Barnard Charles
Camilla: A Tale of a Violin
CHAPTER III.
THE GOSPEL OF WORK
It is now in order to review briefly the events of this remarkable art life, and to see what lessons it may teach to the musician, the student, and the art lover. Whether we look at the child, gazing in large-eyed wonder at the festival in the Church of the Holy Cross, the patient girl, trudging day by day through the quiet streets of Nantes to take her lessons, the pale student in the conservatory, the sober-faced maiden who so won all our hearts so long ago in Boston, the brilliant young woman who flashed out so suddenly into the highest walks of art, the great artist born of a wonder child, or the simple American woman, Camilla Urso, in whatever station we view her, we see the dignity and reward of honest work. Everywhere we see the same passionate love of music, the same eagerness to study, to learn the all there is of it, and to play with ever increasing skill. Genius is the great gift that has been bestowed upon her. She did not hide it in a napkin, but with heart and soul she did her best to make it a good and acceptable gift to art and humanity. Whether giving concerts among our prairie cities, resting by the sea-shore at Boulogne, traveling among the mountains of California, studying the great masters of the violin in London or Paris, or among friends in Boston, she is always practicing upon her beloved instrument. It is never out of her hands a day, unless ill or fatigued by traveling. Each month she means shall show some improvement, and from year to year she has gone on till the present standard of excellence has been reached. To what perfection her skill has been carried, we shall leave others to say at the end of this book.
The musician, in looking back over this life of an artist, naturally asks what changes she may have seen in the art life of the world during the dozen years or more she has been before the American public. We purposely select the American public, because it is of the most interest to us, and because the art life of Europe is somewhat different from ours, and less liable to changes. Madam Urso’s own views upon the subject are instructive and encouraging, and we present them in very nearly her own words. Taken as a whole, the people of this country are somewhat crude and uneducated in their ideas of music. They certainly love music; they like music even better than the Europeans, but they do not exactly know what they want. If, when an orchestra or an artist is visiting a Western town, you ask a man if he is going to the concert, he will often say, “No, I have seen him once.” Hearing the music given by a splendid orchestra does not seem to be thought of any consequence. Having “seen” the orchestra, there is no further interest in it. On the other hand, with all their want of education, the people of this country learn about music faster than any people she ever saw. They are greatly interested in music, are willing to admit their ignorance concerning it, are exceedingly eager to learn and anxious that their children should, at least, study the rudiments, that they may enjoy and understand it. They are ready and able to pay more for music than any nation in Europe. If they think they are really to hear something that pleases them, they will pack the hall whatever the price. The music that pleases them is not always the best, for the simple reason they do not know what is best. As fast as they learn better, they drop whatever is before them and at once take up something else. The sudden disappearance of negro minstrel music is an evidence of this. The people outgrew it, and it passed away, as it were, in a night.
In instrumental music there has been a steady advance from the merely showy and technical to the purely classical. Ten years since they would crowd the hall to hear the “Carnival.” Had Madam Urso presented the Beethoven Spohr, or the Mendelssohn Concertos, the people would not have listened in patience through a single performance. If they heard it at all, it would be under a sort of silent protest, and the next time the piece was offered there would be nobody there. These remarks apply to the country generally. In some of the older cities classical music of a high order would have found a certain proportion of listeners. From year to year, all this has changed. By introducing into the lightest and most popular programmes some short selection from the great masters of violin music, Madam Urso has gradually taught her audiences what they should admire, and, by persistent and gentle urging, she has led them to a knowledge of the best and highest in art. In this Madam Urso is not alone. All true artists do thus teach the people and try to lift them up to something higher and purer. It is this that makes the divine in music. Happily, our people are willing enough to be taught. The general education, and our freedom from precedents enables all art to grow faster here than anywhere else. We are still, as a people, crude and musically ignorant, but we are fast learning. The changes in the character of concert music may be seen almost from year to year; the standard continually advances and, certainly, there is everything to encourage and satisfy the most ardent lover of music in the country. While we have such artists as Madam Urso among us we have much to be thankful for, and may press on till we reach the high standard of excellence she ever keeps before herself.
