Rensselaer Union, Volume 7, Number 32, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 April 1875 — BROUGHT TO LIGHT—A TRUE STORY. [ARTICLE]

BROUGHT TO LIGHT—A TRUE STORY.

BY GEORGE LOWELL AUSTIN.

It was the season of the carnival at Florence and public rejoicing had reached its climax. Balls, operas and concerts were innumerable, and the deepest solemnity enshrouded them, as ..had longs been the custom. The freest license was permitted to everyone; all quarrels ceased, and a kind, fraternal feeling centered in every breast. \\ itliin the parlor of one of the large hotels of the beautiful city sat a young man of apparently not more than twentylive years of age. His form was half concealed in the folds of an easy-chair. No other personage was visible, save a servant who sat in one corner of the room and who had veiy nearly fallen asleep over a newspaper which he held carelessly in his hand. It was late in the afternoon and the last rays of the declining sun stealing in through the window shed a dreamy luster over the scene. The young man himself dozed and dreamed and looked somewhat depressed in spirits. His bold and rough-ly-hewn Features and light, curly hair told plainly that he was not of Southern origin, but had wandered hither, pilgrim-like, from some home lying far beyond the Alps. And what was the story of this stranger? His early life bad been nurtured in poverty and hardships. But people had said that he was a genius, and had prophesied for him a place among the immortals. He was passionately fond of musie, and this love was second only to the ability afcd power with which he sported with rich harmonies. He had studied old and new masters, had practiced until patience had developed success and understanding, and was now worthy to be hailed as an artist. He felt that he had won his title to such, and, inflated, perhaps, by the consciousness of superiority, he was prone to build many air-castlea upon the unstable sands of the future. Too often already he had found that hopes were,vain and that? dreams were as unreal as the fairy phantoms of Morgana. He had learned, too, that success generally hangs upon’ the greatness of the individual; that a crowd 14 always attracted by a celebrated name, and that external appearances determine its judgment!, and that a light breeze is more fatal to popular fancy than the grandest furor. The young artist, I say, felt fhfs much, and more. He t ,realized how uncertain were the paths which he trod, and recalled times fli&i when he thought he had placed his foot on a firm foundation had proven to be only a quagihfre which trembled and g»ve way .beneath .his, stem Rut UUs feeling in noway MCartoned him. If he would see his name enrobed in honor, he knew that he must need travel the rough ways which others had gone over before him. Like the latter, he imagined life to be a vast continent diversified in its surface, in which there were mountains to be climbed over, rivers and valleys to be crossed, and smooth plains, luxurious and ip splendor, clad, to be skirted and overstepped, , Froqx his home in the North he bad drifted to Pails, where, intoxicated by the gorgeousness of scenes, the activity and excitement of every-day life, glowing fashions and gilded magnificence, he was tempted to forget his heart and surrender himself to,dissipation- He passed through the streets alone, unmolested and unknown. He had come at a time when the Oriental sepurge was waylaying its victims, and when almost every household in the proud metropolis, from the noblest to the humblflPt, waa forced to hang the gloomy token of .bereavement upon the door-post—when the Angel of Dwtth had no respect for persons, and condemned those whom he had slain to the dark depths of one common grave; Amid such utter confusion what could a poor young artist hope to accomplish? Enterprise was dead, and there was small sympathy for the fine arts. Moreover, Paris was already thronged with stars. In one circle Auber swayed caprice by his fantastic movements. Inanother Bellini, toned to was the revered idol; and then, too, the hyper-romantic Meyerbeer was about to unloose his mischievous “j Diavoio. * * Singers of all grades and n&-

