Famous Violinists of To-day and Yesterday

Nicolo Paganini was the son of a commercial broker, Antonio Paganini, and was born at Genoa, February 18, 1784. He was a child of nervous and delicate constitution, and the harsh treatment accorded to him by his father tended to accentuate and develop the peculiarities of his character. He was a good violinist at the age of six, and before he was eight years of age he had outgrown, not only his father's instruction, but also that of one Servetto, a musician at the theatre, and that of Costa, the director of music and principal violinist to the churches of Genoa. He had also written a sonata for violin, which was afterwards lost. At the age of nine he appeared in his first concert, given by Marchesi and Albertinatti in a large theatre at Genoa. At the age of twelve he was taken to Rolla, the celebrated violinist and composer at Parma, upon whom he made a great impression. When Paganini arrived with his father at Rolla's house they found

Although Paganini denied ever having taken lessons with Rolla, he nevertheless had frequent discussions with him concerning the new effects which he was continually attempting, and which did not always meet with the unqualified approval of the older musician.

The music which he wrote for his instrument contained so many difficulties that he had to practise unremittingly to overcome them, often working ten or twelve hours a day and being overwhelmed with exhaustion.

In 1797 Paganini made his first tour, with his father, through the chief towns of Lombardy, and now he determined to release himself, on the first opportunity, from the bondage in which he was held by his father. This opportunity presented itself when the fête of St. Martin was celebrated at Lucca, and after much opposition he at last obtained the consent of his father to attend the celebration. Meeting with much success, he went on to Pisa, and then to other places, in all of which he was well received. Being now free from the restraint of his home he fell into bad company, and took to gambling and other vices, the most natural result of his father's harsh training showing itself in lack of moral stamina.

For a time his careless life had its allurements, but the young virtuoso was frequently reduced to great straits, and on one occasion, if not more, pawned his violin. This happened at Leghorn, where he was to play at a concert, and it was only through the kindness of a French merchant, M. Livron, who lent him a beautiful Guarnieri, that he was able to appear. When the concert was over, and Paganini brought back the instrument, its owner was so delighted with what he had heard that he refused to receive it. "Never will I profane strings which your fingers have touched," he said, "the instrument is now yours." And Paganini used that violin afterwards in all his concerts.

This violin was, some time later, the means by which he was cured of gambling, for having been reduced to extreme poverty, he was tempted to sell it. The price offered was a large one. At this juncture he won one hundred and sixty francs, which saved the violin, but the mental agony he endured through the affair convinced him that a gamester is an object of contempt to all well regulated minds.

Paganini won another violin by his ability to read music at sight. Pasini, an eminent painter and an amateur violinist, refused to believe the wonderful faculty for playing at sight, which had been imputed to Paganini, and in order to test it brought him a manuscript concerto containing some difficulties considered as insurmountable. "This instrument shall be yours," said Pasini, placing in his hands an excellent Stradivari, "if you can play, in a masterly manner, this concerto, at first sight." Paganini accepted the challenge, threw Pasini into ecstasies, and became the owner of the instrument.

The severe course of dissipation in which Paganini indulged during these days of his youth ruined his health, and caused him frequently to disappear from the public gaze for long periods, throughout his career. With the fair sex he had more than one romantic episode. At one time a lady of high rank fell in love with him and led him captive to her castle in Tuscany. Here the lovers solaced themselves with duets on the guitar, and the violinist attained a proficiency, on that instrument, equal to the expression of the tenderest passion. This adventure brought retribution in after days, and in a most unexpected manner, for as his genius began to excite the wonder of the world, sundry malicious stories concerning him were invented and circulated. One of these stories was to the effect that he had been imprisoned for stabbing one of his friends, another rumour said that he strangled his wife, and that during his imprisonment he had been allowed only the solace of playing his violin with but one string. This story was told in order to account for his wonderful one-stringed performances, and it was absolutely untrue, but the time allotted by rumour to his supposed imprisonment coincided with the period which was really occupied with this romance.

At the end of three years he resumed his travels and his violin playing, returning to Genoa in 1804, where he set to work on some compositions. At this time he became interested in a little girl, Catarina Calcagno, to whom he gave lessons on the violin. She was then about seven years of age, and a few years later she became well known as a concert violinist.

