Imagens das páginas
PDF
ePub

the man who played the fiddle weel '-were almost terrified by his cleverness and appearance. In one town he came on the platform, cast a ghostly glance around the crowded hall, and, extending his right arm, held the bow pointing to the right, and immediately began to send forth mysterious music with the fingers of his left hand. Softer and softer grew the music, until at last he brought down the bow on the strings with such force that several people fainted with fear. So intense was the excitement that at the close of the performance the audience felt a painful relief.

It was generally supposed during his lifetime that Paganini had more regard for bank-notes than for musical notes-that, in fact, he was a heartless, selfish miser. It is true that, as a rule, he was very chary with his money (he died worth 80,000l.), but that he was also occasionally generous is amply proved by several incidents in his career. One of his last concerts was given at Turin for the benefit of the poor. He gave Berlioz, the great French composer, the large sum of 20,000 francs, simply as a mark of admiration for the latter's Symphonie Fantastique.' But better than this was the manner of his befriending a little Italian whom he found playing on the streets of Vienna. The boy confided to him that he supported his sick mother by his playing, and that he had come from the other side of the Alps. Paganini was touched at once. He literally emptied his pockets into the lad's hand, and, taking his poor instrument from him, began the most grotesque and extraordinary performance possible.' Presently there was quite a crowd around the curious pair, and Paganini, concluding his solo, went round with the hat. A splendid collection was the result, and after handing this to the boy Paganini walked off with his companion, remarking, 'I hope I have done a good turn to that little animal.' With Paganini anyone belonging to the lower orders was always addressed as an 'animal.' When such an individual dared to speak to him he would turn his back and inquire of his companion, ' What does this animal want with me?'

It has been said that he who loves children can't be a bad man,' and if there is any truth in the remark Paganini must have been less black than he has sometimes been painted. He had a little son whom he wished the world to know by the high-sounding names of Alexander Cyrus Achilles, though at home he was content to call him simply Achillino. A friend once called to take Paganini to the theatre where he was to play in a concert in the evening, arranged between the acts. This is the description

the friend gives of how he found him: 'I went to Paganini's lodgings, and I cannot easily describe the disorder of the whole apartment. On the table was one violin, on the sofa another. The diamond snuff-boxes which sovereigns had given him were one on the bed and one of them among his child's toys; music, money, caps, matches, letters, and boots pell-mell here and there; chairs, table, and even the bed removed from their place, a perfect chaos, and Paganini in the midst of it. A black silk cap covered his still deeper black hair, a yellow tie loose round his neck, and a jacket of a chocolate colour hung on him as on a peg. He had Achillino in his lap, who was very ill-tempered because he had to have his hands washed. Suddenly he broke loose from his father, who said to me, "I am quite in despair; I don't know what to do with him; the poor child wants amusement, and I am nearly exhausted playing with him." Barely were the words out of his mouth, when Achillino, armed with his little wooden sword, provoked his father to deadly combat. Up got Paganini, catching hold of an umbrella to defend himself. It was too funny to see the long thin figure of Paganini in slippers retreating from his son, whose head barely reached up to his father's knees. He made quite a furious onslaught on his father, who, retreating, shouted, "Enough, enough! I am wounded!" but the little rascal would not be satisfied ere he saw his adversary tumble and fall down vanquished on the bed. But the time passed and we had to be off, and now the real comedy began. He wanted his white necktie, his polished boots, his dress-coat. Nothing could be found. All was hidden away. And by whom? By his son Achillino. The little one giggled the whole time, seeing his father with long strides travelling from one end of the room to the other seeking his clothes. "What have you done with all my things?" he asked. "Where have you hidden them?" The boy pretended to be very much astonished and perfectly dumb. He shrugged his shoulders, inclined his head sideways, and mimically indicated that he knew nothing whatever of the mishap. After a long search the boots were discovered under the pillowcase, the necktie was lying quietly in one of the boots, the coat was hidden in the portmanteau, and in the drawer of the dinnertable, covered with napkins, was the waistcoat! Every time Paganini found one of the missing objects he put it on in triumph, perpetually accompanied by the little man, who was delighted to see his father looking for the things where he knew they could not be found; but Paganini's patience with him was unwearied.'

[ocr errors]

The little hero of this incident was the fruit of Paganini's liaison with the cantatrice Antonio Bianchi, of Como. Of this lady Paganini himself tells us that, after many years of a most devoted life, her temper became so violent that a separation was necessary. Antonio,' he says, ' was constantly tormented by the most fearful jealousy; one day she happened to be behind my chair when I was writing some lines in the album of a great pianiste, and when she read the few amiable words I had composed in honour of the artiste to whom the book belonged, she tore it from my hands, demolished it on the spot, and so fearful was her rage that she would have assassinated me.' To this termagant Paganini left an annuity of 60l.; and yet he has been charged with a lack of generosity! There are other affairs of the heart that might be told of besides that of Antonio. One notable epoch in his life was when, reciprocating the passion of a lady of high rank, Paganini withdrew with her to her estate in Tuscany. The lady played the guitar, and, enamoured of everything about his divinity, the King of the Violin gave up his own instrument in favour of the lady's, upon which he soon became an extraordinary player. This was, however, in the adolescent period, when love generally cools as quickly in the castle as it does in the cottage. The only tangible result of the little episode was a series of sonatas for the unusual combination of violin and guitar, some of which have been preserved.

