Stephen S. Stratton
Nicolo Paganini: His Life and Work
CHAPTER I.
There
are some names, the mere mention or thought of which conjure up
distinct personalities; such are Handel, Bach, Beethoven, Wagner;
but
not one has the extraordinary individuality of that of Paganini.
Though few can be living who ever saw the man, though his portraits
are not now commonly to be met with, the name of Paganini at once
calls up a picture—weird, uncanny, demoniacal; brings back the
faint echo of performances long lost in the corridors of time; and
excites the imagination in a manner altogether unique. The last few
years have witnessed the appearance of an unprecedented number of
wonderful young violinists, whose achievements culminate in the
marvellous playing of the boy Franz von Vecsey. These
manifestations
are almost enough to induce belief in the theory or doctrine of
reincarnation, and to make one fancy that the great Genoese is once
again in the flesh. These violinists, too, are all playing
Paganini's
music; they seem to glory in it, and so do the audiences, although
to
many serious and worthy folk it is mere clap-trap stuff. This
revived
interest in Paganini and his music seems to render the present an
appropriate time to restate the case of the man and the artist,
notwithstanding the extensive literature already associated with
his
name.
It
is a curious fact that nearly every distinguished musician,
composer
or executant, has his namesakes. There was a constant succession of
Bachs in Thuringia for nearly two centuries; Beethoven's father and
grand-father were musicians; there were four Mozarts, musicians;
and
more than twenty Wagners of some standing in the musical world. No
one seems to have traced the pedigree of Paganini, but he was
preceded and followed by others bearing the same name, and such
particulars as can be gleaned concerning these Paganinis may not be
without interest, and at least may serve by way of introduction to
the greatest of them all.
Dr.
Burney, in his account of Italian Opera in London during the last
half of the eighteenth century, names a Signor and Signora Paganini
as engaged for the season of 1760-61. They came from Berlin, and
the
Doctor is ungallant enough to say that the lady, known as "The
Paganini," was not young. She made her
début
on November
22, 1760, in Galuppi's "Il Mondo della Luna," in a
buffa
part, and was
very captivating. At her benefit, when another opera by Galuppi was
given—"Il Filosofo di Campagna,"—such a crowd assembled
as had never been seen on any other occasion. Not one third of
those
who presented themselves at the Opera-house were able to obtain
admission. "Caps were lost, and gowns torn to pieces, without
number or mercy, in the struggle to get in. Ladies in full dress,
who
had sent away their carriages, were obliged to appear in the
streets
and walk home without caps or attendants." "Luckily the
weather was fine," adds the Doctor, who witnessed this uncommon
spectacle. "The Paganini" thus anticipated the
extraordinary triumphs of the more famous artist of half a century
later. Signor Paganini, the husband, was only "a coarse first
man," and sang almost without a voice. Next comes Ercole
Paganini, born at Ferrara, about 1770, the composer of several
operas, produced at La Scala, Milan, and at Florence, from 1804 to
1810. A tenor singer named Paganini appeared in opera at Florence
in
1830, was decidedly successful and became highly popular in Genoa
in
1836. After Francesco Lamperti was appointed (in 1850) professor of
singing at the Conservatorio, Milan, among the good pupils he
turned
out was one named Paganini, of whom, however, no particulars are
forthcoming. In 1865, Cesare Paganini, a theoretical writer,
published a treatise at Florence; and in November, 1898, Signora
Franceschati-Paganini was the Brünnhilde in a performance of
"Götterdämmerung," at Bologna. Then there was Dr.
Paganini, who was perhaps the brother in whose charge young Nicolo
was allowed to go to Lucca in 1798. Whomsoever he may have been,
this
Dr. Paganini died in 1835, which event gave rise to a rumour that
the
great violinist was dead—a rumour happily untrue. This Dr. Paganini
was not a fiddle-player, but a fiddle-fancier. He possessed a
violin
ornamented with mother-o'-pearl and ebony, which had belonged to a
Shah of Persia, the favourite violin of Lord Byron (so it was
said),
one that had belonged to Stanislaus of Poland, father-in-law of
Louis
XV., one that had been played upon by Charles IV. of Spain (the
enthusiast who had quartet performances at six in the morning, and
who scorned to "keep time,") and another, once the property
of that monarch's favourite, Don Manuel de Godoy, Duke of
Alcudia.