Paganini did not remain long in Genoa, for the following year found him wandering again, and another love affair in Lucca led to the composition of a piece to be played on two strings, the first and the fourth: the first to express the sentiments of a young girl, and the fourth the passionate language of her lover. The performance of this extremely expressive composition was rewarded by the most languishing glances from his lady-love in the audience, but the most important result was that the Princess Elise Bacchiochi, sister of Napoleon, declared to him that he had performed impossibilities. "Would not a single string suffice for your talent?" she asked. Paganini was delighted, and shortly afterward composed his military sonata entitled "Napoleon," which is performed on the G string only.

At Ferrara he once nearly lost his life through unwittingly trampling upon the susceptibilities of the people, in the following manner. It appears that the peasantry in the suburbs of Ferrara bore ill-will toward the citizens of that town and called them "asses." This little pleasantry was manifested by the suburbanites in "hee-hawing" at the citizens when fitting opportunity presented itself. Now it happened that Paganini played at a concert, and some of the audience expressed dissatisfaction with the singer, Madame Pallerini, and hissed her. Paganini decided to have revenge, and when about to commence his last solo, he amused the public by giving an imitation of the notes and cries of various animals. The chirping of various birds, the crowing of the chanticleer, the mewing of cats, the barking of dogs were all imitated and the audience was delighted. Now was the time to punish the reprobates who hissed. Paganini advanced to the footlights exclaiming, "This for the men who hissed," and gave a vivid imitation of the braying of an ass. Instead of exciting laughter and thus causing the confusion of the enemy as he expected, the whole audience rose as one man, scaled the orchestra and footlights, and swore they would have his blood. Paganini sought safety in flight. He was eventually enlightened as to the mistake he had made.

Once, when he was at Naples, Paganini was taken ill, and in his desire to secure lodgings where the conditions would be favourable for his recovery, he made a mistake and soon became worse. It was said that he was consumptive, and consumption being considered a contagious disease, his landlord put him out in the street, with all his possessions. Here he was found by Ciandelli, the violoncellist, who, after giving the landlord a practical and emphatic expression of his opinion by means of a stick, conveyed his friend Paganini to a comfortable lodging, where he was carefully attended until restored to health.

In 1817 Paganini was urged by Count Metternich and by Count de Kannitz, the Austrian ambassador to Italy, to visit Vienna, but several times he was prevented from carrying out his plans by illness, and it was not until 1828 that he reached Vienna and gave his first concert. His success was prodigious. "He stood before us like a miraculous apparition in the domain of art," wrote one of the critics. The public seemed to be intoxicated. Hats, dresses, shoes, every thing bore his name. His portrait was to be found everywhere, he was decorated and presented with medals and honours.

He continued his tour through Germany, being received everywhere with the utmost enthusiasm, and he visited England, after a sojourn in Paris, in 1831.

When he reached home after an absence of six years, he was the possessor of a considerable fortune, part of which he lost by injudicious investments. Some friends induced him to join them in the establishment of a casino in a fashionable locality in Paris. It was called the Casino Paganini, and was intended to be a gambling-house. The authorities, however, refused to grant a license, and it was found impossible to support it by concerts only. After some vicissitudes a law-suit was established against Paganini, who was condemned to pay fifty thousand francs, and to be imprisoned until the amount was paid, but this decision was not reached until Paganini was in a dying condition, and he went, by the advice of his physicians, to Marseilles, where he remained but a short time. Finding that his health did not improve, he decided to pass the winter at Nice, but the progress of his ailment was not checked, and on May 27, 1840, he expired.

By his will, made three years previously, he left an immense fortune and the title of baron, which had been conferred on him in Germany, to his son Achille,—the fruit of a liaison with the singer Antonia Bianchi of Como,—whose birth had been legitimised by deeds of law. His fortune amounted to about four hundred thousand dollars, besides which he had a valuable collection of musical instruments. His large Guarnieri violin he bequeathed to the town of Genoa, that no artist might possess it after him.

During his last illness Paganini, not realising that death was so near, devoted himself to music and to arranging for another con cert tour. During his lifetime he had never paid much attention to religion and there were some doubts as to his belief. Although he expressed his adherence to the Roman Church, yet he dallied with its formalities, and when the priest visited him three days before his death to administer the final consolations of religion, the dying man put him off on the ground that he was not yet ready, and would send for him when the time came. Death prevented this, and burial in consecrated ground was therefore denied him. An appeal was made to the spiritual tribunal and in the meantime the body was embalmed and kept in a hall in the palace of the Conte di Cessole, whose guest he was during his last illness.

