PAGANINI’S PRISON LIFE.
To-day, as in the early half of
the nineteenth century, the widest credence is given the innumerable, fantastic
stories circulated about Paganini. His genius, his eccentricities, his mode of
life as well as his physical peculiarities,—all this was well calculated to
serve imaginative journalists with excellent material for the promulgation of
“mystery-stories,” which, however extravagant, seemed to impressionable minds
to be “just what one might expect” from such a musical phenomenon. And of all
the stories that found ready acceptance by the general reading public of
Paganini’s day, that of his imprisonment for murder seemed the most plausible
alike to his enemies as well as his admirers. Even at this distant day students
of the violin, as well as the less accurately informed general public, firmly
believe that Paganini committed a most atrocious crime for which he suffered
long imprisonment, and that, during his long and solitary confinement, he
acquired that marvelous technical skill (especially on the G-string) which
bewildered the whole musical world.
When Paganini paid his first visit to Paris, he was amazed (and
perhaps not a little pleased) to be confronted at every turn by the most
ludicrous caricatures of himself. But what particularly impressed him was a
picture representing him in his lonely cell expiating his crime at the altar of
his beloved art. This picture, it would seem, was something quite new to him;
and though, as a rule, he seems to have enjoyed the many bizarre tales
referring to his close relationship with the Evil One, he decided to offer the
excitable Parisians the true version of the prison story, together with his own
theory of the flimsy fabric from which it had been woven.
In a characteristic French letter addressed to Fetis, of the Paris
Musical Review, Paganini entered into the most interesting
details in connection with this subject, and authorized Fetis to publish this
letter literally. The following translation will doubtless prove interesting to
readers of The Etude:
Paganini’s Letter to M. Fetis.
So much kindness and applause have been lavished upon me by the
French public that I must believe that my concerts have not disappointed the
expectations aroused by the reputation which preceded me to Paris. Had I any
doubt of this, it would be dissipated by the care which I see your artists have
taken to reproduce my physical form, and also by the great number of portraits
of Paganini (whether truthful or not) which are hung on the walls of your
capital. But, sir, speculations of this kind have not been confined merely to
portraits; for, while walking yesterday on the Boulevard des Italiens, I
noticed in a print shop a lithograph representing “Paganini in Prison.” “Good,”
said I to myself, “here are honest people who, like Basile, exploit for their
profit a calumny which has pursued me for fifteen years.” Nevertheless, I
laughed as I examined this hoax with all its details furnished by an artist’s
imagination; but I soon perceived that quite a number of persons had gathered
about me, and each one, comparing my face with that of the young man
represented in the lithograph, declared that I had changed very much since my
imprisonment. I then comprehended that the thing had been taken seriously by
what you call, I believe, the mob (le badauds); and I also realized that
this speculation was not at all a bad one. It occurred to me that, since
everyone must live, I myself could furnish some anecdotes to the artists who
were so anxious to busy themselves with my affairs—anecdotes which they could
utilize for the fabrication of jokes similar to the one in question. In order
to publish these, I would beg you kindly to insert my letter in your Musical
Review.
These gentlemen have depicted me in prison; but they do not know
how I came to be there, and, in this respect, they are almost as well instructed
as myself and those who are responsible for the anecdote. There are several
stories, all equally good subjects for illustration. For example: It is said
that I killed my rival upon discovering him with my mistress. Others have said
that my jealous fury was exercised upon my mistress, but they do not agree as
to the manner of my killing her. Some will have it that I used a poignard;
others, that, wishing to enjoy her sufferings, I used poison. Each one arranged
the matter in accordance with his own fancy. The lithographers are therefore
similarly privileged.
This is what actually happened to me in
Padua, about fifteen years ago. I had given a concert which, I was led to
believe, was successful. The next day I was seated at table d’hôte; but,
being the sixtieth person present, my entrance into the dining-room had passed
unnoticed. One of the guests referred to my playing in the most flattering
terms. His neighbor joined him in these eulogies, but added: “Paganini’s skill
is not astonishing: he owes it to his eight years’ sojourn in prison where he
had only his violin to soften the sufferings of captivity. He was condemned to
this imprisonment for having assassinated, in the most cowardly manner, his
rival—one of my friends.” As may be imagined, every person present exclaimed
against the enormity of the crime. Addressing the individual who knew my
history so well, I begged him to tell me when and where this adventure had
occurred. All eyes were immediately turned toward me. Imagine the astonishment
when I was recognized as the principal actor of this tragic story. The narrator
was greatly embarrassed. It was no longer his friend who had died; he had
heard—some one had told him— he had believed—but it was possible he had been deceived—etc.
So you see, sir, how people play with an artist’s reputation, and that lazy
people will not understand that one can study just as well when at liberty in
one’s own room as under lock and key.
In Vienna a rumor still more absurd tried the credulity of enthusiasts.
I had played the variations entitled, “Le Streghe,” and they had proved quite
effective. A gentleman, described to me as having a pale complexion, a
melancholy air, and an inspired eye, stated that he could see nothing
astounding in my art, because, while I was playing the variations, he had
distinctly seen the devil near me, guiding my arm and conducting my bow. His
striking resemblance to me clearly proclaimed my origin. He was clothed in red,
and was provided with horns and a tail. You will appreciate, sir, that after
such a minute description there could be no doubt as to the truthfulness of
such a statement, and that many people were convinced that they had discovered
the secret of what they termed my “tricks of strength.”
These rumors annoyed me for a long time. I tried to prove their
utter absurdity. I called attention to the fact that, since my fourteenth year,
I had been continuously before the public; that for a period of sixteen years I
had been musical director at the court of Lucca; that, consequently, if it were
true that I had been imprisoned for eight years for having killed my mistress
or my rival, the deed must have been committed before I became known to the
public; that is to say, I must have had a mistress and a rival when I was but
seven years old. In Vienna I appealed to the Italian ambassador, who made the
declaration that he had known me for nearly twenty years as an honorable man.
Thus I succeeded in stifling this slander; but something of it has
always remained, and I was not surprised that it should reappear in this place.
What can I do about it? I see no other way than to be resigned and let
malignity exercise itself at my expense. However, I believe I ought to tell
you, in conclusion, the anecdote which has given rise to these injurious
stories.
A violinist named D., who was in Milan in 1798, became intimately
associated with two men who led a wicked life. These men persuaded him to accompany
them to the village, one night, for the purpose of murdering the rector, who was
supposed to have some money. Fortunately, the courage of one of these guilty
men failed him at the last moment and he denounced his accomplices. The police
arrested D. and his companion just as they arrived at the rector’s
house. They were sentenced to twenty years’ imprisonment; but General Menou,
after he became Governor of Milan, liberated the artist after the latter had
spent two years in prison. Would you believe, sir, that my whole history has
been embroidered on this incident? The man in question was a violinist, and his
name ended in “i”—surely that must have been Paganini! The assassination became
either that of my mistress or my rival, and it was I, so they said, who had
been thrown into prison. But, as they would have it, I discovered my new violin
school in prison. And the irons—which would have proved an impediment to my
arm—received the credit for my discovery.
Yet one word. Since impossibilities are believed, I must submit to the inevitable. The hope remains to me, however, that, after my death, Calumny will abandon her prey, and that those who have so cruelly revenged themselves for my success will leave my ashes in peace. Nicolo Paganini.
