The Devil's Violinist

“Hey Andrea, stop standing there and come help me with these curtains! Giacomo’s annoyed voice snaps me from my daze. Blinking quickly, I look around. I’m standing on a stage. On the stage, lit with bright lights from every direction. I’ve gotten distracted by the elaborate theatre once again. How long have I been standing here? I look down at all the empty seats, and remember. The concert!

I’d run to the theatre as soon as I’d gotten out of the conservatory this evening, passing horse-drawn carriages and small shops, making my way through the busy lantern-lit streets of Genova.

From where I’m standing, I can make out the chatter of the crowd that is quickly gathering outside the doors. The most anticipated concert of the year is going to start soon, and I still have to help Giacomo set up the wretched curtains.

“It’s always the same story with you. Do you want him to play with this in the background?” He asks, lifting one end of the fabric and shaking it in the air. I shake my head quickly and run over.

As I help Giacomo fix the curtains, I feel an icy breeze blow on the back of my neck from one of the open windows. I shiver, rubbing my hands together as we walk off the stage. The devil’s violinist. That’s what the newspapers called Niccolò Paganini. For the past month at the conservatory, the only topic of conversation had been tonight’s concert.

Walking to one of my lessons one day, I’d heard one girl talking to another. “Paganini creates such astounding music on the violin. His style is so new, and I hear that he fills his music with such unusual techniques and tricks, such as imitating roosters, donkeys, and dogs!”

“Really?” Her friend had asked incredulously. Other students had pitched in, and the hallway had become a mass of excited voices.

“Yes, and once, he broke three of the four strings on the violin while he was playing, on purpose, to show that he could play the whole piece with only one string, like nobody else can.”

“Did you know that Paganini sometimes plays so fast, like twelve notes per second, it’s impossible for the ear to keep up! There must be something supernatural about him. Just look at him and you’ll see.”

Don Conrado, my violin teacher, always tells me to sing with my violin. “Devi cantare con il violino!” He says that if I were to hear the great Niccolò Paganini play in the theatre, I would understand. I’ve read that Paganini was born almost 50 years ago, here in Genova on the 27^th of October 1782. Not only is he the greatest violinist, but he is also a guitarist and composer. He has only ever published a few of his works, because he wants to keep the rest secret, and there is a rumor that he got his magnificent talent from the devil. I wonder if that’s true.

Backstage, I turn to Giacomo, who has just finished shouting at some poor crew member. “Do you know what they say about Paganini and the devil?” I ask Giacomo. He just rolls his eyes. “I heard that Paganini's mother made a pact with the devil, and traded Paganini’s soul for his incredible playing abilities, so that he could become the greatest violinist there ever was.” I continue, excited. “I heard that he even encourages these rumors about him. Sometimes, he lies in his bed for a full day before a concert, not moving, without food or water.” 

“Oh, don’t tell me you believe all this superstitious nonsense. He’s talented, and that comes from a lifetime of practice, not the devil!” Giacomo says, exasperated.

I scoff and walk away, making my way around to find a spot to watch the concert, which should start soon. The concert had sold out, and quickly all the seats are filled. The rumors about Paganini must have a positive effect on him, with all the people who swarm to his concerts.

However, forty minutes later, the concert hasn’t yet started. The musicians in the orchestra are complaining, and the audience seems quite restless.

“Where is Paganini?” A gruff voice booms from the crowd.

“Please, everyone, be patient! He should be here anyti-” Giacomo’s voice trails away, as excited cries rose from outside. I peer out of an open window and see an elegant black carriage slowing to a stop outside the theatre, pulled by four black horses. A thin figure dressed in an all-black coat slowly steps out from inside.

“Paganini’s here!” I whisper.

The theatre is deathly quiet, and I can feel the anticipation growing.

The curtains part, and out steps the devil’s violinist.

He is wearing a black vest on top of a white puffy shirt, with black trousers. He has long black hair, and a pair of small, blue tinted glasses, which I remember being told had been prescribed to him to help with the glare of the lighting. He is so pale and thin he resembles a walking corpse. Pausing at one end of the stage, he looks at the audience, bowing exaggeratedly multiple times. The audience erupts into wild cheers. Satisfied, Paganini slowly moves into the center of the stage. He places his violin onto his shoulder, and then, dramatically raises his bow.  

The crowd is in awe of his playing! It’s spellbinding! Paganini plays with such passion and tenderness that some of the spectators burst into tears. Some ladies in the first row of the audience reach for Paganini, others dramatically fan themselves. Now I understand what Don Conrado meant about singing with the violin. Paganini has perfect intonation, and his compositions are so melodic, it’s astonishing.

As the concert progresses, the level of energy in the hall rises. The audience is mad with amazement. Some ladies dangle from their boxes, waving their handkerchiefs at Paganini.

He alternates between very complicated virtuosic pieces where he shows off with ferocity, snapping many of his bow hairs, and more melodic pieces, which he plays in a beautiful singing style. As he plays, he twists his body across the stage. Now I understand why some people call him “rubber man”.

Now, Paganini plays the Capriccio No. 24, and I start to see him as demonic. He certainly does look possessed as he plays, shaking his head so much that his hair flies across his face, while his fingers fly across his violin. Whenever Paganini plays a complex passage, screams erupt from the crowd. I see a man in the audience transcribing Paganini's music by ear onto manuscript paper, so he can have a copy of Paganini’s compositions. A lady faints from the intensity of his playing. I look at the orchestra and see the jealousy across many of the violinists’ faces.

There are so many tricks Paganini adds to his playing, that make him and his playing seem magic, creating magnificent sounds that haven’t been heard before, which he seems to do with inhuman ease.

As the concert comes to an end, I watch Paganini while he dramatically ends his piece and looks up, his eyes staring back at me. Frozen in my seat, I can’t move. He smiles sardonically for an instant, before looking away and taking a deep bow.

“Well, that was dramatic.” I whisper to myself.

I’ll never know for sure if the rumors are true, or if it’s all silly superstition. But one thing’s for sure. Niccolò Paganini is hauntingly talented. They call him the devil’s violinist, and for good reason.