We may here offer a short sketch of Madam Urso’s personal appearance and manners, when free from the restraint of public life. The ideas generally held concerning her “personally” are somewhat incorrect, as the following will show:
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It was a cloudy, winter’s afternoon, and the place seemed dull and gloomy. The Boston Music Hall is, at best, bare and vast, and by daylight is particularly unattractive. The great organ pipes appear cold and lustreless, and the light tints on the walls are not very comforting. The orchestra of the Harvard Musical Association were upon the stage, under the leadership of Carl Zerrahn, and a few privileged subscribers, numbering a hundred or two, were gathered together at one side, as if to keep each other in countenance. Over such a wide floor it takes a thousand or more to make a comfortable and social company.
The orchestra were at work upon the 6th Symphony of Beethoven, placidly overcoming its difficulties, stopping now and then to polish up some delicate point, and taking things in an easy and rather indifferent manner. In the midst of it entered at the side door a young woman in fur cape, skull cap of the jauntiest pattern, and some plain dark dress. The hackman came behind, bearing the great brown leather violin case. With a serene and placid manner she mounted the stage, and bidding the man place the violin case on the steps before the organ, she quietly took off her outer garments and sat down on the steps. A friendly nod and a smile to Zerrahn and then a cordial hand shake to the librarian of the Society. She had brought the orchestral parts of the concerto she was to play, and began to talk in an animated manner about their use. The audience had no longer any ears for the symphony, and though it went steadily on, they were all eyes to see and admire their favorite thus “at home” among them.
Having arranged everything to her satisfaction, she came down into the house and was quickly surrounded by a group of artists and others. For all she had a hearty hand shake, a smile, and words of genial and animated welcome. No pretty miss in the company more admired, no merry talker more sought for than this unaffected, simple-minded woman. Beating time on the back of the seat with one finger, nodding to acquaintances, speaking to all in turn, now in French, and now in the best of English, she sat the most observed and admired of all the goodly company, and the most serene and happy.
Presently the symphony rehearsal came to an end, and, without the slightest hint of affectation, she rose from her seat, smiled her adieus, and went to the stage. Selecting a violin from its blue satin wrappings, she threw a white silk handkerchief over her left shoulder, tuned her violin, and took her place at the front of the stage in the centre of the orchestra. Tall Carl Zerrahn on his stand seems particularly giantesque beside such a little lady, and he pushed the platform on one side and stood upon the stage, to be nearer to her. She gave nods of recognition to members of the orchestra, shook hands with Zerrahn, smiled and talked merrily with the leading violin, and then explained something concerning the music to Zerrahn. With her bow she gave the time, and the opening prelude began. She adjusted her handkerchief to her shoulder, and with a light touch played snatches of the orchestral part, as if to give a hint as to its proper rendering. Now comes the solo. The accompaniment is hushed, that not a note of the golden Mozartian melody be lost. Of her performance we will not here speak in detail, as it is described a page or two further on. Our present concern is with Madam Urso as a woman at home in her art, and among friends. Suddenly, in the midst of a brilliant passage, she stops, and lifting one finger she says, so that all can hear: “F natural.” The first violins are caught napping, and without a book, and while playing her own part, she detects and corrects a mistake of a semitone in the accompaniment. There is no self-assertion or parade, but only an arch smile and a merry shake of the head, as if it was a good joke to catch them thus. A hearty laugh from orchestra and audience, and then the work is resumed. As the piece returns, she nods and smiles her approval, and the music goes on again. At the end of the movement comes a long cadenza of great difficulty. She treats it in that masterly and effective manner that seems so natural to her. Then follows a liberal round of applause from orchestra and spectators. Next comes the andante movement, the most beautiful of the three. During the brief interval between the two she talks merrily with one and another, and when she is ready gives the time to the conductor. Zerrahn wields the baton, but Madam Urso is the real director. Her spirit guides the music and inspires the orchestra with unusual animation. The rather listless manner in the symphony is exchanged for painstaking care and attention. Camilla’s earnestness and life seems to inspire them to greater effort, and their playing gains in vigor and precision. “Not too much fire, gentlemen.” This is the slow movement, and she gently represses their enthusiasm. The feather like touch, the airy delicacy of her own playing, spurs them on to unwonted care and restraint. At the end comes another long cadenza, that for soft, whispering tones, sweetness, grace, and vanishing lightness, is almost unequaled. Her face becomes serious. Her eyes have a far away expression, dreamy and tender, that soon affects the music. The magic violin sighs and breathes in melting tenderness. The melody floats upward, melting and fading away, exhaled into palpable silence. Not quite, for just as it seems ready to languish into nothing, a soft, sweet chord from the band completes the cadence and brings it to a natural end.