All
the Paganinis mentioned above were eclipsed by
the
Paganini (
pace
Dr. Burney), the artist who stood alone, whose life was full of
strange vicissitudes, who was worshipped and calumniated, who was
applauded as perhaps never artist was before nor since, yet who was
laughed at, hissed—only once—brought before the
law-courts—threatened with imprisonment and mobbed within an ace of
being lynched. As a child of four, Paganini narrowly escaped being
buried alive; from youth up he was a constant sufferer from
physical
disorders; he had no real home till he was fifty-two; after death
his
remains were refused burial for five years; and when his body had
rested in the grave for half a century it was exhumed, apparently
in
order that his features might once more be gazed upon. Truly,
Paganini's story is a romance, a drama, a tragedy. We may not look
upon his like again, nor is it desirable that we should; for his
life
conveys a moral that few can fail to discern.
The
artist is the child of his age. What kind of age was it that
produced
Paganini? A few years before he was born there came into the world
one who was to set Europe aflame. The age was the age of
revolution.
Thrones tottered; armies devastated the Continent, and Italy became
a
mere appanage of the French Empire. The political upheaval was
accompanied by a revolution in art. The romantic school in music
arose, and Beethoven, Schubert, Berlioz, Chopin, Schumann, Liszt,
and
Wagner, were the psychic results of the turmoil into which the
world
was thrown. Into such a world, already feeling the premonitory
tremors of the great Revolution, was Nicolo Paganini born, at
Genoa,
on October 27th, 1782.
[1]
Plate
II.—See Appendix.
The
Birthplace of Paganini.
The
Genoese—thrifty and industrious—bore no very good moral character
at that time; but they were then perhaps not alone in that respect.
Little information is available concerning the family of Paganini.
The father, Antonio Paganini, kept a small shop in the vicinity of
the port; he is described as a man of extraordinarily avaricious
character, hard and brutal, but possessing the redeeming quality of
a
love for music, and showing some skill in the art; his instrument
was
the mandoline, though Laphaléque says he was a violinist. The
mother
must have been of a lovable disposition, from what little has been
recorded of her. The family consisted of two sons and two
daughters.
Of the elder son, mention is made but once; of the daughters,
nothing
seems to be known. Little Nicolo must have given evidence of
musical
talent very early, but ere he was put to his studies he was
attacked
by the measles, and that so severely that he remained for a whole
day
in a state of catalepsy. He was given up for dead and was wrapped
in
a shroud, and only a slight movement at the last, showing symptoms
of
life, saved him from the horror of premature burial. Scarcely had
he
recovered, when his father began his lessons in violin playing. The
child's evident disposition for the art excited the father's
avarice,
which found little scope for gratification in his small business
undertakings. He indulged in golden dreams of the future, and to
hasten their realisation was unremitting in his work of
instruction.
His method was cruel in the extreme. The poor child was kept to his
task from morn till night; slight faults were punished with rigour,
even blows and starvation being resorted to in order to force the
talent which nature had bestowed. This unnatural treatment must
have
wrung the heart of the gentle mother, and doubtless by way of
encouragement she told the poor little fellow of her wonderful
dream.
An Angel had appeared to her, and promised her the fulfilment of
any
desire. She asked that her son might become the greatest of
violinists, and her prayer was to be granted. This disclosure may
have fired the ambition of the child, for he was the hardest of
workers, and needed no spur. Already, at six years of age, he was a
tolerable player, and was even beginning to find out new paths. His
performances excited the admiration and amazement of the
neighbours,
and even the Maestro Francesco Gnecco visited the little house by
the
harbour to listen to the wonder-child. He introduced the boy to the
circle of his own friends, and made the father understand that he
had
long outgrown his training. In short, the germ of the
virtuoso
of later
days was already manifesting itself. Nicolo was now placed under
Giovanni Servetto, leader of the theatre band—a man of slight
attainments, with whom the boy did not stay long. His next master
was
Giacomo Costa, the foremost violinist in Genoa and maestro di
capella
of the Cathedral, a genial man, who took a lively interest in the
boy. Under Costa, Nicolo made rapid progress, and was introduced to
a
new world, though the pedantry of the master frequently came into
collision with the peculiarities of the pupil. Young Paganini now
had
to play a new concerto each week at one of the churches: that was
one
of the conditions Costa imposed when taking him as a pupil.
Paganini's extraordinary powers as a player at sight were in great
measure due to this early experience. The father still exercised
stern oversight, and there was little relaxation or youthful
pleasure
for Nicolo. His health was already undermined, and, as Dubourg
touchingly puts it:—"the sickly child, incapable of attaining
a healthy maturity, was merged into the suffering man."
In
his eighth year Nicolo composed a sonata for the violin—since, with
other works, lost. About that time a very vivid, almost shamefaced,
impression was made upon him by hearing that Mozart, at the age of
six, had composed a pianoforte concerto, with parts for orchestra,
and so difficult that only a
virtuoso
could
execute it. For long Nicolo tormented himself with the thought of
this musical superiority, and strove day and night to remedy his
own
imperfection in the art.