You cannot imagine, dear Ole Bull, how happy I am at your success, and that in this great work you, like the G.o.ds, are ever young....

Eight days since, when the first good news came in prose and verse (I take the Bergen papers), I had to run down to your brother Randulf, to tell him.

After a mention of the a.s.sembling of the Swedish Parliament and the outlook of the Norse interests in that stirring period, when the question of the governorship of Norway by a Swede or Norwegian was being considered, and telling Ole Bull that it would be a good time for him to make his influence felt in Sweden by a visit there, he concluded:-

Now when all with you is as you wish it, come this way and give vent to your wrath, for it is not well that you should have too much good fortune-not even you. The G.o.ds themselves could not bear it; the Roman Triumvirs, remember, had their buffoons in their triumphal cars. Do you go to Russia or England? Wherever you go, G.o.d bless you! Greet Bjornson.

THY A. O. WINJE.

The following note from f.a.n.n.y Elssler shows that he must have given a concert in Hamburg, _en route_ to the German baths:-

So eben erfahre ich, wo Sie wohnen, beeile mich daher Ihnen herzlich meinen warmsten Dank zu sagen, fur die liebenswurdige Sendung einer Loge in Ihr Concert, in welchem Sie mich durch Ihr herrlich und ergreifendes Spiel wahrhaft entzuckt haben, was ich so gern Ihnen mundlich sagen mochte!

Ich bin jeden Tag zwischen 3 und 4 Uhr zu Hause, und darf Ihnen wohl nicht sagen wie sehr sich eine alte Bekannte freuen wurde Ihnen freundschaftlich die Hande zu drucken? Sie nennt sich

f.a.n.n.y ELSSLER.

_Den 21ten April, 1858._

Ole Bull met f.a.n.n.y Elssler in Vienna, in 1877. She recalled with interest many of the incidents of her visit to the United States, which she said seemed then like a dream to her. Still handsome, the n.o.ble graceful carriage as striking as ever, her face with its winning smile was one to attract a stranger's eye in the crowded audience room of the great Musik Verein Hall.

From Hamburg Ole Bull went to Vienna and Pesth, and his success, as reported by the papers, was extraordinary. He wrote to his son, from Vienna, May 8, 1858:-

Thanks for your dear letter, which I would have answered at once if important changes in my plans had not made it necessary to defer my return to Bergen. I received offers from the directors in Pesth and Gratz, and after the conditions and dates were fixed I was asked to make later dates. I leave for Pesth this evening. Day after tomorrow the first concert, and the fourth on the 17th!

Therefore I cannot be in Bergen. I hope, though, to reach there the end of this month.

You know what stress I lay on the observance of this Thanksgivingfestival, and if pecuniary obligations did not compel me otherwise, I would instantly go to you; but _ratio pro voluntate_!

In Berlin I met my old friend Bettina von Arnim, who, sad to say, is fast approaching the end. She was so glad to see me that I delayed my departure two days, to celebrate her birthday with my violin. The next day Joachim came from Hanover, to make my acquaintance: I of course staid one day more on his account. I see that he is now playing in London. Ernst is very ill in BadenBaden; he, poor man, is crippled by gout!... I have also seen Liszt after an interval of sixteen years: he has taken holy orders....

He writes on the 27th of May from Pesth, which he now revisited after the lapse of nineteen years:-

I leave in an hour for Vienna. I have taken a course of bitter salt waters at Ofen; my blood is benefitted. It was necessary, as the fever had come again, and although not so serious as in the United States, still to a degree that caused me much inconvenience. I shall now hurry home.

The enthusiasm has been so great here, that I have been obliged to promise to return at the end of the year....

He did not return directly, however, as it was deemed advisable for him to go to Carlsbad, where he spent the summer. Among the friends he especially enjoyed meeting there were Mr. and Mrs. Henry A. Wise, of Virginia, whom he had known intimately in the United States.