People now began to come from all parts of Italy to pay honour to the dead artist, and this so angered the bishop and priests that an order was obtained for the removal of the body. Under military escort the remains of the great violinist were taken to Villafranca and placed in a small room, which was then sealed up. And now Paganini became a terror to the ignorant peasants and fishermen, who crossed themselves as they hurried past the spot where the excommunicated remains lay. It was said that in the dead of night the spectre of Paganini appeared and played the violin outside his resting-place.

In the meantime every effort was being made to secure Christian burial. The spiritual tribunal decided that Paganini had died a good Catholic. The bishop refused to accept the decision, and an appeal to the archbishop was unavailing. Eventually the case was brought before the Pope himself by the friends of the dead man, and the Pope overruled the decision of the archbishop and ordained that Christian burial should be accorded to the artist. On the 21st of August, 1843, the Conte di Cessole took away the coffin from Villafranca, and interred it in the churchyard near Paganini's old residence at Villa Gavonà, near Parma. Thus even after death he was the victim of superstition, as he had been during his lifetime.

Paganini resolved not to publish his compositions until after he had ceased to travel, for he was aware that his performances would lose much of their interest if his works were available to everybody. He seldom carried with him the solo parts, but only the orchestral scores of the pieces that he played. His studies were pronounced impossible by some of the best violinists of the day, so great were the difficulties which they contained, and in his mastery of these difficulties, which he himself created, may be found the true secret of his success. People accounted for it in many ways, one man declaring that he saw the devil standing at his elbow, and others stating that he was a child of the devil, and that he was bewitched.

His compositions are remarkable for novelty in ideas, elegance of form, richness of harmony, and variety in the effects of instrumentation. Few compositions ever attained such fame as the "Streghe," of which the theme was taken from the music of Süssmayer to the ballet of "Il Noce di Benevento."

While it may be readily admitted that many of the effects with which Paganini dazzled the multitude were tainted with charlatanism, yet the fact remains that no one ever equalled him in surmounting difficulties, and it is doubtful if, among all the excellent violinists of the present day, any of them compares with that remarkable man.

Some of his studies have been adapted to the pianoforte by Schumann and by Liszt, and of the collection arranged by Liszt, consisting of five numbers from the Caprices, Schumann says: "It must be highly interesting to find the compositions of the greatest violin virtuoso of this century in regard to bold bravura—Paganini—illustrated by the boldest of modern pianoforte virtuosi—Liszt." This collection is probably the most difficult ever written for the pianoforte, as its original is the most difficult work that exists for the violin. Paganini knew this well, and expressed it in his short dedication, "Agli Artisti," that is to say, "I am only accessible to artists."

It is doubtful whether any violinist ever lived concerning whom more fantastic stories were told. His gruesome aspect, his frequent disappearances from public life, his peculiar habits, all tended to make him an object of interest,—and interest is sometimes shown in eagerness to hear anything at all about the subject.

He enjoyed conversation when he was in the company of a small circle of friends. He was cheerful at evening parties,—if music was not mentioned. He had an excellent memory for features and names of persons whom he had met, but it is said that he never remembered the names of towns at which he had given concerts. He was very severe with orchestras, and any mistakes made by them would bring forth a tempest of rage, though satisfactory work would be rewarded with expressions of approval. When he came to a pause for the introduction of a cadenza, at rehearsal, the musicians would frequently rise, eager to watch his performance, but Paganini would merely play a few notes, and then stopping suddenly would smile and say, "Et cetera, messieurs!" and reserve his strength for the public performance.

His peculiarities were shown strongly in his arrangements for personal comfort while travelling, for his constant suffering precluded the enjoyment of the beauties of nature. He was always cold, and even in summer kept a large cloak wrapped around him, and the windows of the carriage care fully closed. Before starting he took merely a basin of soup or a cup of chocolate, and though he frequently remained nearly the whole day without further refreshment, he slept a great deal and thus escaped some of the pain which the jolting of the carriage caused him. His luggage consisted of a small dilapidated trunk, which contained his violin, his jewels, his money, and a few fine linen articles. Besides this he had only a hat-case and a carpet-bag, and frequently a napkin would contain his entire wardrobe. In a small red pocketbook he kept his accounts and his papers, which represented an immense value, and nobody but himself could decipher the hieroglyphics which indicated his expenses and receipts. He cared not whether his apartment, at the inns on the road, was elegantly furnished or a mere garret, but he always kept the windows open in order to get an "air-bath," contrary to his custom while in a carriage.

