FREDERICK CHOPIN
AS A MAN AND MUSICIAN
Volumes 1-2, Complete
By Frederick Niecks
Third Edition (1902)
Contents
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
I.—WORKS PUBLISHED WITH OPUS NUMBERS
DURING THE COMPOSER’S LIFETIME.II.—WORKS PUBLISHED WITHOUT OPUS NUMBERS
DURING THE COMPOSER’SIII.—WORKS PUBLISHED WITH OPUS NUMBERS
AFTER THE COMPOSER’S DEATH.IV.—WORKS PUBLISHED WITHOUT OPUS NUMBERS
AFTER THE COMPOSER’S DEATH.
VOLUME I.
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
While the novelist has absolute freedom to follow his artistic instinct
and intelligence, the biographer is fettered by the subject-matter with
which he proposes to deal. The former may hopefully pursue an ideal, the
latter must rest satisfied with a compromise between the desirable and the
necessary. No doubt, it is possible to thoroughly digest all the requisite
material, and then present it in a perfect, beautiful form. But this can
only be done at a terrible loss, at a sacrifice of truth and
trustworthiness. My guiding principle has been to place before the reader
the facts collected by me as well as the conclusions at which I arrived.
This will enable him to see the subject in all its bearings, with all its
pros and cons, and to draw his own conclusions, should mine not obtain his
approval. Unless an author proceeds in this way, the reader never knows
how far he may trust him, how far the evidence justifies his judgment. For—not
to speak of cheats and fools—the best informed are apt to make
assertions unsupported or insufficiently supported by facts, and the
wisest cannot help seeing things through the coloured spectacles of their
individuality. The foregoing remarks are intended to explain my method,
not to excuse carelessness of literary workmanship. Whatever the defects
of the present volumes may be—and, no doubt, they are both great and
many—I have laboured to the full extent of my humble abilities to
group and present my material perspicuously, and to avoid diffuseness and
rhapsody, those besetting sins of writers on music.
The first work of some length having Chopin for its subject was Liszt’s
“Frederic Chopin,” which, after appearing in 1851 in the Paris journal “La
France musicale,” came out in book-form, still in French, in 1852
(Leipzig: Breitkopf and Hartel.—Translated into English by M. W.
Cook, and published by William Reeves, London, 1877). George Sand
describes it as “un peu exuberant de style, mais rempli de bonnes choses
et de tres-belles pages.” These words, however, do in no way justice to
the book: for, on the one hand, the style is excessively, and not merely a
little, exuberant; and, on the other hand, the “good things” and
“beautiful pages” amount to a psychological study of Chopin, and an
aesthetical study of his works, which it is impossible to over-estimate.
Still, the book is no biography. It records few dates and events, and
these few are for the most part incorrect. When, in 1878, the second
edition of F. Chopin was passing through the press, Liszt remarked to me:—
“I have been told that there are wrong dates and other mistakes in my
book, and that the dates and facts are correctly given in Karasowski’s
biography of Chopin [which had in the meantime been published]. But,
though I often thought of reading it, I have not yet done so. I got my
information from Paris friends on whom I believed I might depend. The
Princess Wittgenstein [who then lived in Rome, but in 1850 at Weimar, and
is said to have had a share in the production of the book] wished me to
make some alterations in the new edition. I tried to please her, but, when
she was still dissatisfied, I told her to add and alter whatever she
liked.”
From this statement it is clear that Liszt had not the stuff of a
biographer in him. And, whatever value we may put on the Princess
Wittgenstein’s additions and alterations, they did not touch the vital
faults of the work, which, as a French critic remarked, was a symphonie
funebre rather than a biography. The next book we have to notice, M. A.
Szulc’s Polish Fryderyk Chopin i Utwory jego Muzyczne (Posen, 1873), is
little more than a chaotic, unsifted collection of notices, criticisms,
anecdotes, &c., from Polish, German, and French books and magazines.
In 1877 Moritz Karasowski, a native of Warsaw, and since 1864 a member of
the Dresden orchestra, published his Friedrich Chopin: sein Leben, seine
Werke und seine Briefe (Dresden: F. Ries.—Translated into English by
E. Hill, under the title Frederick Chopin: “His Life, Letters, and Work,”
and published by William Reeves, London, in 1879). This was the first
serious attempt at a biography of Chopin. The author reproduced in the
book what had been brought to light in Polish magazines and other
publications regarding Chopin’s life by various countrymen of the
composer, among whom he himself was not the least notable. But the most
valuable ingredients are, no doubt, the Chopin letters which the author
obtained from the composer’s relatives, with whom he was acquainted. While
gratefully acknowledging his achievements, I must not omit to indicate his
shortcomings—his unchecked partiality for, and boundless admiration
of his hero; his uncritical acceptance and fanciful embellishments of
anecdotes and hearsays; and the extreme paucity of his information
concerning the period of Chopin’s life which begins with his settlement in
Paris. In 1878 appeared a second edition of the work, distinguished from
the first by a few additions and many judicious omissions, the original
two volumes being reduced to one. But of more importance than the second
German edition is the first Polish edition, “Fryderyk Chopin: Zycie,
Listy, Dziela,” two volumes (Warsaw: Gebethner and Wolff, 1882), which
contains a series of, till then, unpublished letters from Chopin to
Fontana. Of Madame A. Audley’s short and readable “Frederic Chopin, sa vie
et ses oeuvres” (Paris: E. Plon et Cie., 1880), I need only say that for
the most part it follows Karasowski, and where it does not is not always
correct. Count Wodzinski’s “Les trois Romans de Frederic Chopin” (Paris:
Calmann Levy, 1886)—according to the title treating only of the
composer’s love for Constantia Gladkowska, Maria Wodzinska, and George
Sand, but in reality having a wider scope—cannot be altogether
ignored, though it is more of the nature of a novel than of a biography.
Mr. Joseph Bennett, who based his “Frederic Chopin” (one of Novello’s
Primers of Musical Biography) on Liszt’s and Karasowski’s works, had in
the parts dealing with Great Britain the advantage of notes by Mr. A.J.
Hipkins, who inspired also, to some extent at least, Mr. Hueffer in his
essay Chopin (“Fortnightly Review,” September, 1877; and reprinted in
“Musical Studies”—Edinburgh: A. & C. Black, 1880). This ends the
list of biographies with any claims to originality. There are, however,
many interesting contributions to a biography of Chopin to be found in
works of various kinds. These shall be mentioned in the course of my
narrative; here I will point out only the two most important ones—namely,
George Sand’s “Histoire de ma Vie,” first published in the Paris newspaper
“La Presse” (1854) and subsequently in book-form; and her six volumes of
“Correspondance,” 1812-1876 (Paris: Calmann Levy, 1882-1884).
My researches had for their object the whole life of Chopin, and his
historical, political, artistical, social, and personal surroundings, but
they were chiefly directed to the least known and most interesting period
of his career—his life in France, and his visits to Germany and
Great Britain. My chief sources of information are divisible into two
classes—newspapers, magazines, pamphlets, correspondences, and
books; and conversations I held with, and letters I received from,
Chopin’s pupils, friends, and acquaintances. Of his pupils, my warmest
thanks are due to Madame Dubois (nee Camille O’Meara), Madame Rubio (nee
Vera de Kologrivof), Mdlle. Gavard, Madame Streicher (nee Friederike
Muller), Adolph Gutmann, M. Georges Mathias, Brinley Richards, and Lindsay
Sloper; of friends and acquaintances, to Liszt, Ferdinand Hiller,
Franchomme, Charles Valentin Alkan, Stephen Heller, Edouard Wolff, Mr.
Charles Halle, Mr. G. A. Osborne, T. Kwiatkowski, Prof. A. Chodzko, M.
Leonard Niedzwiecki (gallice, Nedvetsky), Madame Jenny Lind-Goldschmidt,
Mr. A. J. Hipkins, and Dr. and Mrs. Lyschinski. I am likewise greatly
indebted to Messrs. Breitkopf and Hartel, Karl Gurckhaus (the late
proprietor of the firm of Friedrich Kistner), Julius Schuberth, Friedrich
Hofmeister, Edwin Ashdown, Richault & Cie, and others, for information
in connection with the publication of Chopin’s works. It is impossible to
enumerate all my obligations—many of my informants and many
furtherers of my labours will be mentioned in the body of the book; many,
however, and by no means the least helpful, will remain unnamed. To all of
them I offer the assurance of my deep-felt gratitude. Not a few of my kind
helpers, alas! are no longer among the living; more than ten years have
gone by since I began my researches, and during that time Death has been
reaping a rich harvest.
The Chopin letters will, no doubt, be regarded as a special feature of the
present biography. They may, I think, be called numerous, if we consider
the master’s dislike to letter-writing. Ferdinand Hiller—whose
almost unique collection of letters addressed to him by his famous friends
in art and literature is now, and will be for years to come, under lock
and key among the municipal archives at Cologne—allowed me to copy
two letters by Chopin, one of them written conjointly with Liszt.
Franchomme, too, granted me the privilege of copying his friend’s
epistolary communications. Besides a number of letters that have here and
there been published, I include, further, a translation of Chopin’s
letters to Fontana, which in Karasowski’s book (i.e., the Polish edition)
lose much of their value, owing to his inability to assign approximately
correct dates to them.
The space which I give to George Sand is, I think, justified by the part
she plays in the life of Chopin. To meet the objections of those who may
regard my opinion of her as too harsh, I will confess that I entered upon
the study of her character with the impression that she had suffered much
undeserved abuse, and that it would be incumbent upon a Chopin biographer
to defend her against his predecessors and the friends of the composer.
How entirely I changed my mind, the sequel will show.
In conclusion, a few hints as to the pronunciation of Polish words, which
otherwise might puzzle the reader uninitiated in the mysteries of that
rarely-learned language. Aiming more at simplicity than at accuracy, one
may say that the vowels are pronounced somewhat like this: a as in “arm,”
aL like the nasal French “on,” e as in “tell,” e/ with an approach to the
French “e/” (or to the German “u [umlaut]” and “o [umlaut]”), eL like the
nasal French “in,” i as in “pick,” o as in “not,” o/ with an approach to
the French “ou,” u like the French ou, and y with an approach to the
German “i” and “u.” The following consonants are pronounced as in English:
b, d, f, g (always hard), h, k, I, m, n, p, s, t, and z. The following
single and double consonants differ from the English pronunciation: c like
“ts,” c/ softer than c, j like “y,” l/ like “ll” with the tongue pressed
against the upper row of teeth, n/ like “ny” (i.e., n softened by i), r
sharper than in English, w like “v,” z/ softer than z, z. and rz like the
French “j,” ch like the German guttural “ch” in “lachen” (similar to “ch”
in the Scotch “loch”), cz like “ch” in “cherry,” and sz like “sh” in
“sharp.” Mr. W. R. Morfill (“A Simplified Grammar of the Polish Language”)
elucidates the combination szcz, frequently to be met with, by the English
expression “smasht china,” where the italicised letters give the
pronunciation. Lastly, family names terminating in take a instead of i
when applied to women.
April, 1888.
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
The second edition differs from the first by little more than the
correction of some misprints and a few additions. These latter are to be
found among the Appendices. The principal addition consists of interesting
communications from Madame Peruzzi, a friend of Chopin’s still living at
Florence. Next in importance come Madame Schumann’s diary notes bearing on
Chopin’s first visit to Leipzig. The remaining additions concern early
Polish music, the first performances of Chopin’s works at the Leipzig
Gewandhaus, his visit to Marienbad (remarks by Rebecca Dirichlet), the
tempo rubato, and his portraits. To the names of Chopin’s friends and
acquaintances to whom I am indebted for valuable assistance, those of
Madame Peruzzi and Madame Schumann have, therefore, to be added. My
apologies as well as my thanks are due to Mr. Felix Moscheles, who kindly
permitted a fac-simile to be made from a manuscript, in his possession, a
kindness that ought to have been acknowledged in the first edition. I am
glad that a second edition affords me an opportunity to repair this much
regretted omission. The manuscript in question is an “Etude” which Chopin
wrote for the “Methode des Methodes de Piano,” by F. J. Fetis and I.
Moscheles, the father of Mr. Felix Moscheles. This concludes what I have
to say about the second edition, but I cannot lay down the pen without
expressing my gratitude to critics and public for the exceedingly
favourable reception they have given to my book.
October, 1890.
PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION.
BESIDES minor corrections, the present edition contains the correction of
the day and year of Frederick Francis Chopin’s birth, which have been
discovered since the publication of the second edition of this work.
According to the baptismal entry in the register of the Brochow parish
church, he who became the great pianist and immortal composer was born on
February 22, 1810. This date has been generally accepted in Poland, and is
to be found on the medal struck on the occasion of the semi-centenary
celebration of the master’s death. Owing to a misreading of musicus for
magnificus in the published copy of the document, its trustworthiness has
been doubted elsewhere, but, I believe, without sufficient cause. The
strongest argument that could be urged against the acceptance of the date
would be the long interval between birth and baptism, which did not take
place till late in April, and the consequent possibility of an error in
the registration. This, however, could only affect the day, and perhaps
the month, not the year. It is certainly a very curious circumstance that
Fontana, a friend of Chopin’s in his youth and manhood, Karasowski, at
least an acquaintance, if not an intimate friend, of the family (from whom
he derived much information), Fetis, a contemporary lexicographer, and
apparently Chopin’s family, and even Chopin himself, did not know the date
of the latter’s birth.
Where the character of persons and works of art are concerned, nothing is
more natural than differences of opinion. Bias and inequality of knowledge
sufficiently account for them. For my reading of the character of George
Sand, I have been held up as a monster of moral depravity; for my daring
to question the exactitude of Liszt’s biographical facts, I have been
severely sermonised; for my inability to regard Chopin as one of the great
composers of songs, and continue uninterruptedly in a state of ecstatic
admiration, I have been told that the publication of my biography of the
master is a much to be deplored calamity. Of course, the moral monster and
author of the calamity cannot pretend to be an unbiassed judge in the
case; but it seems to him that there may be some exaggeration and perhaps
even some misconception in these accusations.
As to George Sand, I have not merely made assertions, but have earnestly
laboured to prove the conclusions at which I reluctantly arrived. Are
George Sand’s pretentions to self-sacrificing saintliness, and to purely
maternal feelings for Musset, Chopin, and others to be accepted in spite
of the fairy-tale nature of her “Histoire,” and the misrepresentations of
her “Lettres d’un Voyageur” and her novels “Elle et lui” and “Lucrezia
Floriani”; in spite of the adverse indirect testimony of some of her other
novels, and the adverse direct testimony of her “Correspondance”; and in
spite of the experiences and firm beliefs of her friends, Liszt included?
Let us not overlook that charitableness towards George Sand implies
uncharitableness towards Chopin, place. Need I say anything on the
extraordinary charge made against me—namely, that in some cases I
have preferred the testimony of less famous men to that of Liszt? Are
genius, greatness, and fame the measures of trustworthiness?
As to Chopin, the composer of songs, the case is very simple. His
pianoforte pieces are original tone-poems of exquisite beauty; his songs,
though always acceptable, and sometimes charming, are not. We should know
nothing of them and the composer, if of his works they alone had been
published. In not publishing them himself, Chopin gave us his own opinion,
an opinion confirmed by the singers in rarely performing them and by the
public in little caring for them. In short, Chopin’s songs add nothing to
his fame. To mention them in one breath with those of Schubert and
Schumann, or even with those of Robert Franz and Adolf Jensen, is the act
of an hero-worshipping enthusiast, not of a discriminating critic.
On two points, often commented upon by critics, I feel regret, although
not repentance—namely, on any “anecdotic iconoclasm” where fact
refuted fancy, and on my abstention from pronouncing judgments where the
evidence was inconclusive. But how can a conscientious biographer help
this ungraciousness and inaccommodativeness? Is it not his duty to tell
the truth, and nothing but the truth, in order that his subject may stand
out unobstructed and shine forth unclouded?
In conclusion, two instances of careless reading. One critic, after
attributing a remark of Chopin’s to me, exclaims: “The author is fond of
such violent jumps to conclusions.” And an author, most benevolently
inclined towards me, enjoyed the humour of my first “literally ratting”
George Sand, and then saying that I “abstained from pronouncing judgment
because the complete evidence did not warrant my doing so.” The former (in
vol. i.) had to do with George Sand’s character; the latter (in vol. ii.)
with the moral aspect of her connection with Chopin.
An enumeration of the more notable books dealing with Chopin, published
after the issue of the earlier editions of the present book will form an
appropriate coda to this preface—”Frederic Francois Chopin,” by
Charles Willeby; “Chopin, and Other Musical Essays,” by Henry T. Finck;
“Studies in Modern Music” (containing an essay on Chopin), by W. H. Hadow;
“Chopin’s Greater Works,” by Jean Kleczynski, translated by Natalie
Janotha; and “Chopin: the Man and his Music,” by James Huneker.
Edinburgh, February, 1902.
PROEM.
POLAND AND THE POLES.
THE works of no composer of equal importance bear so striking a national
impress as those of Chopin. It would, however, be an error to attribute
this simply and solely to the superior force of the Polish musician’s
patriotism. The same force of patriotism in an Italian, Frenchman, German,
or Englishman would not have produced a similar result. Characteristics
such as distinguish Chopin’s music presuppose a nation as peculiarly
endowed, constituted, situated, and conditioned, as the Polish—a
nation with a history as brilliant and dark, as fair and hideous, as
romantic and tragic. The peculiarities of the peoples of western Europe
have been considerably modified, if not entirely levelled, by centuries of
international intercourse; the peoples of the eastern part of the
Continent, on the other hand, have, until recent times, kept theirs almost
intact, foreign influences penetrating to no depth, affecting indeed no
more than the aristocratic few, and them only superficially. At any rate,
the Slavonic races have not been moulded by the Germanic and Romanic races
as these latter have moulded each other: east and west remain still apart—strangers,
if not enemies. Seeing how deeply rooted Chopin’s music is in the national
soil, and considering how little is generally known about Poland and the
Poles, the necessity of paying in this case more attention to the land of
the artist’s birth and the people to which he belongs than is usually done
in biographies of artists, will be admitted by all who wish to understand
fully and appreciate rightly the poet-musician and his works. But while
taking note of what is of national origin in Chopin’s music, we must be
careful not to ascribe to this origin too much. Indeed, the fact that the
personal individuality of Chopin is as markedly differentiated, as
exclusively self-contained, as the national individuality of Poland, is
oftener overlooked than the master’s national descent and its significance
with regard to his artistic production. And now, having made the reader
acquainted with the raison d’etre of this proem, I shall plunge without
further preliminaries in medias res.
The palmy days of Poland came to an end soon after the extinction of the
dynasty of the Jagellons in 1572. So early as 1661 King John Casimir
warned the nobles, whose insubordination and want of solidity, whose love
of outside glitter and tumult, he deplored, that, unless they remedied the
existing evils, reformed their pretended free elections, and renounced
their personal privileges, the noble kingdom would become the prey of
other nations. Nor was this the first warning. The Jesuit Peter Skarga
(1536—1612), an indefatigable denunciator of the vices of the ruling
classes, told them in 1605 that their dissensions would bring them under
the yoke of those who hated them, deprive them of king and country, drive
them into exile, and make them despised by those who formerly feared and
respected them. But these warnings remained unheeded, and the prophecies
were fulfilled to the letter. Elective kingship, pacta conventa,
[Footnote: Terms which a candidate for the throne had to subscribe on his
election. They were of course dictated by the electors—i.e., by the
selfish interest of one class, the szlachta (nobility), or rather the most
powerful of them.] liberum veto, [Footnote: The right of any member to
stop the proceedings of the Diet by pronouncing the words “Nie pozwalam”
(I do not permit), or others of the same import.] degradation of the
burgher class, enslavement of the peasantry, and other devices of an
ever-encroaching nobility, transformed the once powerful and flourishing
commonwealth into one “lying as if broken-backed on the public highway; a
nation anarchic every fibre of it, and under the feet and hoofs of
travelling neighbours.” [Footnote: Thomas Carlyle, Frederick the Great,
vol. viii., p. 105.] In the rottenness of the social organism, venality,
unprincipled ambition, and religious intolerance found a congenial soil;
and favoured by and favouring foreign intrigues and interferences, they
bore deadly fruit—confederations, civil wars, Russian occupation of
the country and dominion over king, council, and diet, and the beginning
of the end, the first partition (1772) by which Poland lost a third of her
territory with five millions of inhabitants. Even worse, however, was to
come. For the partitioning powers—Russia, Prussia, and Austria—knew
how by bribes and threats to induce the Diet not only to sanction the
spoliation, but also so to alter the constitution as to enable them to
have a permanent influence over the internal affairs of the Republic.
The Pole Francis Grzymala remarks truly that if instead of some thousand
individuals swaying the destinies of Poland, the whole nation had enjoyed
equal rights, and, instead of being plunged in darkness and ignorance, the
people had been free and consequently capable of feeling and thinking, the
national cause, imperilled by the indolence and perversity of one part of
the citizens, would have been saved by those who now looked on without
giving a sign of life. The “some thousands” here spoken of are of course
the nobles, who had grasped all the political power and almost all the
wealth of the nation, and, imitating the proud language of Louis XIV,
could, without exaggeration, have said: “L’etat c’est nous.” As for the
king and the commonalty, the one had been deprived of almost all his
prerogatives, and the other had become a rightless rabble of wretched
peasants, impoverished burghers, and chaffering Jews. Rousseau, in his
Considerations sur le gouvernement de Pologne, says pithily that the three
orders of which the Republic of Poland was composed were not, as had been
so often and illogically stated, the equestrian order, the senate, and the
king, but the nobles who were everything, the burghers who were nothing,
and the peasants who were less than nothing. The nobility of Poland
differed from that of Other countries not only in its supreme political
and social position, but also in its numerousness, character, and internal
constitution.
[Footnote: The statistics concerning old Poland are provokingly
contradictory. One authority calculates that the nobility comprised
120,000 families, or one fourteenth of the population (which, before the
first partition, is variously estimated at from fifteen to twenty
millions); another counts only 100,000 families; and a third states that
between 1788 and 1792 (i.e., after the first partition) there were 38,314
families of nobles.]
All nobles were equal in rank, and as every French soldier was said to
carry a marshal’s staff in his knapsack, so every Polish noble was born a
candidate for the throne. This equality, however, was rather de jure than
de facto; legal decrees could not fill the chasm which separated families
distinguished by wealth and fame—such as the Sapiehas, Radziwills,
Czartoryskis, Zamoyskis, Potockis, and Branickis—from obscure
noblemen whose possessions amount to no more than “a few acres of land, a
sword, and a pair of moustaches that extend from one ear to the other,” or
perhaps amounted only to the last two items. With some insignificant
exceptions, the land not belonging to the state or the church was in the
hands of the nobles, a few of whom had estates of the extent of
principalities. Many of the poorer amongst the nobility attached
themselves to their better-situated brethren, becoming their dependents
and willing tools. The relation of the nobility to the peasantry is well
characterised in a passage of Mickiewicz’s epic poem Pan Tadeusz, where a
peasant, on humbly suggesting that the nobility suffered less from the
measures of their foreign rulers than his own class, is told by one of his
betters that this is a silly remark, seeing that peasants, like eels, are
accustomed to being skinned, whereas the well-born are accustomed to live
in liberty.
Nothing illustrates so well the condition of a people as the way in which
justice is administered. In Poland a nobleman was on his estate prosecutor
as well as judge, and could be arrested only after conviction, or, in the
case of high-treason, murder, and robbery, if taken in the act. And whilst
the nobleman enjoyed these high privileges, the peasant had, as the law
terms it, no facultatem standi in judicio, and his testimony went for
nothing in the courts of justice. More than a hundred laws in the statutes
of Poland are said to have been unfavourable to these poor wretches. In
short, the peasant was quite at the mercy of the privileged class, and his
master could do with him pretty much as he liked, whipping and selling not
excepted, nor did killing cost more than a fine of a few shillings. The
peasants on the state domains and of the clergy were, however, somewhat
better off; and the burghers, too, enjoyed some shreds of their old
privileges with more or less security. If we look for a true and striking
description of the comparative position of the principal classes of the
population of Poland, we find it in these words of a writer of the
eighteenth century: “Polonia coelum nobilium, paradisus clericorum,
infernus rusticorum.”
The vast plain of Poland, although in many places boggy and sandy, is on
the whole fertile, especially in the flat river valleys, and in the east
at the sources of the Dnieper; indeed, it is so much so that it has been
called the granary of Europe. But as the pleasure-loving gentlemen had
nobler pursuits to attend to, and the miserable peasants, with whom it was
a saying that only what they spent in drink was their own, were not very
anxious to work more and better than they could help, agriculture was in a
very neglected condition. With manufacture and commerce it stood not a
whit better. What little there was, was in the hands of the Jews and
foreigners, the nobles not being allowed to meddle with such base matters,
and the degraded descendants of the industrious and enterprising ancient
burghers having neither the means nor the spirit to undertake anything of
the sort. Hence the strong contrast of wealth and poverty, luxury and
distress, that in every part of Poland, in town and country, struck so
forcibly and painfully all foreign travellers. Of the Polish provinces
that in 1773 came under Prussian rule we read that—
And this poverty and squalor were not to be found only in one part of
Poland, they seem to have been general. Abbe de Mably when seeing, in
1771, the misery of the country (campagne) and the bad condition of the
roads, imagined himself in Tartary. William Coxe, the English historian
and writer of travels, who visited Poland after the first partition,
relates, in speaking of the district called Podlachia, that he visited
between Bjelsk and Woyszki villages in which there was nothing but the
bare walls, and he was told at the table of the ——— that
knives, forks, and spoons were conveniences unknown to the peasants. He
says he never saw—
The Jews, to whom I have already more than once alluded, are too important
an element in the population of Poland not to be particularly noticed.
They are a people within a people, differing in dress as well as in
language, which is a jargon of German-Hebrew. Their number before the
first partition has been variously estimated at from less than two
millions to fully two millions and a half in a population of from fifteen
to twenty millions, and in 1860 there were in Russian Poland 612,098 Jews
in a population of 4,867,124.
[FOOTNOTE: According to Charles Forster (in Pologne, a volume of the
historical series entitled L’univers pittoresque, published by Firmin
Didot freres of Paris), who follows Stanislas Plater, the population of
Poland within the boundaries of 1772 amounted to 20,220,000 inhabitants,
and was composed of 6,770,000 Poles, 7,520,000 Russians (i.e., White and
Red Russians), 2,110,000 Jews, 1,900,000 Lithuanians, 1,640,000 Germans,
180,000 Muscovites (i.e., Great Russians), and 100,000 Wallachians.]
Our never-failing informant was particularly struck with the number and
usefulness of the Jews in Lithuania when he visited that part of the
Polish Republic in 1781—
Having considered the condition of the lower classes, we will now turn our
attention to that of the nobility. The very unequal distribution of wealth
among them has already been mentioned. Some idea of their mode of life may
be formed from the account of the Starost Krasinski’s court in the diary
(year 1759) of his daughter, Frances Krasinska. [FOOTNOTE: A starost
(starosta) is the possessor of a starosty (starostwo)—i.e., a castle
and domains conferred on a nobleman for life by the crown.] Her
description of the household seems to justify her belief that there were
not many houses in Poland that surpassed theirs in magnificence. In
introducing to the reader the various ornaments and appendages of the
magnate’s court, I shall mention first, giving precedence to the fair sex,
that there lived under the supervision of a French governess six young
ladies of noble families. The noblemen attached to the lord of the castle
were divided into three classes. In the first class were to be found sons
of wealthy, or, at least, well-to-do families who served for honour, and
came to the court to acquire good manners and as an introduction to a
civil or military career. The starost provided the keep of their horses,
and also paid weekly wages of two florins to their grooms. Each of these
noble-men had besides a groom another servant who waited on his master at
table, standing behind his chair and dining on what he left on his plate.
Those of the second class were paid for their services and had fixed
duties to perform. Their pay amounted to from 300 to 1,000 florins (a
florin being about the value of sixpence), in addition to which gratuities
and presents were often given. Excepting the chaplain, doctor, and
secretary, they did not, like the preceding class, have the honour of
sitting with their master at table. With regard to this privilege it is,
however, worth noticing that those courtiers who enjoyed it derived
materially hardly any advantage from it, for on week-days wine was served
only to the family and their guests, and the dishes of roast meat were
arranged pyramidally, so that fowl and venison went to those at the head
of the table, and those sitting farther down had to content themselves
with the coarser kinds of meat—with beef, pork, &c. The duties
of the third class of followers, a dozen young men from fifteen to twenty
years of age, consisted in accompanying the family on foot or on
horseback, and doing their messages, such as carrying presents and letters
of invitation. The second and third classes were under the jurisdiction of
the house-steward, who, in the case of the young gentlemen, was not
sparing in the application of the cat. A strict injunction was laid on all
to appear in good clothes. As to the other servants of the castle, the
authoress thought she would find it difficult to specify them; indeed, did
not know even the number of their musicians, cooks, Heyducs, Cossacks, and
serving maids and men. She knew, however, that every day five tables were
served, and that from morning to night two persons were occupied in
distributing the things necessary for the kitchen. More impressive even
than a circumstantial account like this are briefly-stated facts such as
the following: that the Palatine Stanislas Jablonowski kept a retinue of
2,300 soldiers and 4,000 courtiers, valets, armed attendants, huntsmen,
falconers, fishers, musicians, and actors; and that Janusz, Prince of
Ostrog, left at his death a majorat of eighty towns and boroughs, and
2,760 villages, without counting the towns and villages of his starosties.
The magnates who distinguished themselves during the reign of Stanislas
Augustus (1764—1795) by the brilliance and magnificence of their
courts were the Princes Czartoryski and Radziwill, Count Potocki, and
Bishop Soltyk of Cracovia. Our often-quoted English traveller informs us
that the revenue of Prince Czartoryski amounted to nearly 100,000 pounds
per annum, and that his style of living corresponded with this income. The
Prince kept an open table at which there rarely sat down less than from
twenty to thirty persons. [FOOTNOTE: Another authority informs us that on
great occasions the Czartoryskis received at their table more than twenty
thousand persons.] The same informant has much to say about the elegance
and luxury of the Polish nobility in their houses and villas, in the
decoration and furniture of which he found the French and English styles
happily blended. He gives a glowing account of the fetes at which he was
present, and says that they were exquisitely refined and got up regardless
of expense.
Whatever changes the national character of the Poles has undergone in the
course of time, certain traits of it have remained unaltered, and among
these stands forth predominantly their chivalry. Polish bravery is so
universally recognised and admired that it is unnecessary to enlarge upon
it. For who has not heard at least of the victorious battle of Czotzim, of
the delivery of Vienna, of the no less glorious defeats of Maciejowice and
Ostrolenka, and of the brilliant deeds of Napoleon’s Polish Legion? And
are not the names of Poland’s most popular heroes, Sobieski and
Kosciuszko, household words all the world over? Moreover, the Poles have
proved their chivalry not only by their valour on the battle-field, but
also by their devotion to the fair sex. At banquets in the good olden time
it was no uncommon occurrence to see a Pole kneel down before his lady,
take off one of her shoes, and drink out of it. But the women of Poland
seem to be endowed with a peculiar power. Their beauty, grace, and
bewitching manner inflame the heart and imagination of all that set their
eyes on them. How often have they not conquered the conquerors of their
country? [FOOTNOTE: The Emperor Nicholas is credited with the saying: “Je
pourrais en finir des Polonais si je venais a bout des Polonaises.”] They
remind Heine of the tenderest and loveliest flowers that grow on the banks
of the Ganges, and he calls for the brush of Raphael, the melodies of
Mozart, the language of Calderon, so that he may conjure up before his
readers an Aphrodite of the Vistula. Liszt, bolder than Heine, makes the
attempt to portray them, and writes like an inspired poet. No Pole can
speak on this subject without being transported into a transcendental
rapture that illumines his countenance with a blissful radiance, and
inspires him with a glowing eloquence which, he thinks, is nevertheless
beggared by the matchless reality.
The French of the North—for thus the Poles have been called—are
of a very excitable nature; easily moved to anger, and easily appeased;
soon warmed into boundless enthusiasm, and soon also manifesting lack of
perseverance. They feel happiest in the turmoil of life and in the bustle
of society. Retirement and the study of books are little to their taste.
Yet, knowing how to make the most of their limited stock of knowledge,
they acquit themselves well in conversation. Indeed, they have a natural
aptitude for the social arts which insures their success in society, where
they move with ease and elegance. Their oriental mellifluousness,
hyperbolism, and obsequious politeness of speech have, as well as the
Asiatic appearance of their features and dress, been noticed by all
travellers in Poland. Love of show is another very striking trait in the
character of the Poles. It struggles to manifest itself among the poor,
causes the curious mixture of splendour and shabbiness among the
better-situated people, and gives rise to the greatest extravagances among
the wealthy. If we may believe the chroniclers and poets, the
entertainments of the Polish magnates must have often vied with the
marvellous feasts of imperial Rome. Of the vastness of the households with
which these grands seigneurs surrounded themselves, enough has already
been said. Perhaps the chief channel through which this love of show
vented itself was the decoration of man and horse. The entrance of Polish
ambassadors with their numerous suites has more than once astonished the
Parisians, who were certainly accustomed to exhibitions of this kind. The
mere description of some of them is enough to dazzle one—the superb
horses with their bridles and stirrups of massive silver, and their
caparisons and saddles embroidered with golden flowers; and the not less
superb men with their rich garments of satin or gold cloth, adorned with
rare furs, their bonnets surmounted by bright plumes, and their weapons of
artistic workmanship, the silver scabbards inlaid with rubies. We hear
also of ambassadors riding through towns on horses loosely shod with gold
or silver, so that the horse-shoes lost on their passage might testify to
their wealth and grandeur. I shall quote some lines from a Polish poem in
which the author describes in detail the costume of an eminent nobleman in
the early part of this century:—
The belt above mentioned was one of the most essential parts and the chief
ornament of the old Polish national dress, and those manufactured at Sluck
had especially a high reputation. A description of a belt of Sluck, “with
thick fringes like tufts,” glows on another page of the poem from which I
took my last quotation:—
A vivid picture of the Polish character is to be found in Mickiewicz’s
epic poem, Pan Tadeusz, from which the above quotations are taken.
[FOOTNOTE: I may mention here another interesting book illustrative of
Polish character and life, especially in the second half of the eighteenth
century, which has been of much use to me—namely, Count Henry
Rzewuski’s Memoirs of Pan Severin Soplica, translated into German, and
furnished with an instructive preface by Philipp Lubenstein.]
He handles his pencil lovingly; proclaiming with just pride the virtues of
his countrymen, and revealing with a kindly smile their weaknesses. In
this truest, perhaps, of all the portraits that have ever been drawn of
the Poles, we see the gallantry and devotion, the generosity and
hospitality, the grace and liveliness in social intercourse, but also the
excitability and changefulness, the quickly inflamed enthusiasm and sudden
depression, the restlessness and turbulence, the love of outward show and
of the pleasures of society, the pompous pride, boastfulness, and other
little vanities, in short, all the qualities, good and bad, that
distinguish his countrymen. Heinrich Heine, not always a trustworthy
witness, but in this case so unusually serious that we will take advantage
of his acuteness and conciseness, characterises the Polish nobleman by the
following precious mosaic of adjectives: “hospitable, proud, courageous,
supple, false (this little yellow stone must not be lacking), irritable,
enthusiastic, given to gambling, pleasure-loving, generous, and
overbearing.” Whether Heine was not mistaken as to the presence of the
little yellow stone is a question that may have to be discussed in another
part of this work. The observer who, in enumerating the most striking
qualities of the Polish character, added “MISTRUSTFULNESS and
SUSPICIOUSNESS engendered by many misfortunes and often-disappointed
hopes,” came probably nearer the truth. And this reminds me of a point
which ought never to be left out of sight when contemplating any one of
these portraits—namely, the time at which it was taken. This, of
course, is always an important consideration; but it is so in a higher
degree in the case of a nation whose character, like the Polish, has at
different epochs of its existence assumed such varied aspects. The first
great change came over the national character on the introduction of
elective kingship: it was, at least so far as the nobility was concerned,
a change for the worse—from simplicity, frugality, and patriotism,
to pride, luxury, and selfishness; the second great change was owing to
the disasters that befell the nation in the latter half of the last
century: it was on the whole a change for the better, purifying and
ennobling, calling forth qualities that till then had lain dormant. At the
time the events I have to relate take us to Poland, the nation is just at
this last turning-point, but it has not yet rounded it. To what an extent
the bad qualities had overgrown the good ones, corrupting and deadening
them, may be gathered from contemporary witnesses. George Forster, who was
appointed professor of natural history at Wilna in 1784, and remained in
that position for several years, says that he found in Poland “a medley of
fanatical and almost New Zealand barbarity and French super-refinement; a
people wholly ignorant and without taste, and nevertheless given to
luxury, gambling, fashion, and outward glitter.”
Frederick II describes the Poles in language still more harsh; in his
opinion they are vain in fortune, cringing in misfortune, capable of
anything for the sake of money, spendthrifts, frivolous, without judgment,
always ready to join or abandon a party without cause. No doubt there is
much exaggeration in these statements; but that there is also much truth
in them, is proved by the accounts of many writers, native and foreign,
who cannot be accused of being prejudiced against Poland. Rulhiere, and
other more or less voluminous authorities, might be quoted; but, not to
try the patience of the reader too much, I shall confine myself to
transcribing a clenching remark of a Polish nobleman, who told our old
friend, the English traveller, that although the name of Poland still
remained, the nation no longer existed. “An universal corruption and
venality pervades all ranks of the people. Many of the first nobility do
not blush to receive pensions from foreign courts: one professes himself
publicly an Austrian, a second a Prussian, a third a Frenchman, and a
fourth a Russian.”
CHAPTER I.
FREDERICK CHOPIN’S ANCESTORS.—HIS FATHER NICHOLAS CHOPIN’S BIRTH,
YOUTH, ARRIVAL AND EARLY VICISSITUDES IN POLAND, AND MARRIAGE.—BIRTH
AND EARLY INFANCY OF FREDERICK CHOPIN.—HIS PARENTS AND SISTERS.
GOETHE playfully describes himself as indebted to his father for his frame
and steady guidance of life, to his mother for his happy disposition and
love of story-telling, to his grandfather for his devotion to the fair
sex, to his grandmother for his love of finery. Schopenhauer reduces the
law of heredity to the simple formula that man has his moral nature, his
character, his inclinations, and his heart from his father, and the
quality and tendency of his intellect from his mother. Buckle, on the
other hand, questions hereditary transmission of mental qualities
altogether. Though little disposed to doubt with the English historian,
yet we may hesitate to assent to the proposition of the German
philosopher; the adoption of a more scientific doctrine, one that
recognises a process of compensation, neutralisation, and accentuation,
would probably bring us nearer the truth. But whatever the complicated
working of the law of heredity may be, there can be no doubt that the
tracing of a remarkable man’s pedigree is always an interesting and rarely
an entirely idle occupation. Pursuing such an inquiry with regard to
Frederick Chopin, we find ourselves, however, soon at the end of our
tether. This is the more annoying, as there are circumstances that
particularly incite our curiosity. The “Journal de Rouen” of December 1,
1849, contains an article, probably by Amedee de Mereaux, in which it is
stated that Frederick Chopin was descended from the French family Chopin
d’Arnouville, of which one member, a victim of the revocation of the Edict
of Nantes, had taken refuge in Poland. [Footnote: In scanning the Moniteur
of 1835, I came across several prefects and sous-prefects of the name of
Choppin d’Arnouville. (There are two communes of the name of Arnouville,
both are in the departement of the Seine et Oise—the one in the
arrondissement Mantes, the other in the arrondissement Pontoise. This
latter is called Arnouville-les-Gonesse.) I noticed also a number of
intimations concerning plain Chopins and Choppins who served their country
as maires and army officers. Indeed, the name of Chopin is by no means
uncommon in France, and more than one individual of that name has
illustrated it by his achievements—to wit: The jurist Rene Chopin or
Choppin (1537—1606), the litterateur Chopin (born about 1800), and
the poet Charles-Auguste Chopin (1811—1844).] Although this
confidently-advanced statement is supported by the inscription on the
composer’s tombstone in Pere Lachaise, which describes his father as a
French refugee, both the Catholicism of the latter and contradictory
accounts of his extraction caution us not to put too much faith in its
authenticity. M. A. Szulc, the author of a Polish book on Chopin and his
works, has been told that Nicholas Chopin, the father of Frederick, was
the natural son of a Polish nobleman, who, having come with King Stanislas
Leszczynski to Lorraine, adopted there the name of Chopin. From Karasowski
we learn nothing of Nicholas Chopin’s parentage. But as he was a friend of
the Chopin family, and from them got much of his information, this silence
might with equal force be adduced for and against the correctness of
Szulc’s story, which in itself is nowise improbable. The only point that
could strike one as strange is the change of name. But would not the death
of the Polish ruler and the consequent lapse of Lorraine to France afford
some inducement for the discarding of an unpronounceable foreign name? It
must, however, not be overlooked that this story is but a hearsay,
relegated to a modest foot-note, and put forward without mention of the
source whence it is derived. [FOOTNOTE: Count Wodzinski, who leaves
Nicholas Chopin’s descent an open question, mentions a variant of Szulc’s
story, saying that some biographers pretended that Nicholas Chopin was
descended from one of the name of Szop, a soldier, valet, or heyduc
(reitre, valet, ou heiduque) in the service of Stanislas Leszczinski, whom
he followed to Lorraine.] Indeed, until we get possession of indisputable
proofs, it will be advisable to disregard these more or less fabulous
reports altogether, and begin with the first well-ascertained fact—namely,
Nicholas Chopin’s birth, which took place at Nancy, in Lorraine, on the
17th of August, 1770. Of his youth nothing is known except that, like
other young men of his country, he conceived a desire to visit Poland.
Polish descent would furnish a satisfactory explanation of Nicholas’
sentiments in regard to Poland at this time and subsequently, but an
equally satisfactory explanation can be found without having recourse to
such a hazardous assumption.
In 1735 Stanislas Leszczynski, who had been King of Poland from 1704 to
1709, became Duke of Lorraine and Bar, and reigned over the Duchies till
1766, when an accident—some part of his dress taking fire—put
an end to his existence. As Stanislas was a wise, kind-hearted, and
benevolent prince, his subjects not only loved him as long as he lived,
but also cherished his memory after his death, when their country had been
united to France. The young, we may be sure, would often hear their elders
speak of the good times of Duke Stanislas, of the Duke (the philosophe
bienfaisant) himself, and of the strange land and people he came from. But
Stanislas, besides being an excellent prince, was also an amiable,
generous gentleman, who, whilst paying due attention to the well-being of
his new subjects, remained to the end of his days a true Pole. From this
circumstance it may be easily inferred that the Court of Stanislas proved
a great attraction to his countrymen, and that Nancy became a chief
halting-place of Polish travellers on their way to and from Paris. Of
course, not all the Poles that had settled in the Duchies during the
Duke’s reign left the country after his demise, nor did their friends from
the fatherland altogether cease to visit them in their new home. Thus a
connection between the two countries was kept up, and the interest taken
by the people of the west in the fortunes of the people in the east was
not allowed to die. Moreover, were not the Academie de Stanislas founded
by the Duke, the monument erected to his memory, and the square named
after him, perpetual reminders to the inhabitants of Nancy and the
visitors to that town?
Nicholas Chopin came to Warsaw in or about the year 1787. Karasowski
relates in the first and the second German edition of his biography of
Frederick Chopin that the Staroscina [FOOTNOTE: The wife of a starosta
(vide p. 7.)] Laczynska made the acquaintance of the latter’s father, and
engaged him as tutor to her children; but in the later Polish edition he
abandons this account in favour of one given by Count Frederick Skarbek in
his Pamietniki (Memoirs). According to this most trustworthy of procurable
witnesses (why he is the most trustworthy will be seen presently),
Nicholas Chopin’s migration to Poland came about in this way. A Frenchman
had established in Warsaw a manufactory of tobacco, which, as the taking
of snuff was then becoming more and more the fashion, began to flourish in
so high a degree that he felt the need of assistance. He proposed,
therefore, to his countryman, Nicholas Chopin, to come to him and take in
hand the book-keeping, a proposal which was readily accepted.
The first impression of the young Lorrainer on entering the land of his
dreams cannot have been altogether of a pleasant nature. For in the summer
of 1812, when, we are told, the condition of the people had been
infinitely ameliorated by the Prussian and Russian governments, M. de
Pradt, Napoleon’s ambassador, found the nation in a state of
semi-barbarity, agriculture in its infancy, the soil parched like a
desert, the animals stunted, the people, although of good stature, in a
state of extreme poverty, the towns built of wood, the houses filled with
vermin, and the food revolting. This picture will not escape the suspicion
of being overdrawn. But J.G. Seume, who was by no means over-squeamish,
and whom experience had taught the meaning of “to rough it,” asserts, in
speaking of Poland in 1805, that, Warsaw and a few other places excepted,
the dunghill was in most houses literally and without exaggeration the
cleanest spot, and the only one where one could stand without loathing.
But if the general aspect of things left much to be desired from a
utilitarian point of view, its strangeness and picturesqueness would not
fail to compensate an imaginative youth for the want of order and comfort.
The strong contrast of wealth and poverty, of luxury and distress, that
gave to the whole country so melancholy an appearance, was, as it were,
focussed in its capital. Mr. Coxe, who visited Warsaw not long before
Nicholas Chopin’s arrival there, says:—
What, however, struck a stranger most, was the throngs of humanity that
enlivened the streets and squares of Warsaw, the capital of a nation
composed of a medley of Poles, Lithuanians, Red and White Russians,
Germans, Muscovites, Jews, and Wallachians, and the residence of a
numerous temporary and permanent foreign population. How our friend from
quiet Nancy—which long ago had been deserted by royalty and its
train, and where literary luminaries, such as Voltaire, Madame du
Chatelet, Saint Lambert, &c., had ceased to make their fitful
appearances—must have opened his eyes when this varied spectacle
unfolded itself before him.
Thus pictures J. E. Hitzig, the biographer of E. Th. A. Hoffmann, and
himself a sojourner in Warsaw, the life of the Polish capital in 1807.
When Nicholas Chopin saw it first the spectacle in the streets was even
more stirring, varied, and brilliant; for then Warsaw was still the
capital of an independent state, and the pending and impending political
affairs brought to it magnates from all the principal courts of Europe,
who vied with each other in the splendour of their carriages and horses,
and in the number and equipment of their attendants.
In the introductory part of this work I have spoken of the misfortunes
that befel Poland and culminated in the first partition. But the buoyancy
of the Polish character helped the nation to recover sooner from this
severe blow than could have been expected. Before long patriots began to
hope that the national disaster might be turned into a blessing. Many
circumstances favoured the realisation of these hopes. Prussia, on
discovering that her interests no longer coincided with those of her
partners of 1772, changed sides, and by-and-by even went the length of
concluding a defensive and offensive alliance with the Polish Republic.
She, with England and other governments, backed Poland against Russia and
Austria. Russia, moreover, had to turn her attention elsewhere. At the
time of Nicholas Chopin’s arrival, Poland was dreaming of a renascence of
her former greatness, and everyone was looking forward with impatience to
the assembly of the Diet which was to meet the following year. Predisposed
by sympathy, he was soon drawn into the current of excitement and
enthusiasm that was surging around him. Indeed, what young soul possessed
of any nobleness could look with indifference on a nation struggling for
liberty and independence. As he took a great interest in the debates and
transactions of the Diet, he became more and more acquainted with the
history, character, condition, and needs of the country, and this
stimulated him to apply himself assiduously to the study of the national
language, in order to increase, by means of this faithful mirror and
interpreter of a people’s heart and mind, his knowledge of these things.
And now I must ask the reader to bear patiently the infliction of a brief
historical summary, which I would most willingly spare him, were I not
prevented by two strong reasons. In the first place, the vicissitudes of
Nicholas Chopin’s early life in Poland are so closely bound up with, or
rather so much influenced by, the political events, that an intelligible
account of the former cannot be given without referring to the latter; and
in the second place, those same political events are such important
factors in the moulding of the national character, that, if we wish to
understand it, they ought not to be overlooked.
The Diet which assembled at the end of 1788, in order to prevent the use
or rather abuse of the liberum veto, soon formed itself into a
confederation, abolished in 1789 the obnoxious Permanent Council, and
decreed in 1791, after much patriotic oratory and unpatriotic obstruction,
the famous constitution of the 3rd of May, regarded by the Poles up to
this day with loving pride, and admired and praised at the time by
sovereigns and statesmen, Fox and Burke among them. Although confirming
most of the privileges of the nobles, the constitution nevertheless bore
in it seeds of good promise. Thus, for instance, the crown was to pass
after the death of the reigning king to the Elector of Saxony, and become
thenceforth hereditary; greater power was given to the king and ministers,
confederations and the liberum veto were declared illegal, the
administration of justice was ameliorated, and some attention was paid to
the rights and wrongs of the third estate and peasantry. But the patriots
who already rejoiced in the prospect of a renewal of Polish greatness and
prosperity had counted without the proud selfish aristocrats, without
Russia, always ready to sow and nurture discord. Hence new troubles—the
confederation of Targowica, Russian demands for the repeal of the
constitution and unconditional submission to the Empress Catharine II,
betrayal by Prussia, invasion, war, desertion of the national cause by
their own king and his joining the conspirators of Targowica, and then the
second partition of Poland (October 14, 1793), implying a further loss of
territory and population. Now, indeed, the events were hastening towards
the end of the sad drama, the finis poloniae. After much hypocritical
verbiage and cruel coercion and oppression by Russia and Prussia, more
especially by the former, outraged Poland rose to free itself from the
galling yoke, and fought under the noble Kosciuszko and other gallant
generals with a bravery that will for ever live in the memory of men. But
however glorious the attempt, it was vain. Having three such powers as
Russia, Prussia, and Austria against her, Poland, unsupported by allies
and otherwise hampered, was too weak to hold her own. Without inquiring
into the causes and the faults committed by her commanders, without
dwelling on or even enumerating the vicissitudes of the struggle, I shall
pass on to the terrible closing scene of the drama—the siege and
fall of Praga, the suburb of Warsaw, and the subsequent massacre. The
third partition (October 24, 1795), in which each of the three powers took
her share, followed as a natural consequence, and Poland ceased to exist
as an independent state. Not, however, for ever; for when in 1807
Napoleon, after crushing Prussia and defeating Russia, recast at Tilsit to
a great extent the political conformation of Europe, bullying King
Frederick William III and flattering the Emperor Alexander, he created the
Grand Duchy of Warsaw, over which he placed as ruler the then King of
Saxony.
Now let us see how Nicholas Chopin fared while these whirlwinds passed
over Poland. The threatening political situation and the consequent
general insecurity made themselves at once felt in trade, indeed soon
paralysed it. What more particularly told on the business in which the
young Lorrainer was engaged was the King’s desertion of the national
cause, which induced the great and wealthy to leave Warsaw and betake
themselves for shelter to more retired and safer places. Indeed, so
disastrous was the effect of these occurrences on the Frenchman’s tobacco
manufactory that it had to be closed. In these circumstances Nicholas
Chopin naturally thought of returning home, but sickness detained him.
When he had recovered his health, Poland was rising under Kosciuszko. He
then joined the national guard, in which he was before long promoted to
the rank of captain. On the 5th of November, 1794, he was on duty at
Praga, and had not his company been relieved a few hours before the fall
of the suburb, he would certainly have met there his death. Seeing that
all was lost he again turned his thoughts homewards, when once more
sickness prevented him from executing his intention. For a time he tried
to make a living by teaching French, but ere long accepted an engagement
as tutor in the family—then living in the country—of the
Staroscina Laczynska, who meeting him by chance had been favourably
impressed by his manners and accomplishments. In passing we may note that
among his four pupils (two girls and two boys) was one, Mary, who
afterwards became notorious by her connection with Napoleon I., and by the
son that sprang from this connection, Count Walewski, the minister of
Napoleon III. At the beginning of this century we find Nicholas Chopin at
Zelazowa Wola, near Sochaczew, in the house of the Countess Skarbek, as
tutor to her son Frederick. It was there that he made the acquaintance of
Justina Krzyzanowska, a young lady of noble but poor family, whom he
married in the year 1806, and who became the mother of four children,
three daughters and one son, the latter being no other than Frederick
Chopin, the subject of this biography. The position of Nicholas Chopin in
the house of the Countess must have been a pleasant one, for ever after
there seems to have existed a friendly relation between the two families.