In October he was again in Norway, and on his return to Bergen he bought of his mother the ancestral home, Valestrand. He spent that winter in improving the place; he commenced the thorough drainage of the land, which work he pushed vigorously for years, and it was not interrupted by the winters, so mild is the climate on that coast. The estate now belongs to his son, Mr. Alexander Bull. The following picturesque description of the place is from an article by H. H. in the _Atlantic Monthly_ for June, 1881:-

Another memorable Bergen day was a day at Valestrand, on the island Osteroen. Valestrand is a farm which has been in the possession of Ole Bull's family for several generations, and is still in the possession of Ole Bull's eldest son. It lies two hours' sail north from Bergen,-two hours, or four, according to the number of lighters loaded with cotton bales, wood, etc., which the steamer picks up to draw. Steamers on Norway fjords are like country gentlemen who go into the city every day and come out at night, always doing unexpected errands for people along the road.

No steamer captain going out from Bergen may say how many times he will stop on his journey, or at what hour he will reach its end: all of which is clear profit for the steamboat company, no doubt, but is worrying to travelers; especially to those who leave Bergen of a morning at seven, as we did, invited to breakfast at Valestrand at nine, and do not see Osteroen's sh.o.r.e till near eleven. People who were not going to Valestrand to breakfast that day were eating breakfast on board, all around us: poor people eating cracknels and dry bread out of baskets; welltodo people eating sausage, eggs, and coffee, neatly served at little tables on deck, and all prepared in a tiny coop belowstairs, hardly big enough for one person to turn around in. It is an enticing sight always for hungry people to see eating going on; up to a certain point it whets appet.i.te, but beyond that it is both insult and injury.

The harbor of Valestrand is a tiny amphitheatre of shallow water.

No big craft can get to the sh.o.r.e. As the steamer comes to a stop opposite it, the old home of Ole Bull is seen on a slope at the head of the harbor, looking brightly out over a bower of foliage to the southern sun. It appears to be close to the water, but, on landing, one discovers that he is still a half hour's walk away from it. A little pathway of mossy stones, past an old boathouse, on whose thatched roof flowering gra.s.ses and a young birchtree were waving, leads up from the water to the one road on the island. Wild pansies, white clover and dandelions, tinkling water among ferns and mosses along the roadsides, made the way beautiful; low hills rose on either side, softly wooded with firs and birches feathery as plumes; in the meadows peasant men and women making hay,-the women in red jackets and white blouses, a delight to the eye. Just in front of the house is a small, darkly shaded lake, in which there is a mysterious floating island, which moves up and down at pleasure changing its moorings often.

The house is wooden, and painted of a pale flesh color. The architecture is of the light and fantastic order of which so much is to be seen in Norway,-the instinctive reaction of the Norwegian against the sharp, angular, severe lines of his rockmade, rockbound country,-and it is vindicated by the fact that fantastic carvings, which would look trivial and impertinent on houses in countries where Nature herself had done more decorating, seem here pleasing and in place. Before the house were clumps of rosebushes in blossom, and great circles of blazing yellow eschscholtzias. In honor of our arrival, every room had been decorated with flowers and ferns; and clumps of wild pansies in bloom had been set along the steps to the porch. Ole Bull's own chamber and musicroom are superb rooms, finished in yellow pine, with rows of twisted and carved pillars, and carved cornices and beams and panels, all done by Norwegian workmen.

Valestrand was his home for many years, abandoned only when he found one still more beautiful on the island of Lysoen, sixteen miles southwest of Bergen.

A Norwegian supper of trout freshly caught, and smothered in cream, croquettes, salad, strawberries, goat'smilk cheese, with fineflavored gooseberry wine, served by a Norwegian maid in a whitewinged headdress, scarlet jacket, and stomacher of gay beads, closed our day. As we walked back to the little mossgrown wharf, we found two peasants taking trout from the brook. Just where it dashed foaming under a little footbridge, a stakelined box trap had been plunged deep in the water. As we were pa.s.sing, the men lifted it out, dripping, ten superb trout dashing about wildly in it, in terror and pain; the scarlet spots on their sides shone like garnet crystals in the sun, as the men emptied them on the ground, and killed them, one by one, by knocking their heads against a stone with a sharp, quick stroke, which could not have been so cruel as it looked.