While the secret of Paganini's marvellous technique was incessant hard work, to which he was urged not less by his own ambition than by his father's cruelty, yet in later years he seldom practised, and his playing was chiefly confined to his concerts and rehearsals. There are several good stories dealing with this peculiarity. One man is said to have followed him around for months, taking the adjoining room at hotels, in order to find the secret of his success by hearing him practise. Once, when looking through the keyhole, he saw the virtuoso go to the violin case, take out the instrument, and after seeing that it was in tune,—put it back again.

Sir Charles Hallé tells about seeing Paganini in Paris, where he used to spend an hour every day sitting in a publisher's shop, "a striking, awe-inspiring, ghostlike figure." Hallé was introduced to him, but conversation was difficult, for Paganini sat there taci turn, rigid, hardly ever moving a muscle of his face. He made the young pianist play for him frequently, indicating his desire by pointing at the piano with his long, bony hand, without speaking. Hallé was dying to hear the great violinist play, and one day, after they had enjoyed a long silence, Paganini rose and went to his violin case. He took the violin out, and began to tune it carefully with his fingers, without using the bow. Hallé's agitation was becoming intolerable, for he thought that the moment had arrived at which his desire was to be gratified. But when Paganini had satisfied himself that his violin was all right, he carefully put it back in the case and shut it up.

Paganini was notoriously parsimonious, and it was related that one evening in Florence he left his hotel rather late, jumped into a coach and ordered the man to drive him to the theatre. The distance was short, but he felt that it would not do to keep the public waiting. He was to play the prayer from "Moses" on one string. On arrival at the theatre he asked the driver, "How much?" "For you," replied the Jehu, "ten francs." "What? Ten francs? You joke," replied the virtuoso. "It is only the price of a ticket to your concert," was the excuse. Paganini hesitated a moment, and then handed to the man what he considered to be a fair remuneration, saying, "I will pay you ten francs when you drive me on one wheel."

At one time Paganini astonished the world by making to Hector Berlioz the magnificent present of twenty thousand francs. Berlioz was at that time almost in a state of despair. His compositions were not appreciated, and he was at a loss to know which way to turn. He made a final effort and gave a last concert, at which Paganini was present and congratulated him.

Jules Janin, the celebrated critic and writer, went into ecstasies over the affair. Paganini, he said, who had been attacked for hard-heartedness and avarice, was present at the concert, and at the end prostrated himself before Berlioz, and shed tears. Hope returned and Berlioz went home in triumph, for he had satisfied one great musical critic. The next day he received a note from Paganini enclosing twenty thousand francs, to be devoted to three years of repose, study, liberty, and happiness.

In Sir Charles Hallé's biography, however, this story receives important modifications. It appears that Armand Bertin, the wealthy proprietor of the Journal des Debates, had a high regard for Berlioz, who was on his staff, and knew of his struggles, which he was anxious to lighten. He resolved, therefore, to make him a present of twenty thousand francs, and to enhance the moral effect of this gift he persuaded Paganini to appear as the donor of the money. What would have appeared as a simple gratuity from a rich and powerful editor toward one of his staff, became a significant tribute from one genius to another. The secret was well kept and was never divulged to Berlioz. It was known only to two of Bertin's friends, and Hallé learned it about seven years later, when he had become an intimate friend of Madame Bertin, and she had been for years one of his best pupils.

Paganini created the difficulties which he performed. He had a style of his own, and was most successful in playing his own compositions. In Paris, when, out of respect to the Parisians, he played a concerto by Rode, and one by Kreutzer, he scarcely rose above mediocrity, and he was well aware of his failure. He adopted the ideas of his predecessors, resuscitated forgotten effects and added to them, and the chief features of his performance were, the diversity of tones produced, the different methods of tuning his instrument, the frequent employment of double and single harmonics, the simultaneous use of pizzicato and bow passages, the use of double and triple notes, the various staccati, and a wonderful facility for executing wide intervals with unerring accuracy, together with a great variety of styles of bowing. The quality of tone which he produced was clear and pure, but not excessively full, and, according to Fétis, he was a master of technique and phrasing rather than a pathetic player,—there was no tenderness in his accents.

It is said that Baillot used to hide his face when Paganini played a pizzicato with the left hand, harmonics, or a passage in staccato. Dancla, in his recollections, says: "I had noticed in Paganini his large, dry hand, of an astonishing elasticity; his fingers long and pointed, which enabled him to make enormous stretches, and double and triple extensions, with the utmost facility. The double and triple harmonics, the successions of harmonics in thirds and sixths, so difficult for small hands, owing to the stretch they require, were to him as child's play. When playing an accentuated pizzicato with the left hand, while the melody was played by the hand of the bow, the fourth finger pinched the string with prodigious power even when the other three fingers were placed."