It need hardly be said that Paganini was not a deeply religious man. Nominally he was a Roman Catholic, but he died refusing the last sacraments of the Church, and, as a consequence, his corpse lay for five years practically unburied. The circumstances of the case were peculiar. It seems that, a week before his death, the Bishop of Nice sent a priest to administer the usual rites, but Paganini, not believing that his end was so near, would not receive them. The Bishop accordingly refused him burial in consecrated ground, and, pending some arrangement, the coffin lay for a long time in the hospital at Nice. The body was afterwards removed to Villa Franca, near Genoa, but still it was not to rest. Reports got abroad that piteous cries were heard at night, and the young Baron Paganini at last, by making a direct appeal to the Pope, obtained leave to bury his father's remains-five years after the decease!—in the village church near Villa Gaiona. Strange irony of fate! He who had been decorated with honours by the Pope himself was in the end refused by that same Pope the rites of Christian burial!

[blocks in formation]

HOW SIR NIGEL LORING PUT A PATCH UPON HIS EYE.

Ir was on the morning of Friday, the eight-and-twentieth day of November, two days before the feast of St. Andrew, that the cog and her two prisoners, after a weary tacking up the Gironde and the Garonne, dropped anchor at last in front of the noble city of Bordeaux. With wonder and admiration, Alleyne, leaning over the bulwarks, gazed at the forest of masts, the swarm of boats darting hither and thither on the bosom of the broad curving stream, and the grey crescent-shaped city which stretched with many a tower and minaret along the western shore. Never had he in his quiet life seen so great a town, nor was there in the whole of England, save London alone, one which might match it in size or in wealth. Here came the merchandise of all the fair countries which are watered by the Garonne and the Dordogne-the cloths of the south, the skins of Guienne, the wines of the Médoc-to be borne away to Hull, Exeter, Dartmouth, Bristol or Chester, in exchange for the wools and woolfels of England. Here too dwelt those famous smelters and welders who had made the Bordeaux steel the most trusty upon earth, and could give a temper to lance or to sword which might mean dear life to its owner. Alleyne could see the smoke of their forges reeking up in the clear morning air. The storm had died down now to a gentle breeze, which wafted to his ears the long-drawn stirring bugle-calls which sounded from the ancient ramparts.

'Holà, mon petit!' said Aylward, coming up to where he stood. 'Thou art a squire now, and like enough to win the golden spurs, while I am still the master-bowman, and master-bowman I shall bide. I dare scarce wag my tongue so freely with you as when we tramped together past Wilverley Chase, else I might be your guide now, for indeed I know every house in Bordeaux as a friar knows the beads on his rosary.'

'Nay, Aylward,' said Alleyne, laying his hand upon the sleeve of his companion's frayed jerkin, 'you cannot think me so thrall as to throw aside an old friend because I have had some small share of good fortune. I take it unkind that you should have thought such evil of me.'

'Nay, mon gar.

'Twas but a flight shot to see if the wind

blew steady, though I were a rogue to doubt it.'

'Why, had I not met you, Aylward, at the Lyndhurst inn, who can say where I had now been! Certes, I had not gone to Twynham Castle, nor become squire to Sir Nigel, nor met

He paused abruptly and flushed to his hair, but the bowman was too busy with his own thoughts to notice his young companion's embarrassment.

'It was a good hostel, that of the "Pied Merlin," remarked Aylward. By my ten finger bones! when I hang bow on nail and change my brigandine for a tunic, I might do worse than take over the dame and her business.'

'I thought,' said Alleyne, 'that you were betrothed to some one at Christchurch.'

'To three,' Aylward answered moodily, 'to three. I fear I may not go back to Christchurch. I might chance to see hotter service in Hampshire than I have ever done in Gascony. But mark you now yonder lofty turret in the centre, which stands back from the river and hath a broad banner upon the summit. See the rising sun flashes full upon it and sparkles on the golden lions. 'Tis the royal banner of England, crossed by the prince's label. There he dwells in the Abbey of St. Andrew, where he hath kept his court these years back. Beside it is the minster of the same saint, who hath the town under his very special care.'

'And how of yon grey turret on the left?'

''Tis the fane of St. Michael, as that upon the right is of St. Remi. There, too, above the poop of yonder nief, you see the towers of Saint Croix and of Pey Berland. Mark also the mighty ramparts which are pierced by the three water-gates, and sixteen others to the landward side.'

'And how is it, good Aylward, that there comes so much music from the town? I seem to hear a hundred trumpets, all calling in chorus.'

'It would be strange else, seeing that all the great lords of England and of Gascony are within the walls, and each would have his trumpeter blow as loud as his neighbour, lest it might be

« AnteriorContinuar »