On our way back to Bergen we pa.s.sed several little rowboats, creeping slowly along, loaded high with juniper boughs. They looked like little green islands broken loose from their places, and drifting out to sea.

"For somebody's sorrow!" we said thoughtfully, as we watched them slowly fading from sight in the distance....

In the winter of 1860 Ole Bull went to Stockholm, giving seventeen concerts in that city, and then to Finland.

In 18611862 he gave fortysix concerts in England, Scotland, and Ireland. He left the settlement of his accounts with the impressario till the end of the trip, and then giving up the memorandum before the money was handed him, received not one penny of the proceeds, all of which remained in the pockets of the manager.

While he was in Paris, in 1862, the sad intelligence of his wife's death reached him. She had suffered much the last years of her life from illhealth, and, living in an adopted country, the misfortunes and sorrows of her husband, added to her own, were more than she could bear.

The following letter to his son was written from Hamburg, September 18, 1862:-

Instead of coming myself with the steamer to Bergen, as I had hoped, I am obliged to wait for-my trunk, which went astray between Cologne and this place, and for which I have waited now three whole days. Notwithstanding my troubles, my health was better, and would have kept improving had I not broken a rib in my left side, just as I was about to leave G.o.desberg, after giving a concert for the benefit of the organ in the Catholic church there, by request of the authorities. The concert was a brilliant affair, but I had to pay for it. It seemed that it had been planned to convert me to Catholicism, and a young Jesuit, who was taking the watercure, sought, partly by charges against Protestantism, partly by flattery or threats, to make himself interesting; and when I declined his entertainment he turned about suddenly and claimed to be greatly interested in my views. One morning he came to meet me just as I had returned from a walk in the mountains and was going to breakfast, handing me a newspaper. As I accepted it and bowed, he threw his arms about my neck and pressed his knee against my breast; I felt and heard a crack in my side, as I pushed him from me. I went to the hotel, but did not feel well, and the doctor found a rib was broken. I had to keep my bed day and night for a week's time, using wet bandages to prevent inflammation. When I got out, I exerted myself too much, so the bone has not knit together as well as could be desired.

I went recently to AixlaChapelle to get my Guarnerius, which I had confided to a Frenchman, Monsieur D., to repair; but on my arrival I found all the parts were separated; the sidepieces by themselves, the top and back also; the neck divided, and the man himself in despair! I was obliged to put it together again myself, but what a task! He helped me. Poor fellow, I was sorry for him.

When he saw what wretched work he had made of it, I could neither take the violin from him, and thereby ruin his reputation, nor scold him more. At last it was finished, and now I have three Guarneriuses beside my pearl, the Nicholas Amati, large pattern, that has the most beautiful tone of them all. I exchanged another for it in London last year, and Mr. Plowden, an amateur, offered me a considerable advance; but I would rather part with all my other violins than this, which is remarkable for its peculiar softness and clearness. Besides, it fits the hand well, and has the greatest variety of tonecolor, that is to say, versatility of expression. I have had and am having a hard time. I must try to keep up courage. If I am to go under, I will still fight as long as I can,-perhaps the sun will shine when I least expect it!...

In 1863 he visited Christiania, and hoped to induce the people there to establish an Academy of Music. It was but a continuation of his earlier programme and thought of "a Norse Orchestra in a Norse Theatre." He explained himself in an article published in the _Ill.u.s.trated News_:-

A NORSE MUSIC ACADEMY.