There are anecdotes told of Paganini's artistic contests with rival violinists, chief among whom were Lafont and Lipinski, both of whom he eclipsed, and of his playing a concerto in manuscript at sight, with the music upside down on the rack.

Of his appearance we are told, in an account of a concert in London: "A tall, haggard figure, with long, black hair, strangely falling down to his shoulders, slid forward like a spectral apparition. There was something awful, unearthly in that countenance; but his play! our pen seems invol untarily to evade the difficult task of giving utterance to sensations which are beyond the reach of language." After detailing the performance, the account continues: "These excellencies consist in the combination of absolute mechanical perfection of every imaginable kind, perfection hitherto unknown and unthought of, with the higher attributes of the human mind, inseparable from eminence in the fine arts, intellectual superiority, sensibility, deep feeling, poesy, genius."

In regard to this accomplishment of playing on one string, a critic said: "To effect so much on a single string is truly wonderful; nevertheless any good player can extract more from two than from one. If Paganini really produces so much effect on a single string, he would certainly obtain more from two. Then why not employ them? We answer, because he is waxing exceedingly wealthy by playing on one." Paganini seems to have reasoned from the opposite point, viz., that if the retention of two strings be regarded with such wonder, how much greater the marvel will be if only one is used.

To offset these suggestions of charlatanism, or perhaps rather to show that, with all his charlatanism, Paganini was a marvel, we may see what effect his playing had upon some men who were not likely to be caught by mere trickery. Rossini, upon being asked how he liked Paganini, replied: "I have wept but three times in my life; the first, on the failure of my earliest opera; the second time, when, in a boat with some friends, a turkey stuffed with truffles fell overboard; and thirdly, when I heard Paganini play for the first time."

Spohr, after hearing him play, in 1830, said: "Paganini came to Cassel and gave two concerts, which I heard with great interest. His left hand and his constantly pure intonation were, to me, astonishing; but in his compositions and his execution I found a strange mixture of the highly genial and the childishly tasteless, by which one felt alternately charmed and disappointed."

George Hogarth, the musical critic, writes about Paganini's "running up and down a single string, from the nut to the bridge, for ten minutes together, or playing with the bow and the fingers of his right hand, mingling pizzicato and arcato notes with the dexterity of an Indian juggler." It was not, however, by such tricks as these, but in spite of them, that he gained the suffrages of those who were charmed by his truly great qualities,—his soul of fire, his boundless fancy, his energy, tenderness, and passion; these are the qualities which give him a claim to a place among the greatest masters of the art.

Perhaps the finest description of Paganini is the one written by Leigh Hunt:

CHAPTER V.

1800 TO 1830.

Paganini was an epoch-making artist. He revolutionised the art of violin playing, and to his influence, or through his example, were developed the modern French and Belgian schools. While Paganini was a genius, a great musician, and a wonderful violinist, he combined with these qualities that of a trickster, and the exponents of the modern French school adopted some of the less commendable features of Paganini's playing, while the Belgian school followed the more serious lines, and became a much sounder school.

Alard, Dancla, and Maurin were exponents of the French school, while in that of Belgium we have De Bériot, Massart, Vieuxtemps, Léonard, Wieniawski.

Lambert Joseph Massart was born at Liège in 1811, and was first taught by an amateur named Delavau, who, delighted with the remarkable talent displayed by his young pupil, succeeded in securing for him, from the municipal authorities of Liège, a scholarship which enabled him to go to Paris.

On his arrival at the Conservatoire, Cherubini, who was splenetive and rash, refused him admission without assigning any reason for his decision, but Rudolph Kreutzer took upon his shoulders the task of forming the future artist.

Notwithstanding Massart's great talent and excellent capabilities as an artist, he never became a success as a concert player, because of his inordinate shyness, but as a teacher few have equalled him.

Sir Charles Hallé, in his autobiography, tells a good anecdote concerning Massart's shyness and modesty. Massart was to play, with Franz Liszt, a program which included the Kreutzer sonata. Just as the sonata was begun a voice from the audience called out "Robert le Diable," referring to Liszt's brilliant fantasia on themes from that opera, which he had recently composed, and had played several times with immense success. The call was taken up by other voices, and the sonata was drowned. Liszt rose and bowed, and presently, in response to the continued applause, he said: "I am always the humble servant of the public. But do you wish to hear the fantasia before or after the sonata?"

