Revelation
All remained silent as the violinist drew the bow across the neck of his instrument, the single, prolonged note doubtless intended to mesmerise. That might have been the case, had the moment of serenity not been shattered by a loud snort: the exasperated fellow across the hall was, it appeared, unable to contain his pent-up frustration. The signor arched an eyebrow and continued, layering a more intricate layer of music on top of the tone. As the piece picked up momentum, he started to move in a semicircle, his elbow held tight to his body. His long, delicate fingers danced across the fingerboard, wrist loose, each touch made with gentle purpose as he teased the notes from his instrument. His playing was notably understated and delicate; only as he ended the first section did he add a series of complex trills, carefully placed so as not to interrupt the mood, I surmised. I found myself pleasantly surprised, as (based on some reviews I had gleaned from the popular press) I had half-expected him to be throwing all but the kitchen sink into each bar of his performance.
He can certainly play, I thought, as the accompanying violinists joined in the equally sedate, un-presupposing second movement of the piece. Against this gentle backdrop I surveyed the hall, my eyes alighting upon an almost unanimous set of appreciative faces — all, in fact, bar the provincial upstart, who continued to shake his head and whisper loudly to a compatriot. Glancing back, I saw the performer glare at the fellow, which quelled his mutterings briefly. Before long the virtuoso had shut his yellowed eyes altogether, perhaps choosing to embrace the music completely – or simply blocking out unruly elements of the audience, I could not tell.
At the end of the piece, which was met with genuine applause, Paganini gave a small, more deferential bow. Having requested his accompanists to be seated, he turned back to the audience. “Good evening, and now something a little less… formal,” he said, in broken, affected German. He lifted his instrument to his chin once more, playing a long, single note then a staccato series… What was it? In all honesty, it sounded like chickens. Then I realised it was chickens! Then, wait, a duck, and, ah!, the mewing of a cat… as he played, he looked pointedly at the jumped up fellow. “I dedicate this piece to farmyard animals, who were born without the ability to be silent,” he said, before playing a series of sharply drawn, quite harsh sounds, sawing at his instrument in the sound of… Yes! It was the oinking of a pig! I could barely suppress a laugh, but I was far from alone; laughter was all around me, filling the room. I glanced at his Grace, whose expression was fixed – whether he was being stoic or stony I could not tell.
The rural gentleman did not take kindly to the affront. At first he became flustered, turning bright red in the process, before storming from the room, followed moments later by his, somewhat apologetic acquaintance. Without waiting for the door to slam, the performer whipped into a fast, furious piece that was not, I knew, to be found on the programme: this finished as quickly as it had started, to no more than a smattering of light applause. “We shall continue now,” he said, turning back to his players. “Gentlemen?” With which, the accompanists stood once more. On a nodded signal, a flautist and two oboes emerged from the side entrance, and we settled down to Paganini’s latest creation - on the programme, his Grand Concerto in E minor, performed for the first time only weeks before.
Feeling better prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, I watched as the violinist stood to one side, letting his ensemble of players open the piece. He rocked on the balls of his feet as the stringed accompanists began, painting an initial picture of musical decadence which gave way to gentility and calm, serving (I noted) as much to ease the minds of those in the room, as to develop the themes of the piece. Eventually the horns entered, yielding back to the strings as these returned to the original motif.
After several minutes, relaxed now and without a tremor, the maestro raised his violin to his shoulder, paused, and proceeded to join with the theme, as one might enter a dance. His playing was so smooth and inoffensive, that I barely noticed as he took the music in a new direction altogether. I couldn’t help but be impressed by his glissandi, even if I felt, I dare to say, that he might have been showing off, just a little. Yes, I feel uncomfortable mentioning that now, but I can only speak as I felt at the time.
Where was I? Yes: his brief demonstration gave way to a gentle, dare I say delicate section which (I noted) had many in the audience also rocking back and forth on their heels. Whilst, at the risk of continuing to dig myself a hole, both music and playing was full of decoration, I can’t say it ever felt out of place. His clever key change, for example, nonetheless aligned with the piece as a whole, as ballet dancers might perform yet nonetheless be part of a broader choreography.