,tionalitJ«s demanded a hearing, from the 1 bewitching Mnliljhiu down to the youngest mu of the Conservatory. | The hero of our story w as, nevertheless, resolved on making himself known. When ”the hour for his concert had arrived the 4 ak>n was filled to overflowing. The strange and unique name of the artist, Kfcsteu as it was in every part of the city, lad awakened curiosity. In him the audience, who were rather spectators than listeners, hoped to behold a man clothed In the furs of the North, and possessed ol a voice as loud and terrible as the thunder. It was before such an assembly that he was to appear, to contest the honor already won by Paganini and De Beriot. Alas! for the concert and the artist. The former was pleasing enough, they said, but the latter could scarcely be called more than a second-rate fiddler! Whither, now, if Paris failed to applaud him, should he direct his footsteps ? To Italy, where, in his own imagination, sunny fields opened out to him like an enchanted world. Herein again he was mistaken. No theater would permit him entrance, no impresario was willing to grant him a hearing. His heart sank within' hint. He thought of Germany, and wondered whether its people were more hospitable and obliging. He wondered, too, whether the fair goddess that had whispered into his ear long years before had really and only deceived him. Indeed, was he a born musician ? He thought not; and with this sad conclusion weighing dpWn upon his life and bedazzling his brain in a burning fever he sank back into : the easy-chair where the reader has first discovered him. lie was so nearly hidden that his presence was not perceived by two personages who had just entered the room, a lady and a gentleman, the latter the proprietor of the hotel. Hers was a figure which both poets and painters loved to meditate upon. She was slender and tall, and her features were singularly beautiful and regularly marked; her cheeks were round and full and sweetly diffused with a tint of delicate paleness. Her mouth was wrought into the fairest curve and her lips bore the hue of the brightest carnations. Her grace was remarkable; her loveliness was complete. Her whole soul vras attuned to an heroic power that ill became the delicacy of her living form. i She shook her dark curls somewhat spitefully, and spoke in the purest Tuscan dialect when she said: “I do not know what I am to do about the affair. The concert, as you know, has been announced, the tickets are all sold, and every seat is engaged. My husband was to appear, and it was to him that I looked for the success of the enterprise.” “ Your ladyship’s husband, then, is unable to come* down? I hope his illness will not prove serious,” replied the host, fairly exhausting his store of civilities. “ He is not seriously ill,” continued the first speaker, “ but the physician says that he must keep in his room full three days yet. lam in despair. I can sing, at best, only three songs; my husban l was to fill up the remainder of the programme.” “ Ahem! oh! then you wish to procure a new violinist—one who can supply his place? Well, signora, there are enough of them in Florence. You know Paganini stayed here once, and Viotti, too; and, as my grandfather used to relate, Tartini also has been a guest of this house. I will find you a violinist; there is one who is even now stopping here.” “ Stopping here? What, in this hotel? You astonish me, signor! Is there anybody who can take my husband’s place?” “ Yes. I have heard him play, and the strains that came from his instrument reminded me of another world.” “ His name! It seems incredible.” “ The name is not high-sounding, I confess. It’s a mixture of English and German, reads oddly, and is still worse to pronounce. It is—well, bless me! I have forgotten. However, I’ll bring him in.” “ You do me a great service, signor, and I thank you.” The burly host was on the point of leaving the rooiri when his eyes fell upon the young man, who had sat listening unheeded to the conversation. He advanced toward him and bowed low.

“ Pardon me, my Northern gentleman,” said he, “but the most famous Malibran tells me that her distinguished husband cannot appear at the concert to-night. She is in search of a substitute, and perhaps, signor, you can act the part and confer a favor on my lady.” “ Forgive me, signor,” interposed the fair lady herself, “ that my friend should thus indiscreetly address you. But you understand.” The young artist stepped forward and saluted Malibran in the most courteous manner. Then in broken Italian he said: “ Indeed, signora, if you are laboring under embarrassment I should be only too happy to assist you.” Malibran returned a look -that showed full plainly her willingness to accept any offer that he might make. “ Did I not tell you, signora,” cajoled the facetious host, “ that I would find a substitute? And here he is.” “I thank you, signor, for your kindness. Have 1 the honor to salute an artist from Brittania; and may I be so inquisitive as to seek your name?” “ I am a Norwegian, Signora Malibran,” replied the artist, with downcast eyes, “and my name —Ole Bull.” Malibran made an effort to pronounce .the name, but failed. “ You have heard of our people,” he continued, “ only as sea kings. But you see I have chosen a different occupation, and carry the bow instead of the sword. I do not shun the contest, and, although I am to take the place of the violin-virtuoso of France, I should feel happy, even in my failure, to know that I had attempted to be of the best service to you. I will engage to play the pieces advertised in the programme, and their difficulties will prove incentives to try and do my best.” “ I have unbounded confidence inyou,” replied Malibran, “and to refuse your liberal offer would be as ungracious as it would be indiscreet on my part to accept it without first consulting my husband.” “ Ah, then, We will have a trial of skill . Yqu play the piano, of course? I will bring in my- violin, and your husband shall say whether I am worthy to supply his place.” “Agreed; and let us do so at once, for there is no time that must be lost.” Malibran took the arm of her newlymade friend, and with step as light as air conducted him up the wide staircase into the most richly-adorned room of the hotel. In that silent chamber, clothed almost in the darkness of night, De Beriot lay outstretched on a low couch. A bandage was tied around his bead, and, as the couple stepped into the room, he bowed incredulously, as if doubting the charcter of the stranger. In few words Malibran di vulged the name of the latter, and his proposal. The virtuoso smiled faintly, as with distorted features he endeavored to speak the name of the artist. At length Malibran sat down to the piano, the Norwegian took up his violin* and bow, while De Beriot, still doubting, resumed his former posture, and well-nigh buried his head in the pillow.