Renewed cries of "Robert" were the only reply, upon which Liszt turned half around to Massart and dismissed him with a wave of the hand, but without a word of excuse or apology. Liszt's performance roused the audience to a perfect frenzy, but Massart nevertheless most dutifully returned and played the Kreutzer sonata, which fell entirely flat after the dazzling display of the great pianist.

Few teachers have formed as many distinguished pupils as Massart, for in 1843 he was appointed professor of violin at the Paris Conservatoire, where his energy, care, exactness, and thoroughness brought him an immense reputation. Lotto, Wieniawski, Teresina Tua, and a host of other distinguished violinists studied under him: among them also was Charles M. Loeffler, of the Boston Symphony Orchestra.

Massart was also an excellent quartet player and gave many delightful chamber concerts, with his wife, who was a pianist. He died in Paris, February 13, 1892.

Charles Auguste de Bériot, who holds a position of great importance in the history of violin playing and composition, was born in 1802 at Louvain. He had the misfortune to be left an orphan at the age of nine. His parents were of noble extraction, but at their death he was left entirely without fortune, and was taken in charge by M. Tiby, a professor of music, who had noticed the little boy's love of the musical art, and had already taught him to such good purpose that he was able even at that time to play one of Viotti's concertos in public so skilfully that he received the hearty applause of the audience. He also took lessons of Roberrechts, one of Viotti's most noted pupils.

De Bériot was a youth of contemplative mind and of high moral character. He formed the acquaintance of the scholar and philosopher Jacotot, who imbued him with principles of self-reliance, and exerted an influence over him which lasted throughout his life.

De Bériot learned from his guide, philosopher, and friend that "perseverance triumphs over all obstacles," and that "we are not willing to do all that we are able to do."

At the age of nineteen De Bériot went to Paris, taking with him a letter of introduction to Viotti, who was then the director of music at the Opéra, and he succeeded in gratifying his greatest ambition, which was to be heard by that illustrious violinist.

Viotti gave him the following advice: "You have a fine style. Give yourself up to the business of perfecting it. Hear all men of talent, profit by everything, but imitate nothing."

De Bériot applied himself assiduously to his studies, entering the Paris Conservatoire and taking lessons of Baillot. In a few months, however, he withdrew from the Conservatoire and relied upon his own resources. He soon began to appear in concerts, generally playing compositions of his own, which won him universal applause by their freshness and originality as much as by his finished execution and large style of cantabile.

In 1826 he went to London from Paris, his first appearance taking place on May 1st, before the Philharmonic Society. Wherever he appeared, either in London or the provinces, he was greeted with enthusiasm, and he established a lasting reputation.

His appearance in England antedated that of Paganini by about five years, and it has been questioned whether the impression which he made would have been less if he had appeared after instead of before the great Italian. It seems, however that De Bériot continued to meet with success even after the advent of Paganini. His playing was distinguished by unfailing accuracy of intonation, great neatness and facility of bowing, grace, elegance, and piquancy.

After travelling for some years he returned to Belgium, where he was appointed solo violin to the King of the Netherlands. He had held the position but a short time when the revolution of 1830 broke out and deprived him of it.

He returned to Paris, and now began the most romantic portion of his life. Madame Malibran, whose brilliant career was then at its height, was singing in opera, and De Bériot became acquainted with her. The acquaintance ripened into the most intimate friendship, and in 1832 a concert company was formed, consisting of Malibran, De Bériot, and Luigi Lablache, the celebrated and gigantic basso. They made a tour of Italy, meeting with the most extraordinary success.

De Bériot and the beautiful Madame Malibran were now inseparable. Malibran had for some years been living apart from her husband, an American merchant, who, with the view of supporting himself by her talents, had married her when on the brink of financial collapse. In 1835 she succeeded in securing a divorce from him, and then she married De Bériot.

A few months after their marriage Mali bran was thrown from her horse and sustained internal injuries of such severity that she died after an illness of nine days, and De Bériot became frantic with grief.

More than a year elapsed before he could at all recover from the effects of his irreparable loss, and his first appearance in concert, after this tragic event, was when Pauline Garcia, the sister of Madame Malibran, made her first début in a concert at Brussels given for the benefit of the poor.

In 1841 De Bériot married Mlle. Huber, daughter of a magistrate of Vienna. He returned to Brussels, and became director of the violin classes at the Conservatoire, after which he ceased giving concerts. He remained in this position until 1852, when failing eyesight caused him to retire, and he died at Louvain in 1870.