His pupil, Count Frederick Skarbek, who prosecuted his studies at Warsaw
and Paris, distinguished himself subsequently as a poet, man of science,
professor at the University of Warsaw, state official, philanthropist, and
many-sided author—more especially as a politico—economical
writer. When in his Memoirs the Count looks back on his youth, he
remembers gratefully and with respect his tutor, speaking of him in highly
appreciative terms. In teaching, Nicholas Chopin’s chief aim was to form
his pupils into useful, patriotic citizens; nothing was farther from his
mind than the desire or unconscious tendency to turn them into Frenchmen.
And now approaches the time when the principal personage makes his
appearance on the stage.
Frederick Chopin, the only son and the third of the four children of
Nicholas and Justina Chopin, was born on February 22, 1810,
[FOOTNOTE: See Preface, p. xii. In the earlier editions the date given was
March 1,1809, as in the biography by Karasowski, with whom agree the
earlier J. Fontana (Preface to Chopin’s posthumous works.—1855), C.
Sowinski (Les musiciens polonais et slaves.—1857), and the writer of
the Chopin article in Mendel’s Musikalisches Conversations-Lexikon (1872).
According to M. A. Szulc (Fryderyk Chopin.—1873) and the inscription
on the memorial (erected in 1880) in the Holy Cross Church at Warsaw, the
composer was born on March 2, 1809. The monument in Pere Lachaise, at
Paris, bears the date of Chopin’s death, but not that of his birth. Felis,
in his Biographie universelle des musiciens, differs widely from these
authorities. The first edition (1835—1844) has only the year—1810;
the second edition (1861—1865) adds month and day—February 8.]
in a mean little house at Zelazowa Wola, a village about twenty-eight
English miles from Warsaw belonging to the Countess Skarbek.
[FOOTNOTE: Count Wodzinski, after indicating the general features of
Polish villages—the dwor (manor-house) surrounded by a “bouquet of
trees”; the barns and stables forming a square with a well in the centre;
the roads planted with poplars and bordered with thatched huts; the rye,
wheat, rape, and clover fields, &c.—describes the birthplace of
Frederick Chopin as follows: “I have seen there the same dwor embosomed in
trees, the same outhouses, the same huts, the same plains where here and
there a wild pear-tree throws its shadow. Some steps from the mansion I
stopped before a little cot with a slated roof, flanked by a little wooden
perron. Nothing has been changed for nearly a hundred years. A dark
passage traverses it. On the left, in a room illuminated by the reddish
flame of slowly-consumed logs, or by the uncertain light of two candles
placed at each extremity of the long table, the maid-servants spin as in
olden times, and relate to each other a thousand marvellous legends. On
the right, in a lodging of three rooms, so low that one can touch the
ceiling, a man of some thirty years, brown, with vivacious eyes, the face
closely shaven.” This man was of course Nicholas Chopin. I need hardly say
that Count Wodzinski’s description is novelistically tricked out. His
accuracy may be judged by the fact that a few pages after the above
passage he speaks of the discoloured tiles of the roof which he told his
readers before was of slate.]
The son of the latter, Count Frederick Skarbek, Nicholas Chopin’s pupil, a
young man of seventeen, stood godfather and gave his name to the new-born
offspring of his tutor. Little Frederick’s residence at the village cannot
have been of long duration.
The establishment of the Grand Duchy of Warsaw in 1807 had ushered in a
time big with chances for a capable man, and we may be sure that a young
husband and father, no doubt already on the look-out for some more
lucrative and independent employment, was determined not to miss them. Few
peaceful revolutions, if any, can compare in thoroughness with the one
that then took place in Poland; a new sovereign ascended the throne, two
differently-constituted representative bodies superseded the old Senate
and Diet, the French code of laws was introduced, the army and civil
service underwent a complete re-organisation, public instruction obtained
a long-needed attention, and so forth. To give an idea of the extent of
the improvement effected in matters of education, it is enough to mention
that the number of schools rose from 140 to 634, and that a commission was
formed for the publication of suitable books of instruction in the Polish
language. Nicholas Chopin’s hopes were not frustrated; for on October 1,
1810, he was appointed professor of the French language at the
newly-founded Lyceum in Warsaw, and a little more than a year after, on
January 1, 1812, to a similar post at the School of Artillery and
Engineering.
The exact date when Nicholas Chopin and his family settled in Warsaw is
not known, nor is it of any consequence. We may, however, safely assume
that about this time little Frederick was an inhabitant of the Polish
metropolis. During the first years of his life the parents may have lived
in somewhat straitened circumstances. The salary of the professorship,
even if regularly paid, would hardly suffice for a family to live
comfortably, and the time was unfavourable for gaining much by private
tuition. M. de Pradt, describing Poland in 1812, says:—
But whatever straits the parents may have been put to, the weak, helpless
infant would lack none of the necessaries of life, and enjoy all the
reasonable comforts of his age.
When in 1815 peace was restored and a period of quiet followed, the family
must have lived in easy circumstances; for besides holding appointments as
professor at some public schools (under the Russian government he became
also one of the staff of teachers at the Military Preparatory School),
Nicholas Chopin kept for a number of years a boarding-school, which was
patronised by the best families of the country. The supposed poverty of
Chopin’s parents has given rise to all sorts of misconceptions and
misstatements. A writer in Larousse’s “Grand dictionnaire universel du
XIXe siecle” even builds on it a theory explanatory of the character of
Chopin and his music: “Sa famille d’origine francaise,” he writes,
“jouissait d’une mediocre fortune; de la, peut-etre, certains froissements
dans l’organisation nerveuse et la vive sensibilite de l’enfant,
sentiments qui devaient plus tard se refleter dans ses oeuvres, empreintes
generalement d’une profonde melancolie.” If the writer of the article in
question had gone a little farther back, he might have found a sounder
basis for his theory in the extremely delicate physical organisation of
the man, whose sensitiveness was so acute that in early infancy he could
not hear music without crying, and resisted almost all attempts at
appeasing him.
The last-mentioned fact, curious and really noteworthy in itself, acquires
a certain preciousness by its being the only one transmitted to us of that
period of Chopin’s existence. But this scantiness of information need not
cause us much regret. During the first years of a man’s life biography is
chiefly concerned with his surroundings, with the agencies that train his
faculties and mould his character. A man’s acts and opinions are
interesting in proportion to the degree of consolidation attained by his
individuality. Fortunately our material is abundant enough to enable us to
reconstruct in some measure the milieu into which Chopin was born and in
which he grew up. We will begin with that first circle which surrounds the
child—his family. The negative advantages which our Frederick found
there—the absence of the privations and hardships of poverty, with
their depressing and often demoralising influence—have already been
adverted to; now I must say a few words about the positive advantages with
which he was favoured. And it may be at once stated that they cannot be
estimated too highly. Frederick enjoyed the greatest of blessings that can
be bestowed upon mortal man—viz., that of being born into a virtuous
and well-educated family united by the ties of love. I call it the
greatest of blessings, because neither catechism and sermons nor schools
and colleges can take the place,, or compensate for the want, of this
education that does not stop at the outside, but by its subtle, continuous
action penetrates to the very heart’s core and pervades the whole being.
The atmosphere in which Frederick lived was not only moral and social, but
also distinctly intellectual.
The father, Nicholas Chopin, seems to have been a man of worth and
culture, honest of purpose, charitable in judgment, attentive to duty, and
endowed with a good share of prudence and commonsense. In support of this
characterisation may be advanced that among his friends he counted many
men of distinction in literature, science, and art; that between him and
the parents of his pupils as well as the pupils themselves there existed a
friendly relation; that he was on intimate terms with several of his
colleagues; and that his children not only loved, but also respected him.
No one who reads his son’s letters, which indeed give us some striking
glimpses of the man, can fail to notice this last point. On one occasion,
when confessing that he had gone to a certain dinner two hours later than
he had been asked, Frederick foresees his father’s anger at the disregard
for what is owing to others, and especially to one’s elders; and on
another occasion he makes excuses for his indifference to non-musical
matters, which, he thinks, his father will blame. And mark, these letters
were written after Chopin had attained manhood. What testifies to Nicholas
Chopin’s, abilities as a teacher and steadiness as a man, is the unshaken
confidence of the government: he continued in his position at the
Lyceumtill after the revolution in 1831, when this institution, like many
others, was closed; he was then appointed a member of the board for the
examination of candidates for situations as schoolmasters, and somewhat
later he became professor of the French language at the Academy of the
Roman Catholic Clergy.
It is more difficult, or rather it is impossible, to form anything like a
clear picture of his wife, Justina Chopin. None of those of her son’s
letters that are preserved is addressed to her, and in those addressed to
the members of the family conjointly, or to friends, nothing occurs that
brings her nearer to us, or gives a clue to her character. George Sand
said that she was Chopin’s only passion. Karasowski describes her as
“particularly tender-hearted and rich in all the truly womanly
virtues…..For her quietness and homeliness were the greatest happiness.”
K. W. Wojcicki, in “Cmentarz Powazkowski” (Powazki Cemetery), expresses,
himself in the same strain. A Scotch lady, who had seen Justina Chopin in
her old age, and conversed with her in French, told me that she was then
“a neat, quiet, intelligent old lady, whose activeness contrasted strongly
with the languor of her son, who had not a shadow of energy in him.” With
regard to the latter part of this account, we must not overlook the fact
that my informant knew Chopin only in the last year of his life—i.e.,
when he was in a very suffering state of mind and body. This is all the
information I have been able to collect regarding the character of
Chopin’s mother. Moreover, Karasowski is not an altogether trustworthy
informant; as a friend of the Chopin family he sees in its members so many
paragons of intellectual and moral perfection. He proceeds on the de
mortuis nil nisi bonum principle, which I venture to suggest is a very bad
principle. Let us apply this loving tenderness to our living neighbours,
and judge the dead according to their merits. Thus the living will be
doubly benefited, and no harm be done to the dead. Still, the evidence
before us—including that exclamation about his “best of mothers” in
one of Chopin’s letters, written from Vienna, soon after the outbreak of
the Polish insurrection in 1830: “How glad my mamma will be that I did not
come back!”—justifies us, I think, in inferring that Justina Chopin
was a woman of the most lovable type, one in whom the central principle of
existence was the maternal instinct, that bright ray of light which,
dispersed in its action, displays itself in the most varied and lovely
colours. That this principle, although often all-absorbing, is not
incompatible with the wider and higher social and intellectual interests
is a proposition that does not stand in need of proof. But who could
describe that wondrous blending of loving strength and lovable weakness of
a true woman’s character? You feel its beauty and sublimity, and if you
attempt to give words to your feeling you produce a caricature.
The three sisters of Frederick all manifested more or less a taste for
literature. The two elder sisters, Louisa (who married Professor
Jedrzejewicz, and died in 1855) and Isabella (who married Anton Barcinski—first
inspector of schools, and subsequently director of steam navigation on the
Vistula—and died in 1881), wrote together for the improvement of the
working classes. The former contributed now and then, also after her
marriage, articles to periodicals on the education of the young. Emilia,
the youngest sister, who died at the early age of fourteen (in 1827),
translated, conjointly with her sister Isabella, the educational tales of
the German author Salzmann, and her poetical efforts held out much promise
for the future.
CHAPTER II
FREDERICK’S FIRST MUSICAL INSTRUCTION AND MUSIC-MASTER, ADALBERT ZYWNY.—HIS
DEBUT AND SUCCESS AS A PIANIST.—HIS EARLY INTRODUCTION INTO
ARISTOCRATIC SOCIETY AND CONSTANT INTERCOURSE WITH THE ARISTOCRACY.—HIS
FIRST COMPOSITIONS.—HIS STUDIES AND MASTER IN HARMONY, COUNTERPOINT,
AND COMPOSITION, JOSEPH ELSNER.
OUR little friend, who, as we have seen, at first took up a hostile
attitude towards music—for his passionate utterances, albeit
inarticulate, cannot well be interpreted as expressions of satisfaction or
approval—came before long under her mighty sway. The pianoforte
threw a spell over him, and, attracting him more and more, inspired him
with such a fondness as to induce his parents to provide him,
notwithstanding his tender age, with an instructor. To lessen the
awfulness of the proceeding, it was arranged that one of the elder sisters
should join him in his lessons. The first and only pianoforte teacher of
him who in the course of time became one of the greatest and most original
masters of this instrument, deserves some attention from us. Adalbert
Zywny [FOOTNOTE: This is the usual spelling of the name, which, as the
reader will see further on, its possessor wrote Ziwny. Liszt calls him
Zywna.], a native of Bohemia, born in 1756, came to Poland, according to
Albert Sowinski (Les musiciens polonais et slaves), during the reign of
Stanislas Augustus Poniatowski (1764—1795), and after staying for
some time as pianist at the court of Prince Casimir Sapieha, settled in
Warsaw as a teacher of music, and soon got into good practice, “giving his
lessons at three florins (eighteen pence) per hour very regularly, and
making a fortune.” And thus teaching and composing (he is said to have
composed much for the pianoforte, but he never published anything), he
lived a long and useful life, dying in 1842 at the age of 86 (Karasowski
says in 1840). The punctual and, no doubt, also somewhat pedantic
music-master who acquired the esteem and goodwill of his patrons, the best
families of Warsaw, and a fortune at the same time, is a pleasant figure
to contemplate. The honest orderliness and dignified calmness of his life,
as I read it, are quite refreshing in this time of rush and gush. Having
seen a letter of his, I can imagine the heaps of original MSS., clearly
and neatly penned with a firm hand, lying carefully packed up in spacious
drawers, or piled up on well-dusted shelves. Of the man Zywny and his
relation to the Chopin family we get some glimpses in Frederick’s letters.
In one of the year 1828, addressed to his friend Titus Woyciechowski, he
writes: “With us things are as they used to be; the honest Zywny is the
soul of all our amusements.” Sowinski informs us that Zywny taught his
pupil according to the classical German method—whatever that may
mean—at that time in use in Poland. Liszt, who calls him “an
enthusiastic student of Bach,” speaks likewise of “les errements d’une
ecole entierement classique.” Now imagine my astonishment when on asking
the well-known pianoforte player and composer Edouard Wolff, a native of
Warsaw, [Fooynote: He died at Paris on October 16, 1880.] what kind of
pianist Zywny was, I received the answer that he was a violinist and not a
pianist. That Wolff and Zywny knew each other is proved beyond doubt by
the above-mentioned letter of Zywny’s, introducing the former to Chopin,
then resident in Paris. The solution of the riddle is probably this.
Zywny, whether violinist or not, was not a pianoforte virtuoso—at
least, was not heard in public in his old age. The mention of a single
name, that of Wenzel W. Wurfel, certainly shows that he was not the best
pianist in Warsaw. But against any such depreciatory remarks we have to
set Chopin’s high opinion of Zywny’s teaching capability. Zywny’s letter,
already twice alluded to, is worth quoting. It still further illustrates
the relation in which master and pupil stood to each other, and by
bringing us in close contact with the former makes us better acquainted
with his character. A particularly curious fact about the letter—considering
the nationality of the persons concerned—is its being written in
German. Only a fac-simile of the original, with its clear, firm, though
(owing to the writer’s old age) cramped penmanship, and its quaint
spelling and capricious use of capital and small initials, could fully
reveal the expressiveness of this document. However, even in the
translation there may be found some of the man’s characteristic
old-fashioned formality, grave benevolence, and quiet homeliness. The
outside of the sheet on which the letter is written bears the words, “From
the old music-master Adalbert Ziwny [at least this I take to be the
meaning of the seven letters followed by dots], kindly to be transmitted
to my best friend, Mr. Frederick Chopin, in Paris.” The letter itself runs
as follows:—
Julius Fontana, the friend and companion of Frederick, after stating (in
his preface to Chopin’s posthumous works) that Chopin had never another
pianoforte teacher than Zywny, observes that the latter taught his pupil
only the first principles. “The progress of the child was so extraordinary
that his parents and his professor thought they could do no better than
abandon him at the age of 12 to his own instincts, and follow instead of
directing him.” The progress of Frederick must indeed have been
considerable, for in Clementina Tanska-Hofmanowa’s Pamiatka po dobrej
matce (Memorial of a good Mother) [FOOTNOTE: Published in 1819.] the
writer relates that she was at a soiree at Gr——’s, where she
found a numerous party assembled, and heard in the course of the evening
young Chopin play the piano—”a child not yet eight years old, who,
in the opinion of the connoisseurs of the art, promises to replace
Mozart.” Before the boy had completed his ninth year his talents were
already so favourably known that he was invited to take part in a concert
which was got up by several persons of high rank for the benefit of the
poor. The bearer of the invitation was no less a person than Ursin
Niemcewicz, the publicist, poet, dramatist, and statesman, one of the most
remarkable and influential men of the Poland of that day. At this concert,
which took place on February 24, 1818, the young virtuoso played a
concerto by Adalbert Gyrowetz, a composer once celebrated, but now
ignominiously shelved—sic transit gloria mundi—and one of
Riehl’s “divine Philistines.” An anecdote shows that at that time
Frederick was neither an intellectual prodigy nor a conceited puppy, but a
naive, modest child that played the pianoforte, as birds sing, with
unconscious art. When he came home after the concert, for which of course
he had been arrayed most splendidly and to his own great satisfaction, his
mother said to him: “Well, Fred, what did the public like best?”—”Oh,
mamma,” replied the little innocent, “everybody was looking at my collar.”
The debut was a complete success, and our Frederick—Chopinek
(diminutive of Chopin) they called him—became more than ever the pet
of the aristocracy of Warsaw. He was invited to the houses of the Princes
Czartoryski, Sapieha, Czetwertynski, Lubecki, Radziwill, the Counts
Skarbek, Wolicki, Pruszak, Hussarzewski, Lempicki, and others. By the
Princess Czetwertynska, who, says Liszt, cultivated music with a true
feeling of its beauties, and whose salon was one of the most brilliant and
select of Warsaw, Frederick was introduced to the Princess Lowicka, the
beautiful Polish wife of the Grand Duke Constantine, who, as Countess
Johanna Antonia Grudzinska, had so charmed the latter that, in order to
obtain the Emperor’s consent to his marriage with her, he abdicated his
right of succession to the throne. The way in which she exerted her
influence over her brutal, eccentric, if not insane, husband, who at once
loved and maltreated the Poles, gained her the title of “guardian angel of
Poland.” In her salon Frederick came of course also in contact with the
dreaded Grand Duke, the Napoleon of Belvedere (thus he was nicknamed by
Niemcewicz, from the palace where he resided in Warsaw), who on one
occasion when the boy was improvising with his eyes turned to the ceiling,
as was his wont, asked him why he looked in that direction, if he saw
notes up there. With the exalted occupants of Belvedere Frederick had a
good deal of intercourse, for little Paul, a boy of his own age, a son or
adopted son of the Grand Duke, enjoyed his company, and sometimes came
with his tutor, Count de Moriolles, to his house to take him for a drive.
On these occasions the neighbours of the Chopin family wondered not a
little what business brought the Grand Duke’s carriage, drawn by four
splendid horses, yoked in the Russian fashion—i.e., all abreast—to
their quarter.
Chopin’s early introduction into aristocratic society and constant
intercourse with the aristocracy is an item of his education which must
not be considered as of subordinate importance. More than almost any other
of his early disciplines, it formed his tastes, or at least strongly
assisted in developing certain inborn traits of his nature, and in doing
this influenced his entire moral and artistic character. In the proem I
mentioned an English traveller’s encomiums on the elegance in the houses,
and the exquisite refinement in the entertainments, of the wealthy nobles
in the last quarter of the eighteenth century. We may be sure that in
these respects the present century was not eclipsed by its predecessors,
at least not in the third decade, when the salons of Warsaw shone at their
brightest. The influence of French thought and manners, for the
importation and spreading of which King Stanislas Leszczinski was so
solicitous that he sent at his own expense many young gentlemen to Paris
for their education, was subsequently strengthened by literary taste,
national sympathies, and the political connection during the first Empire.
But although foreign notions and customs caused much of the old barbarous
extravagance and also much of the old homely simplicity to disappear, they
did not annihilate the national distinctiveness of the class that was
affected by them. Suffused with the Slavonic spirit and its tincture of
Orientalism, the importation assumed a character of its own. Liszt, who
did not speak merely from hearsay, emphasises, in giving expression to his
admiration of the elegant and refined manners of the Polish aristocracy,
the absence of formalism and stiff artificiality:—
But enough of this for the present.
A surer proof of Frederick’s ability than the applause and favour of the
aristocracy was the impression he made on the celebrated Catalani, who, in
January, 1820, gave four concerts in the town-hall of Warsaw, the charge
for admission to each of which was, as we may note in passing, no less
than thirty Polish florins (fifteen shillings). Hearing much of the
musically-gifted boy, she expressed the wish to have him presented to her.
On this being done, she was so pleased with him and his playing that she
made him a present of a watch, on which were engraved the words: “Donne
par Madame Catalani a Frederic Chopin, age de dix ans.”
As yet I have said nothing of the boy’s first attempts at composition.
Little Frederick began to compose soon after the commencement of his
pianoforte lessons and before he could handle the pen. His master had to
write down what the pupil played, after which the youthful maestro, often
dissatisfied with his first conception, would set to work with the
critical file, and try to improve it. He composed mazurkas, polonaises,
waltzes, &c. At the age of ten he dedicated a march to the Grand Duke
Constantine, who had it scored for a military band and played on parade
(subsequently it was also published, but without the composer’s name), and
these productions gave such evident proof of talent that his father deemed
it desirable to get his friend Elsner to instruct him in harmony and
counterpoint. At this time, however, it was not as yet in contemplation
that Frederick should become a professional musician; on the contrary, he
was made to understand that his musical studies must not interfere with
his other studies, as he was then preparing for his entrance into the
Warsaw Lyceum. As we know that this event took place in 1824, we know also
the approximate time of the commencement of Elsner’s lessons. Fontana says
that Chopin began these studies when he was already remarkable as a
pianist. Seeing how very little is known concerning the nature and extent
of Chopin’s studies in composition, it may be as well to exhaust the
subject at once. But before I do so I must make the reader acquainted with
the musician who, as Zyvny was Chopin’s only pianoforte teacher, was his
only teacher of composition.
Joseph Elsner, the son of a cabinet and musical instrument maker at
Grottkau, in Silesia, was born on June 1, 1769. As his father intended him
for the medical profession, he was sent in 1781 to the Latin school at
Breslau, and some years later to the University at Vienna. Having already
been encouraged by the rector in Grottkau to cultivate his beautiful
voice, he became in Breslau a chorister in one of the churches, and after
some time was often employed as violinist and singer at the theatre. Here,
where he got, if not regular instruction, at least some hints regarding
harmony and kindred matters (the authorities are hopelessly at variance on
this and on many other points), he made his first attempts at composition,
writing dances, songs, duets, trios, nay, venturing even on larger works
for chorus and orchestra. The musical studies commenced in Breslau were
continued in Vienna; preferring musical scores to medical books, the
conversations of musicians to the lectures of professors, he first
neglected and at last altogether abandoned the study of the healing art.
A. Boguslawski, who wrote a biography of Elsner, tells the story
differently and more poetically. When, after a long illness during his
sojourn in Breslau, thus runs his version, Elsner went, on the day of the
Holy Trinity in the year 1789, for the first time to church, he was so
deeply moved by the sounds of the organ that he fainted. On recovering he
felt his whole being filled with such ineffable comfort and happiness that
he thought he saw in this occurrence the hand of destiny. He, therefore,
set out for Vienna, in order that he might draw as it were at the
fountain-head the great principles of his art. Be this as it may, in 1791
we hear of Elsner as violinist in Brunn, in 1792 as musical conductor at a
theatre in Lemberg—where he is busy composing dramatic and other
works—and near the end of the last century as occupant of the same
post at the National Theatre in Warsaw, which town became his home for the
rest of his life. There was the principal field of his labours; there he
died, after a sojourn of sixty-two years in Poland, on April 18, 1854,
leaving behind him one of the most honoured names in the history of his
adopted country. Of the journeys he undertook, the longest and most
important was, no doubt, that to Paris in 1805. On the occasion of this
visit some of his compositions were performed, and when Chopin arrived
there twenty-five years afterwards, Elsner was still remembered by
Lesueur, who said: “Et que fait notre bon Elsner? Racontez-moi de ses
nouvelles.” Elsner was a very productive composer: besides symphonies,
quartets, cantatas, masses, an oratorio, &c., he composed twenty-seven
Polish operas. Many of these works were published, some in Warsaw, some in
various German towns, some even in Paris. But his activity as a teacher,
conductor, and organiser was perhaps even more beneficial to the
development of the musical art in Poland than that as a composer. After
founding and conducting several musical societies, he became in 1821
director of the then opened Conservatorium, at the head of which he
continued to the end of its existence in 1830. To complete the idea of the
man, we must not omit to mention his essay In how far is the Polish
language suitable for music? As few of his compositions have been heard
outside of Poland, and these few long ago, rarely, and in few places, it
is difficult to form a satisfactory opinion with regard to his position as
a composer. Most accounts, however, agree in stating that he wrote in the
style of the modern Italians, that is to say, what were called the modern
Italians in the later part of the last and the earlier part of this
century. Elsner tried his strength and ability in all genres, from
oratorio, opera, and symphony, down to pianoforte variations, rondos, and
dances, and in none of them did he fail to be pleasing and intelligible,
not even where, as especially in his sacred music, he made use—a
sparing use—of contrapuntal devices, imitations, and fugal
treatment. The naturalness, fluency, effectiveness, and practicableness
which distinguish his writing for voices and instruments show that he
possessed a thorough knowledge of their nature and capability. It was,
therefore, not an empty rhetorical phrase to speak of him initiating his
pupils “a la science du contre-point et aux effets d’une savante
instrumentation.”
[FOOTNOTE: “The productions of Elsner,” says Fetis, “are in the style of
Paer and Mayer’s music. In his church music there is a little too much of
modern and dramatic forms; one finds in them facility and a natural manner
of making the parts sing, but little originality and variety in his ideas.
Elsner writes with sufficient purity, although he shows in his fugues that
his studies have not been severe.”]
For the pupils of the Conservatorium he wrote vocal pieces in from one to
ten parts, and he composed also a number of canons in four and five parts,
which fact seems to demonstrate that he had no ill-will against the
scholastic forms. And now I shall quote a passage from an apparently
well-informed writer [FOOTNOTE: The writer of the article Elsner in
Schilling’s Universal-Lexikon der Tonkunst] (to whom I am, moreover,
otherwise indebted in this sketch), wherein Elsner is blamed for certain
shortcomings with which Chopin has been often reproached in a less
charitable spirit. The italics, which are mine, will point out the words
in question:—
The wealth of melody and technical mastery displayed in “The Passion of
our Lord Jesus Christ” incline Karasowski to think that it is the
composer’s best work. When the people at Breslau praised Elsner’s “Echo
Variations” for orchestra, Chopin exclaimed: “You must hear his Coronation
Mass, then only can you judge of him as a composer.” To characterise
Elsner in a few words, he was a man of considerable musical aptitude and
capacity, full of nobleness of purpose, learning, industry, perseverance,
in short, possessing all qualities implied by talent, but lacking those
implied by genius.
A musician travelling in 1841 in Poland sent at the time to the Neue
Zeitschrift fur Musik a series of “Reiseblatter” (Notes of Travel), which
contain so charming and vivid a description of this interesting
personality that I cannot resist the temptation to translate and insert it
here almost without any abridgment. Two noteworthy opinions of the writer
may be fitly prefixed to this quotation—namely, that Elsner was a
Pole with all his heart and soul, indeed, a better one than thousands that
are natives of the country, and that, like Haydn, he possessed the quality
of writing better the older he grew:—
Of Chopin’s studies under this master we do not know much more than of his
studies under Zywny. Both Fontana and Sowinski say that he went through a
complete course of counterpoint and composition. Elsner, in a letter
written to Chopin in 1834, speaks of himself as “your teacher of harmony
and counterpoint, of little merit, but fortunate.” Liszt writes:—
What other accounts of the matter under discussion I have got from books
and conversations are as general and vague as the foregoing. I therefore
shall not weary the reader with them. What Elsner’s view of teaching was
may be gathered from one of his letters to his pupil. The gist of his
remarks lies in this sentence:—
Elsner had insight and self-negation (a rare quality with teachers) enough
to act up to his theory, and give free play to the natural tendencies of
his pupil’s powers. That this was really the case is seen from his reply
to one who blamed Frederick’s disregard of rules and custom:—
The letters of master and pupil testify to their unceasing mutual esteem
and love. Those of the master are full of fatherly affection and advice,
those of the pupil full of filial devotion and reverence. Allusions to and
messages for Elsner are very frequent in Chopin’s letters. He seems always
anxious that his old master should know how he fared, especially hear of
his success. His sentiments regarding Elsner reveal themselves perhaps
nowhere more strikingly than in an incidental remark which escapes him
when writing to his friend Woyciechowski. Speaking of a new acquaintance
he has made, he says, “He is a great friend of Elsner’s, which in my
estimation means much.” No doubt Chopin looked up with more respect and
thought himself more indebted to Elsner than to Zywny; but that he had a
good opinion of both his masters is evident from his pithy reply to the
Viennese gentleman who told him that people were astonished at his having
learned all he knew at Warsaw: “From Messrs. Zywny and Elsner even the
greatest ass must learn something.”
CHAPTER III
FREDERICK ENTERS THE WARSAW LYCEUM.—VARIOUS EDUCATIONAL INFLUENCES.—HIS
FATHER’S FRIENDS.—RISE OF ROMANTICISM IN POLISH LITERATURE.—FREDERICK’S
STAY AT SZAFARNIA DURING HIS FIRST SCHOOL HOLIDAYS.—HIS TALENT FOR
IMPROVISATION.—HIS DEVELOPMENT AS A COMPOSER AND PIANIST.—HIS
PUBLIC PERFORMANCES.—PUBLICATION OF OP. I.—EARLY COMPOSITIONS.—HIS
PIANOFORTE STYLE.
FREDERICK, who up to the age of fifteen was taught at home along with his
father’s boarders, became in 1824 a pupil of the Warsaw Lyceum, a kind of
high-school, the curriculum of which comprised Latin, Greek, modern
languages, mathematics, history, &c. His education was so far advanced
that he could at once enter the fourth class, and the liveliness of his
parts, combined with application to work, enabled him to distinguish
himself in the following years as a student and to carry off twice a
prize. Polish history and literature are said to have been his favourite
studies.
Liszt relates that Chopin was placed at an early age in one of the first
colleges of Warsaw, “thanks to the generous and intelligent protection
which Prince Anton Radziwill always bestowed upon the arts and upon young
men of talent.” This statement, however, has met with a direct denial on
the part of the Chopin family, and may, therefore, be considered as
disposed of. But even without such a denial the statement would appear
suspicious to all but those unacquainted with Nicholas Chopin’s position.
Surely he must have been able to pay for his son’s schooling! Moreover,
one would think that, as a professor at the Lyceum, he might even have got
it gratis. As to Frederick’s musical education in Warsaw, it cannot have
cost much. And then, how improbable that the Prince should have paid the
comparatively trifling school-fees and left the young man when he went
abroad dependent upon the support of his parents! The letters from Vienna
(1831) show unmistakably that Chopin applied to his father repeatedly for
money, and regretted being such a burden to him. Further, Chopin’s
correspondence, which throws much light on his relation to Prince
Radziwili, contains nothing which would lead one to infer any such
indebtedness as Liszt mentions. But in order that the reader may be in
possession of the whole evidence and able to judge for himself, I shall
place before him Liszt’s curiously circumstantial account in its entirety:—
Liszt’s informant was no doubt Chopin’s Paris friend Albert Grzymala,
[FOOTNOTE: M. Karasowski calls this Grzymala erroneously Francis. More
information about this gentleman will be given in a subsequent chapter.]
who seems to have had no connection with the Chopin family in Poland.
Karasowski thinks that the only foundation of the story is a letter and
present from Prince Radziwill—acknowledgments of the dedication to
him of the Trio, Op. 8—which Adam Kozuchowski brought to Chopin in
1833. [FOOTNOTE: M. Karasowski, Fryderyk Chopin, vol. i., p. 65.]
Frederick was much liked by his school-fellows, which, as his manners and
disposition were of a nature thoroughly appreciated by boys, is not at all
to be wondered at. One of the most striking features in the character of
young Chopin was his sprightliness, a sparkling effervescence that
manifested itself by all sorts of fun and mischief. He was never weary of
playing pranks on his sisters, his comrades, and even on older people, and
indulged to the utmost his fondness for caricaturing by pictorial and
personal imitations. In the course of a lecture the worthy rector of the
Lyceum discovered the scapegrace making free with the face and figure of
no less a person than his own rectorial self. Nevertheless the irreverent
pupil got off easily, for the master, with as much magnanimity as wisdom,
abstained from punishing the culprit, and, in a subscript which he added
to the caricature, even praised the execution of it. A German Protestant
pastor at Warsaw, who made always sad havoc of the Polish language, in
which he had every Sunday to preach one of his sermons, was the prototype
of one of the imitations with which Frederick frequently amused his
friends. Our hero’s talent for changing the expression of his face, of
which George Sand, Liszt, Balzac, Hiller, Moscheles, and other personal
acquaintances, speak with admiration, seems already at this time to have
been extraordinary. Of the theatricals which the young folks were wont to
get up at the paternal house, especially on the name-days of their parents
and friends, Frederick was the soul and mainstay. With a good delivery he
combined a presence of mind that enabled him to be always ready with an
improvisation when another player forgot his part. A clever Polish actor,
Albert Piasecki, who was stage-manager on these occasions, gave it as his
opinion that the lad was born to be a great actor. In after years two
distinguished members of the profession in France, M. Bocage and Mdme.
Dorval, expressed similar opinions. For their father’s name-day in 1824,
Frederick and his sister Emilia wrote conjointly a one-act comedy in
verse, entitled THE MISTAKE; OR, THE PRETENDED ROGUE, which was acted by a
juvenile company. According to Karasowski, the play showed that the
authors had a not inconsiderable command of language, but in other
respects could not be called a very brilliant achievement. Seeing that
fine comedies are not often written at the ages of fifteen and eleven,
nobody will be in the least surprised at the result.
These domestic amusements naturally lead us to inquire who were the
visitors that frequented the house. Among them there was Dr. Samuel
Bogumil Linde, rector of the Lyceum and first librarian of the National
Library, a distinguished philologist, who, assisted by the best Slavonic
scholars, wrote a valuable and voluminous “Dictionary of the Polish
Language,” and published many other works on the Slavonic languages. After
this oldest of Nicholas Chopin’s friends I shall mention Waclaw Alexander
Maciejowski, who, like Linde, received his university education in
Germany, taught then for a short time at the Lyceum, and became in 1819 a
professor at the University of Warsaw. His contributions to various
branches of Slavonic history (law, literature, &c.) are very numerous.
However, one of the most widely known of those who were occasionally seen
at Chopin’s home was Casimir Brodzinski, the poet, critic, and champion of
romanticism, a prominent figure in Polish literary history, who lived in
Warsaw from about 1815 to 1822, in which year he went as professor of
literature to the University of Cracow. Nicholas Chopin’s pupil, Count
Frederick Skarbek, must not be forgotten; he had now become a man of note,
being professor of political economy at the university, and author of
several books that treat of that science. Besides Elsner and Zywny, who
have already been noticed at some length, a third musician has to be
numbered among friends of the Chopin family—namely, Joseph Javurek,
the esteemed composer and professor at the Conservatorium; further, I must
yet make mention of Anton Barcinski, professor at the Polytechnic School,
teacher at Nicholas Chopin’s institution, and by-and-by his son-in-law;
Dr. Jarocki, the zoologist; Julius Kolberg, the engineer; and Brodowski,
the painter. These and others, although to us only names, or little more,
are nevertheless not without their significance. We may liken them to the
supernumeraries on the stage, who, dumb as they are, help to set off and
show the position of the principal figure or figures.
The love of literature which we have noticed in the young Chopins, more
particularly in the sisters, implanted by an excellent education and
fostered by the taste, habits, and encouragement of their father, cannot
but have been greatly influenced and strengthened by the characters and
conversation of such visitors. And let it not be overlooked that this was
the time of Poland’s intellectual renascence—a time when the
influence of man over man is greater than at other times, he being, as it
were, charged with a kind of vivifying electricity. The misfortunes that
had passed over Poland had purified and fortified the nation—breathed
into it a new and healthier life. The change which the country underwent
from the middle of the eighteenth to the earlier part of the nineteenth
century was indeed immense. Then Poland, to use Carlyle’s drastic
phraseology, had ripened into a condition of “beautifully phosphorescent
rot-heap”; now, with an improved agriculture, reviving commerce, and
rising industry, it was more prosperous than it had been for centuries. As
regards intellectual matters, the comparison with the past was even more
favourable to the present. The government that took the helm in 1815
followed the direction taken by its predecessors, and schools and
universities flourished; but a most hopeful sign was this, that whilst the
epoch of Stanislas Augustus was, as Mickiewicz remarked (in Les Slaves),
little Slavonic and not even national, now the national spirit pervaded
the whole intellectual atmosphere, and incited workers in all branches of
science and art to unprecedented efforts. To confine ourselves to one
department, we find that the study of the history and literature of Poland
had received a vigorous impulse, folk-songs were zealously collected, and
a new school of poetry, romanticism, rose victoriously over the fading
splendour of an effete classicism. The literature of the time of Stanislas
was a court and salon literature, and under the influence of France and
ancient Rome. The literature that began to bud about 1815, and whose germs
are to be sought for in the preceding revolutionary time, was more of a
people’s literature, and under the influence of Germany, England, and
Russia. The one was a hot-house plant, the other a garden flower, or even
a wild flower. The classics swore by the precepts of Horace and Boileau,
and held that among the works of Shakespeare there was not one veritable
tragedy. The romanticists, on the other hand, showed by their criticisms
and works that their sympathies were with Schiller, Goethe, Burger, Byron,
Shukovski, &c. Wilna was the chief centre from which this movement
issued, and Brodziriski one of the foremost defenders of the new
principles and the precursor of Mickiewicz, the appearance of whose
ballads, romances, “Dziady” and “Grazyna” (1822), decided the war in
favour of romanticism. The names of Anton Malczewski, Bogdan Zaleski,
Severyn Goszczynski, and others, ought to be cited along with that of the
more illustrious Mickiewicz, but I will not weary the reader either with a
long disquisition or with a dry enumeration. I have said above that Polish
poetry had become more of a people’s poetry. This, however, must not be
understood in the sense of democratic poetry.
The Polish poets [says C. Courriere, to whose “Histoire de la litterature
chez les Slaves” I am much indebted] ransacked with avidity the past of
their country, which appeared to them so much the more brilliant because
it presented a unique spectacle in the history of nations. Instead of
breaking with the historic traditions they respected them, and gave them a
new lustre, a new life, by representing them under a more beautiful, more
animated, and more striking form. In short, if Polish romanticism was an
evolution of poetry in the national sense, it did not depart from the
tendencies of its elder sister, for it saw in the past only the nobility;
it was and remained, except in a few instances, aristocratic.
Now let us keep in mind that this contest of classicism and romanticism,
this turning away from a dead formalism to living ideals, was taking place
at that period of Frederick Chopin’s life when the human mind is most open
to new impressions, and most disposed to entertain bold and noble ideas.
And, further, let us not undervalue the circumstance that he must have
come in close contact with one of the chief actors in this unbloody
revolution.
Frederick spent his first school holidays at Szafarnia, in Mazovia, the
property of the Dziewanowski family. In a letter written on August 19,
1824, he gives his friend and school-fellow William Kolberg, some account
of his doings there—of his strolls and runs in the garden, his walks
and drives to the forest, and above all of his horsemanship. He tells his
dear Willie that he manages to keep his seat, but would not like to be
asked how. Indeed, he confesses that, his equestrian accomplishments
amount to no more than to letting the horse go slowly where it lists, and
sitting on it, like a monkey, with fear. If he had not yet met with an
accident, it was because the horse had so far not felt any inclination to
throw him off. In connection with his drives—in britzka and in coach—he
does not forget to mention that he is always honoured with a back-seat.
Still, life at Szafarnia was not unmixed happiness, although our hero bore
the ills with admirable stoicism:—
The reader sees from this specimen of epistolary writing that Frederick is
still a boy, and if I had given the letter in extenso, the boyishness
would have been even more apparent, in the loose and careless style as
well as in the frolicsome matter.
His letters to his people at home took on this occasion the form of a
manuscript newspaper, called, in imitation of the “Kuryer Warszawski”
(“Warsaw Courier”), “Kuryer Szafarski” (“Szafarnia Courier”), which the
editor, in imitation of the then obtaining press regulation, did not send
off until it had been seen and approved of by the censor, Miss
Dziewanowska. One of the numbers of the paper contains among other news
the report of a musical gathering of “some persons and demi-persons” at
which, on July 15, 1824, Mr. Pichon (anagram of Chopin) played a Concerto
of Kalkbrenner’s and a little song, the latter being received by the
youthful audience with more applause than the former.
Two anecdotes that relate to this stay at Szafarnia further exemplify what
has already been said of Frederick’s love of fun and mischief. Having on
one of his visits to the village of Oberow met some Jews who had come to
buy grain, he invited them to his room, and there entertained them with
music, playing to them “Majufes.”
[FOOTNOTE: Karasowski describes “Majufes” as a kind of Jewish wedding
march. Ph. Lobenstein says that it means “the beautiful, the pleasing
one.” With this word opened a Hebrew song which dates from the time of the
sojourn of the Jews in Spain, and which the orthodox Polish Jews sing on
Saturdays after dinner, and whose often-heard melody the Poles imitate as
a parody of Jewish singing.]
His guests were delighted—they began to dance, told him that he
played like a born Jew, and urged him to come to the next Jewish wedding
and play to them there. The other anecdote would be a very ugly story were
it not for the redeeming conclusion. Again we meet with one of the
numerous, but by no means well-loved, class of Polish citizens. Frederick,
having heard that a certain Jew had bought grain from Mr. Romecki, the
proprietor of Oberow, sent this gentleman a letter purporting to be
written by the grain-dealer in question, in which he informed him that
after reconsidering the matter he would rather not take the grain. The
imitation of the jargon in use among the Polish Jews was so good, and the
spelling and writing so bad, that Mr. Romecki was taken in. Indeed, he
flew at once into such a passion that he sent for the Jew with the
intention of administering to him a sound thrashing. Only Frederick’s
timely confession saved the poor fellow from his undeserved punishment.
But enough of Szafarnia, where the young scapegrace paid so long a holiday
visit (from his letter to William Kolberg we learn that he would not see
his friend for four weeks more), and where, judging from what has already
been told, and also from a remark in the same letter, he must have
“enjoyed himself pretty well.” And now we will return to Warsaw, to
Nicholas Chopin’s boarding-school.
To take away any bad impression that may be left by the last anecdote, I
shall tell another of a more pleasing character, which, indeed, has had
the honour of being made the subject of a picture. It was often told, says
Karasowski, by Casimir Wodzinski, a boarder of Nicholas Chopin’s. One day
when the latter was out, Barcinski, the assistant master, could not manage
the noisy boys. Seeing this, Frederick, who just then happened to come
into the room, said to them that he would improvise a pretty story if they
would sit down and be quiet. This quickly restored silence. He thereupon
had the lights extinguished, took his seat at the piano, and began as
follows:—
When Frederick had got to this part of the story he began to play softer
and softer, and ever softer, till his auditors, like the robbers, were
fast asleep. Noticing this he stole out of the room, called in the other
inmates of the house, who came carrying lights with them, and then with a
tremendous, crashing chord disturbed the sweet slumbers of the evil-doers.
Here we have an instance of “la richesse de son improvisation,” by which,
as Fontana tells us, Chopin, from his earliest youth, astonished all who
had the good fortune to hear him. Those who think that there is no
salvation outside the pale of absolute music, will no doubt be
horror-stricken at the heretical tendency manifested on this occasion by
an otherwise so promising musician. Nay, even the less orthodox, those who
do not altogether deny the admissibility of programme-music if it conforms
to certain conditions and keeps within certain limits, will shake their
heads sadly. The duty of an enthusiastic biographer, it would seem, is
unmistakable; he ought to justify, or, at least, excuse his hero—if
nothing else availed, plead his youth and inexperience. My leaving the
poor suspected heretic in the lurch under these circumstances will draw
upon me the reproach of remissness; but, as I have what I consider more
important business on hand, I must not be deterred from proceeding to it
by the fear of censure.
The year 1825 was, in many respects, a memorable one in the life of
Chopin. On May 27 and June 10 Joseph Javurek, whom I mentioned a few pages
back among the friends of the Chopin family, gave two concerts for
charitable purposes in the large hall of the Conservatorium. At one of
these Frederick appeared again in public. A Warsaw correspondent of the
“Leipzig Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung” says in the course of one of his
letters:—
Unfortunately we learn nothing of Chopin’s rendering of the movement from
Moscheles’ Concerto. Still, this meagre notice, written by a contemporary—an
ear-witness, who wrote down his impressions soon after the performance—is
very precious, indeed more precious than the most complete and elaborate
criticism written fifty years after the occurrence would be. I cannot help
thinking that Karasowski somewhat exaggerates when he says that Chopin’s
pianoforte playing transported the audience into a state of enthusiasm,
and that no concert had a brilliant success unless he took part in it. The
biographer seems either to trust too much to the fancy-coloured
recollections of his informants, or to allow himself to be carried away by
his zeal for the exaltation of his hero. At any rate, the tenor of the
above-quoted notice, laudatory as it is, and the absence of Chopin’s name
from other Warsaw letters, do not remove the doubts which such eulogistic
superlatives raise in the mind of an unbiassed inquirer. But that Chopin,
as a pianist and as a musician generally, had attained a proficiency far
beyond his years becomes evident if we examine his compositions of that
time, to which I shall presently advert. And that he had risen into
notoriety and saw his talents appreciated cannot be doubted for a moment
after what has been said. Were further proof needed, we should find it in
the fact that he was selected to display the excellences of the
aeolomelodicon when the Emperor Alexander I, during his sojourn in Warsaw
in 1825, [FOOTNOTE: The Emperor Alexander opened the Diet at Warsaw on May
13, 1825, and closed it on June 13.] expressed the wish to hear this
instrument. Chopin’s performance is said to have pleased the august
auditor, who, at all events, rewarded the young musician with a diamond
ring.
A greater event than either the concert or the performance before the
Emperor, in fact, THE event of the year 1825, was the publication of
Chopin’s Opus 1. Only he who has experienced the delicious sensation of
seeing himself for the first time in print can realise what our young
author felt on this occasion. Before we examine this work, we will give a
passing glance at some less important early compositions of the maestro
which were published posthumously.
There is first of all a Polonaise in G sharp minor, said to be of the year
1822, [FOOTNOTE: See No. 15 of the Posthumous Works in the Breitkopf and
Hartel edition.] but which, on account of the savoir-faire and invention
exhibited in it, I hold to be of a considerably later time. Chopin’s
individuality, it is true, is here still in a rudimentary state, chiefly
manifested in the light-winged figuration; the thoughts and the
expression, however, are natural and even graceful, bearing thus the
divine impress. The echoes of Weber should be noted. Of two mazurkas, in G
and B flat major, of the year 1825, the first is, especially in its last
part, rather commonplace; the second is more interesting, because more
suggestive of better things, which the first is only to an inconsiderable
extent. In No. 2 we meet already with harmonic piquancies which charmed
musicians and lovers of music so much in the later mazurkas. Critics and
students will not overlook the octaves between, treble and bass in the
second bar of part two in No. 1. A. Polonaise in B flat minor,
superscribed “Farewell to William Kolberg,” of the year 1826, has not less
naturalness and grace than the Polonaise of 1822, but in addition to these
qualities, it has also at least one thought (part 1) which contains
something of the sweet ring of Chopinian melancholy. The trio of the
Polonaise is headed by the words: “Au revoir! after an aria from ‘Gazza
ladra’.” Two foot-notes accompany this composition in the Breitkopf and
Hartel edition (No. 16 of the Posthumous Works). The first says that the
Polonaise was composed “at Chopin’s departure from [should be ‘for’]
Reinerz”; and the second, in connection with the trio, that “some days
before Chopin’s departure the two friends had been present at a
performance of Rossini’s opera.” There is one other early
posthumously-published work of Chopin’s, whose status, however, differs
from the above-mentioned ones in this, that the composer seems to have
intended to publish it. The composition in question is the Variations sur
un air national allemand.
Szulc says that Oskar Kolberg related that he had still in his possession
these Variations on the theme of Der Schweizerbub, which Chopin composed
between his twelfth and seventeenth years at the house of General
Sowinski’s wife in the course of “a few quarter-hours.” The Variations sur
un air national allemand were published after the composer’s death along
with his Sonata, Op. 4, by Haslinger, of Vienna, in 1851. They are, no
doubt, the identical composition of which Chopin in a letter from Vienna
(December 1, 1830) writes: “Haslinger received me very kindly, but
nevertheless would publish neither the Sonata nor the Second Variations.”
The First Variations were those on La ci darem, Op. 2, the first of his
compositions that was published in Germany. Without inquiring too
curiously into the exact time of its production and into the exact meaning
of “a few quarter-hours,” also leaving it an open question whether the
composer did or did not revise his first conception of the Variations
before sending them to Vienna, I shall regard this unnumbered work—which,
by the way, in the Breitkopf and Hartel edition is dated 1824—on
account of its greater simplicity and inferior interest, as an earlier
composition than the Premier Rondeau (C minor), Op. 1, dedicated to Mdme.
de Linde (the wife of his father’s friend and colleague, the rector Dr.
Linde), a lady with whom Frederick often played duets. What strikes one at
once in both of them is the almost total absence of awkwardness and the
presence of a rarely-disturbed ease. They have a natural air which is
alike free from affected profundity and insipid childishness. And the hand
that wrote them betrays so little inexperience in the treatment of the
instrument that they can hold their ground without difficulty and
honourably among the better class of light drawing-room pieces. Of course,
there are weak points: the introduction to the Variations with those
interminable sequences of dominant and tonic chords accompanying a
stereotyped run, and the want of cohesiveness in the Rondo, the different
subjects of which are too loosely strung together, may be instanced. But,
although these two compositions leave behind them a pleasurable
impression, they can lay only a small claim to originality. Still, there
are slight indications of it in the tempo di valse, the concluding portion
of the Variations, and more distinct ones in the Rondo, in which it is
possible to discover the embryos of forms—chromatic and serpentining
progressions, &c.—which subequently develop most exuberantly.
But if on the one hand we must admit that the composer’s individuality is
as yet weak, on the other hand we cannot accuse him of being the imitator
of any one master—such a dominant influence is not perceptible.
[FOOTNOTE: Schumann, who in 1831 became acquainted with Chopin’s Op. 2,
and conceived an enthusiastic admiration for the composer, must have made
inquiries after his Op. 1, and succeeded in getting it. For on January
1832, he wrote to Frederick Wieck: “Chopin’s first work (I believe firmly
that it is his tenth) is in my hands: a lady would say that it was very
pretty, very piquant, almost Moschelesque. But I believe you will make
Clara [Wieck’s daughter, afterwards Mdme. Schumann] study it; for there is
plenty of Geist in it and few difficulties. But I humbly venture to assert
that there are between this composition and Op. 2 two years and twenty
works”]
All this, however, is changed in another composition, the Rondeau a la
Mazur, Op. 5, dedicated to the Comtesse Alexandrine de Moriolles (a
daughter of the Comte de Moriolles mentioned in Chapter II), which, like
the Rondo, Op. 1, was first published in Warsaw, and made its appearance
in Germany some years later. I do not know the exact time of its
composition, but I presume it was a year or two after that of the
previously mentioned works. Schumann, who reviewed it in 1836, thought it
had perhaps been written in the eighteenth year of the composer, but he
found in it, some confused passages excepted, no indications of the
author’s youth. In this Rondeau a la Mazur the individuality of Chopin and
with it his nationality begin to reveal themselves unmistakably. Who could
fail to recognise him in the peculiar sweet and persuasive flows of sound,
and the serpent-like winding of the melodic outline, the wide-spread
chords, the chromatic progressions, the dissolving of the harmonies and
the linking of their constituent parts! And, as I have said elsewhere in
speaking of this work: “The harmonies are often novel, and the matter is
more homogeneous and better welded into oneness.”
Chopin’s pianoforte lessons, as has already been stated, came to an end
when he was twelve years old, and thenceforth he was left to his own
resources.
The first stages of the development of his peculiar style may be traced in
the compositions we have just now discussed. In the variations and first
Rondo which Chopin wrote at or before the age of fifteen, the treatment of
the instrument not only proves that he was already as much in his element
on the pianoforte as a fish in the water, but also shows that an as yet
vaguely-perceived ideal began to beckon him onward. Karasowski, informed
by witnesses of the boy’s studies in pianoforte playing, relates that
Frederick, being struck with the fine effect of a chord in extended
harmony, and unable, on account of the smallness of his hands, to strike
the notes simultaneously, set about thinking how this physical obstacle
could be overcome. The result of his cogitations was the invention of a
contrivance which he put between his fingers and kept there even during
the night, by this means endeavouring to increase the extensibility and
flexibility of his hands. Who, in reading of this incident in Chopin’s
life, is not reminded of Schumann and his attempt to strengthen his
fingers, an attempt that ended so fatally for his prospects as a virtuoso!
