The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1876-02-23

corning Won Bulow to the Chicago Inter.
Ocean: In the. winter of 1871 the writer OF
this was in Florence. The weather was not
unlike that We have been having the p sst
two months, with the difference that the
roses did not seem to mind the
weather, but bloomed on out of doors until
Christmas, as il it were & cool June in Amer
lea. The sfterclsp to a sea voys age had been a
sewers cold, and all sightseeing had TO be
postponed until a less bronchial season.
One day a friend sppssrsd upon the scene OF
our desolatiop, with hands full of bllletti,
and demanded attention, with an ordtion TO
this effect: "Now, don't sit b we'd up here
with little pills and powders; come and besr
some music. Don'G dress up; it is nothing
very p3r iJular, only nice" SO exhortes,
we consented, ands after finding ca =,
seated ouselves and were driven to q m S,
uppretending edifce. We slighted, and
him two francs; handed him fve, and
WAITED PATIENTLY FOR THE CHANGE
He mounted the box, bowed, and pleas
antly remarked "Grazia, Signora," drove
off, and entered the hall dis
gusted. The room was small for
a concert hall, but wonderfully comfortable
for room in Florence, for it contained a
a stove with some fire in it. "Who are we
going to hear?" asked one. swell, Won
Bulow is the attraction to some, but the ar
tist who plays the violoncello has turned the
heads and hearts of the impress.
ible Italians, one aud ALL" Look
ing about the hall we discover a small
audience comp ssd of a mixture of English,
Anne ricat 8, and few Italisrs, tie irath be
ing that CT rman music never vet called out
much enthusiasm from either Frenchman
n Italian. But here como the violoncellc,
b. rae in cor scioUs pride by the ar ss, and
We are delighted with his skill, and the rl-
mama that he s)frIy r5cites in the smooth
est intonations. Not a note escapes us,
own handsome figure and exprt ssive face
are no detr.ment 10 the or semble. He fin
ished, 'e
CALLING FORTH RAPTURoUs APPLAUSE,
and then q few moments chatter en- sued, in
which the private history of the ar is. is dis
cUssed, and also the remarkable infatuation
OF sundry weak feminine hear in his be
half. Husbi here is Won Bulow. What q
contrast. Slender and plain, his hair thrown
back from a magnificent forehead, and an
immense mous.ache quite out of pr portion
to the s'Z9 OF the man. He takes very little
| notice of his audience, but takes p, SIS ssion
OF the piano, and in an in Dstspt diDgy hall,
audience and artists have vanished, and the
piano trembles as the ssion of
music ssiz it, and it yields without
r stance to the hand of the master
| until the instrument begiI to glow and cold
submission begir TO feel, and the exterior
| mechaDicism disclos q concealed heart
that throfs and pulsatts TO be free, to grssp
the mss er ard return his yehemence with
inter SHY as ovefwt Ginning. But a window
is open, and the drspsry lifts with an un-
seen powerful hand, and we look out far
above; Landscape that We know of, but do
not see, lies far low. Heavy clouds roll
up toward the zenith with ii she's of luri6
light. Now they part, and we catch a
glimpse OF portal, glowing and glorifed.
1t seems to open, aud faint strain OF
heavenly music is just beginning TO be
| heard when, with or. Sd, the clouds roll
athwart the p rtsl, and window and
VISION VANISH AS Won BULow RETIREs,
and " we slowly become conscious that we have
been listening to one of the rsstest pisnists
of our day. Now comes the handsome
Italian who plays us back to earth as We sit
aud wait, but almost in dread, the return Of
Won Buiow. Three times he played, and
caused hall and people, esrth and sea to
vanish before our souls; then we depart
| from the room, now growing dusky, and in
the twilight CrJss the Ponts Santa Sprita to
W
afsr from the art, the romance, and antiquil Y
| of Florence, in the city of the New
World, stands the sr list Won Bulow, and
we pause in the hustle of our new life to
hear him. Will it seem the same to us? In
place of the small, diDey room, a large,
well lighted hall, filled with esrnest, stlen-
tive listeners. We look at the faces, and
they look mora eager and stless than the
faces we wot of in that ancient city Her,
Is the artist. he bows, and, wonder of
wonders! Hans Won Bulow, the "interprs-
ter of the music of the hereafter" is going
TO make sp,e b, so impregnated has he
| become with this air of the land of the free.
l need only repsat the substance of what he
said.
HIS CoUNTRYMEN IN AMERICA
had suggested that the per pie would better
appreciate his concerts did he but give them
little popular music. He there offered a
little prelude in the more populsr style.
THEN he turaed to the p ano, and the Mar
seills,se sang out like pugle call. Never, /
think, did one hesr it so played, and ty a
Gt rmsn. The irJops, obedient to the call,
came fiocking, and yJu saw the flash of bay
onets and gltam OIL scarlet, as they pressed
through the Arc de Triumph, ana France
was once mors the msrtial, the brave, the
victorious. The effect was elec rical,
and, like the swift de tparturs of that
|
Beethoven's sonata Psthetique" swelled
through the room. Ia listening, one could
feel the grief and weariness of the silent
b Y, Ludwig Beethoven. Misundt rstood
and blamed, he was still stout-hesrted until
the merited raise displaced the blame. His
sonata is not sorrowfui or despsiring, only
"pathetque." AS he plays, we wander
back in our thoughts to the artist before us,
and feel that there is a 3! range, subtle differ
ence between this concert and the other.
4 fhtrs we left earsh and stepped into the
borierland OF eternity with Wsguer's
prophetic soundipgs. but here the ar list
speaks to US mostly through Beethoven
sreai, solemn, human heart, that will
thrOb through all time. At softer pas age
we hear mother singing TO her child
Now it is
LOVER LEAvINa HIS MISTRESS.
Now the return, and now the solemn chords
sound on the ear like the beat of the waves
of eteroiiV on the shores of time Rut did