Before his acquaintance with Madame Malibran, De Bériot was a suitor for the hand of Mlle. Sontag, and her rejection of him threw him into a state of despondency, from which it required the brilliancy and wit of Malibran to rouse him.

De Bériot left a number of compositions which abound in pleasing melodies, have a certain easy, natural flow, and bring out the characteristic effects of the instrument in the most brilliant manner. There are seven concertos, eleven "airs variées," several books of studies, four trios and a number of duets for piano and violin. His "Violin School" has been published in many languages and used a great deal by students.

Delphin Jean Alard was at one time a favourite violinist in France. In 1842 he succeeded Baillot as professor of violin at the Conservatoire in Paris. He was first soloist in the royal band, to which post he was appointed in 1858, and he was presented with the Cross of the Legion of Honour.

Alard was born at Bayonne in March, 1815, and was well taught from his earliest youth. He appeared in concerts at the age of ten, and at twelve entered the Paris Conservatoire, where he became a pupil of Habeneck, while Fétis taught him composition. He was the winner of numerous prizes, and he also wrote a great deal of music for the violin. His greatest pupil was Sarasate.

Alard married the daughter of Vuillaume, one of the best violin makers of France, and through him became the owner of one of the most beautiful Stradivarius violins. Alard died in Paris, February 22, 1881.

Hubert Léonard was born at Bellaire, near Liège, in 1819, but unlike the majority of violinists he did not appear in concerts at an early age, nor did he enter the Paris Conservatoire until he was seventeen. At this time the wife of a wealthy merchant in Brussels took interest in him and provided the means necessary for him to go to Paris. In 1844 he appeared at Leipzig, and created a deep impression by the beauty of his tone and his elegant performance. He travelled through Europe and played chiefly his own compositions, of which there are a great many, but his greatest fame was earned after he was appointed professor at the Brussels Conservatoire, where he had many pupils, of whom the most celebrated is, perhaps, Martin Marsick.

Concerning the merits of Heinrich Wilhelm Ernst there seems to be a wide difference of opinion between various commentators. He was a man of warm, impulsive nature, whose playing was distinguished by great boldness in the execution of technical difficulties of the most hazardous nature. His tone had a peculiar charm, and at the same time his fiery, impetuous nature and uneven disposition led to certain occasional errors in technique and faulty intonation. Nevertheless, he was one of the most welcome performers in the concert halls of Europe for a number of years. He was a thorough musician and a good composer, though his works are so full of technical difficulties as to be almost impossible of performance. Indeed it is said that some of them contained difficulties which even he could not always overcome.

Born in Moravia at the town of Brünn in 1814, he entered the Vienna conservatory, and in 1830 made his first concert tour through Munich and Paris. Paganini was at that time travelling in Europe, and Ernst, in the desire to learn something from this great artist, followed him from town to town, and endeavoured to model his own playing upon the style of the Italian virtuoso, an effort which seems to have brought down upon him the censure of some critics, but which others have considered highly praiseworthy.

In 1832 he settled in Paris, where he studied hard under De Bériot, and played in concerts frequently. After 1844 he lived chiefly in England, where he was highly ap preciated, until the approach of his fatal disease made it necessary for him to give up, first, public performances, and then violin playing of any kind. He died at Nice after eight years of intense suffering, in 1865.

When Ernst died the critic of the Atheneum compared him with other players of his day in the following words: "Less perfection in his polish, less unimpeachable in the diamond lustre and clearness of his tone, than De Bériot, Ernst had as much elegance as that exquisite violinist, with greater depth of feeling. Less audaciously inventive and extravagant than Paganini, he was sounder in taste, and, in his music, with no lack of fantasy, more scientific in construction.... The secret, however, of Ernst's success, whether as a composer or a virtuoso, lay in his expressive power and accent. There has been nothing to exceed these as exhibited by him in his best days. The passion was car ried to its utmost point, but never torn to tatters, the freest use of tempo rubato permitted, but always within the limits of the most just regulation."

Among the violinists of this period (those who were born between 1800 and 1830) will be found those who first visited the United States. In 1843 Ole Bull found his way to these shores, and in the following year both Vieuxtemps and Artot were giving concerts in New York. A kind of triangular duel took place, for the admirers of Artot and Vieuxtemps, who were chiefly the French residents of the city, endeavoured to belittle the capabilities of Ole Bull, who nevertheless appears to have been very successful, and if anything, to have benefited by the competition. Musical culture was, at that time, in a very low state in America, and one may judge somewhat of its progress by the press criticisms of the artists who visited the country from time to time. It will be seen that those who, like Ole Bull, Sivori, and Remenyi, applied their talents to the elaboration of popular airs and operatic themes were able to elicit the warmest praise. Vieuxtemps appears to have appealed to the cultured minority and was understood and appreciated by very few.

