple notes--a prodigious facility in executing wide intervals with unerring precision, joined to an extraordinary number of various styles of bowing--such were the principal features of Paganini’s talent--means which were rendered perfect by his execution--his exquisite nervous sensibility, and his enormous musical feeling. From the manner in which he placed himself, leaning, as it were, on his hip, from the position of his right arm, and the manner in which he held his bow, it would have been thought its movements would be nothing less than awkward, and the arm all stiffness; but it was soon observed that the bow and the arm moved with equal ease, and what appeared to be the result of some malformation, was the result of deep study of that which was most favourable to the effect the artist wished to produce. His bow was of ordinary dimensions; but was screwed up with more than usual tension. It is probable Paganini found it preferable for his bounding staccato, which differed from that of all other violinists. In the notice which he wrote at Lucca, he says great surprise was manifested at the length of his bow, and the thickness of his strings; but, some time after, he evidently discovered the difficulty of producing vibration in every part of the strings, and consequently, of obtaining a perfect tone, for he gradually diminished their dimensions--and when he played in Paris his strings were under the medium size. Paganini’s hands were large, dry, and nervous. His fingers, by dint of excessive practice, had acquired a suppleness and aptitude difficult to conceive. The thumb of the left hand fell easily upon the palm of his hand, when necessary for the execution of certain shifting passages.

The quality of tone which Paganini brought from his instrument was clear and pure, without being excessively full, except in certain effects, when it was manifest he collected all his power to arrive at extraordinary results. But what most distinguished this portion of his talent was the variety of voices he drew from the strings, by means of his own, or which, after having been discovered by others, had been neglected, their full import having been misunderstood. Thus, the harmonic sounds, which before his time had only been considered as curious and limited effects, rather than as a positive benefit to a violinist, formed an important feature in Paganini’s performance. It was not only for an isolated effect that he employed them, but as an artificial means to reach certain intervals, which the largest hand could never embrace. It was from the harmonic sounds that he obtained on the fourth string a compass of three octaves. Before Paganini, none had imagined that beyond natural harmonics, it was possible to execute thirds, fifths, sixths; in fact, that at the octaves in diatonic succession, natural and harmonic sounds could be produced. All these Paganini executed in every position with the utmost facility. In singing he frequently produced a vibratory effect, which greatly resembled the human voice, but when, by sliding the hand, the voice became like that of an old woman, the effect was affected and exaggerated. Paganini’s intonation was perfect; this rare quality was not the least of the advantages he possessed over other violinists.

After having spoken of the great qualities of Paganini’s talent, it is necessary to consider it from the general impression it produced upon the public. Many overleap the bounds of reason in expatiating on the poetry of his playing, particularly upon his singing. He was cited as the great Violin singer--as the creator of a pathetic and dramatic school, applied to the art of bowing. I confess that I do not look at his prodigious talent in this light. What I experienced in listening to him was astonishment--unbounded admiration; but I was seldom moved by that feeling which appears to me inseparable from the true expression of music. The poetry of the great violinist consisted, principally, in his brilliancy; and, if I may be allowed the expression, the mastery of his bow. There was fulness and grandeur in his phrasing--but there was no tenderness in his accents. In the prayer from “Mosè,” for example, he was great when the baritone voice was heard on the fourth string, from the elevated character he gave to it; but when he came to the part of Elcia, an octave higher on the same string, he fell into an affected strain of heavy, tremulous sounds, which good taste would have rejected. His triumph was in the last major strain; here he was sublime--and he then left an impression bordering on enthusiasm.

To pronounce judgment upon Paganini, it was necessary to hear him in his own especial style--that which most characterized his talent. In his concerts in Paris, he thought it necessary to flatter the national feeling by playing a concerto by Kreutzer and one by Rode--but he scarcely rose above mediocrity in their performance. His secretary, Mr. Harrys, tells us the opinion Paganini formed of himself as regards these attempts. He said to him, “I have my own peculiar style; in accordance with this, I regulate my composition. To play those of other artists, I must arrange them accordingly: I had much rather write a piece in which I can trust myself entirely to my own musical impressions.” The unfavourable impression he made in Paris, with these two pieces, was a lesson to him; he never played from that time any music but his own. Paganini’s art did not apply to any species of composition--his was a specialty, of which he alone could be the interpreter--an art born with him, the secret of which he has carried with him to the grave.