And the question, an idle one I admit, suggests itself: Had Chopin been
less fortunate than he was, and lost, like Schumann, the command of one of
his hands before he had formed his pianoforte style, would he, as a
composer, have risen to a higher position than we know him to have
attained, or would he have achieved less than he actually did? From the
place and wording of Karasowski’s account it would appear that this
experiment of Chopin’s took place at or near the age of ten. Of course it
does not matter much whether we know or do not know the year or day of the
adoption of the practice, what is really interesting is the fact itself. I
may, however, remark that Chopin’s love of wide-spread chords and skips,
if marked at all, is not strongly marked in the Variations on the German
air and the first Rondo. Let the curious examine with regard to this
matter the Tempo di Valse of the former work, and bars 38-43 of the Piu
lento of the latter. In the Rondeau a la Mazur, the next work in
chronological order, this peculiarity begins to show itself distinctly,
and it continues to grow in the works that follow. It is not my intention
to weary the reader with microscopical criticism, but I thought the first
manifestations of Chopin’s individuality ought not to be passed over in
silence. As to his style, it will be more fully discussed in a subsequent
chapter, where also the seeds from which it sprang will be pointed out.
CHAPTER IV.
FREDERICK WORKS TOO HARD.—PASSES PART OF HIS HOLIDAYS (1826) IN
REINERZ.—STAYS ALSO AT STRZYZEWO, AND PAYS A VISIT TO PRINCE
RADZIWILL.—HE TERMINATES HIS STUDIES AT THE LYCEUM (1827). ADOPTION
OF MUSIC AS HIS PROFESSION.—EXCURSIONS.—FOLK-MUSIC AND THE
POLISH PEASANTRY.—SOME MORE COMPOSITIONS.—PROJECTED TRAVELS
FOR HIS IMPROVEMENT.—HIS OUTWARD APPEARANCE AND STATE OF HEALTH.
THE art which had attracted the child took every day a stronger hold of
the youth. Frederick was not always in that sportive humour in which we
have seen him repeatedly. At times he would wander about silent and
solitary, wrapped in his musical meditations. He would sit up late, busy
with his beloved music, and often, after lying down, rise from his bed in
the middle of the night in order, to strike a few chords or try a short
phrase—to the horror of the servants, whose first thought was of
ghosts, the second that their dear young master was not quite right in his
mind. Indeed, what with his school-work and his musical studies, our young
friend exerted himself more than was good for him. When, therefore, in the
holidays of 1826 his youngest sister, Emilia, was ordered by the
physicians to go to Reinerz, a watering-place in Prussian Silesia, the
parents thought it advisable that the too diligent Frederick should
accompany her, and drink whey for the benefit of his health. The
travelling party consisted of the mother, two sisters, and himself. A
letter which he wrote on August 28, 1826, to his friend William Kolberg,
furnishes some information about his doings there. It contains, as letters
from watering-places usually do, criticisms of the society and accounts of
promenadings, excursions, regular meals, and early hours in going to bed
and in rising. As the greater part of the contents can be of no interest
to us, I shall confine myself to picking up what seems to me worth
preserving. He had been drinking whey and the waters for a fortnight and
found he was getting somewhat stouter and at the same time lazy. People
said he began to look better. He enjoyed the sight of the valleys from the
hills which surround Reinerz, but the climbing fatigued him, and he had
sometimes to drag himself down on all-fours. One mountain, the rocky
Heuscheuer, he and other delicate persons were forbidden to ascend, as the
doctor was afraid that the sharp air at the top would do his patients
harm. Of course, Frederick tried to make fun of everything and everyone—for
instance, of the wretched wind-band, which consisted of about a dozen
“caricatures,” among whom a lean bassoon-player with a snuffy hook-nose
was the most notable. To the manners of the country, which in some
respects seem to have displeased him, he got gradually accustomed.
During his stay at Reinerz he gave also a concert on behalf of two orphans
who had come with their sick mother to this watering-place, and at her
death were left so poor as to be unable even to pay the funeral expenses
and to return home with the servant who took care of them.
From Reinerz Frederick went to Strzyzewo, the property of Madame
Wiesiolowska, his godmother, and sister of his godfather, Count Frederick
Skarbek. While he was spending here the rest of his holidays, he took
advantage of an invitation he had received from Prince Radziwill (governor
of the grand duchy of Posen, and, through his wife, a daughter of Prince
Ferdinand, related to the royal family of Prussia) to visit him at his
country-seat Antonin, which was not very far from Strzyzewo. The Prince,
who had many relations in Poland, and paid frequent visits to that
country, must on these occasions have heard of and met with the musical
prodigy that was the pet of the aristocracy. Moreover, it is on record
that he was present at the concert at Warsaw in 1825 at which Frederick
played. We have already considered and disposed of the question whether
the Prince, as has been averred by Liszt, paid for young Chopin’s
education. As a dilettante Prince Radziwill occupied a no less exalted
position in art and science than as a citizen and functionary in the body
politic. To confine ourselves to music, he was not only a good singer and
violoncellist, but also a composer; and in composition he did not confine
himself to songs, duets, part-songs, and the like, but undertook the
ambitious and arduous task of writing music to the first part of Goethe’s
Faust. By desire of the Court the Berlin Singakademie used to bring this
work to a hearing once every year, and they gave a performance of it even
as late as 1879. An enthusiastic critic once pronounced it to be among
modern works one of those that evince most genius. The vox populi seems to
have repealed this judgment, or rather never to have taken cognisance of
the case, for outside Berlin the work has not often been heard. Dr.
Langhans wrote to me after the Berlin performance in 1879:—
By-and-by Chopin will pay the Prince a longer visit, and then we shall
learn what he thought of Faust, and how he enjoyed himself at this
nobleman’s house.
Chopin’s studies at the Lyceum terminated in the year 1827. Through his
final examination, however, he did not pass so brilliantly as through his
previous ones; this time he carried off no prize. The cause of this
falling-off is not far to seek; indeed, has already been hinted at.
Frederick’s inclination and his successes as a pianist and composer, and
the persuasions of Elsner and other musical friends, could not but lessen
and at last altogether dispel any doubts and misgivings the parents may at
first have harboured. And whilst in consequence of this change of attitude
they became less exacting with their son in the matter of school-work, the
latter, feeling the slackening of the reins, would more and more follow
his natural bent. The final examination was to him, no doubt, a kind of
manumission which freed him from the last remnant of an oppressive
bondage. Henceforth, then, Chopin could, unhindered by disagreeable tasks
or other obstacles, devote his whole time and strength to the cultivation
of his chosen art. First, however, he spent now, as in the preceding year,
some weeks with his friends in Strzyzewo, and afterwards travelled to
Danzig, where he visited Superintendent von Linde, a brother of the rector
of the Warsaw Lyceum.
Chopin was fond of listening to the singing and fiddling of the country
people; and everyone acquainted with the national music of Poland as well
as with the composer’s works knows that he is indebted to it for some of
the most piquant rhythmic, melodic, and even harmonic peculiarities of his
style. These longer stays in the country would offer him better
opportunities for the enjoyment and study of this land of music than the
short excursions which he occasionally made with his father into the
neighbourhood of Warsaw. His wonder always was who could have composed the
quaint and beautiful strains of those mazurkas, polonaises, and
krakowiaks, and who had taught these simple men and women to play and sing
so truly in tune. The conditions then existing in Poland were very
favourable to the study of folk-lore of any kind. Art-music had not yet
corrupted folk-music; indeed, it could hardly be said that civilisation
had affected the lower strata of society at all. Notwithstanding the
emancipation of the peasants in 1807, and the confirmation of this law in
1815—a law which seems to have remained for a long time and in a
great measure a dead letter—the writer of an anonymous book,
published at Boston in 1834, found that the freedom of the wretched serfs
in Russian Poland was much the same as that of their cattle, they being
brought up with as little of human cultivation; nay, that the Polish
peasant, poor in every part of the country, was of all the living
creatures he had met with in this world or seen described in books, the
most wretched. From another publication we learn that the improvements in
public instruction, however much it may have benefited the upper classes,
did not affect the lowest ones: the parish schools were insufficient, and
the village schools not numerous enough. But the peasants, although
steeped in superstition and ignorance, and too much addicted to
brandy-drinking with its consequences—quarrelsomeness and
revengefulness—had not altogether lost the happier features of their
original character—hospitality, patriotism, good-naturedness, and,
above all, cheerfulness and love of song and dance. It has been said that
a simple Slavonic peasant can be enticed by his national songs from one
end of the world to the other. The delight which the Slavonic nations take
in dancing seems to be equally great. No other nation, it has been
asserted, can compare with them in ardent devotion to this amusement.
Moreover, it is noteworthy that song and dance were in Poland—as
they were of course originally everywhere—intimately united. Heine
gives a pretty description of the character of the Polish peasant:—
The student of human nature and its reflex in art will not call these
remarks a digression; at least, not one deserving of censure.
We may suppose that Chopin, after his return to Warsaw and during the
following winter, and the spring and summer of 1828, continued his studies
with undiminished and, had this been possible, with redoubled ardour. Some
of his compositions that came into existence at this time were published
after his death by his friend Julius Fontana, who was a daily visitor at
his parents’ house. We have a Polonaise (D minor) and a Nocturne (E minor)
of 1827, and another Polonaise (B flat) and the Rondo for two pianos of
1828. The Sonata, Op. 4, and La ci darem la mano, varie for pianoforte,
with orchestral accompaniments, belong also to this time. The Trio (Op.
8), although not finished till 1829, was begun and considerably advanced
in 1828. Several of the above compositions are referred to in a letter
written by him on September 9, 1828, to one of his most intimate friends,
Titus Woyciechowski. The Rondo in C had originally a different form and
was recast by him for two pianos at Strzyzewo, where he passed the whole
summer of 1828. He tried it with Ernemann, a musician living in Warsaw, at
the warehouse of the pianoforte-manufacturer Buchholtz, and was pretty
well pleased with his work.
The opportunities which Warsaw offered being considered insufficient for
the completion of his artistic education, ways and means were discussed as
to how his wants could be best provided for. The upshot of the discussions
was the project of excursions to Berlin and Vienna. As, however, this plan
was not realised till the autumn of 1828, and no noteworthy incidents or
interesting particulars concerning the intervening period of his life have
become known, I shall utilise this break in the narrative by trying my
hand at a slight sketch of that terra incognita, the history of music in
Poland, more particularly the history of the musical life in Warsaw,
shortly before and in Chopin’s time. I am induced to undertake this task
by the consideration that a knowledge of the means of culture within the
reach of Chopin during his residence in the Polish capital is
indispensable if we wish to form a clear and complete idea of the artist’s
development, and that such a knowledge will at the same time help us to
understand better the contents of some of the subsequent portions of this
work. Before, however, I begin a new chapter and with it the
above-mentioned sketch, I should like to advert to a few other matters.
The reader may perhaps already have asked the question—What was
Chopin like in his outward appearance? As I have seen a daguerreotype from
a picture painted when he was seventeen, I can give some sort of answer to
this question. Chopin’s face was clearly and finely cut, especially the
nose with its wide nostrils; the forehead was high, the eyebrows delicate,
the lips thin, and the lower one somewhat protruding. For those who know
A. Bovy’s medallion I may add that the early portrait is very like it;
only, in the latter, the line formed by the lower jawbone that runs from
the chin towards the ear is more rounded, and the whole has a more
youthful appearance. As to the expression, it is not only meditative but
even melancholy. This last point leads me naturally to another question.
The delicate build of Chopin’s body, his early death preceded by many
years of ill-health, and the character of his music, have led people into
the belief that from childhood he was always sickly in body, and for the
most part also melancholy in disposition. But as the poverty and
melancholy, so also disappears on closer investigation the sickliness of
the child and youth. To jump, however, from this to the other extreme, and
assert that he enjoyed vigorous health, would be as great a mistake.
Karasowski, in his eagerness to controvert Liszt, although not going quite
this length, nevertheless overshoots the mark. Besides it is a
misrepresentation of Liszt not to say that the passage excerpted from his
book, and condemned as not being in accordance with the facts of the case,
is a quotation from G. Sand’s novel Lucrezia Floriani (of which more will
be said by-and-by), in which the authoress is supposed, although this was
denied by her, to have portrayed Chopin. Liszt is a poet, not a
chronicler; he must be read as such, and not be taken au pied de la
lettre. However, even Karasowski, in whom one notices a perhaps
unconscious anxiety to keep out of sight anything which might throw doubt
on the health and strength of his hero, is obliged to admit that Chopin
was “delicate,” although he hastens to add, “but nevertheless healthy and
pretty strong.” It seems to me that Karasowski makes too much of the
statement of a friend of Chopin’s—namely, that the latter was, up to
manhood, only once ill, and then with nothing worse than a cold. Indeed,
in Karasowski’s narrative there are not wanting indications that the
health of Chopin cannot have been very vigorous; nor his strength have
amounted to much; for in one place we read that the youth was no friend of
long excursions on foot, and preferred to lie down and dream under
beautiful trees; in another place, that his parents sent him to Reinerz
and some years afterwards to Vienna, because they thought his studies had
affected his health, and that rest and change of air and scene would
restore his strength. Further, we are told that his mother and sisters
never tired of recommending him to wrap up carefully in cold and wet
weather, and that, like a good son and brother, he followed their advice.
Lastly, he objected to smoking. Some of the items of this evidence are
very trivial, but taken collectively they have considerable force. Of
greater significance are the following additional items. Chopin’s sister
Emilia was carried off at the age of fourteen by pulmonary disease, and
his father, as a physician informed me, died of a heart and chest
complaint. Stephen Heller, who saw Chopin in 1830 in Warsaw, told me that
the latter was then in delicate health, thin and with sunken cheeks, and
that the people of Warsaw said that he could not live long, but would,
like so many geniuses, die young. The real state of the matter seems to me
to have been this. Although Chopin in his youth was at no time troubled
with any serious illness, he enjoyed but fragile health, and if his frame
did not alreadv contain the seeds of the disease to which he later fell a
prey, it was a favourable soil for their reception. How easily was an
organisation so delicately framed over-excited and disarranged! Indeed,
being vivacious, active, and hard-working, as he was, he lived on his
capital. The fire of youth overcame much, not, however, without a
dangerous waste of strength, the lamentable results of which we shall see
before we have gone much farther. This statement of the case we find, I
think, confirmed by Chopin’s correspondence—the letter written at
Reinerz is in this respect noteworthy.
CHAPTER V.
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS IN POLAND BEFORE AND IN CHOPIN’S TIME.
THE golden age of Polish music, which coincides with that of Polish
literature, is the sixteenth century, the century of the Sigismonds. The
most remarkable musician of that time, and probably the greatest that
Poland produced previous to the present century, was Nicolas Gomolka, who
studied music in Italy, perhaps under Palestrina, in whose style he wrote.
Born in or about the beginning of the second half of the sixteenth
century, he died on March 5, 1609. During the reigns of the kings of the
house of Saxony (1697-1763) instrumental music is said to have made much
progress. Be this as it may, there was no lack of opportunities to study
good examples. Augustus the Strong (I. of Saxony and II of Poland)
established a special Polish band, called, in contradistinction to the
Grosse Kammermusik (Great Chamber-band) in Dresden, Kleine Kammermusik
(Little Chamber-band), whose business it was to be in attendance when his
majesty went to Poland. These visits took place usually once a year, and
lasted from, August to December, but sometimes were more frequent, and
shorter or longer, just as occasion might call for. Among the members of
the Polish band—which consisted of a leader (Premier), four violins,
one oboe, two French horns, three bassoons, and one double bass—we
meet with such well-known men as Johann Joachim Quanz and Franz Benda.
Their conductor was Alberto Ristori, who at the same time held the post of
composer to the Italian actors, a company that, besides plays, performed
also little operas, serenades, intermezzi, &c. The usual retinue of
the King on his visits to Poland included also a part of the French ballet
and comedy. These travels of the artistic forces must have been rich in
tragic, comic, and tragi-comic incidents, and would furnish splendid
material for the pen of a novelist. But such a journey from the Saxon
capital to Warsaw, which took about eight days, and cost on an average
from 3,000 to 3,500 thalers (450 to 525 pounds), was a mere nothing
compared with the migration of a Parisian operatic company in May, 1700.
The ninety-three members of which it was composed set out in carriages and
drove by Strasburg to Ulm, there they embarked and sailed to Cracow,
whence the journey was continued on rafts. [FOOTNOTE: M. Furstenau, Zur
Geschichte der Music und des Theaters am Hofe zu Dresden.] So much for
artistic tours at the beginning of the eighteenth century. Frederick
Augustus (II of Saxony and III of Poland, 1733-1763) dissolved the Polish
band, and organised a similar body which was destined solely for Poland,
and was to be resident there. It consisted in 1753 of an organist, two
singers, twenty instrumentalists (almost all Germans), and a band-servant,
their salary amounting to 5,383 thalers, 10 groschen (a little more than
805 pounds). Notwithstanding this new arrangement, the great Dresden band
sometimes accompanied the King to Poland, and when it did not, some of its
members at least had to be in attendance for the performance of the solos
at the chamber concerts and in the operas. Also such singers, male and
female, as were required for the operas proposed for representation had to
take to the road. Hasse and his wife Faustina came several times to
Poland. That the constellation of the Dresden musical establishment, in
its vocal as well as instrumental department, was one of the most
brilliant imaginable is sufficiently proved by a glance at the names which
we meet with in 1719: Lotti, Heinichen, Veracini, Volumier, Senesino,
Tesi, Santa Stella Lotti, Durastanti, &c. Rousseau, writing in 1754,
calls the Dresden orchestra the first in Europe. And Burney says in 1772
that the instrumental performers had been some time previously of the
first class. No wonder, then, if the visits of such artists improved the
instrumental music of Poland.
From Sowinski’s Les Musiciens Polonais we learn that on great occasions
the King’s band was reinforced by those of Prince Czartoryski and Count
Wielhorski, thus forming a body of 100 executants. This shows that outside
the King’s band good musicians were to be found in Poland. Indeed, to keep
in their service private bands of native and foreign singers and players
was an ancient custom among the Polish magnates; it obtained for a long
time, and had not yet died out at the beginning of this century. From this
circumstance, however, we must not too rashly conclude that these wealthy
noblemen were all animated by artistic enthusiasm. Ostentatiousness had, I
am afraid, more to do with it than love of art for art’s sake. Music was
simply one of the indispensable departments of their establishments, in
the splendour and vastness of which they tried to outdo each other and vie
with sovereign rulers. The promiscuous enumeration of musicians, cooks,
footmen, &c., in the lady’s description of a nobleman’s court which I
referred to in the proem, is in this respect very characteristic. Towards
the middle of the last century Prince Sanguszko, who lived at Dubno, in
Volhynia, had in his service no less than two bands, to which was
sometimes joined a third belonging to Prince Lubomirski. But, it will be
asked, what music did they play? An author of Memoirs of the reign of
Augustus III tells us that, according to the Polish fashion, they had
during meal-times to play national airs, polonaises, mazurkas, &c.,
arranged for wind-instruments, with or without violins. For special
occasions the Prince got a new kind of music, then much in favour—viz.,
a band of mountaineers playing on flutes and drums. And while the guests
were sitting at the banquet, horns, trumpets, and fifes sounded fanfares.
Besides the ordinary and extraordinary bands, this exalted personage had
among his musical retainers a drummer who performed solos on his
instrument. One is glad to learn that when the Prince was alone or had
little company, he took delight in listening to trios for two violins and
bass, it being then the fashion to play such ensemble pieces. Count
Ilinski, the father of the composer John Stanislas Ilinski, engaged for
his private theatre two companies, one from Germany and one from Italy.
The persons employed in the musical department of his household numbered
124. The principal band, conducted by Dobrzyrnski pere, a good violinist
and conductor, consisted of four violins, one viola, one violoncello, one
double bass, one flute, one oboe, one clarinet, and one bassoon. Villagers
were trained by these players to assist them. Then there was yet another
band, one of wind instruments, under the direction of Karelli, a pupil of
the Russian composer Bartnianski [Footnote: The Russian Palestrina, whose
name is oftener met with in the forms of Bortnianski and Bortniansky]. The
chorus was composed of twenty four voices, picked from the young people on
Count Ilinski’s estates. However questionable the taste of many of these
noble art patrons may have been, there were not wanting some who
cultivated music with a purer spirit. Some of the best bands were those of
the Princes D. Radziwill, Adam Czartoryski, F. Sulkowski, Michael
Lubomirski, Counts Ilinski, Oginski, and Wielhorski. Our inquiry into the
cultivation of music at the courts of the Polish magnates has carried us
beyond the point we had reached in our historical survey. Let us now
retrace our steps.
The progress of music above spoken of was arrested by the anarchy and the
civil and other wars that began to rage in Poland with such fury in the
middle of the last century. King Stanislas Poniatowski (1764-1795) is
credited with having exercised great influence on the music of Poland; at
any rate, he patronised the arts and sciences right royally. The Italian
opera at Warsaw cannot have been of mean standing, seeing that artists
such as the composers Paisiello and Cimarosa, and the great violinist,
composer, and conductor Pugnani, with his pupil Viotti (the latter playing
second violin in the orchestra), were members of the company. And the
King’s band of foreign and native players has been called one of the best
in Europe. Still, all this was but the hothouse bloom of exotics. To bring
about a natural harvest of home produce something else was wanted than
royal patronage, and this something sprang from the series of disasters
that befell the nation in the latter half of the last century, and by
shaking it to its very heart’s core stirred up its nobler self. As in
literature, so in music, the national element came now more and more into
action and prominence.
Up to 1778 there had been heard in Poland only Italian and French operas;
in this year, for the first time, a Polish opera was put on the stage. It
is true the beginning was very modest. The early attempts contained few
ensemble pieces, no choruses, and no complex finales. But a new art does
not rise from the mind of a nation as Minerva is said to have risen from
the head of Jupiter. Nay, even the fact that the first three composers of
Polish operas (Kamienski, Weynert, and Kajetani) were not Poles, but
foreigners endeavouring to write in the Polish style, does not destroy the
significance of the movement. The following statistics will, no doubt,
take the reader by surprise:—From the foundation of the national
Polish opera in 1778 till April 20, 1859, 5,917 performances of 285
different operas with Polish words took place in Poland. Of these 92 were
national Polish operas, the remaining 193 by Italian, French, and German
composers; 1,075 representations being given of the former, 4,842 of the
latter. The libretti of 41 of the 92 Polish operas were originals, the
other 51 were translations. And, lastly, the majority of the 16 musicians
who composed the 92 Polish operas were not native Poles, but Czechs,
Hungarians, and Germans [FOOTNOTE: Ladislas von Trocki, Die Entwickelung
der Oper in Polen. (Leipzig, 1867.)]
A step hardly less important than the foundation of a national opera was
the formation, in 1805, of a Musical Society, which had for its object the
improvement as well as the amusement of its members. The idea, which
originated in the head of one of the Prussian officials then in Warsaw,
finding approval, and the pecuniary supplies flowing in abundantly, the
Oginski Palace was rented and fitted up, two masters were engaged for the
teaching of solo and choral singing, and a number of successful concerts
were given. The chief promoters seem to have been Count Krasinski and the
two Prussian officials Mosqua and E. Th. A. Hoffmann. In the last named
the reader will recognise the famous author of fantastic tales and of no
less fantastic musical criticisms, the conductor and composer of operas
and other works, &c. According to his biographer, J. E. Hitzig,
Hoffmann did not take much interest in the proceedings of the Musical
Ressource (that was the name of the society) till it bought the Mniszech
Palace, a large building, which, having been damaged by fire, had to
undergo extensive repairs. Then, indeed, he set to work with a will,
planned the arrangement and fitting-up of the rooms, designed and partly
painted the decorations—not without freely indulging his disposition
for caricature—and when all was ready, on August 3, 1806 (the King
of Prussia’s birthday), conducted the first concert in the splendid new
hall. The activity of the society was great, and must have been
beneficial; for we read that they had every Sunday performances of
quartets and other kinds of chamber music, that ladies frequently came
forward with pianoforte sonatas, and that when the celebrated violinist
Moser, of Berlin, visited Warsaw, he made them acquainted with the finest
quartets of Mozart and Haydn. Still, I should not have dwelt so long on
the doings of the Musical Ressource were it not that it was the germ of,
or at least gave the impulse to, even more influential associations and
institutions that were subsequently founded with a view to the wider
diffusion and better cultivation of the musical art in Poland. After the
battle of Jena the French were not long in making their appearance in
Warsaw, whereby an end was put to Prussia’s rule there, and her officials
were sent about, or rather sent out of, their business. Thus the Musical
Ressource lost many of its members, Hoffmann and Mosqua among others.
Still, it survived, and was reconstructed with more national elements. In
Frederick Augustus of Saxony’s reign it is said to have been transformed
into a school of singing.
The year 1815 brought into existence two musical institutions that deserve
to be noticed—society for the cultivation of church music, which met
at the College of the Pianists, and had at its head Count Zabiello as
president and Elsner as conductor; and an association, organised by the
last-named musician, and presided over by the Princess Sophia Zamoyska,
which aimed at the advancement of the musical art in Poland, and provided
for the education of music teachers for schools, organists for churches,
and singers for the stage. Although I try to do my best with the
unsatisfactory and often contradictory newspaper reports and dictionary
articles from which I have to draw my data, I cannot vouch for the literal
correctness of my notes. In making use of Sowinski’s work I am constantly
reminded of Voltaire’s definition of dictionaries: “Immenses archives de
mensonges et d’un peu de verite.” Happy he who need not consult them! In
1816 Elsner was entrusted by the minister Staszyc with the direction of a
school of dramatic singing and recitation; and in 1821, to crown all
previous efforts, a conservatorium was opened, the programme of which
might almost have satisfied a Berlioz. The department of instrumental
music not only comprised sections for the usual keyed, stringed, and wind
instruments, but also one for instruments of percussion. Solo and choral
singing were to be taught with special regard to dramatic expression.
Besides these and the theoretical branches of music, the curriculum
included dancing, Polish literature, French, and Italian. After reading
the programme it is superfluous to be informed that the institution was
chiefly intended for the training of dramatic artists. Elsner, who was
appointed director, selected the teaching staff, with one exception,
however, that of the first singing-master, for which post the Government
engaged the composer Carlo Evasio Soliva, a pupil of Asioli and Frederici.
The musical taste and culture prevailing in Poland about 1819 is pretty
accurately described by a German resident at Cracow. So far as music was
concerned Poland had hitherto been ignored by the rest of Europe, and
indeed could lay no claim to universal notice in this respect. But the
improved culture and greater insight which some had acquired in foreign
lands were good seeds that began to bear fruit. As yet, however, the
greater part of the public took little or no interest in the better class
of music, and was easily pleased and satisfied with polonaises, mazurkas,
and other trivial things. In fact, the music in Cracow, notwithstanding
the many professional musicians and amateurs living there, was decidedly
bad, and not comparable to the music in many a small German town. In
Warsaw, where the resources were more plentiful, the state of music was of
course also more prosperous. Still, as late as 1815 we meet with the
complaint that what was chiefly aimed at in concerts was the display of
virtuosity, and that grand, serious works were neglected, and complete
symphonies rarely performed. To remedy this evil, therefore, 150 amateurs
combined and organised in 1818 a concert institution. Their concerts took
place once a week, and at every meeting a new and entire symphony, an
overture, a concerto, an aria, and a finale, were performed. The names of
Beethoven, Haydn, Mozart, Cherubini, Spohr, Mehul, Romberg, &c., were
to be found on their programmes. Strange to say, there were no less than
seven conductors: Lessel, Lentz, Wurfel, Haase, Javurek, Stolpe, and
Peschke, all good musicians. The orchestra consisted in part of amateurs,
who were most numerous among the violins, tenors, and violoncellos. The
solo department seems to have been well stocked. To confine ourselves to
one instrument, they could pride themselves on having four excellent lady
pianists, one of whom distinguished herself particularly by the wonderful
dexterity with which she played the most difficult compositions of
Beethoven, Field, Ries, and Dussek. Another good sign of the improving
taste was a series of twenty-four matinees given on Sundays from twelve to
two during the winter of 1818-1819 by Carl Arnold, and much patronised by
the highest nobility. The concert-giver, a clever pianist and composer,
who enjoyed in his day a good reputation in Germany, Russia, and Poland,
produced at every matinee a new pianoforte concerto by one of the best
composers—sometimes one of his own—and was assisted by the
quartet party of Bielawski, a good violinist, leader in the orchestra, and
professor at the Conservatorium. Although Arnold’s stay was not of long
duration, his departure did not leave the town without good pianists.
Indeed, it is a mistake to suppose that Warsaw was badly off with regard
to musicians. This will be evident to the reader as soon as I have named
some of those living there in the time of Chopin. Wenzel W. Wurfel, one of
the professors at the Conservatorium, who stayed in Warsaw from 1815 to
1824, and afterwards went to Vienna, where he became conductor at the
Karnthnerthor Theater, was an esteemed pianist and composer, and
frequently gave concerts, at one of which he played Field’s Concerto in C.
[FOOTNOTE: Wenzel Wilhelm Wurfel, in most dictionaries called Wilhelm
Wurfel (exceptions are: E. Bernsdorf’s “Neues Universal-Lexikon der
Tonkunst”, and Dr. Hugo Riemann’s “Opern-Handbuch”). A Warsaw
correspondent of a German musical paper called him Waclaw Wurfel. In
Whistling’s “Handbuch der musikalischen Literatur” his Christian names are
only indicated by initials—W. W.]
If we scan the list of professors at the Conservatorium we find other
musicians whose reputation was not confined to the narrow limits of Warsaw
or even Poland. There was, for instance, the pianist and composer Franz
Lessel, the favourite pupil of Haydn; and, further, that interesting
character Heinrich Gerhard Lentz, who, born and educated at Cologne, went
in 1784 to Paris, played with success his first concerto at the Concert
Spirituel, published some of his compositions and taught in the best
families, arrived in London in 1791, lived in friendly intercourse with
Clementi and Haydn, and had compositions of his performed at Solomon’s
concerts, returned to Germany in 1795, stayed with Prince Louis Ferdinand
of Prussia till Dussek supplanted him, and so, wandering about, reached
Warsaw, where he gave lessons, founded a pianoforte manufactory, became
professor of the organ at the Conservatorium, married twice, and died in
1839. The only other professor at the Conservatorium about whom I shall
say a few words is C. E. Soliva, whose name and masters I have already
mentioned. Of his works the opera “La testa di bronzo” is the best known.
I should have said “was,” for nobody now knows anything of his. That loud,
shallow talker Count Stendhal, or, to give him his real name, Marie Henry
Beyle, heard it at Milan in 1816, when it was first produced. He had at
first some difficulty in deciding whether Soliva showed himself in that
opera a plagiarist of Mozart or a genius. Finally he came to the
conclusion that—
By this time the reader must have found out that Warsaw was not such a
musical desert as he may at first have imagined. Perfect renderings of
great orchestral works, it is true, seem to have been as yet unattainable,
and the performances of operas failed likewise to satisfy a pure and
trained taste. Nay, in 1822 it was even said that the opera was getting
worse. But when the fruits of the Conservatorium had had time to ripen and
could be gathered in, things would assume a more promising aspect. Church
music, which like other things had much deteriorated, received a share of
the attention which in this century was given to the art. The best singing
was in the Piarist and University churches. In the former the bulk of the
performers consisted of amateurs, who, however, were assisted by members
of the opera. They sang Haydn’s masses best and oftenest. In the other
church the executants were students and professors, Elsner being the
conductor. Besides these choirs there existed a number of musical
associations in connection with different churches in Warsaw. Indeed, it
cannot be doubted that great progress was made in the first thirty years
of this century, and had it not been for the unfortunate insurrection of
1830, Poland would have succeeded in producing a national art and taking
up an honourable position among the great musical powers of Europe,
whereas now it can boast only of individual artists of more or less skill
and originality. The musical events to which the death of the Emperor
Alexander I. gave occasion in 1826, show to some extent the musical
capabilities of Warsaw. On one day a Requiem by Kozlowski (a Polish
composer, then living in St. Petersburg; b. 1757, d. 1831), with
interpolations of pieces by other composers, was performed in the
Cathedral by two hundred singers and players under Soliva. On another day
Mozart’s Requiem, with additional accompaniments by Kurpinski (piccolos,
flutes, oboes, clarinets, and horns to the Dies irae and Sanctus; harps to
the Hostias and Benedictus; and a military brass-band to the closing
chorus!!!), was given in the same place by two hundred and fifty
executants under the last-mentioned musician. And in the Lutheran church
took place a performance of Elsner’s Requiem for male voices,
violoncellos, bassoons, horns, trumpets, trombones, and drums.
Having made the reader acquainted with the musical sphere in which Chopin
moved, I shall take up the thread of the narrative where I left it, and
the reader may follow without fear of being again detained by so long an
interruption.
CHAPTER VI
Fourteen days in Berlin (From September 14 to 28, 1828).—Return by
Posen (Prince Radziwill) and Zullichau (anecdotes) to Warsaw.—Chopin’s
doings there in the following winter and spring.—his home-life,
companions, and preparations for a journey to Vienna.
Chopin, leaving his apprenticeship behind him, was now entering on that
period of his life which we may call his Wanderjahre (years of travel).
This change in his position and circumstances demands a simultaneous
change in the manner of the biographical treatment. Hitherto we have been
much occupied with the agencies that made and moulded the man, henceforth
we shall fix our main attention on his experiences, actions, and
utterances. The materials at our disposal become now more abundant and
more trustworthy. Foremost in importance among them, up to Chopin’s
arrival in Paris, are the letters he wrote at that time, the publication
of which we owe to Karasowski. As they are, however, valuable only as
chronicles of the writer’s doings and feelings, and not, like
Mendelssohn’s and Berlioz’s, also as literary productions, I shall, whilst
fully availing myself of the information they contain, confine my
quotations from them to the characteristic passages.
Chopin’s long-projected and much-desired visit to Berlin came about in
this way. In 1828 Frederick William III of Prussia requested the Berlin
University to invite the most eminent natural philosophers to take part in
a congress to be held in that city under the presidency of Alexander von
Humboldt. Nicholas Chopin’s friend Dr. Jarocki, the zoologist and
professor at the Warsaw University, who had studied and obtained his
degree at Berlin, was one of those who were honoured with an invitation.
The favourable opportunity which thus presented itself to the young
musician of visiting in good company one of the centres of civilisation—for
the professor intended to comply with the invitation, and was willing to
take his friend’s son under his wing—was not allowed to slip by, on
the contrary, was seized eagerly. With what feelings, with what an
infinitude of youthful hopes and expectations, Chopin looked forward to
this journey may be gathered from some expressions in a letter of his
(September 9, 1828) addressed to Titus Woyciechowski, where he describes
himself as being at the time of writing “like a madman,” and accounts for
his madness by the announcement: “For I am going to-day to Berlin.” To
appear in public as a pianist or composer was not one of the objects he
had in view. His dearest wishes were to make the acquaintance of the
musical celebrities of Berlin, and to hear some really good music. From a
promised performance of Spontini’s Ferdinand Cortez he anticipated great
things.
Professor Jarocki and Chopin left Warsaw on the 9th of September, 1828,
and after five days’ posting arrived in Berlin, where they put up at the
Kronprinz. Among the conveniences of this hotel our friend had the
pleasant surprise of finding a good grand piano. He played on it every
day, and was rewarded for his pains not only by the pleasure it gave him,
but also by the admiration of the landlord. Through his travelling
companion’s friend and teacher, M. H. K. Lichtenstein, professor of
zoology and director of the Zoological Museum, who was a member of the
Singakademie and on good terms with Zelter, the conductor of that society,
he hoped to be made acquainted with the most distinguished musicians of
the Prussian capital, and looked to Prince Radziwill for an introduction
to the musical autocrat Spontini, with whom Lichtenstein was not on a
friendly footing. In these hopes, however, Chopin was disappointed, and
had to content himself with looking at the stars from afar. Speaking of a
performance of the Singakademie at which he was present, he says:—
It is not difficult to discover the circumstances that in this respect
caused matters to turn out so little in accordance with the young man’s
wishes. Prince Radziwill was not in Berlin when Chopin arrived, and,
although he was expected, perhaps never came, or came too late to be of
any use. As to Lichtenstein, his time was too much taken up by his duties
as secretary to the congress. Had this not been so, the professor could
not only have brought the young artist in contact with many of the musical
celebrities in Berlin, but also have told him much about his intimate
friend Carl Maria von Weber, who had died little more than two years
before. Lichtenstein’s connection with Weber was probably the cause of his
disagreement with Spontini, alluded to by Chopin. The latter relates in an
off-hand way that he was introduced to and exchanged a few words with the
editor of the Berliner Musikzeitung, without mentioning that this was
Marx. The great theorist had of course then still to make his reputation.
One cannot help wondering at the absence from Chopin’s Berlin letters of
the name of Ludwig Berger, who, no doubt, like Bernhard Klein,
Rungenhagen, the brothers Ganz, and many another composer and virtuoso in
Berlin, was included in the collective expression “distinguished
musicians.” But one would have thought that the personality of the pupil
of Clementi, the companion of A. Klengel, the friend of Steibelt, Field,
and Crotch, and the teacher of Mendelssohn and Taubert, would have
particularly interested a young pianist. Berger’s compositions cannot have
been unknown to Chopin, who, moreover, must have heard of him from his
Warsaw acquaintance Ernemann. However, be this as it may, our friend was
more fortunate as regards hearing good music, which certainly was a more
important business than interviewing celebrities, often, alas, so
refrigerating in its effect on enthusiastic natures. Before his departure
from Warsaw Chopin wrote:—”It is much to hear a really good opera,
were it only once; it enables one to form an idea of what a perfect
performance is like.” Although the most famous singers were on leave of
absence, he greatly enjoyed the performances of Spontini’s “Ferdinand
Cortez”, Cimarosa’s “Die heimliche Eke” (“Il Matrimonio segreto”),
Onslow’s “Der Hausirer” (“Le colporteur”), and Winter’s “Das unterbrochene
Opferfest.” Still, they gave rise to some “buts,” which he thought would
be wholly silenced only in Paris; nay, one of the two singers he liked
best, Fraulein von Schatzel (Signora Tibaldi was the other), reminded him
by her omissions of chromatic scales even of Warsaw. What, however,
affected him more than anything else was Handel’s “Ode on St. Cecilia’s
Day,” which he heard at the Singakademie; it came nearest, he said, to the
ideal of sublime music which he harboured in his soul. A propos of another
musical event he writes:—
The “Freischutz” made its first appearance on the Warsaw stage in 1826,
and therefore was known to Chopin; whereas the other operas were either
unknown to him or were not considered decisive tests.
Music and things connected with music, such as music-shops and
pianoforte-manufactories, took up Chopin’s attention almost exclusively.
He declines with thanks the offer of a ticket for the meetings of the
congress:—
Of the Royal Library, to which he went with Professor Jarocki, he has no
more to say than that “it is very large, but contains few musical works”;
and when he visits the Zoological Museum, he thinks all the time what a
bore it is, and how he would rather be at Schlesinger’s, the best
music-shop in the town, and an enterprising publishing house. That he
neglects many things which educated men generally prize, he feels himself,
and expresses the fear that his father will reproach him with
one-sidedness. In his excuse he says:—
The words, he adds, add nothing to the strength of his argument.
According to Karasowski, who reports, no doubt faithfully, what he has
heard, Chopin was so well versed in all the branches of science, which he
cultivated at the Lyceum, that all who knew him were astonished at his
attainments, and prognosticated for him a brilliant future. I am afraid
the only authorities for this statement were the parents, the sisters, and
other equally indiscriminately-admiring connections, who often discover
genius where it is hidden from the cold, unfeeling world outside this
sympathetic circle. Not that I would blame an amiable weakness without
which love, friendship, in short, happiness were well-nigh impossible.
Only a biographer who wishes to represent a man as he really was, and not
as he appeared to be to one or more individuals, has to be on his guard
against it. Let us grant at once that Chopin made a good figure at the
Lyceum—indeed, a quick-witted boy who found help and encouragement
at home (the secret of almost all successful education) could hardly do
otherwise. But from this to a master of all the arts, to an admirable
Crichton, is a great step. Where there is genius there is inclination.
Now, however well Chopin acquitted himself of his school-tasks—and
even therein you will remember a falling-off was noticeable when outward
pressure ceased—science and kindred subjects were subsequently
treated by him with indifference. The thorough training which he received
in general knowledge entirely failed to implant in him the dispositions of
a scholar or thinker. His nature was perhaps a soil unfavourable to such
growths, and certainly already preoccupied by a vegetation the luxuriance
of which excluded, dwarfed, or crushed everything else. The truth of these
remarks is proved by Chopin’s letters and his friends’ accounts of his
tastes and conversation. In connection with this I may quote a passage
from a letter which Chopin wrote immediately before starting on his Berlin
trip. Jedrzejewicz, a gentleman who by-and-by became Chopin’s
brother-in-law, and was just then staying in Paris, made there the
acquaintance of the Polish musician Sowinski. The latter hearing thus of
his talented countryman in Warsaw, and being co-editor with Fetis of the
“Revue musicale” (so at least we read in the letter in question, but it is
more likely that Sowinski was simply a contributor to the paper), applied
to him for a description of the state of music in Poland, and biographical
notes on the most celebrated executants and composers. Now let us see what
Chopin says in reference to this request.
How much of this is self-knowledge, modesty, or disinclination, I leave
the reader to decide, who, no doubt, will smile at the young man’s
innocence in imagining that Parisian, or, indeed, any journals distinguish
themselves generally by maturity and competence of judgment.
At the time of the Berlin visit Chopin was a lively, well-educated, and
well-mannered youth, who walked through life pleased and amused with its
motley garb, but as yet unconscious of the deeper truths, and the
immensities of joy and sadness, of love and hate, that lie beneath.
Although the extreme youthfulness, nay boyishness, of the letters written
by him at that time, and for some time after, makes him appear younger
than he really was, the criticisms and witticisms on what is going on
around which they contain, show incontestably that he had more than the
usual share of clear and quick-sightedness. His power of observation,
however, was directed rather to dress, manners, and the peculiarities and
eccentricities of outward appearance generally, than to the essentials
which are not always indicated and are often hidden by them. As to his
wit, it had a decided tendency towards satire and caricature. He notices
the pleasing orderliness and cleanliness of the otherwise not
well-favoured surroundings of Berlin as he approaches, considers the city
itself too much extended for the number of its inhabitants, of whom it
could hold twice as many, is favourably impressed by the fine large
palace, the spacious well-built streets, the picturesque bridges, and
congratulates himself that he and his fellow-traveller did not take
lodgings in the broad but rather too quiet Franzosische Strasse. Yes, our
friend is fond of life and society. Whether he thought man the proper
study of mankind or not, as Pope held, he certainly found it the most
attractive. The passengers in the stage-coach were to him so many
personages of a comedy. There was an advocate who tried to shine with his
dull jokes, an agriculturist to whom travelling had given a certain
varnish of civilisation, and a German Sappho who poured forth a stream of
pretentious and at the same time ludicrous complaints. The play
unwittingly performed by these unpaid actors was enjoyed by our friend
with all the zest the feeling of superiority can give. What a
tragi-comical arrangement it is that in this world of ours everybody is
laughing at everybody else! The scientists of the congress afforded Chopin
an almost unlimited scope for the exercise of his wit. Among them he found
so many curious and various specimens that he was induced not only to draw
but also to classify them. Having already previously sent home some
sketches, he concludes one of his letters with the words “the number of
caricatures is increasing.” Indeed, there seems to have been only one
among these learned gentlemen who impressed him with a feeling of respect
and admiration—namely, Alexander von Humboldt. As Chopin’s remarks
on him are the best part of his three Berlin letters, I shall quote them
in full. On seeing Von Humboldt at Lichtenstein’s he writes:—
One of the chief events of Chopin’s visit to Berlin was, according to his
own account, his second dinner with the natural philosophers, which took
place the day before the close of the congress, and was very lively and
entertaining:—
Many appropriate songs were sung in which every one joined with more or
less energy. Zelter conducted; he had standing before him on a red
pedestal as a sign of his exalted musical dignity a large gilt goblet,
which seemed to give him much pleasure. On this day the food was much
better than usual. People say the natural philosophers had at their
meetings been specially occupied with the amelioration of roasts, sauces,
soups, and the like.
“The Berliners are such an impertinent race,” says Goethe, “that to keep
one’s self above water one must have Haare auf den Zahnen, and at times be
rude.” Such a judgment prepares one for much, but not for what Chopin
dares to say:—
What blasphemy!
After a fortnight’s stay in the Prussian capital Professor Jarocki and
Chopin turned homeward on September 28, 1828. They did not, however, go
straight to Warsaw, but broke their journey at Posen, where they remained
two days “in gratiam of an invitation from Archbishop Wolicki.” A great
part of the time he was at Posen he spent at the house of Prince
Radziwill, improvising and playing sonatas of Mozart, Beethoven, and
Hummel, either alone or with Capellmeister Klingohr. On October 6 the
travellers arrived in Warsaw, which Chopin was so impatient to reach that
the professor was prevailed upon to take post-horses from Lowicz. Before I
have done with this trip to Berlin I must relate an incident which
occurred at a stage between Frankfort on the Oder and Posen.
On arriving at Zullichau our travellers were informed by the postmaster
that they would have to wait an hour for horses. This announcement opened
up an anything but pleasing prospect. The professor and his companion did
the best that could be done in these distressing circumstances—namely,
took a stroll through the small town, although the latter had no amenities
to boast of, and the fact of a battle having been fought there between the
Russians and Prussians in 1759 would hardly fire their enthusiasm.
Matters, however, became desperate when on their return there was still
neither sign nor sound of horses. Dr. Jarocki comforted himself with meat
and drink, but Chopin began to look uneasily about him for something to
while away the weariness of waiting. His search was not in vain, for in an
adjoining room he discovered an old piano of unpromising appearance,
which, on being opened and tried, not only turned out to be better than it
looked, but even in tune. Of course our artist did not bethink himself
long, but sat down at once, and launched out into an improvisation on a
Polish air. One of his fellow-passengers, a German, and an inveterate
smoker, attracted by the music, stepped in, and was soon so wrapped up in
it that he forgot even his pipe. The other passengers, the postmaster, his
buxom wife, and their pretty daughters, came dropping in, one after the
other. But when this peaceful conventicle had for some time been listening
silently, devoutly, and admiringly, lo, they were startled by a stentorian
voice bawling into the room the words:—”Gentlemen, the horses are
put in.” The postmaster, who was indignant at this untimely interruption,
begged the musician to continue. But Chopin said that they had already
waited too long, it was time to depart. Upon this there was a general
commotion; the mistress of the house solicited and cajoled, the young
ladies bashfully entreated with their eyes, and all pressed around the
artist and supported the request, the postmaster even offering extra
horses if Chopin would go on with his playing. Who could resist? Chopin
sat down again, and resumed his fantasia. When he had ended, a servant
brought in wine, the postmaster proposed as a toast “the favourite of
Polyhymnia,” and one of the audience, an old musician, gave voice to his
feelings by telling the hero that, “if Mozart had heard you, he would have
shaken hands with you and exclaimed ‘Bravo!’ An insignificant man like me
dare not do that.” After Chopin had played a mazurka as a wind-up, the
tall postmaster took him in his arms, carried him to the coach—the
pockets of which the ladies had already filled with wine and eatables—and,
bidding him farewell, said that as long as he lived he would think with
enthusiasm of Frederick Chopin.
We can have no difficulty in believing the statement that in after-life
our artist recalled with pleasure this incident at the post-house of
Zullichau, and that his success among these unsophisticated people was
dearer to him than many a more brilliant one in the great world of art and
fashion. But, it may be asked, did all this happen in exactly the same way
in which it is told here? Gentle reader, let us not inquire too curiously
into this matter. Of course you have heard of myth-making and
legend-making. Well, anecdote-making is a process of a similar nature, a
process of accumulation and development. The only difference between the
process in the first two cases and that in the third is, that the former
is carried on by races, the latter by individuals. A seed-corn of fact
falls on the generous soil of the poetic imagination, and forthwith it
begins to expand, to sprout, and to grow into flower, shrub, or tree. But
there are well and ill-shapen plants, and monstrosities too. The above
anecdote is a specimen of the first kind. As a specimen of the last kind
may be instanced an undated anecdote told by Sikorski and others. It is
likewise illustrative of Chopin’s power and love of improvisation. The
seed-corn of fact in the case seems to be that one Sunday, when playing
during divine service in the Wizytek Church, Chopin, taking for his
subjects some motives of the part of the Mass that had just been
performed, got so absorbed in his improvisation that he entirely forgot
all his surroundings, and turned a deaf ear to the priest at the altar,
who had already for the second time chanted ‘Per omnia saecula
saeculurum.’ This is a characteristic as well as a pretty artist-story,
which, however, is marred, I think, by the additions of a choir that
gathers round the organist and without exception forgets like him time and
place, and of a mother superior who sends the sacristan to remind those
music-enthusiasts in the organ-gallery of the impatiently waiting priest
and acolyte, &c. Men willingly allow themselves to be deceived, but
care has to be taken that their credulity be not overtaxed. For if the
intention is perceived, it fails in its object; as the German poet says:—”So
fuehrt man Absicht und man ist verstimmt.”
On the 6th of October, as has already been said, Chopin returned to
Warsaw. Judging from a letter written by him at the end of the year
(December 27, 1828) to his friend Titus Woyciechowski, he was busy
composing and going to parties. The “Rondeau a la Krakowiak,” Op. 14, was
now finished, and the Trio, Op. 8, was nearly so. A day on which he had
not been musically productive seems to have been regarded by him as a lost
day. The opening phrase of the following quotation reminds one of the
famous exclamation of the Emperor Titus:—
In the same letter he relates that his parents are preparing a small room
for him:—
This remark calls up a passage in a letter written two years later from
Vienna to his friend John Matuszynski:—
A charming little genre picture of Chopin’s home-life is to be found in
one of his letters from Vienna (December 1, 1830) Having received news
from Warsaw, he writes:—
Several names in the above extract remind me that I ought to say a few
words about the young men with whom Chopin at that time associated. Many
of them were no doubt companions in the noblest sense of the word. Of this
class may have been Celinski, Hube, Eustachius Marylski, and Francis
Maciejowski (a nephew of the previously-mentioned Professor Waclaw
Maciejowski), who are more or less frequently mentioned in Chopin’s
correspondence, but concerning whom I have no information to give. I am as
badly informed about Dziewanowski, whom a letter quoted by Karasowski
shows to have been a friend of Chopin’s. Of two other friends, Stanislas
Kozmian and William Kolberg, we know at least that the one was a few years
ago still living at Posen and occupied the post of President of the
Society of the Friends of Science, and that the other, to whom the
earliest letters of Chopin that have come down to us are addressed,
became, not to mention lesser offices and titles, a Councillor of State,
and died on June 4,1877. Whatever the influence of the friends I have thus
far named may have been on the man Chopin, one cannot but feel inclined to
think that Stephen Witwicki and Dominic Magnuszewski, especially the
former, must have had a greater influence on the artist. At any rate,
these two poets, who made their mark in Polish literature, brought the
musician in closest contact with the strivings of the literary romanticism
of those days. In later years Chopin set several of Witwicki’s songs to
music. Both Magnuszewski and Witwicki lived afterwards, like Chopin, in
Paris, where they continued to associate with him. Of the musical
acquaintances we have to notice first and foremost Julius Fontana, who
himself said that he was a daily visitor at Chopin’s house. The latter
writes in the above-mentioned letter (December 27, 1828) to Titus
Woyciechowski:—
Alexander Rembielinski, described as a brilliant pianist and a composer in
the style of Fesca, who returned from Paris to Warsaw and died young, is
said to have been a friend of Chopin’s. Better musicians than Fontana,
although less generally known in the western part of Europe, are Joseph
Nowakowski and Thomas Nidecki. Chopin, by some years their junior, had
intercourse with them during his residence in Poland as well as afterwards
abroad. It does not appear that Chopin had what can rightly be called
intimate friends among the young Polish musicians. If we may believe the
writer of an article in Sowinski’s Dictionary, there was one exception. He
tells us that the talented Ignaz Felix Dobrzynski was a fellow-pupil of
Chopin’s, taking like him private lessons from Elsner. Dobrzynski came to
Warsaw in 1825, and took altogether thirty lessons.