Flowery language was used without stint, and was frequently misapplied in the most ludicrous manner, as will be seen by the following extract:

"Since the death of his great master, the weird Paganini, Ole Bull had been left without a rival in Europe. Herwig, Nagel, Wallace, Artot, and De Bériot can only 'play second fiddle' to this king of the violin. His entrance upon the stage is remarkably modest, and after the Parisian graces of Artot seems a little awkward; a tip of his bow brings a crash from the orchestra. He then lays his cheek caressingly on the instrument, which gradually awakes, and wails, and moans, like an infant broken of its slumber. Every tone seems fraught with human passion. At one time he introduces a dialogue, in which a sweet voice complains so sadly that it makes the heart ache with pity, which is answered from another string with imprecations so violent and threatening that one almost trembles with fear. We fancied that a young girl was pleading for the life of her lover, and receiving only curses in reply. At the close of the first piece, the 'Adagio Maestoso,' there was one universal shout of applause, which afforded an infinite relief to a most enthusiastic house that had held its breath for fifteen minutes. Ole Bull came before the curtain and bowed, with his hand upon his heart. There is something different in his performance from that of any other artist, and yet it is difficult to describe the peculiarity of his style, except that he touches all the strings at once, and plays a distinct accompaniment with the fingers of his right hand. But the charm is in the genius of the man and the grandeur of his compositions. He knows how to play upon the silver cord of the heart which binds us to a world of beauty, and vibrates only when touched by a master hand."

The sentiments and emotions aroused in the breast of this critic appear to have been those with which Paganini inspired his audience, when he played a duet on two strings, as related in an earlier chapter. Ole Bull was a child of nature, he gave his audience a description of the beauties of nature, and behold! it is interpreted as a story of human passions,—a high tribute to descriptive music.

The following criticism seems more in keeping with the ideas known to have been held by the violinist, and almost leads one to imagine that the critic was fortunate enough to obtain an interview with the virtuoso before writing his account:

"FEBRUARY, 1844.

"To what shall we compare Ole Bull's playing? Was it like some well-informed individual who has seen the world and who spices his tales of men and things with song and story--now describing the beauties of Swiss scenery, now repeating the air which he caught up one moonlight night on the Bosphorus, and anon relating a stirring joke which he gleaned on the Boulevard. Such a man would create an impression on any small tea-party, but that violin did more--the comparison fails. There might be to him who chose to give rein to his fancy a vision at one moment of the old ivy-covered church and the quiet graveyard, the evening sun streaming through the rich stained glass, the organ faintly heard through the long aisles and the deep chancel, and around and about the singing of some bird of late hours, and the hum of the bee as he flew by, well laden, to his storehouse of sweets.

"Then the clouds flew fearfully, and the wind moaned through the boughs of the old oak-tree in its winter dishabille, and so down to the seashore, when it rushed over cliffs and crags and knocked off the caps of the mad waves and sped on like a tyrant, crashing everything in its way and rejoicing in its might. And so we glided oddly but easily enough into the ballroom, where mirth and laughter, bright eyes, fairy feet, and all that was good and pleasant to behold flitted by. It was not all music that Ole Bull's violin gave out. There were old memories and pleasant ones, ideas which shaped themselves into all manners of queer visions; and the main difference between Ole Bull and those I have heard before him seemed to me to consist in this--that whereas many others may excite and hold by the button, as it were, the organ of hearing and the mind therewith immediately connected, Ole Bull awakens the other senses along with it and occupies them in the field of imagination."

In 1846 came Sivori, and in 1848 Remenyi, both artists whose desire to please their audiences took them far from the path of the highest musical standard. It may be said with truth that the country was hardly ready for musicianship of the highest quality, and even in 1872, when Wieniawski came with the great pianist and composer, Rubinstein, the two were accepted on their reputation rather than on their merits, which were understood by a comparatively small proportion of their audiences.

Although several violinists endeavoured to copy Paganini's style, or at least to learn as much as possible from hearing and seeing him play, there was only one, excepting Catarina Calcagno, who received direct instruction from him, and on whom his mantle was said, by his admirers, to have fallen. That one was Camillo Sivori, born at Genoa, June 6, 1817.