Before anyone could get bored, as if that might be possible, the music accelerated. Even as the violinist coaxed his notes forth, I observed a the emergence of a strange harmonic phenomenon, as though he was playing two instruments at once, one aligned with the ensemble and the other conflicting, like a songbird fluttering against the bars of its cage. The two came together quite suddenly in a single, soaring note before once again parting: it took all my concentration to follow, even as the music itself led myself, and everyone else in the room, on its merry dance, the ensemble rejoining the soloist once again.
I leaned back against the wall and allowed the combined rhythms to wash over me. Signor Niccolo Paganini quickened and slowed his pace, skilfully accompanied by an ensemble that was, it felt, being taken on the same journey. Through the resulting, conflicted anguish of themes, I imagined a character, frustrated, longing to participate within society’s norms, yet unable to restrain their passions. At a point, the character attained a level of relative calm, before once again they gave in to their inner demons. I could not but feel for the many. What journey were they on? Could they ever reconcile their unfortunate selves with the conflict within?
The accompanists pushed back in kind, embracing the movement’s ebbs and flows, even as the virtuoso’s bow danced across his instrument without pause nor panic. I was, I confess, enthralled: so enraptured I was, it almost passed me by that he was living up to his reputation. Continuing to pace slowly around the stage, he coaxed notes out of his instrument like a man might implore a tree full of birds to sing. And sing they did, the accompanists building to a point before dropping away once more, back into the deep.
A silent respite, at which I glanced around the faces of the collected ensemble. I had misjudged earlier — they were delighted to be there, supporting him, their faces now expectant as he once again raised his bow above his instrument. A series of dark, dissonant sounds left me in no doubt of the poor person at the heart of this tune’s demise. He was running, being chased, casting this way and that — is there no way out, I wondered, before it was already too late to know. The movement had ended, accompanied only by a collective release of breath as the room regained its composure.
As the second movement began, I deliberately avoided letting my emotions take over. Fine music, ja, to be observed, not to overwhelm. Nonetheless, as the soulful tones continued, my more trivially inclined side couldn’t help wondering: had the character now lost their way, were they now forced to accept whatever fate might befall? It was no good. I let the deep sadness enter me, even as it gave way to anguish and occasional bursts of frustration. Why, asked the character. Why indeed? I responded. The interplay between solo violinist and horn section was sublime, delicate renditions of hopelessness against an immovable judging world. Collectively, the supporting musicians provided a dark backdrop, against which our plaintive perpetrator made his last, hopeless plea.
I wasn’t sure I could cope with much more of this, I thought. How fortunate, then, that the third movement started altogether more cheerily, with the maestro setting off in the upper register, the strings joining with percussion altogether more pizzicato. I smiled, then realised I was doing so — to my relief, so was everybody else. As the piece continued, Paganini leaned forward, interspersing arpeggios with more complex slides, once again harmonising with himself. Suddenly it occurred to me: he did not seem to have played a single note wrong. Such was the music, carefully intertwined note on note, that it would have been noticeable indeed but no, he had been musically and technically perfect throughout.
The ensemble returned, with horns signalling what I surmised must be the finale. Where is our character now, I wondered, as a series of gentle interchanges suggested reconciliation, perhaps even resolution. These built and became more complex, offering a final demonstration of Paganini’s prowess. Yes, the shift to a major key, this had to be it, surely. Paganini gave a small jump before weaving the final, delicate strands of magic into the performance. And indeed, that was that.
One could feel the wave of relief rippling gently across the hall. Magic? Did I really just think that, I wondered; but as I glanced around, I realised I was not alone — he had me, and many others, in the palm of his hand. I confess to have felt my eyes pricking, and I heard several sniffles from various corners. Even as I stood, regaining my composure in the main salle of the Schloss Herrenhausen, I was in no doubt that I, together with a privileged few, had experienced something unique.