This unison of kindred minds is so beautiful that one cannot but wish it
to have been a fact. Still, I must not hide the circumstance that neither
Liszt nor Karasowski mentions Dobrzynski as one of Chopin’s friends, and
the even more significant circumstance that he is only mentioned twice and
en passant in Chopin’s letters. All this, however, does not necessarily
nullify the lexicographer’s statements, and until contradictory evidence
is forthcoming we may hold fast by so pleasing and ennobling a creed.
The most intimate of Chopin’s early friends, indeed, of all his friends—perhaps
the only ones that can be called his bosom friends—have still to be
named, Titus Woyciechowski and John Matuszynski. It was to them that
Chopin wrote his most interesting and self-revealing letters. We shall
meet them and hear of them often in the course of this narrative, for
their friendship with the musician was severed only by death. It will
therefore suffice to say here that Titus Woyciechowski, who had been
Chopin’s school-fellow, lived, at the period of the latter’s life we have
now reached, on his family estates, and that John Matuszynski was then
studying medicine in Warsaw.
In his letter of December 27, 1828, Chopin makes some allusions to the
Warsaw theatres. The French company had played Rataplan, and at the
National Theatre they had performed a comedy of Fredro’s, Weber’s
Preciosa, and Auber’s Macon. A musical event whichmust have interested
Chopin much more than the performances of the two last-mentioned works
took place in the first half of the year 1829—namely, Hummel’s
appearance in Warsaw. He and Field were, no doubt, those pianists who
through the style of their compositions most influenced Chopin. For
Hummel’s works Chopin had indeed a life-long admiration and love. It is
therefore to be regretted that he left in his letters no record of the
impression which Hummel, one of the four most distinguished
representatives of pianoforte-playing of that time, made upon him. It is
hardly necessary to say that the other three representatives—of
different generations and schools let it be understood—were Field,
Kalkbrenner, and Moscheles. The only thing we learn about this visit of
Hummel’s to Warsaw is that he and the young Polish pianist made a good
impression upon each other. As far as the latter is concerned this is a
mere surmise, or rather an inference from indirect proofs, for, strange to
say, although Chopin mentions Hummel frequently in his letters, he does
not write a syllable that gives a clue to his sentiments regarding him.
The older master, on the other hand, shows by his inquiries after his
younger brother in art and the visits he pays him that he had a real
regard and affection for him.
It is also to be regretted that Chopin says in his letters nothing of
Paganini’s appearance in Warsaw. The great Italian violinist, who made so
deep an impression on, and exercised so great an influence over, Liszt,
cannot have passed by without producing some effect on Chopin. That the
latter had a high opinion of Paganini may be gathered from later
utterances, but what one would like is a description of his feelings and
thoughts when he first heard him. Paganini came to Warsaw in 1829, after
his visit to Berlin. In the Polish capital he was worshipped with the same
ardour as elsewhere, and also received the customary tributes of applause,
gold, and gifts. From Oreste Bruni’s Niccolo Paganini, celebre violinista
Genovese, we learn that his Warsaw worshippers presented him with a gold
snuff-box, which bore the following inscription:—Al Cav. Niccolo
Paganini. Gli ammiratori del suo talento. Varsovia 19 Luglio 1829.
Some months after this break in what he, no doubt, considered the
monotonous routine of Warsaw life, our friend made another excursion, one
of far greater importance in more than one respect than that to Berlin.
Vienna had long attracted him like a powerful magnet, the obstacles to his
going thither were now removed, and he was to see that glorious art-city
in which Gluck, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, and many lesser but
still illustrious men had lived and worked.
CHAPTER VII
CHOPIN JOURNEYS TO VIENNA BY WAY OF CRACOW AND OJCOW.—STAYS THERE
FOR SOME WEEKS, PLAYING TWICE IN PUBLIC.—RETURNS TO WARSAW BY WAY OF
PRAGUE, DRESDEN, AND BRESLAU.
IT was about the middle of July, 1829, that Chopin, accompanied by his
friends Celinski, Hube, and Francis Maciejowski, set out on his journey to
Vienna. They made a week’s halt at the ancient capital of the Polish
Republic, the many-towered Cracow, which rises picturesquely in a
landscape of great loveliness. There they explored the town and its
neighbourhood, both of which are rich in secular and ecclesiastical
buildings, venerable by age and historical associations, not a few of them
remarkable also as fine specimens of architecture. Although we have no
detailed account of Chopin’s proceedings, we may be sure that our
patriotic friend did not neglect to look for and contemplate the vestiges
of his nation’s past power and greatness: the noble royal palace,
degraded, alas, into barracks for the Austrian soldiery; the grand,
impressive cathedral, in which the tombs of the kings present an epitome
of Polish history; the town-hall, a building of the 14th century; the
turreted St. Florian’s gate; and the monumental hillock, erected on the
mountain Bronislawa in memory of Kosciuszko by the hands of his grateful
countrymen, of which a Frenchman said:—”Void une eloquence touts
nouvelle: un peuple qui ne peut s’exprimer par la parole ou par les
livres, et qui parle par des montagnes.” On a Sunday afternoon, probably
on the 24th of July, the friends left Cracow, and in a rustic vehicle
drove briskly to Ojcow. They were going to put up not in the place itself,
but at a house much patronised by tourists, lying some miles distant from
it and the highway. This circumstance led to something like a romantic
incident, for as the driver was unacquainted with the bye-roads, they got
into a small brook, “as clear and silvery bright as brooks in fairytales,”
and having walls of rock on the right and left, they were unable to
extricate themselves “from this labyrinth.” Fortunately they met towards
nine o’clock in the evening two peasants who conducted them to their
destination, the inn of Mr. Indyk, in which also the Polish authoress
Clementina Tanska, who has described this district in one of her works,
had lodged—a fact duly reported by Chopin to his sister Isabella and
friend Titus. Arriving not only tired but also wet to above the knees, his
first business was to guard against taking a cold. He bought a Cracow
double-woven woollen night-cap, which he cut in two pieces and wrapped
round his feet. Then he sat down by the fire, drank a glass of red wine,
and, after talking for a little while longer, betook himself to bed, and
slept the sleep of the just. Thus ended the adventure of that day, and, to
all appearance, without the dreaded consequences of a cold. The natural
beauties of the part of the country where Chopin now was have gained for
it the name of Polish Switzerland. The principal sights are the Black
Cave, in which during the bloody wars with the Turks and Tartars the women
and children used to hide themselves; the Royal Cave, in which, about the
year 1300, King Wladyslaw Lokietek sought refuge when he was hardly
pressed by the usurper Wenceslas of Bohemia; and the beautifully-situated
ruins of Ojcow Castle, once embowered in thick forests. Having enjoyed to
the full the beauties of Polish Switzerland, Chopin continued his journey
merrily and in favourable weather through the picturesque countries of
Galicia, Upper Silesia, and Moravia, arriving in Vienna on July 31.
Chopin’s letters tell us very little of his sight-seeing in the Austrian
capital, but a great deal of matters that interest us far more deeply. He
brought, of course, a number of letters of introduction with him. Among
the first which he delivered was one from Elsner to the publisher
Hashnger, to whom Chopin had sent a considerable time before some of his
compositions, which, however, still remained in manuscript. Haslinger
treated Elsner’s pupil with an almost embarrassing politeness, and,
without being reminded of the MSS. in question, informed his visitor that
one of them, the variations on La ci darem la mano, would before long
appear in the Odeon series. “A great honour for me, is it not?” writes the
happy composer to his friend Titus. The amiable publisher, however,
thought that Chopin would do well to show the people of Vienna what his
difficult and by no means easily comprehensible composition was like. But
the composer was not readily persuaded. The thought of playing in the city
where Mozart and Beethoven had been heard frightened him, and then he had
not touched a piano for a whole fortnight. Not even when Count Gallenberg
entered and Haslinger presented Chopin to him as a coward who dare not
play in public was the young virtuoso put on his mettle. In fact, he even
declined with thanks the theatre which was placed at his disposal by Count
Gallenberg, who was then lessee of the Karnthnerthor Theatre, and in whom
the reader has no doubt recognised the once celebrated composer of
ballets, or at least the husband of Beethoven’s passionately-loved
Countess Giulia Guicciardi. Haslinger and Gallenberg were not the only
persons who urged him to give the Viennese an opportunity to hear him.
Dining at the house of Count Hussarzewski, a worthy old gentleman who
admired his young countryman’s playing very much, Chopin was advised by
everybody present—and the guests belonged to the best society of
Vienna—to give a concert. The journalist Blahetka, best known as the
father of his daughter, was not sparing in words of encouragement; and
Capellmeister Wurfel, who had been kind to Chopin in Warsaw, told him
plainly that it would be a disgrace to himself, his parents, and his
teachers not to make a public appearance, which, he added, was, moreover,
a politic move for this reason, that no one who has composed anything new
and wishes to make a noise in the world can do so unless he performs his
works himself. In fact, everybody with whom he got acquainted was of the
same opinion, and assured him that the newspapers would say nothing but
what was flattering. At last Chopin allowed himself to be persuaded,
Wurfel took upon him the care of making the necessary arrangements, and
already the next morning the bills announced the coming event to the
public of Vienna. In a long postscript of a long and confused letter to
his people he writes: “I have made up my mind. Blahetka asserts that I
shall create a furore, ‘being,’ as he expressed it, ‘an artist of the
first rank, and occupying an honourable place by the side of Moscheles,
Herz, and Kalkbrenner.'” To all appearance our friend was not disposed to
question the correctness of this opinion; indeed, we shall see that
although he had his moments of doubting, he was perfectly conscious of his
worth. No blame, however, attaches to him on this account; self-respect
and self-confidence are not only irreprehensible but even indispensable—that
is, indispensable for the successful exercise of any talent. That our
friend had his little weaknesses shall not be denied nor concealed. I am
afraid he cannot escape the suspicion of having possessed a considerable
share of harmless vanity. “All journalists,” he writes to his parents and
sisters, “open their eyes wide at me, and the members of the orchestra
greet me deferentially because I walk with the director of the Italian
opera arm-in-arm.” Two pianoforte-manufacturers—in one place Chopin
says three—offered to send him instruments, but he declined, partly
because he had not room enough, partly because he did not think it worth
while to begin to practise two days before the concert. Both Stein and
Graff were very obliging; as, however, he preferred the latter’s
instruments, he chose one of this maker’s for the concert, and tried to
prevent the other from taking offence by speaking him fair.
Chopin made his first public appearance in Vienna at the Karnthnerthor
Theatre on August 11, 1829. The programme comprised the following items:
Beethoven’s Overture to Prometheus; arias of Rossini’s and Vaccaj’s, sung
by Mdlle. Veltheim, singer to the Saxon Court; Chopin’s variations on La
ci darem la mano and Krakowiak, rondeau de concert (both for pianoforte
and orchestra), for the latter of which the composer substituted an
improvisation; and a short ballet. Chopin, in a letter to his people dated
August 12, 1829, describes the proceedings thus:—
In a letter to Titus Woyciechowski, dated September 12, 1829, he says:—
To the cause of the paleness and the desperate mood I shall advert anon.
Chopin was satisfied, nay, delighted with his success; he had a friendly
greeting of “Bravo!” on entering, and this “pleasant word” the audience
repeated after each Variation so impetuously that he could not hear the
tuttis of the orchestra. At the end of the piece he was called back twice.
The improvisation on a theme from La Dame blanche and the Polish tune
Chmiel, which he substituted for the Krakowiak, although it did not
satisfy himself, pleased, or as Chopin has it, “electrified” the audience.
Count Gallenberg commended his compositions, and Count Dietrichstein, who
was much with the Emperor, came to him on the stage, conversed with him a
long time in French, complimented him on his performance, and asked him to
prolong his stay in Vienna. The only adverse criticism which his friends,
who had posted themselves in different parts of the theatre, heard, was
that of a lady who remarked, “Pity the lad has not a better tournure.”
However, the affair did not pass off altogether without unpleasant
incidents:—
Although Chopin passes off lightly the grumbling and grimacing of the
members of the orchestra respecting the bad writing of his music, they
seem to have had more serious reasons for complaint than he alleges in the
above quotation. Indeed, he relates himself that after the occurrence his
countryman Nidecki, who was very friendly to him and rejoiced at his
success, looked over the orchestral parts of the Rondo and corrected them.
The correction of MSS. was at no time of his life a strong point of
Chopin’s. That the orchestra was not hostile to him appears from another
allusion of his to this affair:—
After such a success nothing was more natural than that Chopin should
allow himself to be easily persuaded to play again—il n’y a que le
premier pas qui coute—but he said he would not play a third time.
Accordingly, on August 18, he appeared once more on the stage of the
Karnthnerthor Theatre. Also this time he received no payment, but played
to oblige Count Gallenberg, who, indeed, was in anything but flourishing
circumstances. On this occasion Chopin succeeded in producing the
Krakowiak, and repeated, by desire of the ladies, the Variations. Two
other items of the programme were Lindpaintner’s Overture to Der Bergkonig
and a polonaise of Mayseder’s played by the violinist Joseph Khayl, a very
young pupil of Jansa’s.
In another letter he is more loquacious on the subject:—
The press showed itself not less favourable than the public. The fullest
account of our artist’s playing and compositions, and the impression they
produced on this occasion, I found on looking over the pages of the Wiener
Theaterzeitung. Chopin refers to it prospectively in a letter to his
parents, written on August 19. He had called on Bauerle, the editor of the
paper, and had been told that a critique of the concert would soon appear.
To satisfy his own curiosity and to show his people that he had said no
more than what was the truth in speaking of his success, he became a
subscriber to the Wiener Theaterzeitung, and had it sent to Warsaw. The
criticism is somewhat long, but as this first step into the great world of
art was an event of superlative importance to Chopin, and is one of more
than ordinary interest to us, I do not hesitate to transcribe it in full
so far as it relates to our artist. Well, what we read in the Wiener
Theaterzeitung of August 20, 1829, is this:—
Although the critic of the Wiener Theaterzeitung is more succinct in his
report (September 1, 1829) of the second concert, he is not less
complimentary. Chopin as a composer as well as an executant justified on
this occasion the opinion previously expressed about him.
These expressions of praise are so enthusiastic that a suspicion might
possibly arise as to their trustworthiness. But this is not the only
laudatory account to be found in the Vienna papers. Der Sammler, for
instance, remarked: “In Mr. Chopin we made the acquaintance of one of the
most excellent pianists, full of delicacy and deepest feeling.” The Wiener
Zeitschrift fur Kunst, Literatur, Theater und Mode, too, had appreciative
notices of the concerts.
This was written after the first concert, and printed on August 22, 1829.
From the criticism on the second concert, which appeared in the same paper
a week later (August 29), I cull the following sentences:—
In conclusion, let me quote one other journal, this time a purely musical
one—namely, the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung (No. 46, November
18, 1829). The notice, probably written by that debauched genius F.A.
Kanne, runs thus:—
Still, the sweets of success were not altogether without some admixture of
bitterness, as we may perceive from the following remarks of Chopin’s:—
And this, after having a few days before attributed the applause to the
Germans, who “could appreciate improvisations.” Tantae animis coelestibus
irae? But what was the reason of this indignation? Simply this: a
gentleman, who after the second concert came into the coffee-room of the
hotel where Chopin was staying, on being asked by some of the guests how
he liked the performance, answered laconically, “the ballet was very
pretty”; and, although they put some further questions, he would say no
more, having no doubt noticed a certain person. And hinc illae lacrimae.
Our sensitive friend was indeed so much ruffled at this that he left the
room in a pet and went to bed, so as not to hinder, as he explains, the
outpouring of the gentleman’s feelings. The principal stricture passed on
the virtuoso was that he played too softly, or, rather, too delicately.
Chopin himself says that on that point all were unanimous. But the touchy
artist, in true artist fashion— or shall we be quite just and say
“in true human fashion”? adds:—
When Count Moritz Lichnowski, to whom Chopin was introduced by Wurfel,
learned after the first concert that the young virtuoso was going to play
again, he offered to lend him his own piano for the occasion, for he
thought Chopin’s feebleness of tone was owing to the instrument he had
used. But Chopin knew perfectly the real state of the matter: “This is my
manner of playing, which pleases the ladies so very much.” Chopin was
already then, and remained all his life, nay, even became more and more,
the ladies’ pianist par excellence. By which, however, I do not mean that
he did not please the men, but only that no other pianist was equally
successful in touching the most tender and intimate chords of the female
heart. Indeed, a high degree of refinement in thought and feeling combined
with a poetic disposition are indispensable requisites for an adequate
appreciation of Chopin’s compositions and style of playing. His remark,
therefore, that he had captivated the learned and the poetic natures, was
no doubt strictly correct with regard to his success in Vienna; but at the
same time it may be accepted as a significant foreshadowing of his whole
artistic career. Enough has now been said of these performances, and,
indeed, too much, were it not that to ascertain the stage of development
reached by an original master, and the effect which his efforts produced
on his artistically-cultivated contemporaries, are objects not undeserving
a few pages of discussion.
During the twenty days which Chopin spent in Vienna he displayed great
activity. He was always busy, and had not a moment to spare. His own
public performances did not make him neglect those of others. He heard the
violinist Mayseder twice, and went to representations of Boieldieu’s “La
Dame blanche,” Rossini’s “Cenerentola,” Meyerbeer’s “Crociato in Egitto,”
and other operas. He also visited the picture gallery and the museum of
antiquities, delivered letters of introduction, made acquaintances, dined
and drank tea with counts and countesses, &c. Wherever Chopin goes we
are sure to see him soon in aristocratic and in Polish society.
Chopin called repeatedly on the “worthy old gentleman” Count Hussarzewski
and his “worthy lady,” with whom he dined once, and who wished him to stay
for dinner when he made his farewell call. With the Countess Lichnowska
and her daughter he took tea two days after the first concert. They were
inexpressibly delighted to hear that he was going to give a second, asked
him to visit them on his way through Vienna to Paris, and promised him a
letter of introduction to a sister of the Count’s. This Count Lichnowski
was Count Moritz Lichnowski, the friend of Beethoven, to whom the great
master dedicated the Variations, Op. 35, and the Sonata, Op. 90, in which
are depicted the woes and joys of the Count’s love for the singer Mdlle.
Strammer, who afterwards became his wife, and, in fact, was the Countess
Lichnowska with whom Chopin became acquainted.
[Footnote: Count Moritz Lichnowski must not be confounded with his elder
brother Prince Carl Lichnowski, the pupil and friend of Mozart, and the
friend and patron of Beethoven, to whom the latter dedicated his Op. 1,
and who died in 1814.]
Among the letters of introduction which Chopin brought with him there was
also one for Schuppanzigh, whose name is in musical history indissolubly
connected with those of Beethoven and Lichnowski. The eminent quartet
leader, although his quartet evenings were over, held out to Chopin hopes
of getting up another during his visitor’s stay in Vienna—he would
do so, he said, if possible. To no one, however, either professional or
amateur, was Chopin so much indebted for guidance and furtherance as to
his old obliging friend Wurfel, who introduced him not only to Count
Gallenberg, Count Lichnowski, and Capellmeister Seyfried, but to every one
of his acquaintances who either was a man of influence or took an interest
in musical matters. Musicians whose personal acquaintance Chopin said he
was glad to make were: Gyrowetz, the author of the concerto with which
little Frederick made his debut in Warsaw at the age of nine, an estimable
artist, as already stated, who had the sad misfortune to outlive his
popularity; Capellmeister Seyfried, a prolific but qualitatively poor
composer, best known to our generation as the editor of Albrechtsberger’s
theoretical works and Beethoven’s studies; Conradin Kreutzer, who had
already distinguished himself as a virtuoso on the clarinet and
pianoforte, and as a conductor and composer, but had not yet produced his
“Nachtlager”; Franz Lachner, the friend of Franz Schubert, then a young
active conductor and rising composer, now one of the most honoured
veterans of his art. With Schuppanzigh’s pupil Mayseder, the prince of the
Viennese violinists of that day, and indeed one of the neatest, most
graceful, and elegant, although somewhat cold, players of his instrument,
Chopin had a long conversation. The only critical comments to be found in
Chopin’s letters on the musicians he came in contact with in the Austrian
capital refer to Czerny, with whom he got well acquainted and often played
duets for two pianos. Of him the young Polish musician said, “He is a good
man, but nothing more.” And after having bidden him farewell, he says,
“Czerny was warmer than all his compositions.” However, it must not be
supposed that Chopin’s musical acquaintances were confined to the male
sex; among them there was at least one belonging to the better and fairer
half of humanity—a pianist-composer, a maiden still in her teens,
and clever and pretty to boot, who reciprocated the interest he took in
her. According to our friend’s rather conceited statement I ought to have
said—but it would have been very ungallant to do so—he
reciprocated the interest she took in him. The reader has no doubt already
guessed that I am speaking of Leopoldine Blahetka.
On the whole, Chopin passed his time in Vienna both pleasantly and
profitably, as is well shown by his exclamation on the last day of his
stay: “It goes crescendo with my popularity here, and this gives me much
pleasure.” The preceding day Schuppanzigh had said to him that as he left
so soon he ought not to be long in coming back. And when Chopin replied
that he would like to return to perfect himself, the by-standers told him
he need not come for that purpose as he had no longer anything to learn.
Although the young musician remarks that these were compliments, he cannot
help confessing that he likes to hear them; and of course one who likes to
hear them does not wholly disbelieve them, but considers them something
more than a mere flatus vocis. “Nobody here,” Chopin writes exultingly,
“will regard me as a pupil.” Indeed, such was the reception he met with
that it took him by surprise. “People wonder at me,” he remarked soon
after his arrival in Vienna, “and I wonder at them for wondering at me.”
It was incomprehensible to him that the artists and amateurs of the famous
musical city should consider it a loss if he departed without giving a
concert. The unexpected compliments and applause that everywhere fell upon
his ear, together with the many events, experiences, and thoughts that
came crowding upon him, would have caused giddiness in any young artist;
Chopin they made drunk with excitement and pleasure. The day after the
second concert he writes home: “I really intended to have written about
something else, but I can’t get yesterday out of my head.” His head was
indeed brimful, or rather full to overflowing, of whirling memories and
expectations which he poured into the news—budgets destined for his
parents, regardless of logical sequence, just as they came uppermost. The
clear, succinct accounts of his visit which he gives to his friend Titus
after his return to Warsaw contrast curiously with the confused
interminable letters of shreds and patches he writes from Vienna. These
latter, however, have a value of their own; they present one with a
striking picture of the state of his mind at that time. The reader may
consider this part of the biography as an annotated digest of Chopin’s
letters, of those addressed to his parents as well as of those to his
friend Woyciechowski.
At last came the 19th of August, the day of our travelling-party’s
departure. Chopin passed the whole forenoon in making valedictory visits,
and when in the afternoon he had done packing and writing, he called once
more on Haslinger—who promised to publish the Variations in about
five weeks—and then went to the cafe opposite the theatre, where he
was to meet Gyrowetz, Lachner, Kreutzer, and others. The rest shall be
told in Chopin’s own words:—
This was at nine o’clock in the evening, and Chopin and his
fellow-travellers, accompanied for half-an-hour by Nidecki and some other
Poles, leaving behind Vienna and Vienna friends, proceeded on their way to
Bohemia.
Prague was reached by our travellers on August 21. The interesting old
town did not display its beauties in vain, for Chopin writes admiringly of
the fine views from the castle hill, of the castle itself, of “the
majestic cathedral with a silver statue of St. John, the beautiful chapel
of St. Wenceslas, inlaid with amethysts and other precious stones,” and
promises to give a fuller and more detailed description of what he has
seen by word of mouth. His friend Maciejowski had a letter of introduction
to Waclaw Hanka, the celebrated philologist and librarian of the National
Museum, to whom Chopin introduced himself as the godson of Count Skarbek.
On visiting the museum they were asked, like all on whom the librarian
bestowed his special attention, to write their names in the visitors’
book. Maciejowski wrote also four mazurka strophes eulogising Hanka’s
scientific achievements, and Chopin set them to music. The latter brought
with him from Vienna six letters of introduction—one from Blahetka
and five from Wurfel—which were respectively addressed to Pixis, to
the manager of the theatre, and to other musical big-wigs. The
distinguished violin-virtuoso, professor at the Conservatorium, and
conductor at the theatre, Frederick Pixis (1786—1842), received
Chopin very kindly, gave up some lessons that he might keep him longer and
talk with him, and invited him to come again in the afternoon, when he
would meet August Alexander Klengel, of Dresden, whose card Chopin had
noticed on the table. For this esteemed pianist and famous contrapuntist
he had also a letter of introduction, and he was glad to meet him in
Prague, as he otherwise would have missed seeing him, Klengel being on his
way to Vienna and Italy. They made each other’s acquaintance on the stairs
leading to Pixis’ apartments.
Elsewhere he writes:—
Klengel’s opus magnum, the “Canons et Fugues dans tons les tons majeurs et
mineurs pour le piano, en deux parties,” did not appear till 1854, two
years after his death, although it had been completed some decades
previously. He carried it about with him on all his travels, unceasingly
improving and perfecting it, and may be said to have worked at it for the
space of half his life. The two artists who met at Pixis’ house got on
well together, unlike as they were in their characters and aims. Chopin
called on Klengel before the latter’s departure from Prague, and spent two
hours with him in conversation, neither of them being for a moment at a
loss for material to talk about. Klengel gave Chopin a letter of
introduction to Morlacchi, the address of which ran: Al ornatissimo
Signore Cavaliere Morlacchi, primo maestro della capella Reale, and in
which he asked this gentleman to make the bearer acquainted with the
musical life of Dresden. How favourably Klengel had impressed his younger
brother in art may be gathered from the above-quoted and the following
remarks: “He was to me a very agreeable acquaintance, whom I esteem more
highly than Czerny, but of this also don’t speak, my beloved ones.”
[FOOTNOTE: Their disparity of character would have revealed itself
unpleasantly to both parties if the grand seigneur Chopin had, like Moritz
Hauptmann, been the travelling-companion of the meanly parsimonious
Klengel, who to save a few bajocchi left the hotels with uncleaned boots,
and calculated the worth of the few things he cared for by scudi.—See
Moritz Hauptmann’s account of his “canonic” travelling-companion’s ways
and procedures in the letters to Franz Hauser, vol. i., p. 64, and
passim.]
The reader will no doubt notice and admire the caution of our young
friend. Remembering that not even Paganini had escaped being censured in
Prague, Chopin felt no inclination to give a concert, as he was advised to
do. A letter in which he describes his Prague experiences reveals to us
one of his weaknesses—one, however, which he has in common with many
men of genius. A propos of his bursting into a wrong bedroom he says: “I
am absent-minded, you know.”
After three pleasant days at Prague the quatrefoil of friends betook
themselves again to the road, and wended their way to Teplitz, where they
arrived the same evening, and stopped two nights and one day. Here they
fell in with many Poles, by one of whom, Louis Lempicki, Chopin was
introduced to Prince Clary and his family, in whose castle he spent an
evening in very aristocratic society. Among the guests were an Austrian
prince, an Austrian and a Saxon general, a captain of the English navy,
and several dandies whom Chopin suspected to be Austrian princes or
counts. After tea he was asked by the mother of the Princess Clary,
Countess Chotek, to play something. Chopin at once went to the piano, and
invited those present to give him a theme to improvise upon.
In short, Chopin was made much of; had to play four times, received an
invitation to dine at the castle the following day, &c., &c. That
our friend, in spite of all these charming prospects, leaving behind him
three lovely princesses, and who knows what other aristocratic amenities,
rolled off the very next morning at five o’clock in a vehicle hired at the
low price of two thalers—i.e., six shillings—must be called
either a feat of superhuman heroism or an instance of barbarous
insensibility—let the reader decide which. Chopin’s visit to Teplitz
was not part of his original plan, but the state of his finances was so
good that he could allow himself some extravagances. Everything delighted
him at Teplitz, and, short as his stay was, he did the sight-seeing
thoroughly—we have his own word for it that he saw everything worth
seeing, among the rest Dux, the castle of the Waldsteins, with relics of
their ancestor Albrecht Waldstein, or Wallenstein.
Leaving Teplitz on the morning of August 26, he arrived in the evening of
the same day in Dresden in good health and good humour. About this visit
to Dresden little is to be said. Chopin had no intention of playing in
public, and did nothing but look about him, admiring nature in Saxon
Switzerland, and art in the “magnificent” gallery. He went to the theatre
where Goethe’s Faust (the first part), adapted by Tieck, was for the first
time produced on the stage, Carl Devrient impersonating the principal
part. “An awful but grand imagination! In the entr’actes portions from
Spohr’s opera “Faust” were performed. They celebrated today Goethe’s
eightieth birthday.” It must be admitted that the master-work is dealt
with rather laconically, but Chopin never indulges in long aesthetical
discussions. On the following Saturday Meyerbeer’s “Il Crociato” was to be
performed by the Italian Opera—for at that time there was still an
Italian Opera in Dresden. Chopin, however, did not stay long enough to
hear it, nor did he very much regret missing it, having heard the work
already in Vienna. Although Baron von Friesen received our friend most
politely, he seems to have been of no assistance to him. Chopin fared
better with his letter of introduction to Capellmeister Morlacchi, who
returned the visit paid him and made himself serviceable. And now mark
this touch of boyish vanity: “Tomorrow morning I expect Morlacchi, and I
shall go with him to Miss Pechwell’s. That is to say, I do not go to him,
but he comes to me. Yes, yes, yes!” Miss Pechwell was a pupil of
Klengel’s, and the latter had asked Morlacchi to introduce Chopin to her.
She seems to have been not only a technically skilful, fine-feeling, and
thoughtful musician, but also in other respects a highly-cultivated
person. Klengel called her the best pianist in Dresden. She died young, at
the age of 35, having some time previously changed her maiden name for
that of Madame Pesadori. We shall meet her again in the course of this
biography.
Of the rest of Chopin’s journey nothing is known except that it led him to
Breslau, but when he reached and left it, and what he did there, are open
questions, and not worth troubling about. So much, however, is certain,
that on September 12, 1829, he was settled again in his native city, as is
proved by a letter bearing that date.
CHAPTER VIII
THE WORKS OF CHOPIN’S FIRST PERIOD.
The only works of Chopin we have as yet discussed are—if we leave
out of account the compositions which the master neither published himself
nor wished to be published by anybody else—the “Premier Rondeau,”
Op. 1, the “Rondeau a la Mazur,” Op. 5, and “Variations sur un air
allemand” (see Chapter III). We must retrace our steps as far back as
1827, and briefly survey the composer’s achievements up to the spring of
1829, when a new element enters into his life and influences his artistic
work. It will be best to begin with a chronological enumeration of those
of Chopin’s compositions of the time indicated that have come down to us.
In 1827 came into existence or were finished: a Mazurka (Op. 68, No. 2), a
Polonaise (Op. 71, No. 1), and a Nocturne (Op. 72); in 1828, “La ci darem
la mano, varie” for piano and orchestra (Op. 2), a Polonaise (Op. 71, No.
2), a Rondo for two pianos (Op. 73), a Sonata (Op. 4), a Fantasia on
Polish airs for piano and orchestra (Op. 13), a Krakowiak, “Grand Rondeau
de Concert,” likewise for piano and orchestra (Op. 14), and a Trio for
piano, violin, and violoncello (Op. 8); in 1829, a Polonaise (Op. 71, No.
3), a Waltz (Op. 69, No. 2), another Waltz (in E major, without opus
number), and a Funeral March (Op. 726). I will not too confidently assert
that every one of the last four works was composed in the spring or early
summer of 1829; but whether they were or were not, they may be properly
ranged with those previously mentioned of 1827 and 1828. The works that
bear a higher opus number than 65 were published after the composer’s
death by Fontana. The Waltz without opus number and the Sonata, Op. 4, are
likewise posthumous publications.
The works enumerated above may be divided into three groups, the first of
which comprises the Sonata, the Trio, and the Rondo for two pianos.
The Sonata (in C minor) for piano, Op. 4, of which Chopin wrote as early
as September 9, 1828, that it had been for some time in the hands of
Haslinger at Vienna, was kept by this publisher in manuscript till after
the composer’s death, being published only in July, 1851. “As a pupil of
his I dedicated it to Elsner,” says Chopin. It is indeed a pupil’s work—an
exercise, and not a very successful one. The exigencies of the form
overburdened the composer and crushed all individuality out of him.
Nowhere is Chopin so little himself, we may even say so unlike himself.
The distribution of keys and the character of the themes show that the
importance of contrast in the construction of larger works was still
unsuspected by him. The two middle movements, a Menuetto and a Larghetto—although
in the latter the self-imposed fetters of the 5-4 time prevent the
composer from feeling quite at his ease—are more attractive than the
rest. In them are discernible an approach to freedom and something like a
breath of life, whereas in the first and the last movement there is almost
nothing but painful labour and dull monotony. The most curious thing,
however, about this work is the lumbering passage-writing of our graceful,
light-winged Chopin.
Infinitely superior to the Sonata is the Trio for piano, violin, and
violoncello, Op. 8, dedicated to Prince Anton Radziwill, which was
published in March, 1833. It was begun early in 1828, was “not yet
finished” on September 9, and “not yet quite finished” on December 27 of
that year. Chopin tried the first movement in the summer of 1828, and we
may assume that, a few details and improvements excepted, the whole was
completed at the beginning of 1829. A considerable time, however, elapsed
before the composer declared it ready for the press. On August 31, 1830,
he writes:—
The composer did not make the intended alteration, and in this he was well
advised. For his remarks betray little insight; what preciousness they
possess they owe for the most part to the scarcity of similar discussions
of craftsmanship in his letters. From the above dates we see that the
composer bestowed much time, care, and thought upon the work. Indeed,
there can be no doubt that as regards conventional handling of the
sonata-form Chopin has in no instance been more successful. Were we to
look upon this work as an exercise, we should have to pronounce it a most
excellent one. But the ideal content, which is always estimable and often
truly beautiful as well as original, raises it high above the status of an
exercise. The fundamental fault of the Trio lies in this, that the
composer tried to fill a given form with ideas, and to some extent failed
to do so—the working-out sections especially testify to the
correctness of this opinion. That the notion of regarding form as a vessel—a
notion oftener acted upon than openly professed—is a mischievous one
will hardly be denied, and if it were denied, we could not here discuss so
wide a question as that of “What is form?” The comparatively ineffective
treatment of the violin and violoncello also lays the composer open to
censure. Notwithstanding its weaknesses the work was received with favour
by the critics, the most pronounced conservatives not excepted. That the
latter gave more praise to it than to Chopin’s previously-published
compositions is a significant fact, and may be easily accounted for by the
less vigorous originality and less exclusive individuality of the Trio,
which, although superior in these respects to the Sonata, Op. 4, does not
equal the composer’s works written in simpler forms. Even the most hostile
of Chopin’s critics, Rellstab, the editor of the Berlin musical journal
Iris, admits—after censuring the composer’s excessive striving after
originality, and the unnecessarily difficult pianoforte passages with
their progressions of intervals alike repellent to hand and ear—that
this is “on the whole a praiseworthy work, which, in spite of some
excursions into deviating bye-paths, strikes out in a better direction
than the usual productions of the modern composers” (1833, No. 21). The
editor of the Leipzig “Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung,” a journal which
Schumann characterises as “a sleepy place,” is as eulogistic as the most
rabid Chopin admirer could wish. Having spoken of the “talented young man”
as being on the one hand under the influence of Field, and on the other
under that of Beethoven, he remarks:—
I place these criticisms before the reader as historical documents, not as
final decisions and examples of judicial wisdom. In fact, I accept neither
the strictures of the one nor the sublimifications of the other, although
the confident self-assertion of the former and the mystic vagueness of the
latter ought, according to use and wont, to carry the weight of authority
with them. Schumann, the Chopin champion par excellence, saw clearer, and,
writing three years later (1836), said that the Trio belonged to Chopin’s
earlier period when the composer still allowed the virtuoso some
privileges. Although I cannot go so far as this too admiring and too
indulgent critic, and describe the work as being “as noble as possible,
more full of enthusiasm than the work of any other poet [so schwarmerisch
wie noch kein Dichter gesungen], original in its smallest details, and, as
a whole, every note music and life,” I think that it has enough of
nobility, enthusiasm, originality, music, and life, to deserve more
attention than it has hitherto obtained.
Few classifications can at one and the same time lay claim to the highest
possible degree of convenience—the raison d’etre of classifications—and
strict accuracy. The third item of my first group, for instance, might
more properly be said to stand somewhere between this and the second
group, partaking somewhat of the nature of both. The Rondo, Op. 73, was
not originally written for two pianos. Chopin wrote on September 9, 1828,
that he had thus rearranged it during a stay at Strzyzewo in the summer of
that year. At that time he was pretty well pleased with the piece, and a
month afterwards talked of playing it with his friend Fontana at the
Ressource. Subsequently he must have changed his opinion, for the Rondo
did not become known to the world at large till it was published
posthumously. Granting certain prettinesses, an unusual dash and vigour,
and some points of interest in the working-out, there remains the fact
that the stunted melodies signify little and the too luxuriant
passage-work signifies less, neither the former nor the latter possessing
much of the charm that distinguishes them in the composer’s later works.
The original in this piece is confined to the passage-work, and has not
yet got out of the rudimentary stage. Hence, although the Rondo may not be
unworthy of finding occasionally a place in a programme of a social
gathering with musical accompaniments and even of a non-classical concert,
it will disappoint those who come to it with their expectations raised by
Chopin’s chefs-d’oeuvre, where all is poetry and exquisiteness of style.
The second group contains Chopin’s concert-pieces, all of which have
orchestral accompaniments. They are: (1) “La ci darem la mano, varie pour
le piano,” Op. 2; (2) “Grande Fantaisie sur des airs polonais,” Op. 13;
(3) “Krakowiak, Grande Rondeau de Concert,” Op. 14. Of these three the
first, which is dedicated to Titus Woyciechowski, has become the most
famous, not, however, on account of its greater intrinsic value, but
partly because the orchestral accompaniments can be most easily dispensed
with, and more especially because Schumann has immortalised it by—what
shall I call it?—a poetic prose rhapsody. As previously stated, the
work had already in September, 1828, been for some time at Vienna in the
hands of Haslinger; it was probably commenced as far back as 1827, but it
did not appear in print till 1830. [FOOTNOTE: It appeared in a serial
publication entitled Odeon, which was described on the title-page as:
Ausgewahlte grosse Concertstucke fur verschiedene Instrumente (Selected
Grand Concert-Pieces for different instruments).] On April 10 of that year
Chopin writes that he expects it impatiently. The appearance of these
Variations, the first work of Chopin published outside his own country,
created a sensation. Of the impression which he produced with it on the
Viennese in 1829 enough has been said in the preceding chapter. The
Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung received no less than three reviews of it,
two of them—that of Schumann and one by “an old musician”—were
accepted and inserted in the same number of the paper (1831, Vol. xxxiii.,
No. 49); the third, by Friedrich Wieck, which was rejected, found its way
in the following year into the musical journal Caecilia. Schumann’s
enthusiastic effusion was a prophecy rather than a criticism. But although
we may fail to distinguish in Chopin’s composition the flirting of the
grandee Don Juan with the peasant-girl Zerlina, the curses of the duped
lover Masetto, and the jeers and laughter of the knavish attendant
Leporello, which Schumann thought he recognised, we all obey most readily
and reverently his injunction, “Hats off, gentlemen: a genius!” In these
words lies, indeed, the merit of Schumann’s review as a criticism. Wieck
felt and expressed nearly the same, only he felt it less passionately and
expressed it in the customary critical style. The “old musician,” on the
other hand, is pedantically censorious, and the redoubtable Rellstab (in
the Iris) mercilessly condemnatory. Still, these two conservative critics,
blinded as they were by the force of habit to the excellences of the
rising star, saw what their progressive brethren overlooked in the ardour
of their admiration—namely, the super-abundance of ornament and
figuration. There is a grain of truth in the rather strong statement of
Rellstab that the composer “runs down the theme with roulades, and
throttles and hangs it with chains of shakes.” What, however, Rellstab and
the “old musician”—for he, too, exclaims, “nothing but bravura and
figuration!”—did not see, but what must be patent to every candid
and unprejudiced observer, are the originality, piquancy, and grace of
these fioriture, roulades, &c., which, indeed, are unlike anything
that was ever heard or seen before Chopin’s time. I say “seen,” for the
configurations in the notation of this piece are so different from those
of the works of any other composer that even an unmusical person could
distinguish them from all the rest; and there is none of the timid
groping, the awkward stumbling of the tyro. On the contrary, the composer
presents himself with an ease and boldness which cannot but command
admiration. The reader will remember what the Viennese critic said about
Chopin’s “aim”; that it was not to dazzle by the superficial means of the
virtuoso, but to impress by the more legitimate ones of the genuine
musician. This is true if we compare the Chopin of that day with his
fellow-virtuosos Kalkbrenner, Herz, &c.; but if we compare him with
his later self, or with Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Schumann, &c.,
the case is different. Indeed, there can be no doubt but that in this and
the other pieces of this group, Chopin’s aim was that of the virtuoso,
only his nature was too rich, too noble, to sink into the inanity of an
insipid, conventional brilliancy. Moreover, whilst maintaining that in the
works specified language outruns in youthful exuberance thought and
emotion, I hasten to add that there are premonitory signs—for
instance, in the Op. 2 under discussion, more especially in the
introduction, the fifth variation, and the Finale—of what as yet
lies latent in the master’s undeveloped creative power.
The Grande Fantaisie sur des airs polonais (A major) for the pianoforte
and orchestra, Op. 13, dedicated to J. P. Pixis, and published in April,
1834, and the Krakowiak, Grand Rondeau de Concert (F major) for the
pianoforte and orchestra, Op. 14, dedicated to the Princesse Adam
Czartoryska, and published in June, 1834, are the most overtly Polish
works of Chopin. Of the composition of the former, which, according to
Karasowski, was sketched in 1828, the composer’s letters give no
information; but they contain some remarks concerning the latter. We learn
that the score of the Krakowiak was finished by December 27, 1828, and
find the introduction described as having “as funny an appearance as
himself in his pilot-cloth overcoat.” In the Fantasia the composer
introduces and variates a Polish popular song (Juz miesiac zaszedl), and
an air by the Polish composer Kurpinski, and concludes with a Kujawiak, a
dance of the mazurka species, in 3-4 time, which derives its name from the
district called Kujawia. In connection with this composition I must not
omit to mention that the first variation on the Polish popular song
contains the germ of the charming Berceuse (Op. 57). The Rondo, Op. 14,
has the character of a Krakowiak, a dance in 2-4 time which originated in
Cracovia. In no other compositions of the master do the national elements
show themselves in the same degree of crudity; indeed, after this he never
incorporates national airs and imitates so closely national dances. Chopin
remains a true Pole to the end of his days, and his love of and attachment
to everything Polish increase with the time of absence from his native
country. But as the composer grows in maturity, he subjects the raw
material to a more and more thorough process of refinement and development
before he considers it fit for artistic purposes; the popular dances are
spiritualised, the national characteristics and their corresponding
musical idioms are subtilised and individualised. I do not agree with
those critics who think it is owing to the strongly-marked, exclusive
Polish national character that these two works have gained so little
sympathy in the musical world; there are artistic reasons that account for
the neglect, which is indeed so great that I do not remember having heard
or read of any virtuoso performing either of these pieces in public till a
few years ago, when Chopin’s talented countrywoman Mdlle. Janotha ventured
on a revival of the Fantasia, without, however, receiving, in spite of her
finished rendering, much encouragement. The works, as wholes, are not
altogether satisfactory in the matter of form, and appear somewhat patchy.
This is especially the case in the Fantasia, where the connection of parts
is anything but masterly. Then the arabesk-element predominates again
quite unduly. Rellstab discusses the Fantasia with his usual obtuseness,
but points out correctly that Chopin gives only here and there a few bars
of melody, and never a longer melodic strain. The best parts of the works,
those that contain the greatest amount of music, are certainly the
exceedingly spirited Kujawiak and Krakowiak. The unrestrained merriment
that reigns in the latter justifies, or, if it does not justify, disposes
us to forgive much. Indeed, the Rondo may be said to overflow with
joyousness; now the notes run at random hither and thither, now tumble
about head over heels, now surge in bold arpeggios, now skip from octave
to octave, now trip along in chromatics, now vent their gamesomeness in
the most extravagant capers.
The orchestral accompaniments, which in the Variations, Op. 2, are of very
little account, show in every one of the three works of this group an
inaptitude in writing for any other instrument than the piano that is
quite surprising considering the great musical endowments of Chopin in
other respects. I shall not dwell on this subject now, as we shall have to
consider it when we come to the composer’s concertos.
The fundamental characteristics of Chopin’s style—the
loose-textured, wide-meshed chords and arpeggios, the serpentine
movements, the bold leaps—are exaggerated in the works of this
group, and in their exaggeration become grotesque, and not unfrequently
ineffective. These works show us, indeed, the composer’s style in a state
of fermentation; it has still to pass through a clearing process, in which
some of its elements will be secreted and others undergo a greater or less
change. We, who judge Chopin by his best works, are apt to condemn too
precipitately the adverse critics of his early compositions. But the
consideration of the luxuriance and extravagance of the passage-work which
distinguish them from the master’s maturer creations ought to caution us
and moderate our wrath. Nay more, it may even lead us to acknowledge,
however reluctantly, that amidst the loud braying of Rellstab there
occurred occasionally utterances that were by no means devoid of
articulation and sense. Take, for instance, this—I do not remember
just now a propos of which composition, but it is very appropriate to
those we are now discussing:—”The whole striving of the composer
must be regarded as an aberration, based on decided talent, we admit, but
nevertheless an aberration.” You see the most hostile of Chopin’s critics
does not deny his talent; indeed, Rellstab sometimes, especially
subsequently, speaks quite patronisingly about him. I shall take this
opportunity to contradict the current notion that Chopin had just cause to
complain of backwardness in the recognition of his genius, and even of
malicious attacks on his rising reputation. The truth of this is already
partly disproved by the foregoing, and it will be fully so by the sequel.
The pieces which I have formed into a third group show us the composer
free from the fetters that ambition and other preoccupations impose.
Besides Chopin’s peculiar handling we find in them more of his peculiar
sentiment. If the works of the first group were interesting as
illustrating the development of the student, those of the second group
that of the virtuoso, and those of both that of the craftsman, the works
of the third group furnish us most valuable documents for the history of
the man and poet. The foremost in importance of the pieces comprised in
this group are no doubt the three polonaises, composed respectively in the
years 1827, 1828, and 1829. The bravura character is still prominent, but,
instead of ruling supreme, it becomes in every successive work more and
more subordinate to thought and emotion. These polonaises, although
thoroughly Chopinesque, nevertheless differ very much from his later ones,
those published by himself, which are generally more compact and fuller of
poetry. Moreover, I imagine I can see in several passages the influence of
Weber, whose Polonaise in E flat minor, Polacca in E major, Sonata in A
flat major, and Invitation a la Valse (to mention a few apposite
instances), respectively published in 1810, 1819, 1816, and 1821, may be
supposed to have been known to Chopin. These reminiscences, if such they
are, do not detract much from the originality of the compositions; indeed,
that a youth of eighteen should have attained such a strongly-developed
individuality as the D minor Polonaise exhibits, is truly wonderful.
The Nocturne of the year 1827 (Op. 72, No. 1, E minor) is probably the
poorest of the early compositions, but excites one’s curiosity as the
first specimen of the kind by the incomparable composer of nocturnes. Do
not misunderstand me, however, and imagine that I wish to exalt Chopin at
the expense of another great musician. Field has the glory not only of
having originated the genre, but also of having produced examples that
have as yet lost nothing, or very little, of their vitality. His nocturnes
are, indeed, a rich treasure, which, undeservedly neglected by the present
generation, cannot be superseded by those of his illustrious, and now
favoured successor. On the other hand, although Field’s priority and
influence on Chopin must be admitted, the unprejudiced cannot but perceive
that the latter is no imitator. Even where, as for instance in Op. 9, Nos.
1 and 2, the mejody or the form of the accompaniment shows a distinct
reminiscence of Field, such is the case only for a few notes, and the next
moment Chopin is what nobody else could be. To watch a great man’s growth,
to trace a master’s noble achievements from their humble beginnings, has a
charm for most minds. I, therefore, need not fear the reader’s displeasure
if I direct his attention to some points, notable on this account—in
this case to the wide-meshed chords and light-winged flights of notes, and
the foreshadowing of the Coda of Op. 9.
Of 1827 we have also a Mazurka in A minor, Op. 68, No. 2. It is simple and
rustic, and at the same time graceful. The trio (poco piu mosso), the more
original portion of the Mazurka, reappears in a slightly altered form in
later mazurkas. It is these foreshadowings of future beauties, that make
these early works so interesting. The above-mentioned three polonaises are
full of phrases, harmonic, progressions, &c., which are subsequently
reutilised in a. purer, more emphatic, more developed, more epigrammatic,
or otherwise more perfect form. We notice the same in the waltzes which
remain yet to be discussed here.
Whether these Waltzes (in B minor, Op. 69, No. 2; and in E major, without
opus number) were really written in the early part of 1829, or later on in
the year, need not be too curiously inquired into. As I have already
remarked, they may certainly be classed along with the above-discussed
works. The first is the more interesting of them. In both we meet with
passages that point to more perfect specimens of the kind—for
instance, certain rhythmical motives, melodic inflections, and harmonic
progressions, to the familiar Waltzes in E flat major (Op. 18) and in A
flat major (Op. 34, No. 1); and the D major portion of the Waltz in B
minor, to the C major part of the Waltz in A minor (Op. 34, No. 2). This
concludes our survey of the compositions of Chopin’s first period.
In the legacy of a less rich man, the Funeral March in C minor, Op. 72b,
composed (according to Fontana) in 1829, [FOOTNOTE: In Breitkopf and
Hartel’s Gesammtausgabe of Chopin’s works will be found 1826 instead of
1829. This, however, is a misprint, not a correction.]would be a notable
item; in that of Chopin it counts for little. Whatever the shortcomings of
this composition are, the quiet simplicity and sweet melancholy which
pervade it must touch the hearer. But the master stands in his own. light;
the famous Funeral March in B flat minor, from the Sonata in B flat minor,
Op. 35, composed about ten years later, eclipses the more modest one in C
minor. Beside the former, with its sublime force and fervency of passion
and imposing mastery of the resources of the art, the latter sinks into
weak insignificance, indeed, appears a mere puerility. Let us note in the
earlier work the anticipation, (bar 12) of a motive of the chef-d’ceuvre
(bar 7), and reminiscences of the Funeral March from Beethoven’s. Sonata
in A flat major, Op. 26.
CHAPTER IX.
CHOPIN’S FIRST LOVE.—FRIENDSHIP WITH TITUS WOYCIECHOWSKI.—LIFE
IN WARSAW AFTER RETURNING FROM VIENNA.—VISIT TO PRINCE RADZIWILL AT
ANTONIN (OCTOBER, 1829).—NEW COMPOSITIONS.—GIVES TWO CONCERTS.
IN the preceding chapter I alluded to a new element that entered into the
life of Chopin and influenced his artistic work. The following words,
addressed by the young composer on October 3, 1829, to his friend Titus
Woyciechowski, will explain what kind of element it was and when it began
to make itself felt:—
The influence of the tender passion on the development of heart and mind
cannot be rated too highly; it is in nine out of ten, if not in
ninety-nine out of a hundred cases that which transforms the rhymer into a
poet, the artificer into an artist. Chopin confesses his indebtedness to
Constantia, Schumann his to Clara. But who could recount all the happy and
hapless loves that have made poets? Countless is the number of those
recorded in histories, biographies, and anecdotes; greater still the
number of those buried in literature and art, the graves whence they rise
again as flowers, matchless in beauty, unfading, and of sweetest perfume.
Love is indeed the sun that by its warmth unfolds the multitudinous
possibilities that lie hidden, often unsuspected, in the depths of the
human soul. It was, then, according to Chopin, about April, 1829, that the
mighty power began to stir within him; and the correspondence of the
following two years shows us most strikingly how it takes hold of him with
an ever-increasing firmness of grasp, and shakes the whole fabric of his
delicate organisation with fearful violence. The object of Chopin’s
passion, the being whom he worshipped and in whom he saw the realisation
of his ideal of womanhood, was Constantia Gladkowska, a pupil at the
Warsaw Conservatorium, of whom the reader will learn more in the course of
this and the next chapter.
What reveals perhaps more distinctly than anything else Chopin’s
idiosyncrasy is his friendship for Titus Woyciechowski. At any rate, it is
no exaggeration to say that a knowledge of the nature of Chopin’s two
passions, his love and his friendship—for this, too, was a passion
with him—gives into our hands a key that unlocks all the secrets of
his character, of his life, and of their outcome—his artistic work.