Shouts of “bravo” and loud applause greet this splendid effort, and she nods and smiles with a pleased and natural expression. Still, she is not satisfied. The band are not sufficiently delicate and light in the treatment of the last chord or two, and she bids them try it again. Three times they go over it, before her exacting and lofty standard of perfection is reached.
Then comes the last movement. Vivacious, animated, and merry, it seems to suit her happy hearted nature, and she fairly revels in its brilliant melodies. Difficulties vanish like mist before the sun. It becomes a delight to dash through the sparkling passages. Clear, clean cut, vivid and sharp, like cut glass, the music stands out in bold characters. Not a note slighted or blurred. No obscurity or doubt about the most intricate passage. Curious little effects of staccato mingled with the most linked together legato. Bold flashes through chain lightning scales. Chords pouring forth in torrents, and then airy scraps of melody, as if the theme had broken up into shining bits, glistening drops, and sparkles of song.
An artist soul blooms before us. Her face is rapt, and almost severe. In a moment it is over, and her features break into a pleasant, natural smile. Amid the applause she returns to the floor and mingles with the people. No affectation, no looking for praise; nothing but sweetness and friendliness. No common-place woman, with brush or needle in hand, could be more simple and winsome, no genius could be more self-forgetting.
We may now properly close the chapter, and bring this story of an artist life up to the present time by a brief sketch of a series of classical concerts given by Madam Urso in the Spring of 1874, in Boston. They were remarkable concerts; both in the character of the music given, and in the crowded and appreciative audiences that attended them. As an expression of Madam Urso’s present ability as an artist, we offer the opinion of the Boston Daily Advertiser, our best local critical paper, and, for the present, bring this story to its logical end. May it be many years before it becomes necessary to add anything more to it, except to record her continued success as an artist, and happiness as a good and true woman.
The Advertiser’s criticism upon the first concert of the series we present in full for the reason that it expresses the critic’s opinion of Madam Urso’s general character as a musical artiste, directress, and manager, as well as of her rank and position as a violinist:
“The Horticultural Hall was entirely filled last evening, and Madam Camilla Urso was welcomed back to Boston with an enthusiasm evidently as unaffected as it was hearty. The programme of the concert was singularly choice, but it was noticeable especially for the contrast which it presented to the bills of most of our virtuosi: in three of its numbers only did Madam Urso take part, and those three were a trio for violin, piano, and violoncello, a sonata for violin and piano, and a string quartette. Disappointment at not hearing the principal musician in a solo performance may have marred the pleasure of some of the audience; and at the other concerts of the series it is very likely that some provision may be made for the gratification of this natural desire. But the entire arrangement of last night seemed to us significant – delightfully significant of that noble, generous, self-forgetting spirit which has always distinguished this remarkable performer, and which is not the least of her titles to the grand name of artiste. Here seems to be as little as possible of vain show of self; nothing at all of that jealous littleness which tolerates no companions either as composers or interpreters; the maximum of appreciation and reverence for the great authors, and of devotion to the best and worthiest in music. In the concert of last evening Madam Urso carried the higher principle so far that, as has been said, her own name appeared alone neither as author nor performer.