I saw the new flag hoisted above our nation: that flag which adorns the harbors of the world, and which, at halfmast, has mourned many of the men who, in the face of opposition, labored to raise it. In this flag, floating above us, and the Const.i.tution under us, the Norse house has its roof and floor. The house can now be seen, and has a name among the nations. But this does not complete it, and it would be a sin to leave it half finished, exposed to wind and weather. There are still many rooms to be furnished, if the house is to be occupied by a nation claiming civilization and culture. Between the Danish and the Norse drama there is now drawn a tolerably definite line; but round about on the home walls hang the pictures of all nations, brought by wanderers from every corner of the globe-as might be expected in a sailor's home, which ours is. There is so much that is foreign and so little of our own! Even our home subjects are worked up in foreign lands, by our own homesick artists, it is true, but bearing on them the servile mark of exile, set there by a borrowed, foreign brush. I have spent many a sad hour with these men,-exiled not so much because of our national poverty as of our national lack of culture,-wanderers, to be met with the world over. We have talked of the dream cherished in common by all Norse artists: the coming home and uniting all the forces in schools in which the national art could be developed to an independent manhood, and Norway be given the honor which foreigners now take from her. When these longings become too intense for control, the exiles fly haphazard home-painters, sculptors, and musicians striking against the old, gray, naked cliffs of their country's insensibility. Forgetting old and futile efforts in the new, one now and then manages to gain a slight foothold; but the rest must abroad again, to repeat the old story. This, the history of our country's att.i.tude towards art is a disgrace to the nation, and a crime against those men who have given their all to art, and are driven to sell our honor abroad.

My calling in this world is the Norse music. I am no painter, no sculptor, no writer. I am a musician, and, being one, I ought to be trusted when I say that I hear a wonderfully deep and characteristic soundboard vibrating in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of my people.

The desire of my life has been to give it strings; that it may find voice, and its deep tones penetrate the temple as Norway's church music bears the words of the minister to the hearts of the congregation; that on the battlefield it may remind the country's defenders of their hearthstones; that it may be heard from our orchestras and from a National art which can rise only from this source; that it may sound from the pianos round the land, cultivating, enn.o.bling the familylife more than all the languages of the world, in charm and intelligibility unsurpa.s.sed! I have spent my life in striving to climb these gray cliffs with the other Norse artists, by trying to overcome the denationalized musical taste. Now, I propose to my colleagues, the musicians, that we each lend a hand in a united effort to scale the rocks and reach the height; that we found an Academy for musical instruction. It may be that we shall at last plant the flag on the heights, and be able to reach a helping hand down to others who are toiling upward!

OLE BULL.

To his son he wrote from Christiania, February 27, 1863:-

Today I spoke with the King; he has signed the pet.i.tion for an Academy, asking for an appropriation of $1200 a year from the Exchequer. Subscriptions are now being privately arranged. We have the offer of the free use of the dramatic company's rooms,-in accordance with the will of the donor (Collet), who gave them for the benefit and advancement of the dramatic and musical arts, and also to be a preparatory school for the Norse stage.

I have much to do, and meet, as always, a great deal of opposition; but I do not doubt that it will go. One must strike with all one's force. Poor Thorvald![19] I try to quiet myself with the thought that I did everything in my power to prevent his going to sea, but he would make his own way for himself....

[19] This son had fallen from the mast of a sailing vessel in the Mediterranean; he was buried at Malta.

Jonas Lie says:-

The Academy, as we know, was not founded; but the seed-the thought-was at that time planted. Since then it has grown and matured, and today we have a body of artists and composers, and quite another musical culture ready to receive it.

From 1863 to 1867 Ole Bull gave concerts in Germany, Poland, and Russia.

He was honored in Berlin and Copenhagen by special festivities. In Copenhagen, at a banquet given by the "Norse Union," the eminent Danish poet, Carl Ploug, proposed the toast to "the king of the realm of art."

He traveled in Russia during the seasons of 18661867. He used to say that no professional trip ever gave him more pleasure, and he would not venture to repeat it. He wrote a musical friend in Christiania, from Konigsberg, June 4, 1866, as follows:-

It was strange that the notice of my death should have been dated the 10th of April, the very day that a silver musicrest was presented to me by the students of Moscow. I had given a concert for them, on which occasion we had made a great demonstration, because of the attempted a.s.sa.s.sination. How fortunate that it all turned out so well! The students had asked me to lead them, and I began by calling on the people (the first time it had been done!) to sing the royal hymn....

I have sent two Arabian horses from St. Petersburg: one black, by name G.o.dolfin; the other Caraguese, a golden bronze with black mane and tail. They are of different breed, the black being southArabian blood, and the other PersianArabian. You will also see a beautiful violoncello[20] which will make your mouth water, as well as a glorious Antonius and Hieronimus Amati; I have also bought a Joseph Guarnerius in Moscow....