Nay more, with a full comprehension of, and insight into, these passions
we can foresee the sufferings and disappointments which he is fated to
endure. Chopin’s friendship was not a common one; it was truly and in the
highest degree romantic. To the sturdy Briton and gay Frenchman it must be
incomprehensible, and the German of four or five generations ago would
have understood it better than his descendant of to-day is likely to do.
If we look for examples of such friendship in literature, we find the type
nowhere so perfect as in the works of Jean Paul Richter. Indeed, there are
many passages in the letters of the Polish composer that read like
extracts from the German author: they remind us of the sentimental and
other transcendentalisms of Siebenkas, Leibgeber, Walt, Vult, and others.
There was somethine in Chopin’s warm, tender, effusive friendship that may
be best characterised by the word “feminine.” Moreover, it was so
exacting, or rather so covetous and jealous, that he had often occasion to
chide, gently of course, the less caressing and enthusiastic Titus. Let me
give some instances.
The question of kissing is frequently brought up.
Did we not know the writer and the person addressed, one might imagine
that the two next extracts were written by a lover to his mistress or vice
versa.
One day he expresses the wish that he and his friend should travel
together. But this was too commonplace a sentiment not to be refined upon.
Accordingly we read in a subsequent letter as follows:—
I quoted the above passage to show how Chopin felt that this friendship
had been a kind of education to him, and how he valued his friend’s
opinion of his compositions—he is always anxious to make Titus
acquainted with anything new he may have composed. But in this passage
there is another very characteristic touch, and it may easily be
overlooked, or at least may not receive the attention which it deserves—I
allude to what Chopin says of having had “a presentiment.” In
superstitiousness he is a true child of his country, and all the
enlightenment of France did not succeed in weaning him from his belief in
dreams, presentiments, good and evil days, lucky and unlucky numbers,
&c. This is another romantic feature in the character of the composer;
a dangerous one in the pursuit of science, but advantageous rather than
otherwise in the pursuit of art. Later on I shall have to return to this
subject and relate some anecdotes, here I shall confine myself to quoting
a short passage from one of his early letters.
And now, after these introductory explanations, we will begin the chapter
in right earnest by taking up the thread of the story where we left it. On
his return to Warsaw Chopin was kept in a state of mental excitement by
the criticisms on his Vienna performances that appeared in German papers.
He does not weary of telling his friend about them, transcribing portions
of them, and complaining of Polish papers which had misrepresented the
drift and mistranslated the words of them. I do not wonder at the
incorrectness of the Polish reports, for some of these criticisms are
written in as uncouth, confused, and vague German as I ever had the
misfortune to turn into English. One cannot help thinking, in reading what
Chopin says with regard to these matters, that he showed far too much
concern about the utterances of the press, and far too much sensitiveness
under the infliction of even the slightest strictures. That, however, the
young composer was soon engaged on new works may be gathered from the
passage (Oct. 3, 1829), quoted at the commencement of this chapter, in
which he speaks of the Adagio of a concerto, and a waltz, written whilst
his thoughts were with his ideal. These compositions were the second
movement of the F minor Concerto and the Waltz, Op. 70, No. 3. But more of
this when we come to discuss the works which Chopin produced in the years
1829 and 1830.
One of the most important of the items which made up our friend’s musical
life at this time was the weekly musical meetings at the house of Kessler,
the pianist-composer characterised in Chapter X. There all the best
artists of Warsaw assembled, and the executants had to play prima vista
whatever was placed before them. Of works performed at two of these Friday
evening meetings, we find mentioned Spohr’s Octet, described by Chopin as
“a wonderful work”; Ries’s Concerto in C sharp minor (played with quartet
accompaniment), Hummel’s Trio in E major, Prince Louis Ferdinand of
Prussia’s Quartet, and Beethoven’s last Trio, which, Chopin says, he could
not but admire for its magnificence and grandeur. To Brzezina’s music-shop
he paid a visit every day, without finding there, however, anything new,
except a Concerto by Pixis, which made no great impression upon him. That
Chopin was little satisfied with his situation may be gathered from the
following remarks of his:—
Of course the reader, who is in the secret, knows as well as Titus knew,
to whom the letter was addressed, that Chopin alludes to his love. Let us
mark the words in the concluding sentence about the conversations with his
piano. Chopin was continually occupied with plans for going abroad. In
October, 1829, he writes that, wherever fate may lead him, he is
determined not to spend the winter in Warsaw. Nevertheless, more than a
year passed away before he said farewell to his native city. He himself
wished to go to Vienna, his father seems to have been in favour of Berlin.
Prince Radziwill and his wife had kindly invited him to come to the
Prussian capital, and offered him apartments in their palais. But Chopin
was unable to see what advantages he could derive from a stay in Berlin.
Moreover, unlike his father, he believed that this invitation was no more
than “de belles paroles.” By the way, these remarks of Chopin’s furnish a
strong proof that the Prince was not his patron and benefactor, as Liszt
and others have maintained. While speaking of his fixed intention to go
somewhere, and of the Prince’s invitation, Chopin suddenly exclaims with
truly Chopinesque indecision and capriciousness:—
Leaving this question undecided, he undertook in October, 1829, a journey
to Posen, starting on the 20th of that month. An invitation from Prince
Radziwill was the inducement that led him to quit the paternal roof so
soon after his return to it. His intention was to remain only a fortnight
from home, and to visit his friends, the Wiesiolowskis, on the way to
Antonin. Chopin enjoyed himself greatly at the latter place. The wife of
the Prince, a courteous and kindly lady, who did not gauge a man’s merits
by his descent, found the way to the heart of the composer by wishing to
hear every day and to possess as soon as possible his Polonaise in F minor
(Op. 71, No. 3). The young Princesses, her daughters, had charms besides
those of their beauty. One of them played the piano with genuine musical
feeling.
According to Liszt, Chopin fondly remembered his visits to Antonin, and
told many an anecdote in connection with them.
A passage in the letter of Chopin from which I last quoted throws also a
little light on his relation to her.
The musical Prince would naturally be attracted by, and take an interest
in, the rising genius. What the latter’s opinion of his noble friend as a
composer was, he tells Titus Woyciechowski at some length. I may here say,
once for all, that all the letters from which extracts are given in this
chapter are addressed to this latter.
Chopin enjoyed himself so much at Antonin that if he had consulted only
his pleasure he would have stayed till turned out by his host. But,
although he was asked to prolong his visit, he left this “Paradise” and
the “two Eves” after a sojourn of eight days. It was his occupations, more
especially the F minor Concerto, “impatiently waiting for its Finale,”
that induced him to practise this self-denial. When Chopin had again taken
possession of his study, he no doubt made it his first business, or at
least one of the first, to compose the wanting movement, the Rondo, of his
Concerto; as, however, there is an interval of more than four months in
his extant letters, we hear no more about it till he plays it in public.
Before his visit to Antonin (October 20, 1829) he writes to his friend
that he has composed “a study in his own manner,” and after the visit he
mentions having composed “some studies.”
Chopin seems to have occasionally played at the Ressource. The reader will
remember the composer’s intention of playing there with Fontana his Rondo
for two pianos. On November 14, 1829, Chopin informs his friend Titus that
on the preceding Saturday Kessler performed Hummel’s E major Concerto at
the Ressource, and that on the following Saturday he himself would perhaps
play there, and in the case of his doing so choose for his piece his
Variations, Op. 2. Thus composing, playing, and all the time suffering
from a certain loneliness—”You cannot imagine how everywhere in
Warsaw I now find something wanting! I have nobody with whom I can speak,
were it only two words, nobody whom I can really trust”—the day came
when he gave his first concert in his native city. This great event took
place on March 17, 1830, and the programme contained the following pieces:—
PART I
PART II
Three days before the concert, which took place in the theatre, neither
box nor reserved seat was to be had. But Chopin complains that on the
whole it did not make the impression he expected. Only the Adagio and
Rondo of his Concerto had a decided success. But let us see the
concert-giver’s own account of the proceedings.
We now hear again the old complaint that Chopin’s playing was too
delicate. The opinion of the pit was that he had not played loud enough,
whilst those who sat in the gallery or stood in the orchestra seem to have
been better satisfied. In one paper, where he got high praise, he was
advised to put forth more energy and power in the future; but Chopin
thought he knew where this power was to be found, and for the next concert
got a Vienna instrument instead of his own Warsaw one. Elsner, too,
attributed the indistinctness of the bass passages and the weakness of
tone generally to the instrument. The approval of some of the musicians
compensated Chopin to some extent for the want of appreciation and
intelligence shown by the public at large “Kurpinski thought he discovered
that evening new beauties in my Concerto, and Ernemann was fully satisfied
with it.” Edouard Wolff told me that they had no idea in Warsaw of the
real greatness of Chopin. Indeed, how could they? He was too original to
be at once fully understood. There are people who imagine that the
difficulties of Chopin’s music arise from its Polish national
characteristics, and that to the Poles themselves it is as easy as their
mother-tongue; this, however, is a mistake. In fact, other countries had
to teach Poland what is due to Chopin. That the aristocracy of Paris,
Polish and native, did not comprehend the whole Chopin, although it may
have appreciated and admired his sweetness, elegance, and exquisiteness,
has been remarked by Liszt, an eye and ear-witness and an excellent judge.
But his testimony is not needed to convince one of the fact. A subtle
poet, be he ever so national, has thoughts and corresponding language
beyond the ken of the vulgar, who are to be found in all ranks, high and
low. Chopin, imbued as he was with the national spirit, did nevertheless
not manifest it in a popularly intelligible form, for in passing through
his mind it underwent a process of idealisation and individualisation. It
has been repeatedly said that the national predominates over the universal
in Chopin’s music; it is a still less disputable truth that the individual
predominates therein over the national. There are artist-natures whose
tendency is to expand and to absorb; others again whose tendency is to
contract and to exclude. Chopin is one of the most typical instances of
the latter; hence, no wonder that he was not at once fully understood by
his countrymen. The great success which Chopin’s subsequent concerts in
Warsaw obtained does not invalidate E. Wolff’s statement, which indeed is
confirmed by the composer’s own remarks on the taste of the public and its
reception of his compositions. Moreover, we shall see that those pieces
pleased most in which, as in the Fantasia and Krakowiak, the national raw
material was merely more or less artistically dressed up, but not yet
digested and assimilated; if the Fantasia left the audience cold at the
first concert, this was no doubt owing to the inadequacy of the
performance.
No sooner was the first concert over than, with his head still full of it,
Chopin set about making preparations for a second, which took place within
a week after the first. The programme was as follows:—
PART I
1. Symphony by Nowakowski.
2. Allegro from the Concerto in F minor, composed and played by Chopin.
3. Air Varie by De Beriot, played by Bielawski.
4. Adagio and Rondo from the Concerto in F minor, composed and played by
Chopin.
PART II
1. Rondo Krakowiak, composed and played by Chopin.
2. Aria from “Elena e Malvina” by Soliva, sung by Madame Meier.
3. Improvisation on national airs.
This time the audience, which Chopin describes as having been more
numerous than at any other concert, was satisfied. There was no end to the
applause, and when he came forward to bow his acknowledgments there were
calls of “Give another concert!” The Krakowiak produced an immense effect,
and was followed by four volleys of applause. His improvisation on the
Polish national air “W miescie dziwne obyczaje” pleased only the people in
the dress-circle, although he did not improvise in the way he had intended
to do, which would not have been suitable for the audience that was
present. From this and another remark, that few of the haute volee had as
yet heard him, it appears that the aristocracy, for the most part living
on their estates, was not largely represented at the concert. Thinking as
he did of the public, he was surprised that the Adagio had found such
general favour, and that he heard everywhere the most flattering remarks.
He was also told that “every note sounded like a bell,” and that he had
“played much better on the second than on the first instrument.” But
although Elsner held that Chopin could only be judged after the second
concert, and Kurpinski and others expressed their regret that he did not
play on the Viennese instrument at the first one, he confesses that he
would have preferred playing on his own piano. The success of the concerts
may be measured by the following facts: A travelling virtuoso and former
pupil of the Paris Conservatoire, Dunst by name, offered in his enthusiasm
to treat Chopin with champagne; the day after the second concert a bouquet
with a poem was sent to him; his fellow-student Orlowski wrote mazurkas
and waltzes on the principal theme of the Concerto, and published them in
spite of the horrified composer’s request that he should not do so;
Brzezina, the musicseller, asked him for his portrait, but, frightened at
the prospect of seeing his counterfeit used as a wrapper for butter and
cheese, Chopin declined to give it to him; the editor of the “Courier”
inserted in his paper a sonnet addressed to Chopin. Pecuniarily the
concerts were likewise a success, although the concert-giver was of a
different opinion. But then he seems to have had quite prima donna notions
about receipts, for he writes very coolly: “From the two concerts I had,
after deduction of all expenses, not as much as 5,000 florins (about 125
pounds).” Indeed, he treats this part of the business very cavalierly, and
declares that money was no object with him. On the utterances of the
papers, which, of course, had their say, Chopin makes some sensible and
modest comments.
Gratifying as the praise of the press no doubt was to Chopin, it became a
matter of small account when he thought of his friend’s approving
sympathy. “One look from you after the concert would have been worth more
to me than all the laudations of the critics here.” The concerts, however,
brought with them annoyances as well as pleasures. While one paper pointed
out Chopin’s strongly-marked originality, another advised him to hear
Rossini, but not to imitate him. Dobrzynski, who expected that his
Symphony would be placed on one of the programmes, was angry with Chopin
for not doing so; a lady acquaintance took it amiss that a box had not
been reserved for her, and so on. What troubled our friend most of all,
and put him quite out of spirits, was the publication of the sonnet and of
the mazurkas; he was afraid that his enemies would not let this
opportunity pass, and attack and ridicule him. “I will no longer read what
people may now write about me,” he bursts out in a fit of lachrymose
querulousness. Although pressed from many sides to give a third concert,
Chopin decided to postpone it till shortly before his departure, which,
however, was farther off than he imagined. Nevertheless, he had already
made up his mind what to play—namely, the new Concerto (some parts
of which had yet to be composed) and, by desire, the Fantasia and the
Variations.
CHAPTER X.
1829-1830.
MUSIC IN THE WARSAW SALONS.—MORE ABOUT CHOPIN’S CAUTION.—MUSICAL
VISITORS TO THE POLISH CAPITAL: WORLITZER, MDLLE. DE BELLEVILLE, MDLLE.
SONTAG, &c.—SOME OF CHOPIN’S ARTISTIC AND OTHER DOINGS; VISIT TO
POTURZYN.—HIS LOVE FOR CONSTANTIA GLADKOWSKA.—INTENDED AND
FREQUENTLY-POSTPONED DEPARTURE FOR ABROAD; IRRESOLUTION.—THE E MINOR
CONCERTO AND HIS THIRD CONCERT IN WARSAW.—DEPARTS AT LAST.
After the turmoil and agitation of the concerts, Chopin resumed the even
tenor of his Warsaw life, that is to say, played, composed, and went to
parties. Of the latter we get some glimpses in his letters, and they raise
in us the suspicion that the salons of Warsaw were not overzealous in the
cultivation of the classics. First we have a grand musical soiree at the
house of General Filipeus, [F-ootnote: Or Philippeus] the intendant of the
Court of the Grand Duke Constantine. There the Swan of Pesaro was
evidently in the ascendant, at any rate, a duet from “Semiramide” and a
buffo duet from “Il Turco in Italia” (in this Soliva took a part and
Chopin accompanied) were the only items of the musical menu thought worth
mentioning by the reporter. A soiree at Lewicki’s offers matter of more
interest. Chopin, who had drawn up the programme, played Hummel’s “La
Sentinelle” and his Op. 3, the Polonaise for piano and violoncello
composed at Antonin with a subsequently-added introduction; and Prince
Galitzin was one of the executants of a quartet of Rode’s. Occasionally,
however, better works were performed. Some months later, for instance, at
the celebration of a gentleman’s name-day, Spohr’s Quintet for piano,
flute, clarinet, horn, and bassoon was played. Chopin’s criticism on this
work is as usual short:—
On Easter-day, the great feasting day of the Poles, Chopin was invited to
breakfast by the poet Minasowicz. On this occasion he expected to meet
Kurpinski; and as in the articles which had appeared in the papers a
propos of his concerts the latter and Elsner had been pitted against each
other, he wondered what would be the demeanour of his elder
fellow-countryman and fellow-composer towards him. Remembering Chopin’s
repeated injunctions to his parents not to mention to others his remarks
on musicians, we may be sure that in this as in every other case Chopin
proceeded warily. Here is another striking example of this characteristic
and highly-developed cautiousness. After hearing the young pianist
Leskiewicz play at a concert he writes:—
In the first half of April, 1830, Chopin was so intent on finishing the
compositions he had begun that, greatly as he wished to pay his friend
Titus Woyciechowski a visit at his country-seat Poturzyn, he determined to
stick to his work. The Diet, which had not been convoked for five years,
was to meet on the 28th of May. That there would be a great concourse of
lords and lordlings and their families and retinues followed as a matter
of course. Here, then, was an excellent opportunity for giving a concert.
Chopin, who remembered that the haute voice had not yet heard him, did not
overlook it. But be it that the Concerto was not finished in time, or that
the circumstances proved less favourable than he had expected, he did not
carry out his plan. Perhaps the virtuosos poured in too plentifully. In
those days the age of artistic vagrancy had not yet come to an end, and
virtuosity concerts were still flourishing most vigorously. Blahetka of
Vienna, too, had a notion of coming with his daughter to Warsaw and giving
some concerts there during the sitting of the Diet. He wrote to Chopin to
this effect, and asked his advice. The latter told him that many musicians
and amateurs had indeed often expressed a desire to hear Miss Blahetka,
but that the expenses of a concert and the many distinguished artists who
had arrived or were about to arrive made the enterprise rather hazardous.
Among the artists who came to Warsaw were: the youthful Worlitzer, who,
although only sixteen years of age, was already pianist to the King of
Prussia; the clever pianist Mdlle. de Belleville, who afterwards became
Madame Oury; the great violinist Lipinski, the Polish Paganini; and the
celebrated Henrietta Sontag, one of the brightest stars of the time.
Chopin’s intercourse with these artists and his remarks on them are worth
noting: they throw light on his character as a musician and man as well as
on theirs. He relates that Worlitzer, a youth of Jewish extraction, and
consequently by nature very talented, had called on him and played to him
several things famously, especially Moscheles’ “Marche d’Alexandre
variée.” Notwithstanding the admitted excellence of Worlitzer’s playing,
Chopin adds—not, however, without a “this remains between us two”—that
he as yet lacks much to deserve the title of Kammer-Virtuos. Chopin
thought more highly of Mdlle. de Belleville, who, he says, “plays the
piano beautifully; very airily, very elegantly, and ten times better than
Worlitzer.” What, we may be sure, in no wise diminished his good opinion
of the lady was that she had performed his Variations in Vienna, and could
play one of them by heart. To picture the object of Chopin’s artistic
admiration a little more clearly, let me recall to the reader’s memory
Schumann’s characterisation of Mdlle. de Belleville and Clara Wieck.
Chopin’s warmest admiration and longest comments were, however, reserved
for Mdlle. Sontag. Having a little more than a year before her visit to
Warsaw secretly married Count Rossi, she made at the time we are speaking
of her last artistic tour before retiring, at the zenith of her fame and
power, into private life. At least, she thought then it was her last tour;
but pecuniary losses and tempting offers induced her in 1849 to reappear
in public. In Warsaw she gave a first series of five or six concerts in
the course of a week, went then by invitation of the King of Prussia to
Fischbach, and from there returned to Warsaw. Her concerts were remarkable
for their brevity. She usually sang at them four times, and between her
performances the orchestra played some pieces. She dispensed altogether
with the assistance of other virtuosos. But Chopin remarks that so great
was the impression she made as a vocalist and the interest she inspired as
an artist that one required some rest after her singing. Here is what the
composer writes to his friend about her (June 5, 1830):—
From the concluding sentence it would appear that Chopin had talked
himself out on the subject; this, however, is not the case, for after
imparting some other news he resumes thus:—
Mdlle. Sontag was indeed a unique artist. In power and fulness of voice,
in impassioned expression, in dazzling virtuosity, and in grandeur of
style, she might be inferior to Malibran, Catalani, and Pasta; but in
clearness and sweetness of voice, in purity of intonation, in airiness,
neatness, and elegance of execution, and in exquisiteness of taste, she
was unsurpassed. Now, these were qualities particularly congenial to
Chopin; he admired them enthusiastically in the eminent vocalist, and
appreciated similar qualities in the pleasing pianist Mdlle. de
Belleville. Indeed, we shall see in the sequel that unless an artist
possessed these qualities Chopin had but little sympathy to bestow upon
him. He was, however, not slow to discover in these distinguished lady
artists a shortcoming in a direction where he himself was exceedingly
strong—namely, in subtlety and intensity of feeling. Chopin’s
opinion of Mdlle. Sontag coincides on the whole with those of other
contemporaries; nevertheless, his account contributes some details which
add a page to her biography, and a few touches to her portraiture. It is
to be regretted that the arrival of Titus Woyciechowski in Warsaw put for
a time an end to Chopin’s correspondence with him, otherwise we should, no
doubt, have got some more information about Mdlle. Sontag and other
artists.
While so many stars were shining, Chopin’s light seems to have been under
an eclipse. Not only did he not give a concert, but he was even passed
over on the occasion of a soiree musicale at court to which all the most
distinguished artists then assembled at Warsaw were invited—Mdlle.
Sontag, Mdlle. de Belleville, Worlitzer, Kurpinski, &c. “Many were
astonished,” writes Chopin, “that I was not invited to play, but I
was not astonished.” When the sittings of the Diet and the entertainments
that accompanied them came to a close Chopin paid a visit to his friend
Titus at Poturzyn, and on his return thence proceeded with his parents to
Zelazowa Wola to stay for some time at the Count of Skarbek’s. After
leaving Poturzyn the picture of his friend’s quiet rural life continually
rose up in Chopin’s mind. A passage in one of his letters which refers to
his sojourn there seems to me characteristic of the writer, suggestive of
moods consonant with his nocturnes and many cantilene in his other works:—
And has he forgotten his ideal? Oh, no! On the contrary, his passion grows
stronger every day. This is proved by his frequent allusions to her whom
he never names, and by those words of restless yearning and heart-rending
despair that cannot be read without exciting a pitiful sympathy. As before
long we shall get better acquainted with the lady and hear more of her—she
being on the point of leaving the comparative privacy of the
Conservatorium for the boards that represent the world—it may be as
well to study the symptoms of our friend’s interesting malady.
The first mention of the ideal we find in the letter dated October 3,
1829, wherein he says that he has been dreaming of her every night for the
past six months, and nevertheless has not yet spoken to her. In these
circumstances he stood in need of one to whom he might confide his joys
and sorrows, and as no friend of flesh and blood was at hand, he often
addressed himself to the piano. And now let us proceed with our
investigation.
Farther on in the same letter he says:—
It may be easily imagined with what interest one so far gone in love
watched the debut of Miss Gladkowska as Agnese in Paer’s opera of the same
name. Of course he sends a full account of the event to his friend. She
looked better on the stage than in the salon; left nothing to be desired
in her tragic acting; managed her voice excellently up to the high j sharp
and g; shaded in a wonderful manner, and charmed her slave when she sang
an aria with harp accompaniment. The success of the lady, however, was not
merely in her lover’s imagination, it was real; for at the close of the
opera the audience overwhelmed her with never-ending applause. Another
pupil of the Conservatorium, Miss Wolkow, made her debut about the same
time, discussions of the comparative merits of the two ladies, on the
choice of the parts in which they were going to appear next, on the
intrigues which had been set on foot for or against them, &c., were
the order of the day. Chopin discusses all these matters with great
earnestness and at considerable length; and, while not at all stingy in
his praise of Miss Wolkow, he takes good care that Miss Gladkowska does
not come off a loser:—
The warmer applause given to Miss Wolkow did not disturb so staunch a
partisan; he put it to the account of Rossini’s music which she sang.
When Chopin comes to the end of his account of Miss Gladkowska’s first
appearance on the stage, he abruptly asks the question: “And what shall I
do now?” and answers forthwith: “I will leave next month; first, however,
I must rehearse my Concerto, for the Rondo is now finished.” But this
resolve is a mere flash of energy, and before we have proceeded far we
shall come on words which contrast strangely with what we have read just
now. Chopin has been talking about his going abroad ever so long, more
especially since his return from Vienna, and will go on talking about it
for a long time yet. First he intends to leave Warsaw in the winter of
1829-1830; next he makes up his mind to start in the summer of 1830, the
question being only whether he shall go to Berlin or Vienna; then in May,
1830, Berlin is already given up, but the time of his departure remains
still to be fixed. After this he is induced by the consideration that the
Italian Opera season at Vienna does not begin till September to stay at
home during the hot summer months. How he continues to put off the evil
day of parting from home and friends we shall see as we go on. I called
Chopin’s vigorously-expressed resolve a flash of energy. Here is what he
wrote not much more than a week after (on August 31, 1830):—
But that his reason was in a sorry plight may be gathered from a letter
dated September 4, 1830, which, moreover, is noteworthy, as in the
confessions which it contains are discoverable the key-notes of the
principal parts that make up the symphony of his character.
After saying that his plan for the winter is to stay two months in Vienna
and pass the rest of the season in Milan, “if it cannot be helped,” he
makes some remarks of no particular interest, and then comes back to the
old and ever new subject, the cud that humanity has been chewing from the
time of Adam and Eve, and will have to chew till the extinction of the
race, whether pessimism or optimism be the favoured philosophy.
This is one of the occasions, which occur so frequently in Chopin’s
letters, where he breaks suddenly off in the course of his emotional
outpourings, and subsides into effective silence. On such occasions one
would like to see him go to the piano and hear him finish the sentence
there. “All I can write to you now is indeed stupid stuff; only the
thought of leaving Warsaw…” Another musical opportunity! Where words
fail, there music begins.
After this the darkness of sadness shades gradually into brighter hues:—
The reader knows already the rest of the letter; it is the passage in
which Chopin’s love of fun gets the better of his melancholy, his joyous
spirits of his sad heart, and where he warns his friend, as it were with a
bright twinkle in his tearful eyes and a smile on his face, not to kiss
him at that moment, as he must wash himself. This joking about his
friend’s dislike to osculation is not without an undercurrent of
seriousness; indeed, it is virtually a reproach, but a reproach cast in
the most delicate form and attired in feminine coquetry.
On September 18, 1830, Chopin is still in Warsaw. Why he is still there he
does not know; but he feels unspeakably happy where he is, and his parents
make no objections to this procrastination.
Is it possible to imagine anything more inconsistent and self-delusive
than these ravings of our friend? Farther on in this very lengthy epistle
we come first of all once more to the pending question.
Even the most courteous of mortals, unless he be wholly destitute of
veracity, will hesitate to deny the truth of Chopin’s confession that he
has been talking nonsense. But apart from the vagueness and illogicalness
of several of the statements, the foregoing effusion is curious as a
whole: the thoughts turn up one does not know where, how, or why—their
course is quite unaccountable; and if they passed through his mind in an
unbroken connection, he fails to give the slightest indication of it.
Still, although Chopin’s philosophy of life, poetical rhapsodies, and
meditations on love and friendship, may not afford us much light,
edification, or pleasure, they help us substantially to realise their
author’s character, and particularly his temporary mood.
Great as was the magnetic power of the ideal over Chopin, great as was the
irresolution of the latter, the long delay of his departure must not be
attributed solely to these causes. The disturbed state of Europe after the
outbreak of the July revolution in Paris had also something to do with
this interminable procrastination. Passports could only be had for Prussia
and Austria, and even for these countries not by everyone. In France the
excitement had not yet subsided, in Italy it was nearing the boiling
point. Nor were Vienna, whither Chopin intended to go first, and the
Tyrol, through which he would have to pass on his way to Milan, altogether
quiet. Chopin’s father himself, therefore, wished the journey to be
postponed for a short time. Nevertheless, our friend writes on September
22 that he will start in a few weeks: his first goal is Vienna, where, he
says, they still remember him, and where he will forge the iron as long as
it is hot. But now to the climax of Chopin’s amorous fever.
The melancholy cast of the letters cited in this chapter must not lead us
to think that despondence was the invariable state of Chopin’s mind. It is
more probable that when his heart was saddest he was most disposed to
write to his friend his confessions and complaints, as by this means he
was enabled to relieve himself to some extent of the burden that oppressed
him. At any rate, the agitations of love did not prevent him from
cultivating his art, for even at the time when he felt the tyranny of the
passion most potently, he mentions having composed “some insignificant
pieces,” as he modestly expresses himself, meaning, no doubt, “short
pieces.” Meanwhile Chopin had also finished a composition which by no
means belongs to the category of “insignificant pieces”—namely, the
Concerto in E minor, the completion of which he announces on August 21,
1830. A critical examination of this and other works will be found in a
special chapter, at present I shall speak only of its performance and the
circumstances connected with it.
On September 18, 1830, Chopin writes that a few days previously he
rehearsed the Concerto with quartet accompaniment, but that it does not
quite satisfy him:—
To a rehearsal with full orchestra, except trumpets and drums (on
September 22, 1830), he invited Kurpinski, Soliva, and the select musical
world of Warsaw, in whose judgment, however, he professes to have little
confidence. Still, he is curious to know how—
The musicians in this company, among whom are Poles, Czechs, Germans,
Italians, &c., give us a good idea of the mixed character of the
musical world of Warsaw, which was not unlike what the musical world of
London is still in our day. From the above remark we see that Chopin had
neither much respect nor affection for his fellow-musicians; indeed, there
is not the slightest sign in his letters that an intimacy existed between
him and any one of them. The rehearsals of the Concerto keep Chopin pretty
busy, and his head is full of the composition. In the same letter from
which I quoted last we find the following passage:—
After the rehearsal of the Concerto with orchestra, which evidently made a
good impression upon the much-despised musical world of Warsaw, Chopin
resolved to give, or rather his friends resolved for him that he should
give, a concert in the theatre on October 11, 1830. Although he is anxious
to know what effect his Concerto will produce on the public, he seems
little disposed to play at any concert, which may be easily understood if
we remember the state of mind he is in.
The third and last of his Warsaw concerts was to be of a more perfect type
than the two preceding ones; it was to be one “without those unlucky
clarinet and bassoon solos,” at that time still so much in vogue. To make
up for this quantitative loss Chopin requested the Misses Gladkowska and
Wolkow to sing some arias, and obtained, not without much trouble, the
requisite permission for them from their master, Soliva, and the Minister
of Public Instruction, Mostowski. It was necessary to ask the latter’s
permission, because the two young ladies were educated as singers at the
expense of the State.
The programme of the concert was as follows:—
PART I
PART II
The success of the concert made Chopin forget his sorrows. There is not
one complaint in the letter in which he gives an account of it; in fact,
he seems to have been enjoying real halcyon days. He had a full house, but
played with as little nervousness as if he had been playing at home. The
first Allegro of the Concerto went very smoothly, and the audience
rewarded him with thundering applause. Of the reception of the Adagio and
Rondo we learn nothing except that in the pause between the first and
second parts the connoisseurs and amateurs came on the stage, and
complimented him in the most flattering terms on his playing. The great
success, however, of the evening was his performance of the Fantasia on
Polish airs. “This time I understood myself, the orchestra understood me,
and the audience understood us.” This is quite in the bulletin style of
conquerors; it has a ring of “veni, vidi, vici” about it. Especially the
mazurka at the end of the piece produced a great effect, and Chopin was
called back so enthusiastically that he was obliged to bow his
acknowledgments four times. Respecting the bowing he says: “I believe I
did it yesterday with a certain grace, for Brandt had taught me how to do
it properly.” In short, the concert-giver was in the best of spirits, one
is every moment expecting him to exclaim: “Seid umschlungen Millionen,
diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt.” He is pleased with himself and Streicher’s
piano on which he had played; pleased with Soliva, who kept both soloist
and orchestra splendidly in order; pleased with the impression the
execution of the overture made; pleased with the blue-robed, fay-like Miss
Wolkow; pleased most of all with Miss Gladkowska, who “wore a white dress
and roses in her hair, and was charmingly beautiful.” He tells his friend
that:
In Vienna the score and parts of the Krakowiak had been found to be full
of mistakes, it was the same with the Concerto in Warsaw. Chopin himself
says that if Soliva had not taken the score with him in order to correct
it, he (Chopin) did not know what might have become of the Concerto on the
evening of the concert. Carl Mikuli, who, as well as his fellow-pupil
Tellefsen, copied many of Chopin’s MSS., says that they were full of slips
of the pen, such as wrong notes and signatures, omissions of accidentals,
dots, and intervals of chords, and incorrect markings of slurs and 8va’s.
Although Chopin wrote on October 5, 1830, that eight days after the
concert he would certainly be no longer in Warsaw, that his trunk was
bought, his whole outfit ready, the scores corrected, the
pocket-handkerchiefs hemmed, the new trousers and the new dress-coat tried
on, &c., that, in fact, nothing remained to be done but the worst of
all, the leave-taking, yet it was not till the 1st of November, 1830, that
he actually did take his departure. Elsner and a number of friends
accompanied him to Wola, the first village beyond Warsaw. There the pupils
of the Conservatorium awaited them, and sang a cantata composed by Elsner
for the occasion. After this the friends once more sat down together to a
banquet which had been prepared for them. In the course of the repast a
silver goblet filled with Polish earth was presented to Chopin in the name
of all.
How fully Chopin realised their wishes and expectations the sequel will
show: how much such loving words must have affected him the reader of this
chapter can have no difficulty in understanding. But now came pitilessly
the dread hour of parting. A last farewell is taken, the carriage rolls
away, and the traveller has left behind him all that is dearest to him—parents,
sisters, sweetheart, and friends. “I have always a presentiment that I am
leaving Warsaw never to return to it; I am convinced that I shall say an
eternal farewell to my native country.” Thus, indeed, destiny willed it.
Chopin was never to tread again the beloved soil of Poland, never to set
eyes again on Warsaw and its Conservatorium, the column of King Sigismund
opposite, the neighbouring church of the Bernardines (Constantia’s place
of worship), and all those things and places associated in his mind with
the sweet memories of his youth and early manhood.
CHAPTER XI.
CHOPIN IS JOINED AT KALISZ BY TITUS WOYCIECHOWSKI.—FOUR DAYS AT
BRESLAU: HIS VISITS TO THE THEATRE; CAPELLMEISTER SCHNABEL; PLAYS AT A
CONCERT; ADOLF HESSE.—SECOND VISIT TO DRESDEN: MUSIC AT THEATRE AND
CHURCH; GERMAN AND POLISH SOCIETY; MORLACCHI, SIGNORA PALAZZESI,
RASTRELLI, ROLLA, DOTZAUER, KUMMER, KLENGEL, AND OTHER MUSICIANS; A
CONCERT TALKED ABOUT BUT NOT GIVEN; SIGHT-SEEING.—AFTER A WEEK, BY
PRAGUE TO VIENNA.—ARRIVES AT VIENNA TOWARDS THE END OF NOVEMBER,
1830.
Thanks to Chopin’s extant letters to his family and friends it is not
difficult to give, with the help of some knowledge of the contemporary
artists and of the state of music in the towns he visited, a pretty clear
account of his experiences and mode of life during the nine or ten months
which intervene between his departure from Warsaw and his arrival in
Paris. Without the letters this would have been impossible, and for two
reasons: one of them is that, although already a notable man, Chopin was
not yet a noted man; and the other, that those with whom he then
associated have, like himself, passed away from among us.
Chopin, who, as the reader will remember, left Warsaw on November 1, 1830,
was joined at Kalisz by Titus Woyciechowski. Thence the two friends
travelled together to Vienna. They made their first halt at Breslau, which
they reached on November 6. No sooner had Chopin put up at the hotel Zur
goldenen Gans, changed his dress, and taken some refreshments, than he
rushed off to the theatre. During his stay in Breslau he was present at
three performances—at Raimund’s fantastical comedy “Der Alpenkonig
und der Menschenfeind”, Auber’s “Maurer und Schlosser (Le Macon),” and
Winter’s “Das unterbrochene Opferfest”, a now superannuated but then still
popular opera. The players succeeded better than the singers in gaining
the approval of their fastidious auditor, which indeed might have been
expected. As both Chopin and Woyciechowski were provided with letters of
introduction, and the gentlemen to whom they were addressed did all in
their power to make their visitors’ sojourn as pleasant as possible, the
friends spent in Breslau four happy days. It is characteristic of the
German musical life in those days that in the Ressource, a society of that
town, they had three weekly concerts at which the greater number of the
performers were amateurs. Capellmeister Schnabel, an old acquaintance of
Chopin’s, had invited the latter to come to a morning rehearsal. When
Chopin entered, an amateur, a young barrister, was going to rehearse
Moscheles’ E flat major Concerto. Schnabel, on seeing the newcomer, asked
him to try the piano. Chopin sat down and played some variations which
astonished and delighted the Capellmeister, who had not heard him for four
years, so much that he overwhelmed him with expressions of admiration. As
the poor amateur began to feel nervous, Chopin was pressed on all sides to
take that gentleman’s place in the evening. Although he had not practised
for some weeks he consented, drove to the hotel, fetched the requisite
music, rehearsed, and in the evening performed the Romanza and Rondo of
his E minor Concerto and an improvisation on a theme from Auber’s “La
Muette” (“Masaniello”). At the rehearsal the “Germans” admired his
playing; some of them he heard whispering “What a light touch he has!” but
not a word was said about the composition. The amateurs did not know
whether it was good or bad. Titus Woyciechowski heard one of them say “No
doubt he can play, but he can’t compose.” There was, however, one
gentleman who praised the novelty of the form, and the composer naively
declares that this was the person who understood him best. Speaking of the
professional musicians, Chopin remarks that, with the exception of
Schnabel, “the Germans” were at a loss what to think of him. The Polish
peasants use the word “German” as an invective, believe that the devil
speaks German and dresses in the German fashion, and refuse to take
medicine because they hold it to be an invention of the Germans and,
consequently, unfit for Christians. Although Chopin does not go so far, he
is by no means free from this national antipathy. Let his susceptibility
be ruffled by Germans, and you may be sure he will remember their
nationality. Besides old Schnabel there was among the persons whose
acquaintance Chopin made at Breslau only one other who interests us, and
interests us more than that respectable composer of church music; and this
one was the organist and composer Adolph Frederick Hesse, then a young man
of Chopin’s age. Before long the latter became better acquainted with him.
In his account of his stay and playing in the Silesian capital, he says of
him only that “the second local connoisseur, Hesse, who has travelled
through the whole of Germany, paid me also compliments.”
Chopin continued his journey on November 10, and on November 12 had
already plunged into Dresden life. Two features of this, in some respects
quite unique, life cannot but have been particularly attractive to our
traveller—namely, its Polish colony and the Italian opera. The
former owed its origin to the connection of the house of Saxony with the
crown of Poland; and the latter, which had been patronised by the Electors
and Kings for hundreds of years, was not disbanded till 1832. In 1817, it
is true, Weber, who had received a call for that purpose, founded a German
opera at Dresden, but the Italian opera retained the favour of the Court
and of a great part of the public, in fact, was the spoiled child that
looked down upon her younger sister, poor Cinderella. Even a Weber had to
fight hard to keep his own, indeed, sometimes failed to do so, in the
rivalry with the ornatissimo Signore Cavaliere Morlacchi, primo maestro
della capella Reale.
Chopin’s first visit was to Miss Pechwell, through whom he got admission
to a soiree at the house of Dr. Kreyssig, where she was going to play and
the prima donna of the Italian opera to sing. Having carefully dressed,
Chopin made his way to Dr. Kreyssig’s in a sedan-chair. Being unaccustomed
to this kind of conveyance he had a desire to kick out the bottom of the
“curious but comfortable box,” a temptation which he, however—to his
honour be it recorded—resisted. On entering the salon he found there
a great number of ladies sitting round eight large tables:—
The clicking of knitting-needles and the rattling of teacups were suddenly
interrupted by the overture to the opera “Fra Diavolo,” which was being
played in an adjoining room. After the overture Signora Palazzesi sang
“with a bell-like, magnificent voice, and great bravura.” Chopin asked to
be introduced to her. He made likewise the acquaintance of the old
composer and conductor Vincent Rastrelli, who introduced him to a brother
of the celebrated tenor Rubini.
At the Roman Catholic church, the Court Church, Chopin met Morlacchi, and
heard a mass by that excellent artist. The Neapolitan sopranists Sassaroli
and Tarquinio sang, and the “incomparable Rolla” played the solo violin.
On another occasion he heard a clever but dry mass by Baron von Miltitz,
which was performed under the direction of Morlacchi, and in which the
celebrated violoncello virtuosos Dotzauer and Kummer played their solos
beautifully, and the voices of Sassaroli, Muschetti, Babnigg, and Zezi
were heard to advantage. The theatre was, as usual, assiduously frequented
by Chopin. After the above-mentioned soiree he hastened to hear at least
the last act of “Die Stumme von Portici” (“Masaniello”). Of the
performance of Rossini’s “Tancredi,” which he witnessed on another
evening, he praised only the wonderful violin playing of Rolla and the
singing of Mdlle. Hahnel, a lady from the Vienna Court Theatre. Rossini’s
“La Donna del lago,” in Italian, is mentioned among the operas about to be
performed. What a strange anomaly, that in the year 1830 a state of
matters such as is indicated by these names and facts could still obtain
in Dresden, one of the capitals of musical Germany! It is emphatically a
curiosity of history.
Chopin, who came to Rolla with a letter of introduction from Soliva, was
received by the Italian violinist with great friendliness. Indeed,
kindness was showered upon him from all sides. Rubini promised him a
letter of introduction to his brother in Milan, Rolla one to the director
of the opera there, and Princess Augusta, the daughter of the late king,
and Princess Maximiliana, the sister-in-law of the reigning king, provided
him with letters for the Queen of Naples, the Duchess of Lucca, the
Vice-Queen of Milan, and Princess Ulasino in Rome. He had met the
princesses and played to them at the house of the Countess Dobrzycka,
Oberhofmeisterin of the Princess Augusta, daughter of the late king,
Frederick Augustus.
The name of the Oberhofmeisterin brings us to the Polish society of
Dresden, into which Chopin seems to have found his way at once. Already
two days after his arrival he writes of a party of Poles with whom he had
dined. At the house of Mdme. Pruszak he made the acquaintance of no less a
person than General Kniaziewicz, who took part in the defence of Warsaw,
commanded the left wing in the battle of Maciejowice (1794), and joined
Napoleon’s Polish legion in 1796. Chopin wrote home: “I have pleased him
very much; he said that no pianist had made so agreeable an impression on
him.”
To judge from the tone of Chopin’s letters, none of all the people he came
in contact with gained his affection in so high a degree as did Klengel,
whom he calls “my dear Klengel,” and of whom he says that he esteems him
very highly, and loves him as if he had known him from his earliest youth.
“I like to converse with him, for from him something is to be learned.”
The great contrapuntist seems to have reciprocated this affection, at any
rate he took a great interest in his young friend, wished to see the
scores of his concertos, went without Chopin’s knowledge to Morlacchi and
to the intendant of the theatre to try if a concert could not be arranged
within four days, told him that his playing reminded him of Field’s, that
his touch was of a peculiar kind, and that he had not expected to find him
such a virtuoso. Although Chopin replied, when Klengel advised him to give
a concert, that his stay in Dresden was too short to admit of his doing
so, and thought himself that he could earn there neither much fame nor
much money, he nevertheless was not a little pleased that this excellent
artist had taken some trouble in attempting to smooth the way for a
concert, and to hear from him that this had been done not for Chopin’s but
for Dresden’s sake; our friend, be it noted, was by no means callous to
flattery. Klengel took him also to a soiree at the house of Madame
Niesiolawska, a Polish lady, and at supper proposed his health, which was
drunk in champagne.
There is a passage in one of Chopin’s letters which I must quote; it tells
us something of his artistic taste outside his own art:—
Thus our friend spent a week right pleasantly and not altogether
unprofitably in the Saxon Athens, and spent it so busily that what with
visits, dinners, soirees, operas, and other amusements, he leaving his
hotel early in the morning and returning late at night, it passed away he
did not know how.
Chopin, who made also a short stay in Prague—of which visit,
however, we have no account—arrived in Vienna in the latter part of
November, 1830. His intention was to give some concerts, and to proceed in
a month or two to Italy. How the execution of this plan was prevented by
various circumstances we shall see presently. Chopin flattered himself
with the belief that managers, publishers, artists, and the public in
general were impatiently awaiting his coming, and ready to receive him
with open arms. This, however, was an illusion. He overrated his success.
His playing at the two “Academies” in the dead season must have remained
unnoticed by many, and was probably forgotten by not a few who did notice
it. To talk, therefore, about forging the iron while it was hot proved a
misconception of the actual state of matters. It is true his playing and
compositions had made a certain impression, especially upon some of the
musicians who had heard him. But artists, even when free from hostile
jealousy, are far too much occupied with their own interests to be helpful
in pushing on their younger brethren. As to publishers and managers, they
care only for marketable articles, and until an article has got a
reputation its marketable value is very small. Nine hundred and
ninety-nine out of a thousand judge by names and not by intrinsic worth.
Suppose a hitherto unknown statue of Phidias, a painting of Raphael, a
symphony of Beethoven, were discovered and introduced to the public as the
works of unknown living artists, do you think they would receive the same
universal admiration as the known works of the immortal masters? Not at
all! By a very large majority of the connoisseurs and pretended
connoisseurs they would be criticised, depreciated, or ignored. Let,
however, the real names of the authors become known, and the whole world
will forthwith be thrown into ecstasy, and see in them even more beauties
than they really possess. Well, the first business of an artist, then, is
to make himself a reputation, and a reputation is not made by one or two
successes. A first success, be it ever so great, and achieved under ever
so favourable circumstances, is at best but the thin end of the wedge
which has been got in, but which has to be driven home with much vigour
and perseverance before the work is done. “Art is a fight, not a
pleasure-trip,” said the French painter Millet, one who had learnt the
lesson in the severe school of experience. Unfortunately for Chopin, he
had neither the stuff nor the stomach for fighting. He shrank back at the
slightest touch like a sensitive plant. He could only thrive in the
sunshine of prosperity and protected against all those inimical influences
and obstacles that cause hardier natures to put forth their strength, and
indeed are necessary for the full unfolding of all their capabilities.
Chopin and Titus Woyciechowski put up at the hotel Stadt London, but,
finding the charges too high, they decamped and stayed at the hotel
Goldenes Lamm till the lodgings which they had taken were evacuated by the
English admiral then in possession of them. From Chopin’s first letter
after his arrival in the Austrian capital his parents had the satisfaction
of learning that their son was in excellent spirits, and that his appetite
left nothing to be desired, especially when sharpened by good news from
home. In his perambulations he took particular note of the charming
Viennese girls, and at the Wilde Mann, where he was in the habit of
dining, he enjoyed immensely a dish of Strudeln. The only drawback to the
blissfulness of his then existence was a swollen nose, caused by the
change of air, a circumstance which interfered somewhat with his visiting
operations. He was generally well received by those on whom he called with
letters of introduction. In one of the two exceptional cases he let it be
understood that, having a letter of introduction from the Grand Duke
Constantine to the Russian Ambassador, he was not so insignificant a
person as to require the patronage of a banker; and in the other case he
comforted himself with the thought that a time would come when things
would be changed.
In the letter above alluded to (December 1, 1830) Chopin speaks of one of
the projected concerts as if it were to take place shortly; that is to
say, he is confident that, such being his pleasure, this will be the
natural course of events. His Warsaw acquaintance Orlowski, the
perpetrator of mazurkas on his concerto themes, was accompanying the
violinist Lafont on a concert-tour. Chopin does not envy him the honour:—
Wurfel has conversations with him about the arrangements for a concert,
and Graff, the pianoforte-maker, advises him to give it in the
Landstandische Saal, the finest and most convenient hall in Vienna. Chopin
even asks his people which of his Concertos he should play, the one in F
or the one in E minor. But disappointments were not long in coming. One of
his first visits was to Haslinger, the publisher of the Variations on “La
ci darem la mano,” to whom he had sent also a sonata and another set of
variations. Haslinger received him very kindly, but would print neither
the one nor the other work. No wonder the composer thought the cunning
publisher wished to induce him in a polite and artful way to let him have
his compositions gratis. For had not Wurfel told him that his Concerto in
F minor was better than Hummel’s in A flat, which Haslinger had just
published, and had not Klengel at Dresden been surprised to hear that he
had received no payment for the Variations? But Chopin will make Haslinger
repent of it. “Perhaps he thinks that if he treats my compositions
somewhat en bagatelle, I shall be glad if only he prints them; but
henceforth nothing will be got from me gratis; my motto will be ‘Pay,
animal!'” But evidently the animal wouldn’t pay, and in fact did not print
the compositions till after Chopin’s death. So, unless the firm of
Haslinger mentioned that he will call on him as soon as he has a room
wherein he can receive a visit in return, the name of Lachner does not
reappear in the correspondence.
In the management of the Karnthnerthor Theatre, Louis Duport had
succeeded, on September 1, 1830, Count Gallenberg, whom severe losses
obliged to relinquish a ten years’ contract after the lapse of less than
two years. Chopin was introduced to the new manager by Hummel.
But the niggardly manager offered him nothing at all, and Chopin did not
give a concert either in the Redoutensaal or elsewhere, at least not for a
long time. Chopin’s last-quoted remark is difficult to reconcile with what
he tells his friend Matuszyriski four days later: “I have no longer any
thought of giving a concert.” In a letter to Elsner, dated January 26,
1831, he writes:—
It would, however, be a great mistake to ascribe the failure of Chopin’s
projects solely to the adverse circumstances pointed out by him. The chief
causes lay in himself. They were his want of energy and of decision,
constitutional defects which were of course intensified by the
disappointment of finding indifference and obstruction where he expected
enthusiasm and furtherance, and by the outbreak of the revolution in
Poland (November 30, 1830), which made him tremble for the safety of his
beloved ones and the future of his country. In the letter from which I
have last quoted Chopin, after remarking that he had postponed writing
till he should be able to report some definite arrangement, proceeds to
say:—
What affected Chopin most and made him feel lonely was the departure of
his friend Woyciechowski, who on the first news of the insurrection
returned to Poland and joined the insurgents. Chopin wished to do the
same, but his parents advised him to stay where he was, telling him that
he was not strong enough to bear the fatigues and hardships of a soldier’s
life. Nevertheless, when Woyciechowski was gone an irresistible
home-sickness seized him, and, taking post-horses, he tried to overtake
his friend and go with him. But after following him for some stages
without making up to him, his resolution broke down, and he returned to
Vienna. Chopin’s characteristic irresolution shows itself again at this
time very strikingly, indeed, his letters are full of expressions
indicating and even confessing it. On December 21, 1830, he writes to his
parents:—
And four days afterwards he writes to Matuszynski:—
Chopin’s dearest wish was to be at home again. “How I should like to be in
Warsaw!” he writes. But the fulfilment of this wish was out of the
question, being against the desire of his parents, of whom especially the
mother seems to have been glad that he did not execute his project of
coming home.
The question whether he should go to Italy or to France was soon decided
for him, for the suppressed but constantly-increasing commotion which had
agitated the former country ever since the July revolution at last vented
itself in a series of insurrections. Modena began on February 3,1831,
Bologna, Ancona, Parma, and Rome followed. While the “where to go” was
thus settled, the “when to go” remained an open question for many months
to come. Meanwhile let us try to look a little deeper into the inner and
outer life which Chopin lived at Vienna.
The biographical details of this period of Chopin’s life have to be drawn
almost wholly from his letters. These, however, must be judiciously used.
Those addressed to his parents, important as they are, are only valuable
with regard to the composer’s outward life, and even as vehicles of such
facts they are not altogether trustworthy, for it is always his endeavour
to make his parents believe that he is well and cheery. Thus he writes,
for instance, to his friend Matuszyriski, after pouring forth complaint
after complaint:—”Tell my parents that I am very happy, that I am in
want of nothing, that I amuse myself famously, and never feel lonely.”
Indeed, the Spectator’s opinion that nothing discovers the true temper of
a person so much as his letters, requires a good deal of limitation and
qualification. Johnson’s ideas on the same subject may be recommended as a
corrective. He held that there was no transaction which offered stronger
temptations to fallacy and sophistication than epistolary intercourse:—
These one-sided statements are open to much criticism, and would make an
excellent theme for an essay. Here, however, we must content ourselves
with simply pointing out that letters are not always calm and deliberate
performances, but exhibit often the eagerness of conversation and the
impulsiveness of passion. In Chopin’s correspondence we find this not
unfrequently exemplified. But to see it we must not turn to the letters
addressed to his parents, to his master, and to his acquaintances—there
we find little of the real man and his deeper feelings—but to those
addressed to his bosom-friends, and among them there are none in which he
shows himself more openly than in the two which he wrote on December 25,
1830, and January 1, 1831, to John Matuszynski. These letters are, indeed,
such wonderful revelations of their writer’s character that I should fail
in my duty as his biographer were I to neglect to place before the reader
copious extracts from them, in short, all those passages which throw light
on the inner working of this interesting personality.