“What shall we try first, my noble Northern champion ?” asked she,"turning over the pages of open music. “We certainty have enough to choose from.” “ Anything, anything, signora—suit your taste,” was the reply. “Well, let us try my good old favorite, and his sonata in A minor. You know it, I suppose?” The artist nodded assent, and the music began. The sick man had almost determined not to listen. But at the opening strains he raised his head from the pillow, and glanced furtively at the musician. Sweeter and sweeter grew the harmony; each and every movement was rendered in the most exact time. Now, the tones rose to the loudest swell, and then, gradually diminishing, fell dying from the strings in sweetest cadence. At the end of the first part De Beriot arose from his couch. At the close of the second he advanced toward the players, and with a feeling of mingled awe and reverence, and a heart too full for utterance, he threw his arms around the neck of his brother artist. “ Your mastership is proved!” he at last murmured faintly. “ You not only fill my place worthily, but—l must confess it —you put me in the shade. I have heard a performance like that only from one man. Play whatever you like at the concert tonight.” “Thanks, signor,” returned Ole Bull; “ I will confine myself to the pieces advertised in the bill; for thereby I hope to prove myself more worthy of the cordial praise which you have bestowed.” De Beriot lay down again, and the mnsic continued as sweet and 1 perfect as before. First, the theme charmed like the nightingale’s warbling, and the variations followed like fireworks, sparkling and brilliant, and vanishing in the broad sky of ethereal harmony. “ I ought to be jealous!” exclaimed De Beriot. “But God bless you! my friend. There is only one that can surpass you, and that is the great Paganini himself. You are his duplicate; and did you say that the Parisians failed to notice you? Good heavens! are the people mad?” “The good people of Florence will show better favor,” interposed the beautiful Malibran. “ What will be their surprise when they discover two virtuosi within their city?” “ The'people of Florence,” responded the youngest of the company, “ like all the rest, will receive me coldly when they find a stranger instead of a favorite. What can a dumb instrument do beside such a voice ? But I have made a promise and keep it I will." The trio separated, each with the kindliest wishes and good will. De Beriot went back to his couch, the fair Malibran to her dressing-room and Ole Bull to room No. 10, in the attic. That evening the people of Florence waited in eager suspense for a grand concert to begin. The curtain rose and, amid the loudest and most enthusiastic applause, the queen-singer made her entree upon the stage. She was conducted thither by a stranger, at sight of whom every member of the audience became hushed. Some, indeed, began to scowl and to lament the absence of their idol; but even they changed their features when the duet was sounded. It was the Malibran who introduced the stranger, and the latter proved himself an artist. The excitement knew no bounds, and everyone freely aclgnowledged the presence of a star of the first magnitude. Thenceforth the odd name of the Norwegian artist lingered on every tongue. From Florence his glory spread over the whole of Europe ana at length crossed the waters to America. He was courted, reverenced, and greeted as the “rival of Paganini.” The beautiful Malibran, who, coming like a spirit from beyond this world, had interposed his dark life and elevated it at once to the zenith of its effulgence, departed in her early bloom and loveliness to an eternal spring in the hereafter. De Beriot has also passed away, leaving to the world a name wreathed in laurels and treasured offspring of his genius. Of the distinguished three who met together under difficulties and parted in mutual love and honor, only one remains to-day among the living. And for him “ who knows liow soon the bell may toll?” —Hearth and Home.