I have squeezed myself into such little space that
I must defer an outline of my days till I write again.
One moral inquiry for your wits, and I will withdraw
into silence and the infinite. Does not one friend
who indites many letters, unanswered, to another,
thereby heap coals of fire upon somebody’s head
as effectually as if he fed the hungry? Scatter
my love as broadly as you think it will bear, and
reserve the carver’s share for yourself.
G.W.C.
Saturday night, November 25, ’43.
Why do I love music enough to be only a lover, and
cannot offer it a life-devoted service? Yet the
lover serves in his sort, and if I may not minister
to it, it cannot fail to dignify and ennoble my life.
I am just from hearing Ole Bull, who this evening
made his first appearance in America. How shall
I fitly speak to you of him, how can I now, while the
new vision of beauty that he caused to sweep by still
lingers? Yet itself shall inspire me. The
presence of so noble a man allures to light whatever
nobility lies in us.
He came forward to a house crowded in every part with
the calm simplicity of Genius. There was no grimace,
no graces, but a fine grace that adorned his presence
and assured one that nothing could disappoint—that
the simplicity of the man was the seal and crown of
his genius. A fair-haired, robust, finely formed
man, the full bloom of health shining on his face,
he appeared as the master of the great instrument,
as the successor, in point of time, of the world-famous
Paganini. Yet was one confident that here was
no imitator, but a pupil who had sat thoughtfully at
the master’s feet and felt that beneath the
depth of his expression there was yet a lower depth,
who knew himself consecrated by a will grander than
his will to the service of an art so divine and so
loved. In him there was that sure prophecy of
latent power which surrounds genius, and assures us
that the thing done is an echo only and shadow of
the possible performance.
The playing followed this simple, majestic appearance.
It was full of music, irregular, wild, yearning, trembling.
His violin lay upon his arm tenderly as a living thing;
and such rich, mellow, silver, shining tones followed
his motion that one seemed to catch echoes of that
eternal melody whereof music itself is but the shadow
and presentment. The adagios reminded me of Beethoven,
not as they were imitated, but as all the great ones,
in their appearing, summon all the rest. The mechanical
execution was faultless. I detected no thick
note. It was smooth as the sea of summer, embosoming
only deep cloud-shadows and the full sunlight, but
no lesser thing. Then he came, and he withdrew;
and my heart followed him.