The disorder of the letters is indeed very striking; it is great in the
foregoing extracts, and of course ten times greater with the interspersed
descriptions, bits of news, and criticisms on music and musicians. I
preferred separating the fundamental and always-recurring thoughts, the
all-absorbing and predominating feelings, from the more superficial and
passing fancies and affections, and all those matters which were to him,
if not of total indifference, at least of comparatively little moment;
because such a separation enables us to gain a clearer and fuller view of
the inner man and to judge henceforth his actions and works with some
degree of certainty, even where his own accounts and comments and those of
trustworthy witnesses fail us. The psychological student need not be told
to take note of the disorder in these two letters and of their length
(written to the same person within less than a week, they fill nearly
twelve printed pages in Karasowski’s book), he will not be found
neglecting such important indications of the temporary mood and the
character of which it is a manifestation. And now let us take a glance at
Chopin’s outward life in Vienna.
I have already stated that Chopin and Woyciechowski lived together. Their
lodgings, for which they had to pay their landlady, a baroness, fifty
florins, were on the third story of a house in the Kohlmarkt, and
consisted of three elegant rooms. When his friend left, Chopin thought the
rent too high for his purse, and as an English family was willing to pay
as much as eighty florins, he sublet the rooms and removed to the fourth
story, where he found in the Baroness von Lachmanowicz an agreeable young
landlady, and had equally roomy apartments which cost him only twenty
florins and pleased him quite well. The house was favourably situated,
Mechetti being on the right, Artaria on the left, and the opera behind;
and as people were not deterred by the high stairs from visiting him, not
even old Count Hussarzewski, and a good profit would accrue to him from
those eighty florins, he could afford to laugh at theprobable dismay of
his friends picturing him as “a poor devil living in a garret,” and could
do so the more heartily as there was in reality another story between him
and the roof. He gives his people a very pretty description of his
lodgings and mode of life:—
If is evident that there was no occasion to fear that Chopin would kill
himself with too hard work. Indeed, the number of friends, or, not to
misuse this sacred name, let us rather say acquaintances, he had, did not
allow him much time for study and composition. In his letters from Vienna
are mentioned more than forty names of families and single individuals
with whom he had personal intercourse. I need hardly add that among them
there was a considerable sprinkling of Poles. Indeed, the majority of the
houses where he was oftenest seen, and where he felt most happy, were
those of his countrymen, or those in which there was at least some Polish
member, or which had some Polish connection. Already on December 1, 1830,
he writes home that he had been several times at Count Hussarzewski’s, and
purposes to pay a visit at Countess Rosalia Rzewuska’s, where he expects
to meet Madame Cibbini, the daughter of Leopold Kozeluch and a pupil of
Clementi, known as a pianist and composer, to whom Moscheles dedicated a
sonata for four hands, and who at that time was first lady-in-waiting to
the Empress of Austria. Chopin had likewise called twice at Madame
Weyberheim’s. This lady, who was a sister of Madame Wolf and the wife of a
rich banker, invited him to a soiree “en petit cercle des amateurs,” and
some weeks later to a soiree dansante, on which occasion he saw “many
young people, beautiful, but not antique [that is to say not of the Old
Testament kind], “refused to play, although the lady of the house and her
beautiful daughters had invited many musical personages, was forced to
dance a cotillon, made some rounds, and then went home. In the house of
the family Beyer (where the husband was a Pole of Odessa, and the wife,
likewise Polish, bore the fascinating Christian name Constantia—the
reader will remember her) Chopin felt soon at his ease. There he liked to
dine, sup, lounge, chat, play, dance mazurkas, &c. He often met there
the violinist Slavik, and the day before Christmas played with him all the
morning and evening, another day staying with him there till two o’clock
in the morning. We hear also of dinners at the house of his countrywoman
Madame Elkan, and at Madame Schaschek’s, where (he writes in July, 1831)
he usually met several Polish ladies, who by their hearty hopeful words
always cheered him, and where he once made his appearance at four instead
of the appointed dinner hour, two o’clock. But one of his best friends was
the medical celebrity Dr. Malfatti, physician-in-ordinary to the Emperor
of Austria, better remembered by the musical reader as the friend of
Beethoven, whom he attended in his last illness, forgetting what causes
for complaint he might have against the too irritable master. Well, this
Dr. Malfatti received Chopin, of whom he had already heard from Wladyslaw
Ostrowski, “as heartily as if I had been a relation of his” (Chopin uses
here a very bold simile), running up to him and embracing him as soon as
he had got sight of his visiting-card. Chopin became a frequent guest at
the doctor’s house; in his letters we come often on the announcement that
he has dined or is going to dine on such or such a day at Dr. Malfatti’s.
To this he adds the note:—
Here Chopin is seen at his best as a letter writer; it would be difficult
to find other passages of equal excellence. For, although we meet
frequently enough with isolated pretty bits, there is not one single
letter which, from beginning to end, as a whole as well as in its parts,
has the perfection and charm of Mendelssohn’s letters.
CHAPTER XII
VIENNA MUSICAL LIFE.—KARNTHNERTHOR THEATRE.—SABINE
HEINEFETTER.—CONCERTS: HESSE, THALBERG, DOHLER, HUMMEL, ALOYS
SCHMITT, CHARLES CZERNY, SLAVIK, MERK, BOCKLET, ABBE STABLER, KIESEWETTER,
KANDLER.—THE PUBLISHERS HASLINGER, DIABELLI, MECHETTI, AND JOSEPH
CZERNY.—LANNER AND STRAUSS.—CHOPIN PLAYS AT A CONCERT OF
MADAME GARZIA-VESTRIS AND GIVES ONE HIMSELF.—HIS STUDIES AND
COMPOSITIONS OF THAT TIME.—HIS STATE OF BODY AND MIND.—PREPARATIONS
FOR AND POSTPONEMENT OF HIS DEPARTURE.—SHORTNESS OF MONEY.—HIS
MELANCHOLY.—TWO EXCURSIONS.—LEAVES FOR MUNICH.—HIS
CONCERT AT MUNICH.—HIS STAY AT STUTTGART.—PROCEEDS TO PARIS.
The allusions to music and musicians lead us naturally to inquire further
after Chopin’s musical experiences in Vienna.
What Chopin says here and elsewhere about Duport’s stinginess tallies with
the contemporary newspaper accounts. No sooner had the new manager taken
possession of his post than he began to economise in such a manner that he
drove away men like Conradin Kreutzer, Weigl, and Mayseder. During the
earlier part of his sojourn in Vienna Chopin remarked that excepting
Heinefetter and Wild, the singers were not so excellent as he had expected
to find them at the Imperial Opera. Afterwards he seems to have somewhat
extended his sympathies, for he writes in July, 1831:—
Chopin’s most considerable criticism of this time is one on Miss
Heinefetter in a letter written on December 25, 1830; it may serve as a
pendant to his criticism on Miss Sontag which I quoted in a preceding
chapter.
The opera at the Karnthnerthor Theatre with all its shortcomings was
nevertheless the most important and most satisfactory musical institution
of the city. What else, indeed, had Vienna to offer to the earnest
musician? Lanner and Strauss were the heroes of the day, and the majority
of other concerts than those given by them were exhibitions of virtuosos.
Imagine what a pass the musical world of Vienna must have come to when
Stadler, Kiesewetter, Mosel, and Seyfried could be called, as Chopin did
call them, its elite! Abbe Stadler might well say to the stranger from
Poland that Vienna was no longer what it used to be. Haydn, Mozart,
Beethoven, and Schubert had shuffled off their mortal coil, and compared
with these suns their surviving contemporaries and successors—Gyrowetz,
Weigl, Stadler, Conradin Kreutzer, Lachner, &c.—were but dim and
uncertain lights.
With regard to choral and orchestral performances apart from the stage,
Vienna had till more recent times very little to boast of. In 1830-1831
the Spirituel-Concerte (Concerts Spirituels) were still in existence under
the conductorship of Lannoy; but since 1824 their number had dwindled down
from eighteen to four yearly concerts. The programmes were made up of a
symphony and some sacred choruses. Beethoven, Mozart, and Haydn
predominated among the symphonists; in the choral department preference
was given to the Austrian school of church music; but Cherubim also was a
great favourite, and choruses from Handel’s oratorios, with Mosel’s
additional accompaniments, were often performed. The name of Beethoven was
hardly ever absent from any of the programmes. That the orchestra
consisted chiefly of amateurs, and that the performances took place
without rehearsals (only difficult new works got a rehearsal, and one
only), are facts which speak for themselves. Franz Lachner told Hanslick
that the performances of new and in any way difficult compositions were so
bad that Schubert once left the hall in the middle of one of his works,
and he himself (Lachner) had felt several times inclined to do the same.
These are the concerts of which Beethoven spoke as Winkelmusik, and the
tickets of which he denominated Abtrittskarten, a word which, as the
expression of a man of genius, I do not hesitate to quote, but which I
could not venture to translate. Since this damning criticism was uttered,
matters had not improved, on the contrary, had gone from bad to worse.
Another society of note was the still existing and flourishing
Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde. It, too, gave four, or perhaps five yearly
concerts, in each of which a symphony, an overture, an aria or duet, an
instrumental solo, and a chorus were performed. This society was afflicted
with the same evil as the first-named institution. It was a
As far as choral singing is concerned the example deserves to be followed,
but the matter stands differently with regard to instrumental music, a
branch of the art which demands not only longer and more careful, but also
constant, training. Although the early custom of drawing lots, in order to
determine who were to sing the solos, what places the players were to
occupy in the orchestra, and which of the four conductors was to wield the
baton, had already disappeared before 1831, yet in 1841 the performances
of the symphonies were still so little “in the spirit of the composers” (a
delicate way of stating an ugly fact) that a critic advised the society to
imitate the foreign conservatoriums, and reinforce the band with the best
musicians of the capital, who, constantly exercising their art, and
conversant with the works of the great masters, were better able to do
justice to them than amateurs who met only four times a year. What a boon
it would be to humanity, what an increase of happiness, if amateurs would
allow themselves to be taught by George Eliot, who never spoke truer and
wiser words than when she said:—”A little private imitation of what
is good is a sort of private devotion to it, and most of us ought to
practise art only in the light of private study—preparation to
understand and enjoy what the few can do for us.” In addition to the above
I shall yet mention a third society, the Tonkunstler-Societat, which, as
the name implies, was an association of musicians. Its object was the
getting-up and keeping-up of a pension fund, and its artistic activity
displayed itself in four yearly concerts. Haydn’s “Creation” and “Seasons”
were the stock pieces of the society’s repertoire, but in 1830 and 1831
Handel’s “Messiah” and “Solomon” and Lachner’s “Die vier Menschenalter”
were also performed.
These historical notes will give us an idea of what Chopin may have heard
in the way of choral and orchestral music. I say “may have heard,” because
not a word is to be found in his extant letters about the concerts of
these societies. Without exposing ourselves to the reproach of rashness,
we may, however, assume that he was present at the concert of the
Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde on March 20, 1831, when among the items of
the programme were Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, and the first movement
of a concerto composed and played by Thalberg. On seeing the name of one
of the most famous pianists contemporary with Chopin, the reader has, no
doubt, at once guessed the reason why I assumed the latter’s presence at
the concert. These two remarkable, but in their characters and aims so
dissimilar, men had some friendly intercourse in Vienna. Chopin mentions
Thalberg twice in his letters, first on December 25, 1830, and again on
May 28, 1831. On the latter occasion he relates that he went with him to
an organ recital given by Hesse, the previously-mentioned Adolf Hesse of
Breslau, of whom Chopin now remarked that he had talent and knew how to
treat his instrument. Hesse and Chopin must have had some personal
intercourse, for we learn that the former left with the latter an album
leaf. A propos of this circumstance, Chopin confesses in a letter to his
people that he is at a loss what to write, that he lacks the requisite
wit. But let us return to the brilliant pianist, who, of course, was a
more interesting acquaintance in Chopin’s, eyes than the great organist.
Born in 1812, and consequently three years younger than Chopin, Sigismund
Thalberg had already in his fifteenth year played with success in public,
and at the age of sixteen published Op. 1, 2, and 3. However, when Chopin
made his acquaintance, he had not yet begun to play only his own
compositions (about that time he played, for instance, Beethoven’s C minor
Concerto at one of the Spirituel-Concerte, where since 1830 instrumental
solos were occasionally heard), nor had he attained that in its way unique
perfection of beauty of tone and elegance of execution which distinguished
him afterwards. Indeed, the palmy days of his career cannot be dated
farther back than the year 1835, when he and Chopin met again in Paris;
but then his success was so enormous that his fame in a short time became
universal, and as a virtuoso only one rival was left him—Liszt, the
unconquered. That Chopin and Thalberg entertained very high opinions of
each other cannot be asserted. Let the reader judge for himself after
reading what Chopin says in his letter of December 25, 1830:—
Chopin was endowed with a considerable power of sarcasm, and was fond of
cultivating and exercising it. This portraiture of his brother-artist is
not a bad specimen of its kind, although we shall meet with better ones.
Another, but as yet unfledged, celebrity was at that time living in
Vienna, prosecuting his studies under Czerny—namely, Theodor Dohler.
Chopin, who went to hear him play some compositions of his master’s at the
theatre, does not allude to him again after the concert; but if he foresaw
what a position as a pianist and composer he himself was destined to
occupy, he could not suspect that this lad of seventeen would some day be
held up to the Parisian public by a hostile clique as a rival equalling
and even surpassing his peculiar excellences. By the way, the notion of
anyone playing compositions of Czerny’s at a concert cannot but strangely
tickle the fancy of a musician who has the privilege of living in the
latter part of the nineteenth century.
Besides the young pianists with a great future before them Chopin came
also in contact with aging pianists with a great past behind them. Hummel,
accompanied by his son, called on him in the latter part of December,
1830, and was extraordinarily polite. In April, 1831, the two pianists,
the setting and the rising star, were together at the villa of Dr.
Malfatti. Chopin informed his master, Elsner, for whose masses he was in
quest of a publisher, that Haslinger was publishing the last mass of
Hummel, and added:— For he now lives only by and for Hummel.
Unfortunately there is not a word which betrays Chopin’s opinion of
Hummel’s playing and compositions. We are more fortunate in the case of
another celebrity, one, however, of a much lower order. In one of the
prosaic intervals, of the sentimental rhapsody, indited on December 25,
1830, there occur the following remarks:—
Having looked at this picture, let the reader look also at this other,
dashed off a month later in a letter to Elsner:—
From the contemporary journals we learn that, at the concert mentioned by
Chopin, Schmitt afforded the public of Vienna an opportunity of hearing a
number of his own compositions—which were by no means short
drawing-room pieces, but a symphony, overture, concerto, concertino, &c.—and
that he concluded his concert with an improvisation. One critic, at least,
described his style of playing as sound and brilliant. The misfortune of
Schmitt was to have come too late into the world—respectable
mediocrities like him always do that—he never had any youth. The
pianist on whom Chopin called first on arriving in Vienna was Charles
Czerny, and he
Only in the sense of belonging rather to the outgoing than to the incoming
generation can Czerny be reckoned among the aged pianists, for in 1831 he
was not above forty years of age and had still an enormous capacity for
work in him—hundreds and hundreds of original and transcribed
compositions, thousands and thousands of lessons. His name appears in a
passage of one of Chopin’s letters which deserves to be quoted for various
reasons: it shows the writer’s dislike to the Jews, his love of Polish
music, and his contempt for a kind of composition much cultivated by
Czerny. Speaking of the violinist Herz, “an Israelite,” who was almost
hissed when he made his debut in Warsaw, and whom Chopin was going to hear
again in Vienna, he says:—
Chopin had not much sympathy with Czerny the musician, but seems to have
had some liking for the man, who indeed was gentle, kind, and courteous in
his disposition and deportment.
A much more congenial and intimate connection existed between Chopin,
Slavik, and Merk. [FOOTNOTE: Thus the name is spelt in Mendel’s
Musikalisches Conversations-Lexikon and by E. A. Melis, the Bohemian
writer on music. Chopin spells it Slawik. The more usual spelling,
however, is Slawjk; and in C.F. Whistling’s Handbuch der musikalischen
Literatur (Leipzig, 1828) it is Slavjk.] Joseph Slavik had come to Vienna
in 1825 and had at once excited a great sensation. He was then a young man
of nineteen, but technically already superior to all the violinists that
had been heard in the Austrian capital. The celebrated Mayseder called him
a second Lipinski. Pixis, his master at the Conservatorium in Prague, on
seeing some of this extraordinary pupil’s compositions—a concerto,
variations, &c.—had wondered how anyone could write down such
mad, unplayable stuff. But Slavik before leaving Prague proved at a
farewell concert that there was at least one who could play the mad stuff.
All this, however, was merely the prelude to what was yet to come. The
appearance of Paganini in 1828 revealed to him the, till then,
dimly-perceived ideal of his dreams, and the great Italian violinist, who
took an interest in this ardent admirer and gave him some hints, became
henceforth his model. Having saved a little money, he went for his further
improvement to Paris, studying especially under Baillot, but soon returned
to accept an engagement in the Imperial Band. When after two years of hard
practising he reappeared before the public of Vienna, his style was
altogether changed; he mastered the same difficulties as Paganini, or even
greater ones, not, however, with the same unfailing certainty, nor with an
always irreproachable intonation. Still, there can be no doubt that had
not a premature death (in 1833, at the age of twenty-seven) cut short his
career, he would have spread his fame all over the world. Chopin, who met
him first at Wurfel’s, at once felt a liking for him, and when on the
following day he heard him play after dinner at Beyer’s, he was more
pleased with his performance than with that of any other violinist except
Paganini. As Chopin’s playing was equally sympathetic to Slavik, they
formed the project of writing a duet for violin and piano. In a letter to
his friend Matuszynski (December 25, 1830) Chopin writes:—
The sight of the post-office and a letter from his Polish friends put the
variations out of his mind, and they seem never to have been written, at
least nothing has been heard of them. Some remarks on Slavik in a letter
addressed to his parents (May 28, 1831) show Chopin’s admiration of and
affection for his friend still more distinctly:—
Shortly after falling in with Slavik, Chopin met Merk, probably at the
house of the publisher Mechetti, and on January 1, 1831, he announces to
his friend in Warsaw with unmistakable pride that “Merk, the first
violoncellist in Vienna,” has promised him a visit. Chopin desired very
much to become acquainted with him because he thought that Merk, Slavik,
and himself would form a capital trio. The violoncellist was considerably
older than either pianist or violinist, being born in 1795. Merk began his
musical career as a violinist, but being badly bitten in the arm by a big
dog, and disabled thereby to hold the violin in its proper position (this
is what Fetis relates), he devoted himself to the violoncello, and with
such success as to become the first solo player in Vienna. At the time we
are speaking of he was a member of the Imperial Orchestra and a professor
at the Conservatorium. He often gave concerts with Mayseder, and was
called the Mayseder of the violoncello. Chopin, on hearing him at a soiree
of the well-known autograph collector Fuchs, writes home:—
Of Chopin’s intercourse with the third of the “exceedingly interesting
acquaintances” whom he mentions by name, we get no particulars in his
letters. Still, Carl Maria von Bocklet, for whom Beethoven wrote three
letters of recommendation, who was an intimate friend of Schubert’s, and
whose interpretations of classical works and power of improvisation gave
him one of the foremost places among the pianists of the day, cannot have
been without influence on Chopin. Bocklet, better than any other pianist
then living in Vienna, could bring the young Pole into closer
communication with the German masters of the preceding generation; he
could, as it were, transmit to him some of the spirit that animated
Beethoven, Schubert, and Weber. The absence of allusions to Bocklet in
Chopin’s letters does not, however, prove that he never made any, for the
extant letters are only a small portion of those he actually wrote, many
of them having in the perturbed state of Poland never reached their
destination, others having been burnt by his parents for fear of the
Russian police, and some, no doubt, having been lost through carelessness
or indifference.
The list of Chopin’s acquaintances is as yet far from being exhausted. He
had conversations with old Abbe Stadler, the friend of Haydn and Mozart,
whose Psalms, which he saw in MS., he admired. He also speaks of one of
the performances of old, sacred, and secular music which took place at
Kiesewetter’s house as if he were going to it. But a musician of Chopin’s
nature would not take a very lively interest in the historical aspect of
the art; nor would the learned investigator of the music of the
Netherlanders, of the music of the Arabs, of the life and works of Guido
d’Arezzo, &c., readily perceive the preciousness of the modern
composer’s originality. At any rate, Chopin had more intercourse with the
musico-literary Franz Kandler, who wrote favourable criticisms on his
performances as a composer and player, and with whom he went on one
occasion to the Imperial Library, where the discovery of a certain MS.
surprised him even more than the magnitude and order of the collection,
which he could not imagine to be inferior to that of Bologna—the
manuscript in question being no other than his Op. 2, which Haslinger had
presented to the library. Chopin found another MS. of his, that of the
Rondo for two pianos, in Aloys Fuchs’s famous collection of autographs,
which then comprised 400 numbers, but about the year 1840 had increased to
650 numbers, most of them complete works. He must have understood how to
ingratiate himself with the collector, otherwise he would hardly have had
the good fortune to be presented with an autograph of Beethoven.
Chopin became also acquainted with almost all the principal publishers in
Vienna. Of Haslinger enough has already been said. By Czerny Chopin was
introduced to Diabelli, who invited him to an evening party of musicians.
With Mechetti he seems to have been on a friendly footing. He dined at his
house, met him at Dr. Malfatti’s, handed over to him for publication his
Polonaise for piano and violoncello (Op. 3), and described him as
enterprising and probably persuadable to publish Elsner’s masses. Joseph
Czerny, no relation of Charles’s, was a mere business acquaintance of
Chopin’s. Being reminded of his promise to publish a quartet of Elsner’s,
he said he could not undertake to do so just then (about January 26,
1831), as he was publishing the works of Schubert, of which many were
still in the press.
It is hardly possible for us to conceive the enthusiasm and ecstasy into
which the waltzes of the two dance composers transported Vienna, which was
divided into two camps:—
These glimpses of the notabilities and manners of a by-gone generation,
caught, as it were, through the chinks of the wall which time is building
up between the past and the present, are instructive as well as amusing.
It would be a great mistake to regard these details, apparently very
loosely connected with the life of Chopin, as superfluous appendages to
his biography. A man’s sympathies and antipathies are revelations of his
nature, and an artist’s surroundings make evident his position and merit,
the degree of his originality being undeterminable without a knowledge of
the time in which he lived. Moreover, let the impatient reader remember
that, Chopin’s life being somewhat poor in incidents, the narrative cannot
be an even-paced march, but must be a series of leaps and pauses, with
here and there an intervening amble, and one or two brisk canters.
Having described the social and artistic sphere, or rather spheres, in
which Chopin moved, pointed out the persons with whom he most associated,
and noted his opinions regarding men and things, almost all that is worth
telling of his life in the imperial city is told—almost all, but not
all. Indeed, of the latter half of his sojourn there some events have yet
to be recorded which in importance, if not in interest, surpass anything
that is to be found in the preceding and the foregoing part of the present
chapter. I have already indicated that the disappointment of Chopin’s
hopes and the failure of his plans cannot altogether be laid to the charge
of unfavourable circumstances. His parents must have thought so too, and
taken him to task about his remissness in the matter of giving a concert,
for on May 14, 1831, Chopin writes to them:—”My most fervent wish is
to be able to fulfil your wishes; till now, however, I found it impossible
to give a concert.” But although he had not himself given a concert he had
had an opportunity of presenting himself in the best company to the public
of Vienna. In the “Theaterzeitung” of April 2, 1831, Madame Garzia-Vestris
announced a concert to be held in the Redoutensaal during the morning
hours of April 4, in which she was to be assisted by the Misses Sabine and
Clara Heinefetter, Messrs. Wild, Chopin, Bohm (violinist), Hellmesberger
(violinist, pupil of the former), Merk, and the brothers Lewy (two
horn-players). Chopin was distinguished from all the rest, as a homo
ignotus et novus, by the parenthetical “pianoforte-player” after his name,
no such information being thought necessary in the case of the other
artists. The times are changed, now most readers require parenthetical
elucidation after each name except that of Chopin. “He has put down the
mighty from their seat and has exalted them of low degree!” The
above-mentioned exhortation of his parents seems to have had the desired
effect, and induced Chopin to make an effort, although now the
circumstances were less favourable to his giving a concert than at the
time of his arrival. The musical season was over, and many people had left
the capital for their summer haunts; the struggle in Poland continued with
increasing fierceness, which was not likely to lessen the backwardness of
Austrians in patronising a Pole; and in addition to this, cholera had
visited the country and put to flight all who were not obliged to stay. I
have not been able to ascertain the date and other particulars of this
concert. Through Karasowski we learn that it was thinly attended, and that
the receipts did not cover the expenses. The “Theaterzeitung,” which had
given such full criticisms of Chopin’s performances in 1829, says not a
word either of the matinee or of the concert, not even the advertisement
of the latter has come under my notice. No doubt Chopin alludes to
criticisms on this concert when he writes in the month of July:—
Kandler, the Vienna correspondent of the “Allgemeine musikalische
Zeitung,” after discussing in that paper (September 21, 1831) the
performances of several artists, among others that of the clever Polish
violin-virtuoso Serwaczynski, turns to “Chopin, also from the Sarmatian
capital, who already during his visit last year proved himself a pianist
of the first rank,” and remarks:—
All things considered, I do not hesitate to accept Liszt’s statement that
the young artist did not produce such a sensation as he had a right to
expect. In fact, notwithstanding the many pleasant social connections he
had, Chopin must have afterwards looked back with regret, probably with
bitterness, on his eight months’ sojourn in Vienna. Not only did he add
nothing to his fame as a pianist and composer by successful concerts and
new publications, but he seems even to have been sluggish in his studies
and in the production of new works. How he leisurely whiled away the
mornings at his lodgings, and passed the rest of the day abroad and in
society, he himself has explicitly described. That this was his usual mode
of life at Vienna, receives further support from the self-satisfaction
with which he on one occasion mentions that he had practised from early
morning till two o’clock in the afternoon. In his letters we read only
twice of his having finished some new compositions. On December 21, 1830,
he writes:—
And in the month of July, 1831, “I have written a polonaise, which I must
leave here for Wurfel.” There are two more remarks about compositions, but
of compositions which were never finished, perhaps never begun. One of
these remarks refers to the variations on a theme of Beethoven’s, which he
intended to compose conjointly with Slavik, and has already been quoted;
the other refers to a grander project. Speaking of Nidecki, who came every
morning to his lodgings and practised his (Chopin’s) concerto, he says
(December 21, 1830):—
What an interesting, but at the same time what a gigantic, subject to
write on the history of the unrealised plans of men of genius would be!
The above-mentioned waltz, polonaise, and mazurkas do not, of course,
represent the whole of Chopin’s output as a composer during the time of
his stay in Vienna; but we may surmise with some degree of certainty that
few works of importance have to be added to it. Indeed, the multiplicity
of his social connections and engagements left him little time for
himself, and the condition of his fatherland kept him in a constant state
of restlessness. Poland and her struggle for independence were always in
his mind; now he laments in his letters the death of a friend, now
rejoices at a victory, now asks eagerly if such or such a piece of good
news that has reached him is true, now expresses the hope that God will be
propitious to their cause, now relates that he has vented his patriotism
by putting on the studs with the Polish eagles and using the
pocket-handkerchief with the Kosynier (scythe-man) depicted on it.
But good health, he finds, is the best comfort in misfortune, and if his
bulletins to his parents could be trusted he was in full enjoyment of it.
Although his “ideal” is not there to retain him, yet he cannot make up his
mind to leave Vienna. On May 28, he writes:—
It was not only June but past the middle of July before Chopin left, and I
am afraid he would not always have so good an excuse for prolonging his
stay as the sickness of his travelling-companion. On June 25, however, we
hear of active preparations being made for departure.
Chopin had been advised by Mr. Beyer to have London instead of Paris put
as a visa in his passport. The police complied with his request that this
should be done, but the Russian Ambassador, after keeping the document for
two days, gave him only permission to travel as far as Munich. But Chopin
did not care so long as he got the signature of the French Ambassador.
Although his passport contained the words “passant par Paris a Londres,”
and he in after years in Paris sometimes remarked, in allusion to these
words, “I am here only in passing,” he had no intention of going to
London. The fine sentiment, therefore, of which a propos of this
circumstance some writers have delivered themselves was altogether
misplaced. When the difficulty about the passport was overcome, another
arose: to enter Bavaria from cholera-stricken Austria a passport of health
was required. Thus Chopin had to begin another series of applications, in
fact, had to run about for half a day before he obtained this additional
document.
Chopin appears to have been rather short of money in the latter part of
his stay in Vienna—a state of matters with which the financial
failure of the concert may have had something to do. The preparations for
his departure brought the pecuniary question still more prominently
forward. On June 25, 1831, he writes to his parents:—
He must have talked about his shortness of money to some of his friends in
Vienna, for he mentions that the pianist-composer Czapek, who calls on him
every day and shows him much kindness, has offered him money for the
journey should he stand in need of it. One would hardly have credited
Chopin with proficiency in an art in which he nevertheless greatly
excelled—namely, in the art of writing begging letters. How well he
understood how to touch the springs of the parental feelings the following
application for funds will prove.
Chopin was at this time very subject to melancholy, and did not altogether
hide the fact even from his parents. He was perhaps thinking of the
“lengthening chain” which he would have to drag at this new remove. He
often runs into the street to seek Titus Woyciechowski or John
Matuszynski. One day he imagines he sees the former walking before him,
but on coming up to the supposed friend is disgusted to find “a d——
Prussian.”
This is a valuable bit of autobiography; it sets forth clearly Chopin’s
proneness to melancholy, which, however, easily gave way to his
sportiveness. That low spirits and scantiness of money did not prevent
Chopin from thoroughly enjoying himself may be gathered from many
indications in his letters; of these I shall select his descriptions of
two excursions in the neighbourhood of Vienna, which not only make us
better acquainted with the writer, but also are interesting in themselves.
The second excursion is thus described:—
In the same letter Chopin expresses the hope that his use of various, not
quite unobjectionable, words beginning with a “d” may not give his parents
a bad opinion of the culture he has acquired in Vienna, and removes any
possible disquietude on their part by assuring them that he has adopted
nothing that is Viennese in its nature, that, in fact, he has not even
learnt to play a Tanzwalzer (a dancing waltz). This, then, is the sad
result of his sojourn in Vienna.
On July 20, 1831, Chopin, accompanied by his friend Kumelski, left Vienna
and travelled by Linz and Salzburg to Munich, where he had to wait some
weeks for supplies from home. His stay in the capital of Bavaria, however,
was not lost time, for he made there the acquaintance of several clever
musicians, and they, charmed by his playing and compositions, induced him
to give a concert. Karasowski tells us that Chopin played his E minor
Concerto at one of the Philharmonic Society’s concerts—which is not
quite correct, as we shall see presently—and adds that
In writing this the biographer had probably in his mind the following
passage from Chopin’s letter to Titus Woyciechowski, dated Paris, December
16, 1831:—”I played [to Kalkbrenner, in Paris] the E minor Concerto,
which charmed the people of the Bavarian capital so much.” The two
statements are not synonymous. What the biographer says may be true, and
if it is not, ought to be so; but I am afraid the existing documents do
not bear it out in its entirety. Among the many local and other journals
which I have consulted, I have found only one notice of Chopin’s
appearance at Munich, and when I expectantly scanned a resume of Munich
musical life, from the spring to the end of the year 1831, in the
“Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung,” I found mention made of Mendelssohn and
Lafont, but not of Chopin. Thus, unless we assume that Karasowski—true
to his mission as a eulogising biographer, and most vigorous when
unfettered by definite data—indulged in exaggeration, we must seek
for a reconciliation of the enthusiasm of the audience with the silence of
the reporter in certain characteristics of the Munich public. Mendelssohn
says of it:—
Speaking of Mendelssohn, it is curious to note how he and Chopin were
again and again on the point of meeting, and again and again failed to
meet. In Berlin Chopin was too bashful and modest to address his already
famous young brother-artist, who in 1830 left Vienna shortly before Chopin
arrived, and in 1831 arrived in Munich shortly after Chopin had left. The
only notice of Chopin’s public appearance in Munich I have been able to
discover, I found in No. 87 (August 30, 1831) of the periodical “Flora”,
which contains, under the heading “news,” a pretty full account of the
“concert of Mr. Chopin of Warsaw.” From this account we learn that Chopin
was assisted by the singers Madame Pellegrini and Messrs. Bayer, Lenz, and
Harm, the clarinet-player Barmann, jun., and Capellmeister Stunz. The
singers performed a four-part song, and Barmann took part in a cavatina
(sung by Bayer, the first tenor at the opera) with clarinet and pianoforte
accompaniment by Schubert (?). What the writer of the account says about
Chopin shall be quoted in full:—
From Munich Chopin proceeded to Stuttgart, and during his stay there
learnt the sad news of the taking of Warsaw by the Russians (September 8,
1831). It is said that this event inspired him to compose the C minor
study (No. 12 of Op. 10), with its passionate surging and impetuous
ejaculations. Writing from Paris on December 16, 1831, Chopin remarks, in
allusion to the traeic denouement of the Polish revolution: “All this has
caused me much pain. Who could have foreseen it!”
With his visits to Stuttgart Chopin’s artist-life in Germany came to a
close, for, although he afterwards repeatedly visited the country, he
never played in public or made a lengthened stay there. Now that Chopin is
nearing Paris, where, occasional sojourns elsewhere (most of them of short
duration) excepted, he will pass the rest of his life, it may interest the
reader to learn that this change of country brought with it also a change
of name, at least as far as popular pronunciation and spelling went. We
may be sure that the Germans did not always give to the final syllable the
appropriate nasal sound. And what the Polish pronunciation was is
sufficiently indicated by the spelling “Szopen,” frequently to be met
with. I found it in the Polish illustrated journal “Kiosy,” and it is also
to be seen in Joseph Sikorski’s “Wspomnienie Szopena” (“Reminiscences of
Chopin”). Szulc and Karasowski call their books and hero “Fryderyk
Chopin.”
CHAPTER XIII
CHOPIN’S PRODUCTIONS FROM THE SPRING OF 1829 TO THEEND OF 1831.—THE
CHIEF INFLUENCES THAT HELPED TO FORM HIS STYLE OF COMPOSITION.
Let us pause for a little in our biographical inquiries and critically
examine what Chopin had achieved as a composer since the spring of 1829.
At the very first glance it becomes evident that the works of the last two
years (1829-1831) are decidedly superior to those he wrote before that
time. And this advance was not due merely to the increased power derived
from practice; it was real growth, which a Greek philosopher describes as
penetration of nourishment into empty places, the nourishment being in
Chopin’s case experience of life’s joys and sorrows. In most of the works
of what I call his first period, the composer luxuriates, as it were, in
language. He does not regard it solely or chiefly as the interpreter of
thoughts and feelings, he loves it for its own sake, just as children,
small and tall, prattle for no other reason than the pleasure of
prattling. I closed the first period when a new element entered Chopin’s
life and influenced his artistic work. This element was his first love,
his passion for Constantia Gtadkowska. Thenceforth Chopin’s compositions
had in them more of humanity and poetry, and the improved subject-matter
naturally, indeed necessarily, chastened, ennobled, and enriched the means
and ways of expression. Of course no hard line can be drawn between the
two periods—the distinctive quality of the one period appears
sometimes in the work of the other: a work of the earlier period
foreshadows the character of the later; one of the later re-echoes that of
the earlier.
The compositions which we know to have been written by Chopin between 1829
and 1831 are few in number. This may be partly because Chopin was rather
idle from the autumn of 1830 to the end of 1831, partly because no account
of the production of other works has come down to us. In fact, I have no
doubt that other short pieces besides those mentioned by Chopin in his
letters were composed during those years, and subsequently published by
him. The compositions oftenest and most explicitly mentioned in the
letters are also the most important ones—namely, the concertos. As I
wish to discuss them at some length, we will keep them to the last, and
see first what allusions to other compositions we can find, and what
observations these latter give rise to.
On October 3, 1829, Chopin sends his friend Titus Woyciechowski a waltz
which, he says, was, like the Adagio of the F minor Concerto, inspired by
his ideal, Constantia Gladkowska:—
The remark about the bass melody up to E flat in the trio gives us a clue
to which of Chopin’s waltzes this is. It can be no other than the one in D
flat which Fontana published among his friend’s posthumous works as Op.
70, No. 3. Although by no means equal to any of the waltzes published by
Chopin himself, one may admit that it is pretty; but its chief claim to
our attention lies in the fact that it contains germs which reappear as
fully-developed flowers in other examples of this class of the master’s
works—the first half of the first part reappears in the opening
(from the ninth bar onward) of Op. 42 (Waltz in A flat major); and the
third part, in the third part (without counting the introductory bars) of
Op. 34, No. 1 (Waltz in A flat major).
On October 20, 1829, Chopin writes:—”During my visit at Prince
Radziwill’s [at Antonin] I wrote an Alla Polacca. It is nothing more than
a brilliant salon piece, such as pleases ladies”; and on April 10, 1830:—
Prince Radziwill, the reader will remember, played the violoncello. It
was, however, not to him but to Merk that Chopin dedicated this
composition, which, before departing from Vienna to Paris, he left with
Mechetti, who eventually published it under the title of “Introduction et
Polonaise brillante pour piano et violoncelle,” dediees a Mr. Joseph Merk.
On the whole we may accept Chopin’s criticism of his Op. 3 as correct. The
Polonaise is nothing but a brilliant salon piece. Indeed, there is very
little in this composition—one or two pianoforte passages, and a
finesse here and there excepted—that distinguishes it as Chopin’s.
The opening theme verges even dangerously to the commonplace. More of the
Chopinesque than in the Polonaise may be discovered in the Introduction,
which was less of a piece d’occasion. What subdued the composer’s
individuality was no doubt the violoncello, which, however, is well
provided with grateful cantilene.
On two occasions Chopin writes of studies. On October 20, 1829: “I have
composed a study in my own manner”; and on November 14, 1829: “I have
written some studies; in your presence I would play them well.” These
studies are probably among the twelve published in the summer of 1833,
they may, however, also be among those published in the autumn of 1837.
The twelfth of the first sheaf of studies (Op. 10) Chopin composed, as
already stated, at Stuttgart, when he was under the excitement caused by
the news of the taking of Warsaw by the Russians on September 8, 1831.
The words “I intend to write a Polonaise with orchestra,” contained in a
letter dated September 18, 1830, give rise to the interesting question:
“Did Chopin realise his intention, and has the work come down to us?” I
think both questions can be answered in the affirmative. At any rate, I
hold that internal evidence seems to indicate that Op. 22, the “Grande
Polonaise brillante precedee d’un Andante spianato avec orchestre,” which
was published in the summer of 1836, is the work in question. Whether the
“Andante” was composed at the same time, and what, if any, alterations
were subsequently made in the Polonaise, I do not venture to decide. But
the Polonaise has so much of Chopin’s early showy virtuosic style and so
little of his later noble emotional power that my conjecture seems
reasonable. Moreover, the fact that the orchestra is employed speaks in
favour of my theory, for after the works already discussed in the tenth
chapter, and the concertos with which we shall concern ourselves
presently, Chopin did not in any other composition (i.e., after 1830)
write for the orchestra. His experiences in Warsaw, Vienna, and Paris
convinced him, no doubt, that he was not made to contend with masses,
either as an executant or as a composer. Query: Is the Polonaise, of which
Chopin says in July, 1831, that he has to leave it to Wurfel, Op. 22 or
another work?
Two other projects of Chopin, however, seem to have remained unrealised—a
Concerto for two pianos which he intended to play in public at Vienna with
his countryman Nidecki (letter of December 21, 1830), and Variations for
piano and violin on a theme of Beethoven’s, to be written conjointly by
himself and Slavik (letters of December 21 and 25, 1830). Fragments of the
former of these projected works may, however, have been used in the
“Allegro de Concert,” Op. 46, published in 1842.
In the letter of December 21, 1830, there is also an allusion to a waltz
and mazurkas just finished, but whether they are to be found among the
master’s printed compositions is more than I can tell.
The three “Ecossaises” of the year 1830, which Fontana published as Op.
72, No. 3, are the least individual of Chopin’s compositions, and almost
the only dances of his which may be described as dance music pure and
simple—rhythm and melody without poetry, matter with a minimum of
soul.
The posthumous Mazurka (D major) of 1829-30 is unimportant. It contains
nothing notable, except perhaps the descending chromatic successions of
chords of the sixth. In fact, we can rejoice in its preservation only
because a comparison with a remodelling of 1832 allows us to trace a step
in Chopin’s development.
And now we come to the concertos, the history of which, as far as it is
traceable in the composer’s letters, I will here place before the reader.
If I repeat in this chapter passages already quoted in previous chapters,
it is for the sake of completeness and convenience.
The Adagio here mentioned is that of the F minor Concerto, Op. 21, which
he composed before but published after the F. minor Concerto, Op. 11—the
former appearing in print in April, 1836, the latter in September, 1833.
[Footnote: The slow movements of Chopin’s concertos are marked Larglietto,
the composer uses here the word Adagio generically—i.e., in the
sense of slow movement generally.] Karasowski says mistakingly that the
movement referred to is the Adagio of the E minor Concerto. He was perhaps
misled by a mistranslation of his own. In the German version of his Chopin
biography he gives the concluding words of the above quotation as “of my
new Concerto,” but there is no new in the Polish text (na ktorego pamiatke
skomponowalem Adagio do mojego Koncertu).
On March 17, 1830, Chopin played the F minor Concerto at the first concert
he gave in Warsaw. How it was received by the public and the critics on
this occasion and on that of a second concert has been related in the
ninth chapter (p.131).
On April 10, 1830, Chopin writes that his Concerto is not yet finished;
and on May 15, 1830:—
For an account of the rehearsals of the Concerto and its first public
performance at Chopin’s third Warsaw concert on October u, 1830, the
reader is referred to the tenth chapter (p. 150). [FOOTNOTE: In the
following remarks on the concertos I shall draw freely from the critical
commentary on the Pianoforte Works of Chopin, which I contributed some
years ago (1879) to the Monthly Musical Record.]
Chopin, says Liszt, wrote beautiful concertos and fine sonatas, but it is
not difficult to perceive in these productions “plus de volonte que
d’inspiration.” As for his inspiration it was naturally “imperieuse,
fantasque, irreflechie; ses allures ne pouvaient etre que libres.” Indeed,
Liszt believes that Chopin—
With Chopin writing a concerto or a sonata was an effort, and the effort
was always inadequate for the attainment of the object—a perfect
work of its kind. He lacked the peculiar qualities, natural and acquired,
requisite for a successful cultivation of the larger forms. He could not
grasp and hold the threads of thought which he found flitting in his mind,
and weave them into a strong, complex web; he snatched them up one by one,
tied them together, and either knit them into light fabrics or merely
wound them into skeins. In short, Chopin was not a thinker, not a logician—his
propositions are generally good, but his arguments are poor and the
conclusions often wanting. Liszt speaks sometimes of Chopin’s science. In
doing this, however, he misapplies the word. There was nothing scientific
in Chopin’s mode of production, and there is nothing scientific in his
works. Substitute “ingenious” (in the sense of quick-witted and possessed
of genius, in the sense of the German geistreich) for “scientific,” and
you come near to what Liszt really meant. If the word is applicable at all
to art, it can be applicable only to works which manifest a sustained and
dominating intellectual power, such, for instance, as a fugue of Bach’s, a
symphony of Beethoven’s, that is, to works radically different from those
of Chopin. Strictly speaking, the word, however, is not applicable to art,
for art and science are not coextensive; nay, to some extent, are even
inimical to each other. Indeed, to call a work of art purely and simply
“scientific,” is tantamount to saying that it is dry and uninspired by the
muse. In dwelling so long on this point my object was not so much to
elucidate Liszt’s meaning as Chopin’s character as a composer.
Notwithstanding their many shortcomings, the concertos may be said to be
the most satisfactory of Chopin’s works in the larger forms, or at least
those that afford the greatest amount of enjoyment. In some respects the
concerto-form was more favourable than the sonata-form for the exercise of
Chopin’s peculiar talent, in other respects it was less so. The
concerto-form admits of a far greater and freer display of the virtuosic
capabilities of the pianoforte than the sonata-form, and does not
necessitate the same strictness of logical structure, the same thorough
working-out of the subject-matter. But, on the other hand, it demands
aptitude in writing for the orchestra and appropriately solid material.
Now, Chopin lacked such aptitude entirely, and the nature of his material
accorded little with the size of the structure and the orchestral frame.
And, then, are not these confessions of intimate experiences, these
moonlight sentimentalities, these listless dreams, &c., out of place
in the gaslight glare of concert-rooms, crowded with audiences brought
together to a great extent rather by ennui, vanity, and idle curiosity
than by love of art?
The concerto is the least perfect species of the sonata genus; practical,
not ideal, reasons have determined its form, which owes its distinctive
features to the calculations of the virtuoso, not to the inspiration of
the creative artist. Romanticism does not take kindly to it. Since
Beethoven the form has been often modified, more especially the long
introductory tutti omitted or cut short. Chopin, however, adhered to the
orthodox form, taking unmistakably Hummel for his model. Indeed, Hummel’s
concertos were Chopin’s model not only as regards structure, but also to a
certain extent as regards the character of the several movements. In the
tutti’s of the first movement, and in the general complexion of the second
(the slow) and the third (Rondo) movement, this discipleship is most
apparent. But while noting the resemblance, let us not overlook the
difference. If the bones are Hummel’s (which no doubt is an exaggeration
of the fact), the flesh, blood, and soul are Chopin’s. In his case
adherence to the orthodox concerto-form was so much the more regrettable
as writing for the orchestra was one of his weakest points. Indeed,
Chopin’s originality is gone as soon as he writes for another instrument
than the pianoforte. The commencement of the first solo is like the
opening of a beautiful vista after a long walk through dreary scenery, and
every new entry of the orchestra precipitates you from the delectable
regions of imagination to the joyless deserts of the actual. Chopin’s
inaptitude in writing for the orchestra is, however, most conspicuous
where he employs it conjointly with the pianoforte. Carl Klindworth and
Carl Tausig have rescored the concertos: the former the one in F minor,
the latter the one in E minor. Klindworth wrote his arrangement of the F
minor Concerto in 1867-1868 in London, and published it ten years later at
Moscow (P. Jurgenson).[FOOTNOTE: The title runs: “Second Concerto de
Chopin, Op. 21, avec un nouvel accompagnement d’orchestre d’apres la
partition originale par Karl Klindworth. Dedie a Franz Lizt.” It is now
the property of the Berlin publishers Bote and Bock.] A short quotation
from the preface will charactise his work:—
Of Tausig’s labour [FOOTNOTE: “Grosses Concert in E moll. Op. 11.”
Bearberet von Carl Tausig. Score, pianoforte, and orchestral parts.
Berlin: Ries and Erler.] I shall only say that his cutting-down and
patching-up of the introductory tutti, to mention only one thing, are not
well enough done to excuse the liberty taken with a great composer’s work.
Moreover, your emendations cannot reach the vital fault, which lies in the
conceptions. A musician may have mastered the mechanical trick of
instrumentation, and yet his works may not be at heart orchestral.
Instrumentation ought to be more than something that at will can be added
or withheld; it ought to be the appropriate expression of something that
appertains to the thought. The fact is, Chopin could not think for the
orchestra, his thoughts took always the form of the pianoforte language;
his thinking became paralysed when he made use of another medium of
expression. Still, there have been critics who thought differently. The
Polish composer Sowinski declared without circumlocution that Chopin
“wrote admirably for the orchestra.” Other countrymen of his dwelt at
greater length, and with no less enthusiasm, on what is generally
considered a weak point in the master’s equipment. A Paris correspondent
of the Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik (1834) remarked a propos of the F minor
Concerto that there was much delicacy in the instrumentation. But what do
the opinions of those critics, if they deserve the name, amount to when
weighed against that of the rest of the world, nay, even against that of
Berlioz alone, who held that “in the compositions of Chopin all the
interest is concentrated in the piano part, the orchestra of his concertos
is nothing but a cold and almost useless accompaniment”?
All this and much more may be said against Chopin’s concertos, yet such is
the charm, loveliness, delicacy, elegance, and brilliancy of the details,
that one again and again forgives and forgets their shortcomings as
wholes. But now let us look at these works a little more closely.
The first-composed and last-published Concerto, the one in F minor, Op. 21
(dedicated to Madame la Comtesse Delphine Potocka), opens with a tutti of
about seventy bars. When, after this, the pianoforte interrupts the
orchestra impatiently, and then takes up the first subject, it is as if we
were transported into another world and breathed a purer atmosphere.
First, there are some questions and expostulations, then the composer
unfolds a tale full of sweet melancholy in a strain of lovely,
tenderly-intertwined melody. With what inimitable grace he winds those
delicate garlands around the members of his melodic structure! How light
and airy the harmonic base on which it rests! But the contemplation of his
grief disturbs his equanimity more and more, and he begins to fret and
fume. In the second subject he seems to protest the truthfulness and
devotion of his heart, and concludes with a passage half upbraiding, half
beseeching, which is quite captivating, nay more, even bewitching in its
eloquent persuasiveness. Thus far, from the entrance of the pianoforte,
all was irreproachable. How charming if Chopin had allowed himself to
drift on the current of his fancy, and had left rules, classifications,
&c., to others! But no, he had resolved to write a concerto, and must
now put his hand to the rudder, and have done with idle dreaming, at least
for the present—unaware, alas, that the idle dreamings of some
people are worth more than their serious efforts. Well, what is
unpoetically called the working-out section—to call it free fantasia
in this instance would be mockery—reminds me of Goethe’s
“Zauberlehrling,” who said to himself in the absence of his master, “I
noted his words, works, and procedure, and, with strength of mind, I also
shall do wonders.” How the apprentice conjured up the spirits, and made
them do his bidding; how, afterwards, he found he had forgotten the
formula with which to stop and banish them, and what were the consequent
sad results, the reader will, no doubt, remember. The customary repetition
of the first section of the movement calls for no remark. Liszt cites the
second movement (Larghetto, A flat major) of this work as a specimen of
the morceaux d’une surprenante grandeur to be found in Chopin’s concertos
and sonatas, and mentions that the composer had a marked predilection for
it, delighting in frequently playing it. And Schumann exclaims: “What are
ten editorial crowns compared to one such Adagio as that in the second
concerto!” The beautiful deep-toned, love-laden cantilena, which is
profusely and exquisitely ornamented in Chopin’s characteristic style, is
interrupted by a very impressive recitative of some length, after which
the cantilena is heard again. But criticism had better be silent, and
listen here attentively. And how shall I describe the last movement
(Allegro vivace F minor, 3-4)—its feminine softness and rounded
contours, its graceful, gyrating, dance-like motions, its sprightliness
and frolicsomeness? Unless I quote every part and particle, I feel I
cannot do justice to it. The exquisite ease and grace, the subtle spirit
that breathes through this movement, defy description, and, more, defy the
attempts of most performers to reproduce the original. He who ventures to
interpret Chopin ought to have a soul strung with chords which the
gentlest breath of feeling sets in vibration, and a body of such a
delicate and supple organisation as to echo with equal readiness the music
of the soul. As to the listener, he is carried away in this movement from
one lovely picture to another, and no time is left him to reflect and make
objections with reference to the whole.