The three chief numbers of this fine programme were a trio in C-minor, op. 102, by Raff; a sonata in F-major, No. 9, by Mozart; and Schubert’s posthumous quartette in D-minor. The Raff trio was new to Boston. It is a long and elaborate work, the absolute merit of which is not to be pronounced upon after a single hearing. That it is startlingly brilliant and striking in at least two of its numbers is plain at once, however; and there can be no denying or doubting its great vigor and originality. The scherzo has remarkable ingenuity in its harmonic forms and instrumental combinations; and the andante, amazing in its melodic variety and richness, and reflecting, apparently, many moods of the composer’s mind, yet produces a unity of impression which proves the presence of a strong and self-poised genius. The Mozart sonata for violin and piano is exceedingly interesting in all its three movements, light and airy in its general character, – except in the andante, which is touched with pensiveness, – and not striking very far down in its suggestions, but full of fresh beauty and consummate in its symmetrical grace. In the happiest contrast with the sonata was the wonderful D-minor quartette of Schubert. No better illustration of the marked divergence between the modes of expression natural to two master composers could have been chosen than these. The invariable law of Mozart’s genius – in spite of, or perhaps, in aid of its broad inclusiveness – is condensation or conciseness; of Schubert’s, it is expansion and diffusiveness. But where the genius is so vital and inspiring as that which shines in every line of the D-minor quartette, the amplitude never degenerates into tediousness. There may be profusion in the host’s providing, but no surfeit in the guest’s appetite.
In considering the quality of the performance one is tempted at first to the natural remark that Madam Urso’s power cannot be so plainly shown in concerted as in solo music. But in the very utterance, we find ourselves hesitating and more than doubtful. For purely mechanical effects and for all the immense variety of mere instrumental and personal display the solo, of course, offers unequaled opportunities. But, after all, of how little real value and beauty are these pyrotechnics of the profession; how shallow is the stream of emotion which flows from them, and how barren, dry and brief is the pleasure which accompanies their recollection! If proofs were sought that Madam Camilla Urso retained her skill in all its amazing perfection and her genius in all its vitality and inspiration, they were abundant indeed at the concert of last evening. There was the same grand steadiness and strength; the same absolute faultlessness in purity of tone; the same fine discrimination and delicacy; the same minute clearness and cleanness, so that in the most rapid and difficult delivery nothing was slurred or confused; the same docile yielding to the spirit of the composer and to the demands of her fellow-musicians. And more than this, there was ample room for the exhibition of the expressive and sympathetic power, which was always the first title of Madam Urso – as of every great violinist – to the highest rank in her art. Her violin in these fine concerted pieces spoke with the same “golden mouth” as of old, commanding, inspiring, defying and pleading by turns. And in such music as that of the well-nigh incomparable “Tema con variazioni” of the Schubert quartette, the highest eloquence of the king of instruments is not only permitted but demanded.”
Another view of the professional and technical skill of Madam Urso is given by the critic of the Advertiser in the following words:
“We have said that Madam Urso’s place as a violinist is in the first rank; it is hardly necessary to add, that among performers of her own sex she is unquestionably the very first in the world. It is, indeed, only within a comparatively few years that the claims of women to superiority as violinists have been treated with anything better than sneers. And the supercilious and intolerant spirit which dictated such treatment had at least a much solider foundation than the narrow conservatism which refused to admit women into the lists with poets, novelists, sculptors, and painters: for power and force are the primal conditions of the highest success as a performer upon the violin, and most women would undoubtedly be weak players as compared with most men. But the genius of art – who, after all, is one and the same, whatever form the art may take – is no respecter of persons; nay, more, he demands for his high tasks those of every clime and rank, and of both sexes. And from each and every one he asks a peculiar service which no other could exactly render. And thus he has assigned to Madam Urso her own functions as an artiste. There is no denying the remarkable power and breadth of her style, which is far in advance of that exhibited by the majority of the best male performers; – her touch is at once as firm as steel and as soft as velvet; her mere manual dexterity is extraordinary; and her intonations are as faultless as the steadiest of hands and the correctest of ears can make them, – witness, especially, her recent wonderful playing of cadenzas at a Harvard Symphony Concert. In all of this Madam Urso may be said to be a man, or the equal and compeer of man. But in the great expressive power to which we have often referred as her chief title to the highest place, the soul of the true and earnest woman finds its own exclusive utterance; and we get a something of tenderness, of sweetness, and of subtlety which is pre-eminently feminine. The world could not afford to lose this, though great performers were twenty times more numerous than they are. The age which has produced a Dickens and a “George Eliot,” a Holman Hunt and a Rosa Bonheur, a Story and a Harriet Hosmer, must needs have added to the scroll upon which the titles of Joachim, of Vieuxtemps, and of Ole Bull are inscribed, the name of