Scan 8
Musical Courier 1905-08-23: Vol 51 Iss 1326, 1905
36 lines. Read by computer on 23 September 2026. Printed page 9. See the scan on archive.org.
1in May, just one year after my serenade at Mantua, I put up at a small inn near the outskirts of the town. Tired out with the day's journey, I scarcely glanced at my surroundings, and immediately went to bed. Just as I was on the point of falling asleep I heard a sound that made my heart stand still. It was the sound of a violin. And what was more, there was only one man in the world who could produce such tones, and that man was my hero!
3Springing out of bed, I peered out of the window, and discerned a high wall, back of which stood a large building with iron bars before the windows. From one of those gratings came those enchanting tones—tones for which I had been longing twelve whole weary months. The violinist was playing on one string only—the G—but the richness, sonority and mellowness of the tones he drew forth baffled description. And such execution, such brilliancy, such pathos! He played a theme with variations for the fourth string that fairly dumbfounded me. It I had known less of the character of the instrument I should have sworn that it was for two or more strings. After about an hour the music ceased. At once I roused the innkeeper and inquired what was the building opposite the inn. "'Tis a prison, your honor," he said. "Who is the man that plays the violin?" I asked. "Oh, that fiddling fellow—he was put in for murdering his mistress. He's awaiting trial now, and probably will be a head shorter when judgment is passed on him. He's always a-fiddling o' nights. If it bothers you I can give you a front room."
5Without replying I rushed downstairs and over to the prison, but all to no purpose. I could not even arouse anyone, much less gain an entrance, and so, much downcast, I returned to my room. Next morning I was awakened early by querulous voices coming up from the prison court. On looking out of the window I perceived a group of prisoners, the warden, and, standing aloof from the others, a dark young man of striking appearance. His remarkable physiognomy, his raven locks falling down over his shoulders, his clear cut features, his strong yet sensitive mouth, his piercing black eyes and his rapt expression, all marked him as a man among millions. Instinctively I knew that this was the violinist—this was my ideal. Oblivious of his surroundings, he stood there in a posture of absolute repose, his arms folded over his breast, gazing at the rising sun with a look as steady and piercing as that of an eagle. I felt the presence of genius with an overpowering sense of my own unworthiness. "Oh, if he would only speak," I thought. The other prisoners seemed to stand in awe of him, and it was the calloused keeper who spoke, exclaiming in a harsh voice, "If you don't keep that fiddle still at nights, I'll cut your last string off." With a glance of withering disdain as his only response, the artist turned on his heel and entered the gloomy building.
7All the efforts I made and means I used to ascertain my ideal's name, his origin, and whatever else might be of assistance to me, were in vain. The prison authorities simply informed me that he had been arrested for murder, and that his trial would come off as soon as sufficient proof had been collected to convict him. No one was allowed to see him, and he was not permitted to write or receive letters. Baffled in my endeavors to come into personal touch with this wonderful apparition that I had been following for a year, I determined at least to enjoy his playing to the full. Buying a quantity of strings I smuggled them into him by giving the warden an ample bribe. That very night I was rewarded. I heard violin playing, this time on four strings, such as I had heard it a year before in the garden of Padua, only, if possible, even more perfect, more marvellous, more touching, more passionate. For one week he played an hour every night, and it was a week that amply compensated for all the disappointments of my life. The last night before his trial was to come off he played as he never had played before.
9"The cope of heaven seem'd rent and cloven
10By the enchantment of his strain,
11And on my shoulders wings were woven
12To follow this sublime creation
13Beyond the mighty moons that wane
14Upon the verge of utmost spheres
15Till the world's shadowy walls are past and disappear."
17The next morning there was great commotion in the prison. The mysterious stranger had broken jail and fled, no one knew whither. Gladder tidings never fell upon my ears. My hero was free—safe! I realized that any attempts to find him now would be futile, and for a few days I remained quietly in Turin. My ideal had come to be so much a part of my being, however, that without my nightly serenade life was utterly desolate. Violin sick I turned to Paris. There I had a friend named Dupont, a wealthy amateur violinist, and almost as much of an enthusiast as myself. He was a personal friend of all the great artists of the day, and kept in touch with all the events of the musical world. I therefore thought it possible that he had heard of this extraordinary genius.
19On arriving in the French capital I at once hastened to his sumptuous home, and scarcely waited to exchange hurried greetings before telling him my story. Dupont was deeply interested and very sympathetic, but he seemed to think I was laboring under an hallucination. "Why, you are violin crazy," he said. "I must arrange a big concert for you. Viotti has just come over from London for a short stay, Rohde, Baillot and Kreuzer are here, and they are all my friends. I can arrange a private violin soirée such as Paris has never seen. These four men are the greatest violinists in the world, and to hear them all in one evening will cure you of your malady."
21Dupont was a man of deed as well as of word, and he immediately set about putting his plan in execution to give a magnificent soirée and have these four world-famous artists furnish the music.
23It was a grand affair. The elite of the Paris social and artistic world were present. I sat on needles, and was so impatient that I could hardly wait for the concert to begin. Baillot was the first to play. He performed an air with variations, a thing of his own, well calculated to show off his abilities in the best light. His execution was flawless, his interpretation elegant, his tone smooth and oily, and the true artist spoke out of every note. Did he satisfy me? No.
25Next to play was Kreutzer, thirty-six years old, in the zenith of his powers, and at that time famous through the composition of his forty studies. He played with a big tone, with clean cut technic, and with a high order of artistic intelligence, but he did not move me. Instead of satisfying me he only made me long the more for the playing of my hero.
27After Kreutzer came Rode, the great one, who had lately set all Paris agog with the performance of his new seventh concerto, the very work he chose for this occasion. He was also heard in his celebrated variations in G. Rode, who was twenty-nine years old, and in the plenitude of his powers, satisfied me more than either Baillot or Kreutzer. He played with nobility of style, absolute purity of intonation, with boldness in conquering technical difficulties, with a full, sweet tone, and with much brilliance. He was a faint echo of my hero.
29Finally came Viotti the "only." Viotti was forty-seven years old, and although he had practically given up playing in public, he was still in his best years. He played one of his own concertos. Of all the four great violinists he came the nearest to my ideal. His beautiful cantilena, his wonderful technic, his long drawn out bow strokes, his ripe musicianship and his fiery temperament called forth the admiration of all present. His performance was admirable, but it could not fill the aching void in my heart. He suggested my hero in some respects, but it was like a statue beautifully chiselled out of marble as compared with a living, breathing human being.
31I had heard in one evening the four most famous living violinists, and they only made me pay more devoted homage to the mighty genius of my hero, compared with whom they were four stars, and he the sun. In vain did Dupont endeavor to impress me with the many fine qualities of the four virtuosos. We sat up all night smoking and discussing their merits, but the more I compared the greater did the chasm between them and my ideal become.
33I soon tired of Paris, and began to travel again. For six years I wandered from one end of Europe to the other. In Germany I heard Spohr, and was impressed with the majesty of his style, the luminous power of his tone, his vigorous bow stroke and his superior musicianship. But he did not have that wonderful vibrant something for which my soul longed. From time to time I scanned the contemporary papers of Italy, hoping to hear news of my genius, but always with no result.
35Finally, tired and discouraged, I gave up the pursuit, and returned to London, determined to settle down in
The computer misreads some letters and numbers. Where a name matters to you, read the scan.