The Concerto in E minor, Op. 11, dedicated to Mr. Fred Kalkbrenner, shows
more of volonte and less of inspiration than the one in F minor. One can
almost read in it the words of the composer, “If I have only the Allegro
and the Adagio completely finished, I shall be in no anxiety about the
Finale.” The elongated form of the first movement—the introductory
tutti alone extends to 138 bars—compares disadvantageously with the
greater compactness of the corresponding movement in the F minor Concerto,
and makes still more sensible the monotony resulting from the key-relation
of the constituent parts, the tonic being the same in both subjects. The
scheme is this:—First subject in E minor, second subject in E major,
working-out section in C major, leading through various keys to the return
of the first subject in E minor and of the second subject in G major,
followed by a close in E minor. The tonic is not relieved till the
commencement of the working-out section. The re-entrance of the second
subject brings, at last, something of a contrast. How little Chopin
understood the importance or the handling of those powerful levers,
key-relation and contrast, may also be observed in the Sonata, Op. 4,
where the last movement brings the first subject in C minor and the second
in G minor. Here the composer preserves the same mode (minor), there the
same tonic, the result being nearly the same in both instances. But, it
may be asked, was not this languid monotony which results from the
employment of these means just what Chopin intended? The only reply that
can be made to this otherwise unanswerable objection is, so much the worse
for the artist’s art if he had such intentions. Chopin’s description of
the Adagio quoted above—remember the beloved landscape, the
beautiful memories, the moonlit spring night, and the muted violins—hits
off its character admirably. Although Chopin himself designates the first
Allegro as “vigorous”—which in some passages, at least from the
composer’s standpoint, we may admit it to be—the fundamental mood of
this movement is one closely allied to that which he says he intended to
express in the Adagio. Look at the first movement, and judge whether there
are not in it more pale moonlight reveries than fresh morning thoughts.
Indeed, the latter, if not wholly absent, are confined to the introductory
bars of the first subject and some passage-work. Still, the movement is
certainly not without beauty, although the themes appear somewhat
bloodless, and the passages are less brilliant and piquant than those in
the F minor Concerto. Exquisite softness and tenderness distinguish the
melodious parts, and Chopin’s peculiar coaxing tone is heard in the
semiquaver passage marked tranquillo of the first subject. The least
palatable portion of the movement is the working-out section. The
pianoforte part therein reminds one too much of a study, without having
the beauty of Chopin’s compositions thus entitled; and the orchestra
amuses itself meanwhile with reminiscences of the principal motives.
Chopin’s procedure in this and similar cases is pretty much the same (F
minor Concerto, Krakowiak, &c.), and recalls to my mind—may the
manes of the composer forgive me—a malicious remark of Rellstab’s.
Speaking of the introduction to the Variations, Op. 2, he says: “The
composer pretends to be going to work out the theme.” It is curious, and
sad at the same time, to behold with what distinction Chopin treats the
bassoon, and how he is repaid with mocking ingratitude. But enough of the
orchestral rabble. The Adagio is very fine in its way, but such is its
cloying sweetness that one longs for something bracing and active. This
desire the composer satisfies only partially in the last movement (Rondo
vivace, 2-4, E major). Nevertheless, he succeeds in putting us in good
humour by his gaiety, pretty ways, and tricksy surprises (for instance,
the modulations from E major to E flat major, and back again to E major).
We seem, however, rather to look on the play of fantoccini than the doings
of men; in short, we feel here what we have felt more or less strongly
throughout the whole work—there is less intensity of life and
consequently less of human interest in this than in the F minor Concerto.
Almost all my remarks on the concertos run counter to those made by W. von
Lenz. The F minor Concerto he holds to be an uninteresting work, immature
and fragmentary in plan, and, excepting some delicate ornamentation,
without originality. Nay, he goes even so far as to say that the
passage-work is of the usual kind met with in the compositions of Hummel
and his successors, and that the cantilena in the larghetto is in the
jejune style of Hummel; the last movement also receives but scanty and
qualified praise. On the other hand, he raves about the E minor Concerto,
confining himself, however, to the first movement. The second movement he
calls a “tiresome nocturne,” the Rondo “a Hummel.” A tincture of classical
soberness and self-possession in the first movement explains Lenz’s
admiration of this composition, but I fail to understand the rest of his
predilections and critical utterances.
In considering these concertos one cannot help exclaiming—What a
pity that Chopin should have set so many beautiful thoughts and fancies in
such a frame and thereby marred them! They contain passages which are not
surpassed in any of his most perfect compositions, yet among them these
concertos cannot be reckoned. It is difficult to determine their rank in
concerto literature. The loveliness, brilliancy, and piquancy of the
details bribe us to overlook, and by dazzling us even prevent us from
seeing, the formal shortcomings of the whole. But be their shortcomings
ever so great and many, who would dispense with these works? Therefore,
let us be thankful, and enjoy them without much grumbling.
Schumann in writing of the concertos said that Chopin introduced Beethoven
spirit [Beethovenischen Geist] into the concert-room, dressing the
master’s thoughts, as Hummel had done Mozart’s, in brilliant, flowing
drapery; and also, that Chopin had instruction from the best, from
Beethoven, Schubert, and Field—that the first might be supposed to
have educated his mind to boldness, the second his heart to tenderness,
the third his fingers to dexterity. Although as a rule a wonderfully acute
observer, Schumann was not on this occasion very happy in the few critical
utterances which he vouchsafed in the course of the general remarks of
which his notice mainly consists. Without congeniality there cannot be
much influence, at least not in the case of so exclusive and fastidious a
nature as Chopin’s. Now, what congeniality could there be between the
rugged German and the delicate Pole? All accounts agree in that Chopin was
far from being a thorough-going worshipper of Beethoven—he objected
to much in his matter and manner, and, moreover, could not by any means
boast an exhaustive acquaintance with his works. That Chopin assimilated
something of Beethoven is of course more likely than not; but, if a fact,
it is a latent one. As to Schubert, I think Chopin knew too little of his
music to be appreciably influenced by him. At any rate, I fail to perceive
how and where the influence reveals itself. Of Field, on the other hand,
traces are discoverable, and even more distinct ones of Hummel. The
idyllic serenity of the former and the Mozartian sweetness of the latter
were truly congenial to him; but no less, if not more, so was Spohr’s
elegiac morbidezza. Chopin’s affection for Spohr is proved by several
remarks in his letters: thus on one occasion (October 3, 1829) he calls
the master’s Octet a wonderful work; and on another occasion (September
18, 1830) he says that the Quintet for pianoforte, flute, clarinet,
bassoon, and horn (Op. 52) is a wonderfully beautiful work, but not
suitable for the pianoforte. How the gliding cantilena in sixths and
thirds of the minuet and the serpentining chromatic passages in the last
movement of the last-mentioned work must have flattered his inmost soul!
There can be no doubt that Spohr was a composer who made a considerable
impression upon Chopin. In his music there is nothing to hurt the most
fastidious sensibility, and much to feed on for one who, like Jaques in
“As you like it”, could “suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel eggs.”
Many other composers, notably the supremely-loved and
enthusiastically-admired Mozart and Bach, must have had a share in
Chopin’s development; but it cannot be said that they left a striking mark
on his music, with regard to which, however, it has to be remembered that
the degree of external resemblance does not always accurately indicate the
degree of internal indebtedness. Bach’s influence on Mendelssohn,
Schumann, Chopin, and others of their contemporaries, and its various
effects on their styles, is one of the curiosities of nineteenth century
musical history; a curiosity, however, which is fully disclosed only by
subtle analysis. Field and especially Hummel are those musicians who—more,
however, as pianists than as composers (i.e., more by their pianoforte
language than by their musical thoughts)—set the most distinct
impress on Chopin’s early virtuosic style, of which we see almost the last
in the concertos, where it appears in a chastened and spiritualised form
very different from the materialism of the Fantasia (Op. 13) and the
Krakowiak (Op. 14). Indeed, we may say of this style that the germ, and
much more than the germ, of almost every one of its peculiarities is to be
found in the pianoforte works of Hummel and Field; and this statement the
concertos of these masters, more especially those of the former, and their
shorter pieces, more especially the nocturnes of the latter, bear out in
its entirety. The wide-spread broken chords, great skips, wreaths of
rhythmically unmeasured ornamental notes, simultaneous combinations of
unequal numbers of notes (five or seven against four, for instance), &c.,
are all to be found in the compositions of the two above-named
pianist-composers. Chopin’s style, then, was not original? Most decidedly
it was. But it is not so much new elements as the development and the
different commixture, in degree and kind, of known elements which make an
individual style—the absolutely new being, generally speaking,
insignificant compared with the acquired and evolved. The opinion that
individuality is a spontaneous generation is an error of the same kind as
that imagination has nothing to do with memory. Ex nihilo nihil fit.
Individuality should rather be regarded as a feminine organisation which
conceives and brings forth; or, better still, as a growing thing which
feeds on what is germane to it, a thing with self-acting suctorial organs
that operate whenever they come in contact with suitable food. A nucleus
is of course necessary for the development of an individuality, and this
nucleus is the physical and intellectual constitution of the individual.
Let us note in passing that the development of the individuality of an
artistic style presupposes the development of the individuality of the
man’s character. But not only natural dispositions, also acquired
dexterities affect the development of the individuality of an artistic
style. Beethoven is orchestral even in his pianoforte works. Weber rarely
ceases to be operatic. Spohr cannot help betraying the violinist, nor
Schubert the song-composer. The more Schumann got under his command the
orchestral forces, the more he impressed on them the style which he had
formed previously by many years of playing and writing for the pianoforte.
Bach would have been another Bach if he had not been an organist. Clementi
was and remained all his life a pianist. Like Clementi, so was also Chopin
under the dominion of his instrument. How the character of the man
expressed itself in the style of the artist will become evident when we
examine Chopin’s masterpieces. Then will also be discussed the influence
on his style of the Polish national music.
CHAPTER XIV.
PARIS IN 1831.—LIFE IN THE STREETS.—ROMANTICISM AND
LIBERALISM.—ROMANTICISM IN LITERATURE.—CHIEF LITERARY
PUBLICATIONS OF THE TIME.—THE PICTORIAL ARTS.—MUSIC AND
MUSICIANS.—CHOPIN’S OPINION OF THE GALAXY OF SINGERS THEN PERFORMING
AT THE VARIOUS OPERA-HOUSES.
Chopin’s sensations on plunging, after his long stay in the stagnant pool
of Vienna, into the boiling sea of Paris might have been easily imagined,
even if he had not left us a record of them. What newcomer from a place
less populous and inhabited by a less vivacious race could help wondering
at and being entertained by the vastness, variety, and bustle that
surrounded him there?
All this and much more may be seen in Paris every day, but in 1831 Paris
life was not an everyday life. It was then and there, if at any time and
anywhere, that the “roaring loom of Time” might be heard: a new garment
was being woven for an age that longed to throw off the wornout, tattered,
and ill-fitting one inherited from its predecessors; and discontent and
hopefulness were the impulses that set the shuttle so busily flying hither
and thither. This movement, a reaction against the conventional formalism
and barren, superficial scepticism of the preceding age, had ever since
the beginning of the century been growing in strength and breadth. It
pervaded all the departments of human knowledge and activity—politics,
philosophy, religion, literature, and the arts. The doctrinaire school in
politics and the eclectic school in philosophy were as characteristic
products of the movement as the romantic school in poetry and art. We
recognise the movement in Lamennais’ attack on religious indifference, and
in the gospel of a “New Christianity” revealed by Saint Simon and preached
and developed by Bazard and Enfantin, as well as in the teaching of
Cousin, Villemain, and Guizot, and in the works of V. Hugo, Delacroix, and
others. Indeed, unless we keep in view as far as possible all the branches
into which the broad stream divides itself, we shall not be able to
understand the movement aright either as a whole or in its parts. V. Hugo
defines the militant—i.e., negative side of romanticism as
liberalism in literature. The positive side of the liberalism of the time
might, on the other hand, not inaptly be described as romanticism in
speculation and practice. This, however, is matter rather for a history of
civilisation than for a biography of an artist. Therefore, without further
enlarging on it, I shall let Chopin depict the political aspect of Paris
in 1831 as he saw it, and then attempt myself a slight outline sketch of
the literary and artistic aspect of the French capital, which signifies
France.
Louis Philippe had been more than a year on the throne, but the agitation
of the country was as yet far from being allayed:—
Riots and attentats were still the order of the day, and no opportunity
for a demonstration was let slip by the parties hostile to the Government.
The return of General Ramorino from Poland, where he had taken part in the
insurrection, offered such an opportunity. This adventurer, a natural son
of Marshal Lannes, who began his military career in the army of Napoleon,
and, after fighting wherever fighting was going on, ended it on the Piazza
d’Armi at Turin, being condemned by a Piedmontese court-martial to be shot
for disobedience to orders, was hardly a worthy recipient of the honours
bestowed upon him during his journey through Germany and France. But the
personal merit of such popular heroes of a day is a consideration of
little moment; they are mere counters, counters representative of ideas
and transient whims.
The length and nature of Chopin’s account show what a lively interest he
took in the occurrences of which he was in part an eye and ear-witness,
for he lived on the fourth story of a house (No. 27) on the Boulevard
Poissonniere, opposite the Cite Bergere, where General Ramorino lodged.
But some of his remarks show also that the interest he felt was by no
means a pleasurable one, and probably from this day dates his fear and
horror of the mob. And now we will turn from politics, a theme so
distasteful to Chopin that he did not like to hear it discussed and could
not easily be induced to take part in its discussion, to a theme more
congenial, I doubt not, to all of us.
Literary romanticism, of which Chateaubriand and Madame de Stael were the
harbingers, owed its existence to a longing for a greater fulness of
thought, a greater intenseness of feeling, a greater appropriateness and
adequateness of expression, and, above all, a greater truth to life and
nature. It was felt that the degenerated classicists were “barren of
imagination and invention,” offered in their insipid artificialities
nothing but “rhetoric, bombast, fleurs de college, and Latin-verse
poetry,” clothed “borrowed ideas in trumpery imagery,” and presented
themselves with a “conventional elegance and noblesse than which there was
nothing more common.” On the other hand, the works of the master-minds of
England, Germany, Spain, and Italy, which were more and more translated
and read, opened new, undreamt-of vistas. The Bible, Homer, and
Shakespeare began now to be considered of all books the most worthy to be
studied. And thus it came to pass that in a short time a most complete
revolution was accomplished in literature, from abject slavery to
unlimited freedom.
Hence theories, poetics, and systems were to be broken up, and the old
plastering which covered the fagade of art was to be pulled down. From
rules and theories the romanticists appealed to nature and truth, without
forgetting, however, that nature and art are two different things, and
that the truth of art can never be absolute reality. The drama, for
instance, must be “a concentrating mirror which, so far from enfeebling,
collects and condenses the colouring rays and transforms a glimmer into a
light, a light into a flame.” To pass from form to matter, the attention
given by the romanticists to history is particularly to be noted. Pierre
Dubois, the director of the philosophical and literary journal “Le Globe,”
the organ of romanticism (1824-1832), contrasts the poverty of invention
in the works of the classicists with the inexhaustible wealth of reality,
“the scenes of disorder, of passion, of fanaticism, of hypocrisy, and of
intrigue,” recorded in history. What the dramatist has to do is to perform
the miracle “of reanimating the personages who appear dead on the pages of
a chronicle, of discovering by analysis all the shades of the passions
which caused these hearts to beat, of recreating their language and
costume.” It is a significant fact that Sainte-Beuve opened the campaign
of romanticism in “Le Globe” with a “Tableau de la poesie francaise au
seizieme siecle,” the century of the “Pleiade,” and of Rabelais and
Montaigne. It is a still more significant fact that the members of the
“Cenacle,” the circle of kindred minds that gathered around Victor Hugo—Alfred
de Vigny, Emile Deschamps, Sainte-Beuve, David d’Angers, and others—”studied
and felt the real Middle Ages in their architecture, in their chronicles,
and in their picturesque vivacity.” Nor should we overlook in connection
with romanticism Cousin’s aesthetic teaching, according to which, God
being the source of all beauty as well as of all truth, religion, and
morality, “the highest aim of art is to awaken in its own way the feeling
of the infinite.” Like all reformers the romanticists were stronger in
destruction than in construction. Their fundamental doctrines will hardly
be questioned by anyone in our day, but the works of art which they reared
on them only too often give just cause for objection and even rejection.
However, it is not surprising that, with the physical and spiritual world,
with time and eternity at their arbitrary disposal, they made themselves
sometimes guilty of misrule. To “extract the invariable laws from the
general order of things, and the special from the subject under
treatment,” is no easy matter. V. Hugo tells us that it is only for a man
of genius to undertake such a task, but he himself is an example that even
a man so gifted is fallible. In a letter written in the French capital on
January 14, 1832, Mendelssohn says of the “so-called romantic school” that
it has infected all the Parisians, and that on the stage they think of
nothing but the plague, the gallows, the devil, childbeds, and the like.
Nor were the romances less extravagant than the dramas. The lyrical
poetry, too, had its defects and blemishes. But if it had laid itself open
to the blame of being “very unequal and very mixed,” it also called for
the praise of being “rich, richer than any lyrical poetry France had known
up to that time.” And if the romanticists, as one of them, Sainte-Beuve,
remarked, “abandoned themselves without control and without restraint to
all the instincts of their nature, and also to all the pretensions of
their pride, or even to the silly tricks of their vanity,” they had,
nevertheless, the supreme merit of having resuscitated what was extinct,
and even of having created what never existed in their language. Although
a discussion of romanticism without a characterisation of its specific and
individual differences is incomplete, I must bring this part of my remarks
to a close with a few names and dates illustrative of the literary aspect
of Paris in 1831. I may, however, inform the reader that the subject of
romanticism will give rise to further discussion in subsequent chapters.
The most notable literary events of the year 1831 were the publication of
Victor Hugo’s “Notre Dame de Paris,” “Feuilles d’automne,” and “Marion
Delorme”; Dumas’ “Charles VII”; Balzac’s “La peau de chagrin”; Eugene
Sue’s “Ata Gull”; and George Sand’s first novel, “Rose et Blanche,”
written conjointly with Sandeau. Alfred de Musset and Theophile Gautier
made their literary debuts in 1830, the one with “Contes d’Espagne et
d’ltalie,” the other with “Poesies.” In the course of the third decade of
the century Lamartine had given to the world “Meditations poetiques,”
“Nouvelles Meditations poetiques,” and “Harmonies poetiques et
religieuses”; Victor Hugo, “Odes et Ballades,” “Les Orientales,” three
novels, and the dramas “Cromwell” and “Hernani”; Dumas, “Henri III et sa
Cour,” and “Stockholm, Fontainebleau et Rome”; Alfred de Vigny, “Poemes
antiques et modernes” and “Cinq-Mars”; Balzac, “Scenes de la vie privee”
and “Physiologie du Mariage.” Besides the authors just named there were at
this time in full activity in one or the other department of literature,
Nodier, Beranger, Merimee, Delavigne, Scribe, Sainte-Beuve, Villemain,
Cousin, Michelet, Guizot, Thiers, and many other men and women of
distinction.
A glance at the Salon of 1831 will suffice to give us an idea of the then
state of the pictorial art in France. The pictures which attracted the
visitors most were: Delacroix’s “Goddess of Liberty on the barricades”;
Delaroche’s “Richelieu conveying Cinq-Mars and De Thou to Lyons,” “Mazarin
on his death-bed,” “The sons of Edward in the Tower,” and “Cromwell beside
the coffin of diaries I.”; Ary Scheffer’s “Faust and Margaret,” “Leonore,”
“Talleyrand,” “Henri IV.,” and “Louis Philippe”; Robert’s “Pifferari,”
“Burial,” and “Mowers”; Horace Vernet’s “Judith,” “Capture of the Princes
Conde,” “Conti, and Longueville,” “Camille Desmoulins,” and “Pius VIII” To
enumerate only a few more of the most important exhibitors I shall yet
mention Decamps, Lessore, Schnetz, Judin, and Isabey. The dry list will no
doubt conjure up in the minds of many of my readers vivid reproductions of
the masterpieces mentioned or suggested by the names of the artists.
Romanticism had not invaded music to the same extent as the literary and
pictorial arts. Berlioz is the only French composer who can be called in
the fullest sense of the word a romanticist, and whose genius entitles him
to a position in his art similar to those occupied by V. Hugo and
Delacroix in literature and painting. But in 1831 his works were as yet
few in number and little known. Having in the preceding year obtained the
prix de Rome, he was absent from Paris till the latter part of 1832, when
he began to draw upon himself the attention, if not the admiration, of the
public by the concerts in which he produced his startlingly original
works. Among the foreign musicians residing in the French capital there
were many who had adopted the principles of romanticism, but none of them
was so thoroughly imbued with its spirit as Liszt—witness his
subsequent publications. But although there were few French composers who,
strictly speaking, could be designated romanticists, it would be difficult
to find among the younger men one who had not more or less been affected
by the intellectual atmosphere.
An opera, “La Marquise de Brinvilliers,” produced in 1831 at the
Opera-Comique, introduces to us no less than nine dramatic composers, the
libretto of Scribe and Castil-Blaze being set to music by Cherubini,
Auber, Batton, Berton, Boieldieu, Blangini, Carafa, Herold, and Paer.
[Footnote: Chopin makes a mistake, leaving out of account Boieldieu, when
he says in speaking of “La Marquise de Brinvilliers” that the opera was
composed by eight composers.] Cherubini, who towers above all of them, was
indeed the high-priest of the art, the grand-master of the craft. Although
the Nestor of composers, none equalled him in manly vigour and perennial
youth. When seventy-six years of age (in 1836) he composed his fine
Requiem in D minor for three-part male chorus, and in the following year a
string quartet and quintet. Of his younger colleagues so favourable an
account cannot be given. The youngest of them, Batton, a grand prix, who
wrote unsuccessful operas, then took to the manufacturing of artificial
flowers, and died as inspector at the Conservatoire, need not detain us.
Berton, Paer, Blangini, Carafa (respectively born in 1767, 1771, 1781, and
1785), once composers who enjoyed the public’s favour, had lost or were
losing their popularity at the time we are speaking of; Rossini, Auber,
and others having now come into fashion. They present a saddening
spectacle, these faded reputations, these dethroned monarchs! What do we
know of Blangini, the “Musical Anacreon,” and his twenty operas, one
hundred and seventy two-part “Notturni,” thirty-four “Romances,” &c.?
Where are Paer’s oratorios, operas, and cantatas performed now? Attempts
were made in later years to revive some of Carafa’s earlier works, but the
result was on each occasion a failure. And poor Berton? He could not bear
the public’s neglect patiently, and vented his rage in two pamphlets, one
of them entitled “De la musique mecanique et de la musique philosophique,”
which neither converted nor harmed anyone. Boieldieu, too, had to deplore
the failure of his last opera, “Les deux nuits” (1829), but then his “La
Dame blanche,” which had appeared in 1825, and his earlier “Jean de Paris”
were still as fresh as ever. Herold had only in this year (1831) scored
his greatest success with “Zampa.” As to Auber, he was at the zenith of
his fame. Among the many operas he had already composed, there were three
of his best—”Le Macon,” “La Muette,” and “Fra Diavolo”—and
this inimitable master of the genre sautillant had still a long series of
charming works in petto. To exhaust the list of prominent men in the
dramatic department we have to add only a few names. Of the younger
masters I shall mention Halevy, whose most successful work, “La Juive,”
did not come out till 1835, and Adam, whose best opera, “Le postilion de
Longjumeau,” saw the foot-lights in 1836. Of the older masters we must not
overlook Lesueur, the composer of “Les Bardes,” an opera which came out in
1812, and was admired by Napoleon. Lesueur, distinguished as a composer of
dramatic and sacred music, and a writer on musical matters, had, however,
given up all professional work with the exception of teaching composition
at the Conservatoire. In fact, almost all the above-named old gentlemen,
although out of fashion as composers, occupied important positions in the
musical commonwealth as professors at that institution. Speaking of
professors I must not forget to mention old Reicha (born in 1770), the
well-known theorist, voluminous composer of instrumental music, and
esteemed teacher of counterpoint and composition.
But the young generation did not always look up to these venerable men
with the reverence due to their age and merit. Chopin, for instance,
writes:—
In these remarks of Chopin the concerts of the Conservatoire are made
mention of; they were founded in 1828 by Habeneck and others and intended
for the cultivation of the symphonic works of the great masters, more
especially of Beethoven. Berlioz tells us in his Memoires, with his usual
vivacity and causticity, what impressions the works of Beethoven made upon
the old gentlemen above-named. Lesueur considered instrumental music an
inferior genre, and although the C minor Symphony quite overwhelmed him,
he gave it as his opinion that “one ought not to write such music.”
Cherubini was profoundly irritated at the success of a master who
undermined his dearest theories, but he dared not discharge the bile that
was gathering within him. That, however, he had the courage of his opinion
may be gathered from what, according to Mendelssohn, he said of
Beethoven’s later works: “Ca me fait eternuer.” Berton looked down with
pity on the whole modern German school. Boieldieu, who hardly knew what to
think of the matter, manifested “a childish surprise at the simplest
harmonic combinations which departed somewhat from the three chords which
he had been using all his life.” Paer, a cunning Italian, was fond of
letting people know that he had known Beethoven, and of telling stories
more or less unfavourable to the great man, and flattering to the
narrator. The critical young men of the new generation were, however, not
altogether fair in their judgments; Cherubini, at least, and Boieldieu
too, deserved better treatment at their hands.
In 1830 Auber and Rossini (who, after his last opera “Guillaume Tell,” was
resting on his laurels) were the idols of the Parisians, and reigned
supreme on the operatic stage. But in 1831 Meyerbeer established himself
as a third power beside them, for it was in that year that “Robert le
Diable” was produced at the Academic Royale de Musique. Let us hear what
Chopin says of this event. Speaking of the difficulties with which
composers of operas have often to contend he remarks:—
And again:—
The creative musicians having received sufficient attention, let us now
turn for a moment to the executive ones. Of the pianists we shall hear
enough in the next chapter, and therefore will pass them by for the
present. Chopin thought that there were in no town more pianists than in
Paris, nor anywhere more asses and virtuosos. Of the many excellent
virtuosos on stringed and wind-instruments only a few of the most
distinguished shall be mentioned. Baillot, the veteran violinist;
Franchomme, the young violoncellist; Brod, the oboe-player; and Tulou, the
flutist. Beriot and Lafont, although not constant residents like these,
may yet be numbered among the Parisian artists. The French capital could
boast of at least three first-rate orchestras—that of the
Conservatoire, that of the Academic Royale, and that of the Opera-Italien.
Chopin, who probably had on December 14 not yet heard the first of these,
takes no notice of it, but calls the orchestra of the theatre Feydeau
(Opera-Comique) excellent. Cherubini seems to have thought differently,
for on being asked why he did not allow his operas to be performed at that
institution, he answered:—”Je ne fais pas donner des operas sans
choeur, sans orchestre, sans chanteurs, et sans decorations.” The
Opera-Comique had indeed been suffering from bankruptcy; still, whatever
its shortcomings were, it was not altogether without good singers, in
proof of which assertion may be named the tenor Chollet, Madame Casimir,
and Mdlle. Prevost. But it was at the Italian Opera that a constellation
of vocal talent was to be found such as has perhaps at no time been
equalled: Malibran-Garcia, Pasta, Schroder-Devrient, Rubini, Lablache, and
Santini. Nor had the Academic, with Nourrit, Levasseur, Derivis, Madame
Damoreau-Cinti, and Madame Dorus, to shrink from a comparison. Imagine the
treat it must have been to be present at the concert which took place at
the Italian Opera on December 25, 1831, and the performers at which
comprised artists such as Malibran, Rubini, Lablache, Santini, Madame
Raimbaux, Madame Schroder-Devrient, Madame Casadory, Herz, and De Beriot!
Chopin was so full of admiration for what he had heard at the three
operatic establishments that he wrote to his master Elsner:—
The following extracts from a letter to his friend Woyciechowski contain
some more of Chopin’s criticism:—
CHAPTER XV.
1831-1832.
ACQUAINTANCES AND FRIENDS: CHERUBINI, BAILLOT, FRANCHOMME, LISZT, MILLER,
OSBORNE, MENDELSSOHN.—CHOPIN AND KALKBRENNER.—CHOPIN’S AIMS AS
AN ARTIST.—KALKBRENNER’S CHARACTER AS A MAN AND ARTIST.—CHOPIN’S
FIRST PARIS CONCERT.—FETIS.—CHOPIN PLAYS AT A CONCERT GIVEN BY
THE PRINCE DE LA MOSKOWA.—HIS STATE OF MIND.—LOSS OF HIS
POLISH LETTERS.—TEMPORARILY STRAITENED CIRCUMSTANCES AND BRIGHTENING
PROSPECTS.—PATRONS AND WELL-WISHERS.—THE “IDEAL.”—A
LETTER TO HILLER.
Chopin brought only a few letters of introduction with him to Paris: one
from Dr. Malfatti to Paer, and some from others to music-publishers.
Through Paer he was made acquainted with Cherubini, Rossini, Baillot, and
Kalkbrenner. Although Chopin in one of his early Paris letters calls
Cherubini a mummy, he seems to have subsequently been more favourably
impressed by him. At any rate, Ferdinand Hiller—who may have
accompanied the new-comer, if he did not, as he thinks he did, introduce
him, which is not reconcilable with his friend’s statement that Paer made
him acquainted with Cherubini—told me that Chopin conceived a liking
for the burbero maestro, of whom Mendelssohn remarked that he composed
everything with his head without the help of his heart.
As evidence of the younger master’s respect for the older one may be
adduced a copy made by Chopin of one of Cherubini’s fugues. This
manuscript, which I saw in the possession of M. Franchomme, is a miracle
of penmanship, and surpasses in neatness and minuteness everything I have
seen of Chopin’s writing, which is always microscopic.
From Dr. Hiller I learnt also that Chopin went frequently to Baillot’s
house. It is very probable that he was present at the soirees which
Mendelssohn describes with his usual charming ease in his Paris letters.
Baillot, though a man of sixty, still knew how to win the admiration of
the best musicians by his fine, expressive violin-playing. Chopin writes
in a letter to Elsner that Baillot was very amiable towards him, and had
promised to take part with him in a quintet of Beethoven’s at his concert;
and in another letter Chopin calls Baillot “the rival of Paganini.”
As far as I can learn there was not much intercourse between Chopin and
Rossini. Of Kalkbrenner I shall have presently to speak at some length;
first, however, I shall say a few words about some of the most interesting
young artists whose acquaintance Chopin made.
One of these young artists was the famous violoncellist Franchomme, who
told me that it was Hiller who first spoke to him of the young Pole and
his unique compositions and playing. Soon after this conversation, and not
long after the new-comer’s arrival in Paris, Chopin, Liszt, Hiller, and
Franchomme dined together. When the party broke up, Chopin asked
Franchomme what he was going to do. Franchomme replied he had no
particular engagement. “Then,” said Chopin, “come with me and spend an
hour or two at my lodgings.” “Well,” was the answer of Franchomme, “but if
I do you will have to play to me.” Chopin had no objection, and the two
walked off together. Franchomme thought that Chopin was at that time
staying at an hotel in the Rue Bergere. Be this as it may, the young Pole
played as he had promised, and the young Frenchman understood him at once.
This first meeting was the beginning of a life-long friendship, a
friendship such as is rarely to be met with among the fashionable
musicians of populous cities.
Mendelssohn, who came to Paris early in December, 1831, and stayed there
till about the middle of April, 1832, associated a good deal with this set
of striving artists. The diminutive “Chopinetto,” which he makes use of in
his letters to Hiller, indicates not only Chopin’s delicate constitution
of body and mind and social amiability, but also Mendelssohn’s kindly
feeling for him. [Footnote: Chopin is not mentioned in any of
Mendelssohn’s Paris letters. But the following words may refer to him; for
although Mendelssohn did not play at Chopin’s concert, there may have been
some talk of his doing so. January 14, 1832: “Next week a Pole gives a
concert; in it I have to play a piece for six performers with Kalkbrenner,
Hiller and Co.” Osborne related in his “Reminiscences of Frederick
Chopin,” a paper read before a meeting of the Musical Association (April
5, 1880), that he, Chopin, Hiller, and Mendelssohn, during the latter’s
stay in Paris, frequently dined together at a restaurant. They ordered and
paid the dinner in turn. One evening at dessert they had a very animated
conversation about authors and their manuscripts. When they were ready to
leave Osborne called the waiter, but instead of asking for la note a
payer, he said “Garcon, apportez-moi votre manuscrit.” This sally of the
mercurial Irishman was received with hearty laughter, Chopin especially
being much tickled by the profanation of the word so sacred to authors.
From the same source we learn also that Chopin took delight in repeating
the criticisms on his performances which he at one time or other had
chanced to overhear.
Not the least interesting and significant incident in Chopin’s life was
his first meeting and early connection with Kalkbrenner, who at that time—when
Liszt and Thalberg had not yet taken possession of the commanding
positions they afterwards occupied—enjoyed the most brilliant
reputation of all the pianists then living. On December 16, 1831, Chopin
writes to his friend Woyciechowski:—
Elsner expressed his astonishment that Kalkbrenner should require three
years to reveal to Chopin the secrets of his art, and advised his former
pupil not to confine the exercise of his musical talent to
pianoforte-playing and the composition of pianoforte music. Chopin replies
to this in a letter written on December 14, 1831, as follows:—
After describing the difficulties which lie in the way of the opera
composer, he proceeds:—
This is one of the most important letters we have of Chopin; it brings
before us, not the sighing lover, the sentimental friend, but the
courageous artist. On no other occasion did he write so freely and fully
of his views and aims. What heroic self-confidence, noble resolves, vast
projects, flattering dreams! And how sad to think that most of them were
doomed to end in failure and disappointment! But few are the lives of true
artists that can really be called happy! Even the most successful have, in
view of the ideally conceived, to deplore the quantitative and qualitative
shortcomings of the actually accomplished. But to return to Kalkbrenner.
Of him Chopin said truly that he was not a popular man; at any rate, he
was not a popular man with the romanticists. Hiller tells us in his
“Recollections and Letters of Mendelssohn” how little grateful he and his
friends, Mendelssohn included, were for Kalkbrenner’s civilities, and what
a wicked pleasure they took in worrying him. Sitting one day in front of a
cafe on the Boulevard des Italiens, Hiller, Liszt, and Chopin saw the prim
master advancing, and knowing how disagreeable it would be to him to meet
such a noisy company, they surrounded him in the friendliest manner, and
assailed him with such a volley of talk that he was nearly driven to
despair, which, adds Hiller, “of course delighted us.” It must be
confessed that the great Kalkbrenner, as M. Marmontel in his “Pianistes
celebres” remarks, had “certaines etroitesses de caractere,” and these
“narrownesses” were of a kind that particularly provokes the ridicule of
unconventional and irreverent minds. Heine is never more biting than when
he speaks of Kalkbrenner. He calls him a mummy, and describes him as being
dead long ago and having lately also married. This, however, was some
years after the time we are speaking of. On another occasion Heine writes
that Kalkbrenner is envied
A thorough belief in and an unlimited admiration of himself form the
centre of gravity upon which the other qualities of Kalkbrenner’s
character balance themselves. He prided himself on being the pattern of a
fine gentleman, and took upon him to teach even his oldest friends how to
conduct themselves in society and at table. In his gait he was dignified,
in his manners ceremonious, and in his speech excessively polite. He was
addicted to boasting of honours offered him by the King, and of his
intimacy with the highest aristocracy. That he did not despise popularity
with the lower strata of society is evidenced by the anecdote (which the
virtuoso is credited with having told himself to his guests) of the
fish-wife who, on reading his card, timidly asks him to accept as a homage
to the great Kalkbrenner a splendid fish which he had selected for his
table. The artist was the counterpart of the man. He considered every
success as by right his due, and recognised merit only in those who were
formed on his method or at least acknowledged its superiority. His
artistic style was a chastened reflex of his social demeanour.
It is difficult to understand how the Kalkbrenner-Chopin affair could be
so often misrepresented, especially since we are in possession of Chopin’s
clear statements of the facts. [FOOTNOTE: Statements which are by no means
invalidated by the following statement of Lenz:—”On my asking Chopin
‘whether Kalkbrenner had understood much about it’ [i.e. the art of
pianoforte-playing], followed the answer: ‘It was at the beginning of my
stay in Paris.'”]. There are no grounds whatever to justify the assumption
that Kalkbrenner was actuated by jealousy, artfulness, or the like, when
he proposed that the wonderfully-gifted and developed Chopin should become
his pupil for three years. His conceit of himself and his method account
fully for the strangeness of the proposal. Moreover, three years was the
regulation time of Kalkbrenner’s course, and it was much that he was
willing to shorten it in the case of Chopin. Karasowski, speaking as if he
had the gift of reading the inmost thoughts of men, remarks: “Chopin did
not suspect what was passing in Kalkbrenner’s mind when he was playing to
him.” After all, I should like to ask, is there anything surprising in the
fact that the admired virtuoso and author of a “Methode pour apprendre le
Piano a l’aide du Guide-mains; contenant les principes de musique; un
systems complet de doigter; des regles sur l’expression,” &c., found
fault with Chopin’s strange fingering and unconventional style?
Kalkbrenner could not imagine anything superior to his own method,
anything finer than his own style. And this inability to admit the
meritoriousness or even the legitimacy of anything that differed from what
he was accustomed to, was not at all peculiar to this great pianist; we
see it every day in men greatly his inferiors. Kalkbrenner’s lament that
when he ceased to play there would be no representative left of the grand
pianoforte school ought to call forth our sympathy. Surely we cannot blame
him for wishing to perpetuate what he held to be unsurpassable! According
to Hiller, Chopin went a few times to the class of advanced pupils which
Kalkbrenner had advised him to attend, as he wished to see what the thing
was like. Mendelssohn, who had a great opinion of Chopin and the reverse
of Kalkbrenner, was furious when he heard of this. But were Chopin’s
friends correct in saying that he played better than Kalkbrenner, and
could learn nothing from him? That Chopin played better than Kalkbrenner
was no doubt true, if we consider the emotional and intellectual qualities
of their playing. But I think it was not correct to say that Chopin could
learn nothing from the older master. Chopin was not only a better judge of
Kalkbrenner than his friends, who had only sharp eyes for his
short-comings, and overlooked or undervalued his good qualities, but he
was also a better judge of himself and his own requirements. He had an
ideal in his mind, and he thought that Kalkbrenner’s teaching would help
him to realise it. Then there is also this to be considered: unconnected
with any school, at no time guided by a great master of the instrument,
and left to his own devices at a very early age, Chopin found himself, as
it were, floating free in the air without a base to stand on, without a
pillar to lean against. The consequent feeling of isolation inspires at
times even the strongest and most independent self-taught man—and
Chopin, as a pianist, may almost be called one—with distrust in the
adequacy of his self-acquired attainments, and an exaggerated idea of the
advantages of a school education. “I cannot create a new school, because I
do not even know the old one.” This may or may not be bad reasoning, but
it shows the attitude of Chopin’s mind. It is also possible that he may
have felt the inadequacy and inappropriateness of his technique and style
for other than his own compositions. And many facts in the history of his
career as an executant would seem to confirm the correctness of such a
feeling. At any rate, after what we have read we cannot attribute his
intention of studying under Kalkbrenner to undue self-depreciation. For
did he not consider his own playing as good as that of Herz, and feel that
he had in him the stuff to found a new era in music? But what was it then
that attracted him to Kalkbrenner, and made him exalt this pianist above
all the pianists he had heard? If the reader will recall to mind what I
said in speaking of Mdlles. Sontag and Belleville of Chopin’s love of
beauty of tone, elegance, and neatness, he cannot be surprised at the
young pianist’s estimate of the virtuoso of whom Riehl says: “The essence
of his nature was what the philologists call elegantia—he spoke the
purest Ciceronian Latin on the piano.” As a knowledge of Kalkbrenner’s
artistic personality will help to further our acquaintance with Chopin,
and as our knowledge of it is for the most part derived from the libels
and caricatures of well-intentioned critics, who in their zeal for a
nobler and more glorious art overshoot the mark of truth, it will be worth
our while to make inquiries regarding it.
Kalkbrenner may not inaptly be called the Delille of pianist-composers,
for his nature and fate remind us somewhat of the poet. As to his works,
although none of them possessed stamina enough to be long-lived, they
would have insured him a fairer reputation if he had not published so many
that were written merely for the market. Even Schumann confessed to having
in his younger days heard and played Kalkbrenner’s music often and with
pleasure, and at a maturer age continued to acknowledge not only the
master’s natural virtuoso amiability and clever manner of writing
effectively for fingers and hands, but also the genuinely musical
qualities of his better works, of which he held the Concerto in D minor to
be the “bloom,” and remarks that it shows the “bright sides” of
Kalkbrenner’s “pleasing talent.” We are, however, here more concerned with
the pianist than with the composer. One of the best sketches of
Kalkbrenner as a pianist is to be found in a passage which I shall
presently quote from M. Marmontel’s collection of “Silhouettes et
Medaillons” of “Les Pianistes celebres.” The sketch is valuable on account
of its being written by one who is himself a master, one who does not
speak from mere hearsay, and who, whilst regarding Kalkbrenner as an
exceptional virtuoso, the continuator of Clementi, the founder (“one of
the founders” would be more correct) of modern pianoforte-playing, and
approving of the leading principle of his method, which aims at the
perfect independence of the fingers and their preponderant action, does
not hesitate to blame the exclusion of the action of the wrist, forearm,
and arm, of which the executant should not deprive himself “dans les
accents de legerete, d’expression et de force.” But here is what M.
Marmontel says:—
We now know what Chopin meant when he described Kalkbrenner as “perfect
and possessed of something that raised him above all other virtuosos”; we
now know also that Chopin’s admiration was characteristic and not
misplaced. Nevertheless, nobody will think for a moment of disagreeing
with those who advised Chopin not to become a pupil of this master, who
always exacted absolute submission to his precepts; for it was to be
feared that he would pay too dear for the gain of inferior accomplishments
with the loss of his invaluable originality. But, as we have seen, the
affair came to nothing, Chopin ceasing to attend the classes after a few
visits. What no doubt influenced his final decision more than the advice
of his friends was the success which his playing and compositions met with
at the concert of which I have now to tell the history. Chopin’s desertion
as a pupil did not terminate the friendly relation that existed between
the two artists. When Chopin published his E minor Concerto he dedicated
it to Kalkbrenner, and the latter soon after composed “Variations
brillantes (Op. 120) pour le piano sur une Mazourka de Chopin,” and often
improvised on his young brother-artist’s mazurkas. Chopin’s friendship
with Camille Pleyel helped no doubt to keep up his intercourse with
Kalkbrenner, who was a partner of the firm of Pleyel & Co.
The arrangements for his concert gave Chopin much trouble, and had they
not been taken in hand by Paer, Kalkbrenner, and especially Norblin, he
would not have been able to do anything in Paris, where one required at
least two months to get up a concert. This is what Chopin tells Elsner in
the letter dated December 14, 1831. Notwithstanding such powerful
assistance he did not succeed in giving his concert on the 25th of
December, as he at first intended. The difficulty was to find a lady
vocalist. Rossini, the director of the Italian Opera, was willing to help
him, but Robert, the second director, refused to give permission to any of
the singers in his company to perform at the concert, fearing that, if he
did so once, there would be no end of applications. As Veron, the director
of the Academie Royale likewise refused Chopin’s request, the concert had
to be put off till the 15th of January, 1832, when, however, on account of
Kalkbrenner’s illness or for some other reason, it had again to be
postponed. At last it came off on February 26, 1832. Chopin writes on
December 16, 1831, about the arrangements for the concert:—
The singers of the evening were Mdlles. Isambert and Tomeoni, and M.
Boulanger. I have not been able to discover the programme of the concert.
Hiller says that Chopin played his E minor Concerto and some of his
mazurkas and nocturnes. Fetis, in the Revue musicale (March 3, 1832),
mentions only in a general way that there were performed a concerto by
Chopin, a composition for six pianos by Kalkbrenner, some vocal pieces, an
oboe solo, and “a quintet for violin [sic], executed with that energy of
feeling and that variety of inspiration which distinguish the talent of M.
Baillot.” The concert, which took place in Pleyel’s rooms, was financially
a failure; the receipts did not cover the expenses. The audience consisted
chiefly of Poles, and most of the French present had free tickets. Hiller
says that all the musical celebrities of Paris were there, and that
Chopin’s performances took everybody by storm. “After this,” he adds,
“nothing more was heard of want of technique, and Mendelssohn applauded
triumphantly.” Fetis describes this soiree musicale as one of the most
pleasant that had been given that year. His criticism contains such
interesting and, on the whole, such excellent remarks that I cannot resist
the temptation to quote the more remarkable passages:—
Of Chopin’s concerto Fetis remarks that it:—
Of course dissentient voices made themselves heard who objected to this
and that; but an overwhelming majority, to which belonged the young
artists, pronounced in favour of Chopin. Liszt says that he remembers his
friend’s debut:—
The concluding remark of the above-quoted criticism furnishes an
additional proof that Chopin went for some time to Kalkbrenner’s class. As
Fetis and Chopin were acquainted with each other, we may suppose that the
former was well informed on this point. In passing, we may take note of
Chopin’s account of the famous historian and theorist’s early struggles:—
On May 20, 1832, less than three months after his first concert, Chopin
made his second public appearance in Paris, at a concert given by the
Prince de la Moskowa for the benefit of the poor. Among the works
performed was a mass composed by the Prince. Chopin played the first
movement of:—
The great attraction of the evening was not Chopin, but Brod, who
“enraptured” the audience. Indeed, there were few virtuosos who were as
great favourites as this oboe-player; his name was absent from the
programme of hardly any concert of note.
In passing we will note some other musical events of interest which
occurred about the same time that Chopin made his debut. On March 18
Mendelssohn played Beethoven’s G major Concerto with great success at one
of the Conservatoire concerts, [FOOTNOTE: It was the first performance of
this work in Paris.] the younger master’s overture to the “Midsummer
Night’s Dream” had been heard and well received at the same institution in
the preceding month, and somewhat later his “Reformation Symphony” was
rehearsed, but laid aside. In the middle of March Paganini, who had lately
arrived, gave the first of a series of concerts, with what success it is
unnecessary to say. Of Chopin’s intercourse with Zimmermann, the
distinguished pianoforte-professor at the Conservatoire, and his family we
learn from M. Marmontel, who was introduced to Chopin and Liszt, and heard
them play in 1832 at one of his master’s brilliant musical fetes, and
gives a charming description of the more social and intimate parties at
which Chopin seems to have been occasionally present.
The preceding chapter and the foregoing part of this chapter set forth the
most important facts of Chopin’s social and artistic life in his early
Paris days. The following extract from a letter of his to Titus
Woyciechowski, dated December 25, 1831, reveals to us something of his
inward life, the gloom of which contrasts violently with the outward
brightness:—
In the postscript of this letter Chopin’s light fancy gets the better of
his heavy heart; in it all is fun and gaiety. First he tells his friend of
a pretty neighbour whose husband is out all day and who often invites him
to visit and comfort her. But the blandishments of the fair one were of no
avail; he had no taste for adventures, and, moreover, was afraid to be
caught and beaten by the said husband. A second love-story is told at
greater length. The dramatis personae are Chopin, John Peter Pixis, and
Francilla Pixis, a beautiful girl of sixteen, a German orphan whom the
pianist-composer, then a man of about forty-three, had adopted, and who
afterwards became known as a much-admired singer. Chopin made their
acquaintance in Stuttgart, and remarks that Pixis said that he intended to
marry her. On his return to Paris Pixis invited Chopin to visit him; the
latter, who had by this time forgotten pretty Francilla, was in no hurry
to call. What follows must be given in Chopin’s own words:—
The letters which Chopin wrote to his parents from Paris passed, after his
mother’s death, into the hands of his sister, who preserved them till
September 19, 1863. On that day the house in which she lived in Warsaw—a
shot having been fired and some bombs thrown from an upper story of it
when General Berg and his escort were passing—was sacked by Russian
soldiers, who burned or otherwise destroyed all they could lay hands on,
among the rest Chopin’s letters, his portrait by Ary Scheffer, the
Buchholtz piano on which he had made his first studies, and other relics.
We have now also exhausted, at least very nearly exhausted, Chopin’s
extant correspondence with his most intimate Polish friends, Matuszynski
and Woyciechowski, only two unimportant letters written in 1849 and
addressed to the latter remaining yet to be mentioned. That the
confidential correspondence begins to fail us at this period (the last
letter is of December 25, 1831) is particularly inopportune; a series of
letters like those he wrote from Vienna would have furnished us with the
materials for a thoroughly trustworthy history of his settlement in Paris,
over which now hangs a mythical haze. Karasowski, who saw the lost
letters, says they were tinged with melancholy.
Besides the thought of his unhappy country, a thought constantly kept
alive by the Polish refugees with whom Paris was swarming, Chopin had
another more prosaic but not less potent cause of disquietude and sadness.
His pecuniary circumstances were by no means brilliant. Economy cannot
fill a slender purse, still less can a badly-attended concert do so, and
Chopin was loath to be a burden on his parents who, although in easy
circumstances, were not wealthy, and whose income must have been
considerably lessened by some of the consequences of the insurrection,
such as the closing of schools, general scarcity of money, and so forth.
Nor was Paris in 1831, when people were so busy with politics, El Dorado
for musicians. Of the latter, Mendelssohn wrote at the time that they did
not, like other people, wrangle about politics, but lamented over them.
“One has lost his place, another his title, and a third his money, and
they say this all proceeds from the ‘juste milieu.'” As Chopin saw no
prospect of success in Paris he began to think, like others of his
countrymen, of going to America. His parents, however, were against this
project, and advised him either to stay where he was and wait for better
things, or to return to Warsaw. Although he might fear annoyances from the
Russian government on account of his not renewing his passport before the
expiration of the time for which it was granted, he chose the latter
alternative. Destiny, however, had decided the matter otherwise.[FOOTNOTE:
Karasowski says that Liszt, Hiller, and Sowinski dissuaded him from
leaving Paris. Liszt and Hiller both told me, and so did also Franchomme,
that they knew nothing of Chopin having had any such intention; and
Sowinski does not mention the circumstance in his Musiciens polonais.] One
day, or, as some will have it, on the very day when he was preparing for
his departure, Chopin met in the street Prince Valentine Radziwill, and,
in the course of the conversation which the latter opened, informed him of
his intention of leaving Paris. The Prince, thinking, no doubt, of the
responsibility he would incur by doing so, did not attempt to dissuade
him, but engaged the artist to go with him in the evening to Rothschild’s.
Chopin, who of course was asked by the hostess to play something, charmed
by his wonderful performance, and no doubt also by his refined manners,
the brilliant company assembled there to such a degree that he carried off
not only a plentiful harvest of praise and compliments, but also some
offers of pupils. Supposing the story to be true, we could easily believe
that this soiree was the turning-point in Chopin’s career, but
nevertheless might hesitate to assert that it changed his position “as if
by enchantment.” I said “supposing the story to be true,” because,
although it has been reported that Chopin was fond of alluding to this
incident, his best friends seem to know nothing of it: Liszt does not
mention it, Hiller and Franchomme told me they never heard of it, and
notwithstanding Karasowski’s contrary statement there is nothing to be
found about it in Sowinski’s Musiciens polonais. Still, the story may have
a substratum of truth, to arrive at which it has only to be shorn of its
poetical accessories and exaggerations, of which, however, there is little
in my version.
But to whatever extent, or whether to any extent at all, this or any
similar soiree may have served Chopin as a favourable introduction to a
wider circle of admirers and patrons, and as a stepping-stone to success,
his indebtedness to his countrymen, who from the very first befriended and
encouraged him, ought not to be forgotten or passed over in silence for
the sake of giving point to a pretty anecdote. The great majority of the
Polish refugees then living in Paris would of course rather require than
be able to afford help and furtherance, but there was also a not
inconsiderable minority of persons of noble birth and great wealth whose
patronage and influence could not but be of immense advantage to a
struggling artist. According to Liszt, Chopin was on intimate terms with
the inmates of the Hotel Lambert, where old Prince Adam Czartoryski and
his wife and daughter gathered around them “les debris de la Pologne que
la derniere guerre avait jetes au loin.” Of the family of Count Plater and
other compatriots with whom the composer had friendly intercourse we shall
speak farther on. Chopin’s friends were not remiss in exerting themselves
to procure him pupils and good fees at the same time. They told all
inquirers that he gave no lesson for less than twenty francs, although he
had expressed his willingness to be at first satisfied with more modest
terms. Chopin had neither to wait in vain nor to wait long, for in about a
year’s time he could boast of a goodly number of pupils.
The reader must have noticed with surprise the absence of any mention of
the “Ideal” from Chopin’s letters to his friend Titus Woyciechowski, to
whom the love-sick artist was wont to write so voluminously on this theme.
How is this strange silence to be accounted for? Surely this passionate
lover could not have forgotten her beneath whose feet he wished his ashes
to be spread after his death? But perhaps in the end of 1831 he had
already learnt what was going to happen in the following year. The sad
fact has to be told: inconstant Constantia Gladkowska married a merchant
of the name of Joseph Grabowski, at Warsaw, in 1832; this at least is the
information given in Sowinski’s biographical dictionary Les musiciens
polonais et slaves.[FOOTNOTE: According to Count Wodzinski she married a
country gentleman, and subsequently became blind.] As the circumstances of
the case and the motives of the parties are unknown to me, and as a
biographer ought not to take the same liberties as a novelist, I shall
neither expatiate on the fickleness and mercenariness of woman, nor
attempt to describe the feelings of our unfortunate hero robbed of his
ideal, but leave the reader to make his own reflections and draw his own
moral.
