THE SKETCHER.

Otago Witness, Issue 181, 6 August 1886, Page 33

THE SKETCHER.

PAGANINI.

In 1827 the Pope bestowed the order of the Golden Spur on Paganini, the same decoration having been conferred more than 50 years before on the child Mozart. The Austrian Ambassador in Rome was so deeply impressed with Paganini's playing that he insisted on on his going to Vienna, and giving that ultra-musical town a chance of hearing the greatest performer of the century. Never shall I forget what everybody who had heard him told me afterwards of the impression he then created. Men and women went mad about him. While he played, the greatest violin authorities known in Vienna — violinists of European fame like Mayseder, Boehm, &c, stood there perfectly annihilated, the head drooping, the tears in their eyes, as if the revelation of Paganini's playing had shown them how small they were, and Boehm said to an old friend of mine, who often afterwards repeated it : "I should consider myself wanting, not in modesty but in common decency, if ever I played in public again." Startled by this expression, my friend went to a cafe, where in Vienna nearly all friends mcct — the universal theme there of course being Paganini, when suddenly the door opened and an old gentleman, a government employee, well known to the habitues for his quiet habits, entered the cafe carrying in his hand a dusty violin-box, and observing to his friend : " You see it is thirty years since I played on my violin, but lam really happy to have found it again. I am going to have new strings put on it, and I will have agoat it afresh. When one hears such heavenly playing as Paganjni's, whatever can even in a remote degree remind you of it, is welcome." What different impressions made on the great artist and on the old amateur I

The mania to do honour to Paganini by putting his portrait anywhere, went so far at Vienna, that gloves, hats, rings, coats, pins, anything and everything was called Paganini. He used to have a fiacre whose driver did not know him, who turned out to be an Italian ; he asked Paganini whether he could give him a lucky number. " What for ?" asked Paganini, who remembered his father's unprofitable efforts. "I have a countryman," said the driver, "who seems to set the town on fire with his fiddle— l have made up my mind to hear him, but having a family I can't save enough of my daily earnings to buy a ticket, so I will try the lottery," "If you promise," said Paganini, " never to gamble in the lottery, I will try and get you a ticket. Fetch me to-night at seven, and if I can I will give you an admission." It is easy to guess that Paganini, after having been driven to the theatre where he played, told the driver to put up his horses and come back to the concert. The driver did so. And so overcome was he when he saw that the great artist was himself his daily fare, he got so over-excited in his national pride and enthusiasm, that he waited Paganini's exit from the stage door, fell on his knees before him, and covered his hands with tears. From the highest to the lowest they all lost their heads over him.

Here is a postscript to this story. A fewdays after this great event in the driver's life, he came to Paganini and said he had a great

f avour to ask : No, no money, no present, yet a great favour— would Paganini allow him to paint his cab in the Italian colours, and to inscribe Paganini's name on it, and to say to e^ery customer that it was in his cab that Paganini used to drive to his concerts 1 Paganini could not well refuse, and so enchanted was he with this simple soul's enthusiasm, that he who had seen princesses almost at his feet, offered to buy the horse for him, which did not belong to the driver. But this the driver frankly refused, too happy to oarry the glorious name of his countryman as a crest on his cab.

During Paganini's residence in Paris, he had a passe d'annes with the famous Dr Veron, who had the good fortune to produce Meyerbeer's " Eobert le Diable," which proved to be the Jmost attractive work for the treasurer that was ever brought out in Paris. Monsieur le Docteur Veron was the very type of Sardou's fmue honslwmmes Alpays placid and smiling, pretending to be the embodiment of the bourgeois de Paris there was not under the sun a more selfish man, or a man who more studied his own pleasure and enjoyment. Being director of the Opera, and knowing the immense " draw" Paganini would be, he made up his mind to invite him to play at the Opera some evening. For the doctor was a great patron of art and of artists when he could get something out of it. He sent his secretary to Monsieur Paganini to express the happiness it would he to Monsieur Pierre Veron to introduce Paganini to the haute volet of Paris, " terms no object," shrewdly calculating that by this pretended liberality he would get him cheaper.

Paganini at the appointed hour called on the director, and was horrified to find that instead of " terms no object," they were the principal object, and that he was offered the sixth of the net receipts, so that if say 8000 francs were received, and 4500 deducted for costs, the remaining 3500 would be divided into five-sixths for the director and one- sixth — i.e., less than 500 francs, or £20 — for himself. "Is that not magnificent 1 " asked Veron. "It is magnificently shabby," said the outraged Italian. "Will you name your own terms 1 " said the flexible Veron. " The half of the gross receipts," said Paganini. " What! " said Veron, "I am to pay all the expenses, and you to take half of all the profits without being liable for expenses 1 Do you think I'm a fool ? " "I did not send for you," said Paganini ; " you sent for me." "True," said Veron," and I will make a proposal. You pay everything, and then we share alike." " What 1 " shouted Paganini, having fortunately succeeded by this time in working himself up to a pitch of rage. " What, you scoundrel ! I pay the expenses " He could say no more, he got deadly pale, and blood oozed out of his mouth profusely. Veron, frightened to death of an apoplectic stroke for which he would be held accountable, leaped towards the great virtuoso — when the reason of his sudden attack became patent. Paganini wore false teeth attached to his real teeth by a spring, which, through his gnashing his teeth so ruefully, broke, and the metal, cutting his gums, caused blood to flow freely. A little timely assistance and cold water calmed considerably his business ardour, and sent him home a calmer and wiser man. But he would never again have any dealings with Pierre Veron, whose name he persisted in embellishing with the most flattering epithets.

One more trait of Paganini's character, which will show how very open to warm and tender feelings his heart was, and which will serve as a rebuke to all those who call him a heartless, selfish miser. "He who loves children can't be a bad man !" He had a little son, whose pompous names were Alexander Cyrus Achilles. But at home, he called him 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 a 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 on the floor ; music, money, caps, watches, 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 the 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, ' lam 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 Achilliuo. 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 fhe asked. < Where have you hidden them V The boy pretended to be very much astonished and perfectly dumb. He shrugged his shoulders, inclined his head sideways, and miraically 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 dinner table, 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 un» wearied." — Temple Bar.