On August 2, 1832, Chopin wrote a letter to Hiller, who had gone in the
spring of the year to Germany. What the young Pole thought of this German
brother-artist may be gathered from some remarks of his in the letter to
Titus Woyciechowski dated December 16, 1831:—
Since then the two had become more intimate, seeing each other almost
every day, Chopin, as Osborne relates, being always in good spirits when
Hiller was with him. The bearer of the said letter was Mr. Johns, to whom
the five Mazurkas, Op. 7, are dedicated, and whom Chopin introduced to
Hiller as “a distinguished amateur of New Orleans.” After warmly
recommending this gentleman, he excuses himself for not having
acknowledged the receipt of his friend’s letter, which procured him the
pleasure of Paul Mendelssohn’s acquaintance, and then proceeds:—
CHAPTER XVI.
1832-1834.
CHOPIN’S SUCCESS IN SOCIETY AND AS A TEACHER.—VARIOUS CONCERTS AT
WHICH HE PLAYED.—A LETTER FROM CHOPIN AND LISZT TO HILLER.—SOME
OF HIS FRIENDS.—STRANGE BEHAVIOUR.—A LETTER TO FRANCHOMME.—CHOPIN’S
RESERVE.—SOME TRAITS OF THE POLISH CHARACTER.—FIELD.—BERLIOZ.—NEO-ROMANTICISM
AND CHOPIN’S RELATION TO IT.—WHAT INFLUENCE HAD LISZT ON CHOPIN’S
DEVELOPMENT—PUBLICATION OF WORKS.—THE CRITICS.—INCREASING
POPULARITY.—JOURNEY IN THE COMPANY OF HILLER TO AIX-LA-CHAPELLE.—A
DAY AT DUSSELDORF WITH MENDELSSOHN.
IN the season 1832-1833 Chopin took his place as one of the acknowledged
pianistic luminaries of the French capital, and began his activity as a
professor par excellence of the aristocracy. “His distinguished manners,
his exquisite politeness, his studied and somewhat affected refinement in
all things, made Chopin the model professor of the fashionable nobility.”
Thus Chopin is described by a contemporary. Now he shall describe himself.
An undated letter addressed to his friend Dominic Dziewanowski, which,
judging from an allusion to the death of the Princess Vaudemont,
[FOOTNOTE: In a necrology contained in the Moniteur of January 6, 1833,
she is praised for the justesse de son esprit, and described as naive et
vraie comme une femme du peuple, genereuse comme une grande dame. There we
find it also recorded that she saved M. de Vitrolles pendant les
Cent-jours, et M. de Lavalette sous la Restoration.] must have been
written about the second week of January, 1833, gives much interesting
information concerning the writer’s tastes and manners, the degree of
success he had obtained, and the kind of life he was leading. After some
jocular remarks on his long silence—remarks in which he alludes to
recollections of Szafarnia and the sincerity of their friendship, and
which he concludes with the statement that he is so much in demand on all
sides as to betorn to pieces—Chopin proceeds thus:—
This letter, and still more the letters which I shall presently
transcribe, afford irrefragable evidence of the baselessness of the
often-heard statement that Chopin’s intercourse was in the first years of
his settlement in Paris confined to the Polish salons. The simple
unexaggerated truth is that Chopin had always a predilection for, and felt
more at home among, his compatriots.
In the winter 1832-1833 Chopin was heard frequently in public. At a
concert of Killer’s (December 15, 1832) he performed with Liszt and the
concert-giver a movement of Bach’s Concerto for three pianos, the three
artists rendering the piece “avec une intelligence de son caractere et une
delicatesse parfaite.” Soon after Chopin and Liszt played between the acts
of a dramatic performance got up for the benefit of Miss Smithson, the
English actress and bankrupt manager, Berlioz’s flame, heroine of his
“Episode de la vie d’un artiste,” and before long his wife. On April 3,
1833, Chopin assisted at a concert given by the brothers Herz, taking part
along with them and Liszt in a quartet for eight hands on two pianos. M.
Marmontel, in his silhouette of the pianist and critic Amedee de Mereaux,
mentions that in 1832 this artist twice played with Chopin a duo of his
own on “Le Pre aux Clercs,” but leaves us in uncertainty as to whether
they performed it at public concerts or private parties. M. Franchomme
told me that he remembered something about a concert given by Chopin in
1833 at the house of one of his aristocratic friends, perhaps at Madame la
Marechale de Lannes’s! In summing up, as it were, Chopin’s activity as a
virtuoso, I may make use of the words of the Paris correspondent of the
“Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung,” who reports in April, 1833, that
“Chopin and Osborne, as well as the other celebrated masters, delight the
public frequently.” In short, Chopin was becoming more and more of a
favourite, not, however, of the democracy of large concert-halls, but of
the aristocracy of select salons.
The following letter addressed to Hiller, written by Chopin and Liszt, and
signed by them and Franchomme, brings together Chopin’s most intimate
artist friends, and spreads out before us a vivid picture of their good
fellowship and the society in which they moved. I have put the portions
written by Liszt within brackets [within parentheses in this e-text]. Thus
the reader will see what belongs to each of the two writers, and how they
took the pen out of each other’s hand in the middle of a phrase and even
of a word. With regard to this letter I have further to remark that
Hiller, who was again in Germany, had lately lost his father:—
Some of the names that appear in this letter will give occasion for
comment. Chopin, as Hiller informed me, went frequently to the ambassadors
Appony and Von Kilmannsegge, and still more frequently to his compatriots,
the Platers. At the house of the latter much good music was performed, for
the countess, the Pani Kasztelanowa (the wife of the castellan), to whom
Liszt devotes an eloquent encomium, “knew how to welcome so as to
encourage all the talents that then promised to take their upward flight
and form une lumineuse pleiade,” being
It was she who said one day to Chopin: “Si j’etais jeune et jolie, mon
petit Chopin, je te prendrais pour mari, Hiller pour ami, et Liszt pour
amant.” And it was at her house that the interesting contention of Chopin
with Liszt and Hiller took place. The Hungarian and the German having
denied the assertion of the Pole that only he who was born and bred in
Poland, only he who had breathed the perfume of her fields and woods,
could fully comprehend with heart and mind Polish national music, the
three agreed to play in turn, by way of experiment, the mazurka “Poland is
not lost yet.” Liszt began, Hiller followed, and Chopin came last and
carried off the palm, his rivals admitting that they had not seized the
true spirit of the music as he had done. Another anecdote, told me by
Hiller, shows how intimate the Polish artist was with this family of
compatriots, the Platers, and what strange whims he sometimes gave way to.
One day Chopin came into the salon acting the part of Pierrot, and, after
jumping and dancing about for an hour, left without having spoken a single
word.
Abbe Bardin was a great musical amateur, at whose weekly afternoon
gatherings the best artists might be seen and heard, Mendelssohn among the
rest when he was in Paris in 1832-1833. In one of the many obituary
notices of Chopin which appeared in French and other papers, and which are
in no wise distinguished by their trustworthiness, I found the remark that
the Abbe Bardin and M.M. Tilmant freres were the first to recognise
Chopin’s genius. The notice in question is to be found in the Chronique
Musicale of November 3, 1849.
In Franck, whose lodgings Chopin had taken, the reader will recognise the
“clever [geistreiche], musical Dr. Hermann Franck,” the friend of many
musical and other celebrities, the same with whom Mendelssohn used to play
at chess during his stay in Paris. From Hiller I learned that Franck was
very musical, and that his attainments in the natural sciences were
considerable; but that being well-to-do he was without a profession. In
the fifth decade of this century he edited for a year Brockhaus’s Deutsche
allgemeine Zeitung.
In the following letter which Chopin wrote to Franchomme—the latter
thinks in the autumn of 1833—we meet with some new names. Dr.
Hoffmann was a good friend of the composer’s, and was frequently found at
his rooms smoking. I take him to have been the well-known litterateur
Charles Alexander Hoffmann, [Footnote: This is the usual German, French,
and English spelling. The correct Polish spelling is Hofman. The forms
Hoffman and Hofmann occur likewise.] the husband of Clementina Tanska, a
Polish refugee who came to Paris in 1832 and continued to reside there
till 1848. Maurice is of course Schlesinger the publisher. Of Smitkowski I
know only that he was one of Chopin’s Polish friends, whose list is pretty
long and comprised among others Prince Casimir Lubomirski, Grzymala,
Fontana, and Orda.
[Footnote: Of Grzymala and Fontana more will be heard in the sequel.
Prince Casimir Lubomirski was a passionate lover of music, and published
various compositions. Liszt writes that Orda, “who seemed to command a
future,” was killed at the age of twenty in Algiers. Karasowski gives the
same information, omitting, however, the age. My inquiries about Orda
among French musicians and Poles have had no result. Although the data do
not tally with those of Liszt and Karasowski, one is tempted to identify
Chopin’s friend with the Napoleon Orda mentioned in Sowinski’s Musiciens
polonais et slaves—”A pianist-composer who had made himself known
since the events of 1831. One owes to him the publication of a Polish
Album devoted to the composers of this nation, published at Paris in 1838.
M. Orda is the author of several elegantly-written pianoforte works.” In a
memoir prefixed to an edition of Chopin’s mazurkas and waltzes (Boosey
& Co.), J.W. Davison mentions a M. Orda (the “M.” stands, I suppose,
for Monsieur) and Charles Filtsch as pupils of Chopin.]
It was well for Chopin that he was so abundantly provided with friends,
for, as Hiller told me, he could not do without company. But here is
Chopin’s letter to Franchomme:—
The last-quoted letter adds a few more touches to the portraiture of
Chopin which has been in progress in the preceding pages. The insinuating
affectionateness and winning playfulness had hitherto not been brought out
so distinctly. There was then, and there remained to the end of his life,
something of a woman and of a boy in this man. The sentimental element is
almost wholly absent from Chopin’s letters to his non-Polish friends. Even
to Franchomme, the most intimate among these, he shows not only less of
his inmost feelings and thoughts than to Titus Woyciechowski and John
Matuszyriski, the friends of his youth, but also less than to others of
his countrymen whose acquaintance he made later in life, and of whom
Grzymala may be instanced. Ready to give everything, says Liszt, Chopin
did not give himself—
Indeed, you could as little get hold of Chopin as, to use L. Enault’s
expression, of the scaly back of a siren. Only after reading his letters
to the few confidants to whom he freely gave his whole self do we know how
little of himself he gave to the generality of his friends, whom he pays
off with affectionateness and playfulness, and who, perhaps, never
suspected, or only suspected, what lay beneath that smooth surface. This
kind of reserve is a feature of the Slavonic character, which in Chopin’s
individuality was unusually developed.
Liszt makes some very interesting remarks on this point, and as they throw
much light on the character of the race, and on that of the individual
with whom we are especially concerned in this book, I shall quote them:—
And now we will turn our attention once more to musical matters. In the
letter to Hiller (August 2, 1832) Chopin mentioned the coming of Field and
Moscheles, to which, no doubt, he looked forward with curiosity. They were
the only eminent pianists whom he had not yet heard. Moscheles, however,
seems not to have gone this winter to Paris; at any rate, his personal
acquaintance with the Polish artist did not begin till 1839. Chopin, whose
playing had so often reminded people of Field’s, and who had again and
again been called a pupil of his, would naturally take a particular
interest in this pianist. Moreover, he esteemed him very highly as a
composer. Mikuli tells us that Field’s A flat Concerto and nocturnes were
among those compositions which he delighted in playing (spielte mit
Vorliebe). Kalkbrenner is reported [FOOTNOTE: In the Allgemeine
musikalische Zeitung of April 3, 1833.] to have characterised Field’s
performances as quite novel and incredible; and Fetis, who speaks of them
in the highest terms, relates that on hearing the pianist play a concerto
of his own composition, the public manifested an indescribable enthusiasm,
a real delirium. Not all accounts, however, are equally favourable.
[FOOTNOTE: In the Revue musicale of December 29, 1832. The criticism is
worth reproducing:—”Quiconque n’a point entendu ce grand pianiste ne
peut se faire d’idee du mecanisme admirable de ses doigts, mecanisme tel
que les plus grandes difficultes semblent etre des choses fort simples, et
que sa main n’a point l’air de se mouvoir. Il n’est d’ailleurs pas mains
etonnant dans l’art d’attaquer la note et de varier a l’infini les
diverses nuances de force, de douceur et d’accent. Un enthousiasme
impossible a decrire, un veritable delire s’est manifeste dans le public a
l’audition de ce concerto plein de charme rendu avec une perfection de
fini, de precision, de nettete et d’expression qu’il serait impossible de
surpasser et que bien peu de pianistes pourraient egaler.” Of a MS.
concerto played by Field at his second concert, given on February 3, 1833,
Fetis says that it is “diffus, peu riche en motifs heureux, peu digne, en
un mot, de la renommee de son auteur,” but “la delicieuse execution de M.
Field nous a tres-heureusement servi de compensation”]
Indeed, the contradictory criticisms to be met with in books and
newspapers leave on the reader the impression that Field disappointed the
expectations raised by his fame. The fact that the second concert he gave
was less well attended than the first cannot but confirm this impression.
He was probably no longer what he had been; and the reigning pianoforte
style and musical taste were certainly no longer what they had been. “His
elegant playing and beautiful manner of singing on the piano made people
admire his talent,” wrote Fetis at a later period (in his “Biographie
universelle des Musiciens”), “although his execution had not the power of
the pianists of the modern school.” It is not at all surprising that the
general public and the younger generation of artists, more especially the
romanticists, were not unanimously moved to unbounded enthusiasm by “the
clear limpid flow” and “almost somnolent tranquillity” of Field’s playing,
“the placid tenderness, graceful candour, and charming ingenuousness of
his melodious reveries.” This characterisation of Field’s style is taken
from Liszt’s preface to the nocturnes. Moscheles, with whom Field dined in
London shortly before the latter’s visit to Paris, gives in his diary a by
no means flattering account of him. Of the man, the diarist says that he
is good-natured but not educated and rather droll, and that there cannot
be a more glaring contrast than that between Field’s nocturnes and Field’s
manners, which were often cynical. Of the artist, Moscheles remarks that
while his touch was admirable and his legato entrancing, his playing
lacked spirit and accent, light and shadow, and depth of feeling. M.
Marmontel was not far wrong when, before having heard Field, he regarded
him as the forerunner of Chopin, as a Chopin without his passion, sombre
reveries, heart-throes, and morbidity. The opinions which the two artists
had of each other and the degree of their mutual sympathy and antipathy
may be easily guessed. We are, however, not put to the trouble of guessing
all. Whoever has read anything about Chopin knows of course Field’s
criticism of him—namely, that he was “un talent de chambre de
malade,” which, by the by, reminds one of a remark of Auber’s, who said
that Chopin was dying all his life (il se meurt tonte sa vie). It is a
pity that we have not, as a pendant to Field’s criticism on Chopin, one of
Chopin on Field. But whatever impression Chopin may have received from the
artist, he cannot but have been repelled by the man. And yet the older
artist’s natural disposition was congenial to that of the younger one,
only intemperate habits had vitiated it. Spohr saw Field in 1802-1803, and
describes him as a pale, overgrown youth, whose dreamy, melancholy playing
made people forget his awkward bearing and badly-fitting clothes. One who
knew Field at the time of his first successes portrays him as a young man
with blonde hair, blue eyes, fair complexion, and pleasing features,
expressive of the mood of the moment—of child-like ingenuousness,
modest good-nature, gentle roguishness, and artistic aspiration. M.
Marmontel, who made his acquaintance in 1832, represents him as a
worn-out, vulgar-looking man of fifty, whose outward appearance contrasted
painfully with his artistic performances, and whose heavy, thick-set form
in conjunction with the delicacy and dreaminess of his musical thoughts
and execution called to mind Rossini’s saying of a celebrated singer,
“Elle a l’air d’un elephant qui aurait avale un rossignol.” One can easily
imagine the surprise and disillusion of the four pupils of Zimmermann—MM.
Marmontel, Prudent, A. Petit, and Chollet—who, provided with a
letter of introduction by their master, called on Field soon after his
arrival in Paris and beheld the great pianist—
Notwithstanding his tipsiness, he received the young gentlemen kindly, and
played to them two studies by Cramer and Clementi “with rare perfection,
admirable finish, marvellous agility, and exquisiteness of touch.” Many
anecdotes might be told of Field’s indolence and nonchalance; for
instance, how he often fell asleep while giving his lessons, and on one
occasion was asked whether he thought he was paid twenty roubles for
allowing himself to be played to sleep; or, how, when his walking-stick
had slipped out of his hand, he waited till some one came and picked it
up; or, how, on finding his dress-boots rather tight, he put on slippers,
and thus appeared in one of the first salons of Paris and was led by the
mistress of the house, the Duchess Decazes, to the piano—but I have
said enough of the artist who is so often named in connection with Chopin.
From placid Field to volcanic Berlioz is an enormous distance, which,
however, we will clear at one leap, and do it too without hesitation or
difficulty. For is not leaping the mind’s natural mode of locomotion, and
walking an artificially-acquired and rare accomplishment? Proceeding step
by step we move only with more or less awkwardness, but aided by ever so
slight an association of ideas we bound with the greatest ease from any
point to any other point of infinitude. Berlioz returned to Paris in the
latter part of 1832, and on the ninth of December of that year gave a
concert at which he produced among other works his “Episode de la vie d’un
artiste” (Part I.—”Symphonic fantastique,” for the second time; Part
II—”Lelio, ou le retour a la vie,” for the first time), the subject
of which is the history of his love for Miss Smithson. Chopin, no doubt,
made Berlioz’s acquaintance through Liszt, whose friendship with the great
French symphonic composer dated from before the latter’s departure for
Italy. The characters of Chopin and Berlioz differed too much for a deep
sympathy to exist between them; their connection was indeed hardly more
than a pleasant social companionship. Liszt tells us that the constant
intercourse with Berlioz, Hiller, and other celebrities who were in the
habit of saying smart things, developed Chopin’s natural talent for
incisive remarks, ironical answers, and ambiguous speeches. Berlioz. I
think, had more affection for Chopin than the latter for Berlioz.
But it is much more the artistic than the social attitude taken up by
Chopin towards Berlioz and romanticism which interests us. Has Liszt
correctly represented it? Let us see. It may be accepted as in the main
true that the nocturnes of Field, [Footnote: In connection with this,
however, Mikuli’s remark has to be remembered.] the sonatas of Dussek, and
the “noisy virtuosities and decorative expressivities” of Kalkbrenner were
either insufficient for or antipathetic to Chopin; and it is plainly
evident that he was one of those who most perseveringly endeavoured to
free themselves from the servile formulas of the conventional style and
repudiated the charlatanisms that only replace old abuses by new ones. On
the other hand, it cannot be said that he joined unreservedly those who,
seeing the fire of talent devour imperceptibly the old worm-eaten
scaffolding, attached themselves to the school of which Berlioz was the
most gifted, valiant, and daring representative, nor that, as long as the
campaign of romanticism lasted, he remained invariable in his
predilections and repugnances. The promptings of his genius taught Chopin
that the practice of any one author or set of authors, whatever their
excellence might be, ought not to be an obligatory rule for their
successors. But while his individual requirements led him to disregard use
and wont, his individual taste set up a very exclusive standard of his
own. He adopted the maxims of the romanticists, but disapproved of almost
all the works of art in which they were embodied. Or rather, he adopted
their negative teaching, and like them broke and threw off the trammels of
dead formulas; but at the same time he rejected their positive teaching,
and walked apart from them. Chopin’s repugnance was not confined only to
the frantic side and the delirious excesses of romanticism as Liszt
thinks. He presents to us the strange spectacle of a thoroughly romantic
and emphatically unclassical composer who has no sympathy either with
Berlioz and Liszt, or with Schumann and other leaders of romanticism, and
the object of whose constant and ardent love and admiration was Mozart,
the purest type of classicism. But the romantic, which Jean Paul Richter
defined as “the beautiful without limitation, or the beautiful infinite”
[das Schone ohne Begrenzung, oder das schone Unendliche], affords more
scope for wide divergence, and allows greater freedom in the display of
individual and national differences, than the classical.
Chopin’s and Berlioz’s relative positions may be compared to those of V.
Hugo and Alfred de Musset, both of whom were undeniably romanticists, and
yet as unlike as two authors can be. For a time Chopin was carried away by
Liszt’s and Killer’s enthusiasm for Berlioz, but he soon retired from his
championship, as Musset from the Cenacle. Franchomme thought this took
place in 1833, but perhaps he antedated this change of opinion. At any
rate, Chopin told him that he had expected better things from Berlioz, and
declared that the latter’s music justified any man in breaking off all
friendship with him. Some years afterwards, when conversing with his pupil
Gutmann about Berlioz, Chopin took up a pen, bent back the point of it,
and then let it rebound, saying: “This is the way Berlioz composes—he
sputters the ink over the pages of ruled paper, and the result is as
chance wills it.” Chopin did not like the works of Victor Hugo, because he
felt them to be too coarse and violent. And this may also have been his
opinion of Berlioz’s works. No doubt he spurned Voltaire’s maxim, “Le gout
n’est autre chose pour la poesie que ce qu’il est pour les ajustements des
femmes,” and embraced V. Hugo’s countermaxim, “Le gout c’est la raison du
genie”; but his delicate, beauty-loving nature could feel nothing but
disgust at what has been called the rehabilitation of the ugly, at such
creations, for instance, as Le Roi s’amuse and Lucrece Borgia, of which,
according to their author’s own declaration, this is the essence:—
In fact, Chopin assimilated nothing or infinitely little of the ideas that
were surging around him. His ambition was, as he confided to his friend
Hiller, to become to his countrymen as a musician what Uhland was to the
Germans as a poet. Nevertheless, the intellectual activity of the French
capital and its tendencies had a considerable influence on Chopin. They
strengthened the spirit of independence in him, and were potent impulses
that helped to unfold his individuality in all its width and depth. The
intensification of thought and feeling, and the greater fulness and
compactness of his pianoforte style in his Parisian compositions, cannot
escape the attentive observer. The artist who contributed the largest
quotum of force to this impulse was probably Liszt, whose fiery passions,
indomitable energy, soaring enthusiasm, universal tastes, and capacity of
assimilation, mark him out as the very opposite of Chopin. But, although
the latter was undoubtedly stimulated by Liszt’s style of playing the
piano and of writing for this instrument, it is not so certain as Miss L.
Ramann, Liszt’s biographer, thinks, that this master’s influence can be
discovered in many passages of Chopin’s music which are distinguished by a
fiery and passionate expression, and resemble rather a strong, swelling
torrent than a gently-gliding rivulet. She instances Nos. 9 and 12 of
“Douze Etudes,” Op. 10; Nos. 11 and 12 of “Douze Etudes,” Op. 25; No. 24
of “Vingt-quatre Preludes,” Op. 28; “Premier Scherzo,” Op. 20; “Polonaise”
in A flat major, Op. 53; and the close of the “Nocturne” in A flat major,
Op. 32. All these compositions, we are told, exhibit Liszt’s style and
mode of feeling. Now, the works composed by Chopin before he came to Paris
and got acquainted with Liszt comprise not only a sonata, a trio, two
concertos, variations, polonaises, waltzes, mazurkas, one or more
nocturnes, &c., but also—and this is for the question under
consideration of great importance—most of, if not all, the studies
of Op. 10, [FOOTNOTE: Sowinski says that Chopin brought with him to Paris
the MS. of the first book of his studies.] and some of Op. 25; and these
works prove decisively the inconclusiveness of the lady’s argument. The
twelfth study of Op. 10 (composed in September, 1831) invalidates all she
says about fire, passion, and rushing torrents. In fact, no cogent reason
can be given why the works mentioned by her should not be the outcome of
unaided development.[FOONOTE: That is to say, development not aided in the
way indicated by Miss Ramann. Development can never be absolutely unaided;
it always presupposes conditions—external or internal, physical or
psychical, moral or intellectual—which induce and promote it. What
is here said may be compared with the remarks about style and
individuality on p. 214.] The first Scherzo alone might make us pause and
ask whether the new features that present themselves in it ought not to be
fathered on Liszt. But seeing that Chopin evolved so much, why should he
not also have evolved this? Moreover, we must keep in mind that Liszt had,
up to 1831, composed almost nothing of what in after years was considered
either by him or others of much moment, and that his pianoforte style had
first to pass through the state of fermentation into which Paganini’s,
playing had precipitated it (in the spring of 1831) before it was formed;
on the other hand, Chopin arrived in Paris with his portfolios full of
masterpieces, and in possession of a style of his own, as a player of his
instrument as well as a writer for it. That both learned from each other
cannot be doubted; but the exact gain of each is less easily determinable.
Nevertheless, I think I may venture to assert that whatever be the extent
of Chopin’s indebtedness to Liszt, the latter’s indebtedness to the former
is greater. The tracing of an influence in the works of a man of genius,
who, of course, neither slavishly imitates nor flagrantly appropriates, is
one of the most difficult tasks. If Miss Ramann had first noted the works
produced by the two composers in question before their acquaintance began,
and had carefully examined Chopin’s early productions with a view to
ascertain his capability of growth, she would have come to another
conclusion, or, at least, have spoken less confidently. [FOOTNOTE:
Schumann, who in 1839 attempted to give a history of Liszt’s development
(in the “Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik”), remarked that when Liszt, on the
one hand, was brooding over the most gloomy fancies, and indifferent, nay,
even blase, and, on the other hand, laughing and madly daring, indulged in
the most extravagant virtuoso tricks, “the sight of Chopin, it seems,
first brought him again to his senses.”]
It was not till 1833 that Chopin became known to the musical world as a
composer. For up to that time the “Variations,” Op. 2, published in 1830,
was the only work in circulation; the compositions previously published in
Warsaw—the “Rondo,” Op. 1, and the “Rondeau a la Mazur,” Op. 5—may
be left out of account, as they did not pass beyond the frontier of Poland
till several years afterwards, when they were published elsewhere. After
the publication, in December, 1832, of Op. 6, “Quatre Mazurkas,” dedicated
to Mdlle. la Comtesse Pauline Plater, and Op. 7, “Cinq Mazurkas,”
dedicated to Mr. Johns, Chopin’s compositions made their appearance in
quick succession. In the year 1833 were published: in January, Op. 9,
“Trois Nocturnes,” dedicated to Mdme. Camille Pleyel; in March, Op. 8,
“Premier Trio,” dedicated to M. le Prince Antoine Radziwill; in July, Op.
10, “Douze Grandes Etudes,” dedicated to Mr. Fr. Liszt; and Op. 11, “Grand
Concerto” (in E minor), dedicated to Mr. Fr. Kalkbrenner; and in November,
Op. 12, “Variations brillantes” (in B flat major), dedicated to Mdlle.
Emma Horsford. In 1834 were published: in January, Op. 15, “Trois
Nocturnes,” dedicated to Mr. Ferd. Hiller; in March, Op. 16, “Rondeau” (in
E flat major), dedicated to Mdlle. Caroline Hartmann; in April, Op. 13,
“Grande Fantaisie sur des airs polonais,” dedicated to Mr. J. P. Pixis;
and in May, Op. 17, “Quatre Mazurkas,” dedicated to Mdme. Lina Freppa; in
June, Op. 14, “Krakowiak, grand Rondeau de Concert,” dedicated to Mdme. la
Princesse Adam Czartoryska; and Op. 18, “Grande Valse brillante,”
dedicated to Mdlle. Laura Horsford; and in October, Op. 19, “Bolero” (in C
major), dedicated to Mdme. la Comtesse E. de Flahault. [FOOTNOTE: The
dates given are those when the pieces, as far as I could ascertain, were
first heard of as published. For further information see “List of Works”
at the end of the second volume, where my sources of information are
mentioned, and the divergences of the different original editions, as
regards time of publication, are indicated.]
The “Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung” notices several of Chopin’s
compositions with great praise in the course of 1833; in the year after
the notices became more frequent. But the critic who follows Chopin’s
publications with the greatest attention and discusses them most fully is
Rellstab, the editor of the Iris. Unfortunately, he is not at all
favourably inclined towards the composer. He occasionally doles out a
little praise, but usually shows himself a spendthrift in censure and
abuse. His most frequent complaints are that Chopin strives too much after
originality, and that his music is unnecessarily difficult for the hands.
A few specimens of Rellstab’s criticism may not be out of place here. Of
the “Mazurkas,” Op. 7, he says:—
After some more discussion of the same nature, he concludes thus:—
If Mr. Chopin had shown this composition to a master, the latter would, it
is to be hoped, have torn it and thrown it at his feet, which we hereby do
symbolically.
In his review of the “Trois Nocturnes,” Op. 9, occurs the following pretty
passage:—
I shall quote one more sentence; it is from a notice of the “Douze
Etudes,” Op. 10:—
However, we should not be too hard upon Rellstab, seeing that one of the
greatest pianists and best musicians of the time made in the same year (in
1833, and not in 1831, as we read in Karasowski’s book) an entry in his
diary, which expresses an opinion not very unlike his. Moscheles writes
thus:—
And again—
The first criticism on Chopin’s publications which I met with in the
French musical papers is one on the “Variations,” Op. 12. It appeared in
the “Revue musicale” of January 26, 1834. After this his new works are
pretty regularly noticed, and always favourably. From what has been said
it will be evident that Karasowski made a mistake when he wrote that
Chopin’s compositions began to find a wide circulation as early as the
year 1832.
Much sympathy has been undeservedly bestowed on the composer by many,
because they were under the impression that he had had to contend with
more than the usual difficulties. Now just the reverse was the case. Most
of his critics were well-disposed towards him, and his fame spread fast.
In 1834 (August 13) a writer in the “Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung”
remarks that Chopin had the good fortune to draw upon himself sooner than
others the attention not only of the pianists, although of these
particularly, but also of a number of the musicians generally. And in 1836
even Rellstab, Chopin’s most adverse critic, says: “We entertain the hope
of hearing a public performance of the Concerto [the second, Op. 21] in
the course of the winter, for now it is a point of honour for every
pianist to play Chopin.” The composer, however, cannot be said to have
enjoyed popularity; his works were relished only by the few, not by the
many. Chopin’s position as a pianist and composer at the point we have
reached in the history of his life (1833-1834) is well described by a
writer in the “Revue musicale” of May 15, 1834:—
No important events are to be recorded of the season 1833-1834, but that
Chopin was making his way is shown by a passage from a letter which
Orlowski wrote to one of his friends in Poland:—
In the spring of 1834 Chopin took a trip to Aix-la-Chapelle, where at
Whitsuntide the Lower Rhenish Music Festival was held. Handel’s “Deborah,”
Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony, and part of Beethoven’s Ninth were on the
programme, and the baton was in the hand of Ferdinand Ries. Hiller, who
had written additional accompaniments to the oratorio and translated the
English words into German, had received an invitation from the committee,
and easily persuaded Chopin to accompany him. But this plan very nearly
came to naught. While they were making preparations for the journey, news
reached them that the festival was postponed; and when a few days later
they heard that it would take place after all, poor Chopin was no longer
able to go, having in the meantime spent the money put aside for
travelling expenses, probably given it away to one of his needy
countrymen, to whom, as Hiller says, his purse was always open. But what
was to be done now? Hiller did not like to depart without his friend, and
urged him to consider if he could not contrive in one way or another to
procure the requisite pecuniary outfit. At last Chopin said he thought he
could manage it, took the manuscript of the Waltz in E flat (Op. 18), went
with it to Pleyel, and returned with 500 francs. [FOOTNOTE: I repeat
Hiller’s account without vouching for its literal correctness, confining
myself to the statement that the work was in print on the 1st of
June,1834, and published by Schlesinger, of Paris, not by Pleyel.] Thus
the barrier was removed, and the friends set out for Aix-la-Chapelle.
There Hiller was quartered in the house of the burgomaster, and Chopin got
a room close by. They went without much delay to the rehearsal of
“Deborah,” where they met Mendelssohn, who describes their meeting in a
letter addressed to his mother (Dusseldorf, May 23, 1834):—
After the festival the three musicians travelled together to Dusseldorf,
where since the preceding October Mendelssohn was settled as musical
director. They passed the morning of the day which Chopin and Hiller spent
in the town at Mendelssohn’s piano, and in the afternoon took a walk, at
the end of which they had coffee and a game at skittles. In this walk they
were accompanied by F. W. Schadow, the director of the Academy of Art and
founder of the Dusseldorf School, and some of his pupils, among whom may
have been one or more of its brightest stars—Lessing, Bendemann,
Hildebrandt, Sohn, and Alfred Rethel. Hiller, who furnishes us with some
particulars of what Mendelssohn calls “a very agreeable day passed in
playing and discussing music,” says that Schadow and his pupils appeared
to him like a prophet surrounded by his disciples. But the dignified
manner and eloquent discourse of the prophet, the humble silence of the
devoutly-listening disciples, seem to have prevented Chopin from feeling
quite at ease.
The following day Chopin and Hiller set out per steamer for Coblenz, and
Mendelssohn, although Schadow had asked him what was to become of “St.
Paul,” at which he was working, accompanied them as far as Cologne. There,
after a visit to the Apostles’ church, they parted at the Rhine bridge,
and, as Mendelssohn wrote to his mother, “the pleasant episode was over.”
CHAPTER XVII
1834-1835.
MATUSZYNSKI SETTLES IN PARIS.—MORE ABOUT CHOPIN’S WAY OF LIFE.—OP.
25.—HE IS ADVISED TO WRITE AN OPERA.—HIS OWN IDEAS IN REGARD
TO THIS, AND A DISCUSSION OF THE QUESTION.—CHOPIN’S PUBLIC
APPEARANCES.—BERLIOZ’S CONCERT.—STOEPEL’s CONCERT.—A
CONCERT AT PLEYEL’S ROOMS.—A CONCERT AT THE THEATRE-ITALIEN FOR THE
BENEFIT OF THE INDIGENT POLISH REFUGEES.—A CONCERT OF THE SOCIETE
DES CONCERTS.—CHOPIN AS A PUBLIC PERFORMER.—CHOUQUET, LISZT,
ETC., ON THE CHARACTER OF HIS PLAYING.—BELLINI AND HIS RELATION TO
CHOPIN.—CHOPIN GOES TO CARLSBAD.—AT DRESDEN.—HIS VISIT
TO LEIPZIG: E. F. WENZEL’S REMINISCENCES; MENDELSSOHN’S AND SCHUMANN’S
REMARKS ON THE SAME EVENT.—CHOPIN’S STAY AT HEIDELBERG AND RETURN TO
PARIS.
The coming to Paris and settlement there of his friend Matuszynski must
have been very gratifying to Chopin, who felt so much the want of one with
whom he could sigh. Matuszynski, who, since we heard last of him, had
served as surgeon-major in the Polish insurrectionary army, and taken his
doctor’s degree at Tubingen in 1834, proceeded in the same year to Paris,
where he was appointed professor at the Ecole de Medecine. The latter
circumstance testifies to his excellent professional qualities, and
Chopin’s letters do not leave us in doubt concerning the nature of his
qualities as a friend. Indeed, what George Sand says of his great
influence over Chopin only confirms what these letters lead one to think.
In 1834 Matuszynski wrote in a letter addressed to his brother-in-law:—
Less interesting than this letter of Matuszynski’s, with its glimpses of
Chopin’s condition and habits, are the reminiscences of a Mr. W., now or
till lately a music-teacher at Posen, who visited Paris in 1834, and was
introduced to Chopin by Dr. A. Hofman. [FOONOTE: See p. 257.] But,
although less interesting, they are by no means without significance, for
instance, with regard to the chronology of the composer’s works. Being
asked to play something, Mr. W. chose Kalkbrenner’s variations on one of
Chopin’s mazurkas (the one in B major, Op. 7, No. 1). Chopin generously
repaid the treat which Kalkbrenner’s variations and his countryman’s
execution may have afforded him, by playing the studies which he
afterwards published as Op. 25.
Elsner, like all Chopin’s friends, was pleased with the young artist’s
success. The news he heard of his dear Frederick filled his heart with
joy, nevertheless he was not altogether satisfied. “Excuse my sincerity,”
he writes, on September 14, 1834, “but what you have done hitherto I do
not yet consider enough.” Elsner’s wish was that Chopin should compose an
opera, if possible one with a Polish historical subject; and this he
wished, not so much for the increase of Chopin’s fame as for the advantage
of the art. Knowing his pupil’s talents and acquirements he was sure that
what a critic pointed out in Chopin’s mazurkas would be fully displayed
and obtain a lasting value only in an opera. The unnamed critic referred
to must be the writer in the “Gazette musicale,” who on June 29, 1834, in
speaking of the “Quatre Mazurkas,” Op. 17, says—
Karasowski says that Elsner’s letter made Chopin seriously think of
writing an opera, and that he even addressed himself to his friend
Stanislas Kozmian with the request to furnish him with a libretto, the
subject of which was to be taken from Polish history. I do not question
this statement. But if it is true, Chopin soon abandoned the idea. In
fact, he thoroughly made up his mind, and instead of endeavouring to
become a Shakespeare he contented himself with being an Uhland. The
following conversations will show that Chopin acquired the rarest and most
precious kind of knowledge, that is, self-knowledge. His countryman, the
painter Kwiatkowski, calling one day on Chopin found him and Mickiewicz in
the midst of a very excited discussion. The poet urged the composer to
undertake a great work, and not to fritter away his power on trifles; the
composer, on the other hand, maintained that he was not in possession of
the qualities requisite for what he was advised to undertake. G. Mathias,
who studied under Chopin from 1839 to 1844, remembers a conversation
between his master and M. le Comte de Perthuis, one of Louis Philippe’s
aides-de-camp. The Count said—
Chopin, in fact, knew himself better than his friends and teacher knew
him, and it was well for him and it is well for us that he did, for
thereby he saved himself much heart-burning and disappointment, and us the
loss of a rich inheritance of charming and inimitable pianoforte music. He
was emphatically a Kleinmeister—i.e. a master of works of small size
and minute execution. His attempts in the sonata-form were failures,
although failures worth more—some of them at least—than many a
clever artist’s most brilliant successes. Had he attempted the dramatic
form the result would in all probability have been still less happy; for
this form demands not only a vigorous constructive power, but in addition
to it a firm grasp of all the vocal and instrumental resources—qualities,
in short, in which Chopin was undeniably deficient, owing not so much to
inadequate training as to the nature of his organisation. Moreover, he was
too much given to express his own emotions, too narrow in his sympathies,
in short, too individual a composer, to successfully express the emotions
of others, to objectively conceive and set forth the characters of men and
women unlike himself. Still, the master’s confidence in his pupil, though
unfounded in this particular, is beautiful to contemplate; and so also is
his affection for him, which even the pedantic style of his letters cannot
altogether hide. Nor is it possible to admire in a less degree the
reciprocation of these sentiments by the great master’s greater pupil:—
In no musical season was Chopin heard so often in public as in that of
1834-35; but it was not only his busiest, it was also his last season as a
virtuoso. After it his public appearances ceased for several years
altogether, and the number of concerts at which he was subsequently heard
does not much exceed half-a-dozen. The reader will be best enabled to
understand the causes that led to this result if I mention those of
Chopin’s public performances in this season which have come under my
notice. On December 7, 1834, at the third and last of a series of concerts
given by Berlioz at the Conservatoire, Chopin played an “Andante” for the
piano with orchestral accompaniments of his own composition, which, placed
as it was among the overtures to “Les Francs-Juges” and “King Lear,” the
“Harold” Symphony, and other works of Berlioz, no doubt sounded at the
concert as strange as it looks on the programme. The “Andante” played by
Chopin was of course the middle movement of one of his concertos.
[Footnote: Probably the “Larghetto” from the F minor Concerto. See Liszt’s
remark on p. 282.]
On December 25 of the same year, Dr. Francois Stoepel gave a matinee
musicale at Pleyel’s rooms, for which he had secured a number of very
distinguished artists. But the reader will ask—”Who is Dr. Stoepel?”
An author of several theoretical works, instruction books, and musical
compositions, who came to Paris in 1829 and founded a school on Logier’s
system, as he had done in Berlin and other towns, but was as unsuccessful
in the French capital as elsewhere. Disappointed and consumptive he died
in 1836 at the age of forty-two; his income, although the proceeds of
teaching were supplemented by the remuneration for contributions to the
“Gazette musicale,” having from first to last been scanty. Among the
artists who took part in this matinee musicale were Chopin, Liszt, the
violinist Ernst, and the singers Mdlle. Heinefetter, Madame Degli-Antoni,
and M. Richelmi. The programme comprised also an improvisation on the
orgue expressif (harmonium) by Madame de la Hye, a grand-niece of J.J.
Rousseau’s. Liszt and Chopin opened the matinee with a performance of
Moscheles’ “Grand duo a quatre mains,” of which the reporter of the
“Gazette musicale” writes as follows:—
This work of Liszt’s was no doubt the Duo for two pianos on a theme of
Mendelssohn’s which, according to Miss Ramann, was composed in 1834 but
never published, and is now lost.
The “Menestrel” of March 22, 1835, contains a report of a concert at
Pleyel’s rooms, without, however, mentioning the concert-giver, who was
probably the proprietor himself:—
And now mark the dying fall of this vague report: “Kalkbrenner’s
Variations on the cavatina ‘Di tanti palpiti’ were especially applauded.”
We come now to the so much talked-of concert at the Italian Opera, which
became so fateful in Chopin’s career as a virtuoso. It is generally spoken
of as a concert given by Chopin, and Karasowski says it took place in
February, 1834. I have, however, been unable to find any trace of a
concert given by Chopin in 1834. On the other hand, Chopin played on April
5, 1835, at a concert which in all particulars except that of date answers
to the description of the one mentioned by Karasowski. The “Journal des
Debats” of April 4, 1835, draws the public’s attention to it by the
following short and curious article:—
To this galaxy of artistic talent I have yet to add Habeneck, who
conducted the orchestra. Chopin played with the orchestra his E minor
Concerto and with Liszt a duet for two pianos by Hiller.
In the same notice may also be read the following:—
The remark on the agedness of the concerto-form and the difficulty of not
being monotonous is naive and amusing enough to be quoted for its own
sake, but what concerns us here is the correctness of the report. Although
the expressions of praise contained in it are by no means enthusiastic,
nay, are not even straightforward, they do not tally with what we learn
from other accounts. This discrepancy may be thus explained. Maurice
Schlesinger, the founder and publisher of the “Gazette musicale,” was on
friendly terms with Chopin and had already published some of his
compositions. What more natural, therefore, than that, if the artist’s
feelings were hurt, he should take care that they should not be further
tortured by unpleasant remarks in his paper. Indeed, in connection with
all the Chopin notices and criticisms in the “Gazette musicale” we must
keep in mind the relations between the publisher and composer, and the
fact that several of the writers in the paper were Chopin’s intimate
friends, and many of them were of the clique, or party, to which he also
belonged. Sowinski, a countryman and acquaintance of Chopin’s, says of
this concert that the theatre was crowded and all went well, but that
Chopin’s expectations were disappointed, the E minor Concerto not
producing the desired effect. The account in Larousse’s “Grand
Dictionnaire” is so graphic that it makes one’s flesh creep. After
remarking that Chopin obtained only a demi-success, the writer of the
article proceeds thus: “The bravos of his friends and a few connoisseurs
alone disturbed the cold and somewhat bewildered attitude of the majority
of the audience.” According to Sowinski and others Chopin’s repugnance to
play in public dates from this concert; but this repugnance was not the
outcome of one but of many experiences. The concert at the Theatre-Italien
may, however, have brought it to the culminating point. Liszt told me that
Chopin was most deeply hurt by the cold reception he got at a concert at
the Conservatoire, where he played the Larghetto from the F minor
Concerto. This must have been at Berlioz’s concert, which I mentioned on
one of the foregoing pages of this chapter.
Shortly after the concert at the Theatre-Italien, Chopin ventured once
more to face that terrible monster, the public. On Sunday, April 26, 1835,
he played at a benefit concert of Habeneck’s, which is notable as the only
concert of the Societe des Concerts du Conservatoire in which he took
part. The programme was as follows:—1. The “Pastoral Symphony,” by
Beethoven; 2. “The Erl-King,” by Schubert, sung by M. Ad. Nourrit; 3.
Scherzo from the “Choral Symphony,” by Beethoven; 4. “Polonaise avec
introduction” [i.e., “Polonaise brillante precedee d’un Andante
spianato”], composed and played by M. Chopin; 5. Scena, by Beethoven, sung
by Mdlle. Falcon; 6. Finale from the C minor Symphony, by Beethoven. The
writer of the article Chopin in Larousse’s “Grand Dictionnaire” says that
Chopin had no reason to repent of having taken part in the concert, and
others confirm this statement. In Elwart’s “Histoire des Concerts du
Conservatoire” we read:—”Le compositeur reveur, l’elegiaque
pianiste, produisit a ce concert un effet delicieux.” To the author of the
“Histoire dramatique en France” and late curator of the Musee du
Conservatoire I am indebted for some precious communications. M. Gustave
Chouquet, who at the time we are speaking of was a youth and still at the
College, informed me in a charming letter that he was present at this
concert at which Chopin played, and also at the preceding one (on Good
Friday) at which Liszt played Weber’s “Concertstuck,” and that he
remembered very well “the fiery playing of Liszt and the ineffable poetry
of Chopin’s style.” In another letter M. Chouquet gave a striking resume
of the vivid reminiscences of his first impressions:—
One of the facts safely deducible from the often doubtful and
contradictory testimonies relative to Chopin’s public performances is,
that when he appeared before a large and mixed audience he failed to call
forth general enthusiasm. He who wishes to carry the multitude away with
him must have in him a force akin to the broad sweep of a full river.
Chopin, however, was not a Demosthenes, Cicero, Mirabeau, or Pitt. Unless
he addressed himself to select conventicles of sympathetic minds, the best
of his subtle art remained uncomprehended. How well Chopin knew this may
be gathered from what he said to Liszt:—
Opposition and indifference, which stimulate more vigorous natures,
affected Chopin as touch does the mimosa pudica, the sensitive plant—they
made him shrink and wither. Liszt observes correctly that the concerts did
not so much fatigue Chopin’s physical constitution as provoke his
irritability as a poet; that, in fact, his delicate constitution was less
a reason than a pretext for abstention, he wishing to avoid being again
and again made the subject of debate. But it is more difficult for one in
similar circumstances not to feel as Chopin did than for a successful
virtuoso like Liszt to say:—
To be sure, the admiration of the best men of his time ought to have
consoled him for the indifference of the dull crowd. But do we not all
rather yearn for what we have not than enjoy what we have? Nay, do we not
even often bewail the unattainableness of vain bubbles when it would be
more seasonable to rejoice in the solid possessions with which we are
blessed? Chopin’s discontent, however, was caused by the unattainableness
not of a vain bubble, but of a precious crown. There are artists who
pretend to despise the great public, but their abuse of it when it
withholds its applause shows their real feeling. No artist can at heart be
fully satisfied with the approval of a small minority; Chopin, at any
rate, was not such a one. Nature, who had richly endowed him with the
qualities that make a virtuoso, had denied him one, perhaps the meanest of
all, certainly the least dispensable, the want of which balked him of the
fulfilment of the promise with which the others had flattered him, of the
most brilliant reward of his striving. In the lists where men much below
his worth won laurels and gold in abundance he failed to obtain a fair
share of the popular acclamation. This was one of the disappointments
which, like malignant cancers, cruelly tortured and slowly consumed his
life.
The first performance of Bellini’s “I Puritani” at the Theatre-Italien
(January 24, 1835), which as well as that of Halevy’s “La Juive” at the
Academic (February 23, 1835), and of Auber’s “Le cheval de bronze” at the
Opera-Comique (March 23, 1835), was one of the chief musico-dramatic
events of the season 1834-1835, reminds me that I ought to say a few words
about the relation which existed between the Italian and the Polish
composer. Most readers will have heard of Chopin’s touching request to be
buried by the side of Bellini. Loath though I am to discredit so charming
a story, duty compels me to state that it is wholly fictitious. Chopin’s
liking for Bellini and his music, how ever, was true and real enough.
Hiller relates that he rarely saw him so deeply moved as at a performance
of Norma, which they attended together, and that in the finale of the
second act, in which Rubini seemed to sing tears, Chopin had tears in his
eyes. A liking for the Italian operatic music of the time, a liking which
was not confined to Bellini’s works, but, as Franchomme, Wolff, and others
informed me, included also those of Rossini, appears at first sight rather
strange in a musician of Chopin’s complexion; the prevalent musical taste
at Warsaw, and a kindred trait in the national characters of the Poles and
Italians, however, account for it. With regard to Bellini, Chopin’s
sympathy was strengthened by the congeniality of their individual
temperaments. Many besides Leon Escudier may have found in the genius of
Chopin points of resemblance with Bellini as well as with Raphael—two
artists who, it is needless to say, were heaven-wide apart in the mastery
of the craft of their arts, and in the width, height, and depth of their
conceptions. The soft, rounded Italian contours and sweet sonorousness of
some of Chopin’s cantilene cannot escape the notice of the observer.
Indeed, Chopin’s Italicisms have often been pointed out. Let me remind the
reader here only of some remarks of Schumann’s, made apropos of the Sonata
in B flat minor, Op. 35:—
To understand Chopin’s sympathy we have but to picture to ourselves
Bellini’s personality—the perfectly well-proportioned, slender
figure, the head with its high forehead and scanty blonde hair, the
well-formed nose, the honest, bright look, the expressive mouth; and
within this pleasing exterior, the amiable, modest disposition, the heart
that felt deeply, the mind that thought acutely. M. Charles Maurice
relates a characteristic conversation in his “Histoire anecdotique du
Theatre.” Speaking to Bellini about “La Sonnambula,” he had remarked that
there was soul in his music. This expression pleased the composer
immensely. “Oui, n’est-ce pas? De l’ame!” he exclaimed in his soft Italian
manner of speaking, “C’est ce que je veux…De L’ame! Oh! je suis
sensible! Merci!…C’est que l’ame, c’est toute la musique!” “And he
pressed my hands,” says Charles Maurice, “as if I had discovered a new
merit in his rare talent.” This specimen of Bellini’s conversation is
sufficient to show that his linguistic accomplishments were very limited.
Indeed, as a good Sicilian he spoke Italian badly, and his French was
according to Heine worse than bad, it was frightful, apt to make people’s
hair stand on end.
When one was in the same salon with him, his vicinity inspired one with a
certain anxiety mingled with the fascination of terror which repelled and
attracted at the same time. His puns were not always of an amusing kind.
Hiller also mentions Bellini’s bad grammar and pronunciation, but he adds
that the contrast between what he said and the way he said it gave to his
gibberish a charm which is often absent from the irreproachable language
of trained orators. It is impossible to conjecture what Bellini might have
become as a musician if, instead of dying before the completion of his
thirty-third year (September 24, 1835), he had lived up to the age of
fifty or sixty; thus much, however, is certain, that there was still in
him a vast amount of undeveloped capability. Since his arrival in Paris he
had watched attentively the new musical phenomena that came there within
his ken, and the “Puritani” proves that he had not done so without profit.
This sweet singer from sensuous Italy was not insensible even to the depth
and grandeur of German music. After hearing Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony,
for instance, he said to Hiller, his eyes glistening as if he had himself
done a great deed: “E bel comme la nature!” [Footnote: I give the words
literally as they are printed in Hiller’s Kimmerleben. The mixture of
Italian and French was no doubt intended, but hardly the spelling.] In
short, Bellini was a true artist, and therefore a meet companion for a
true artist like Chopin, of whose music it can be said with greater force
than of that of most composers that “it is all soul.” Chopin, who of
course met Bellini here and there in the salons of the aristocracy, came
also in closer contact with him amidst less fashionable but more congenial
surroundings. I shall now let Hiller, the pleasant story-teller, speak,
who, after remarking that Bellini took a great interest in piano-forte
music, even though it was not played by a Chopin, proceeds thus:—
In the summer of 1835, towards the end of July, Chopin journeyed to
Carlsbad, whither his father had been sent by the Warsaw physicians. The
meeting of the parents and their now famous son after a separation of
nearly five years was no doubt a very joyous one; but as no accounts have
come down to us of Chopin’s doings and feelings during his sojourn in the
Bohemian watering-place, I shall make no attempt to fill up the gap by a
gushing description of what may have been, evolved out of the omniscience
of my inner consciousness, although this would be an insignificant feat
compared with those of a recent biographer whose imaginativeness enabled
her to describe the appearance of the sky and the state of the weather in
the night when her hero became a free citizen of this planet, and to
analyse minutely the characters of private individuals whose lives were
passed in retirement, whom she had never seen, and who had left neither
works nor letters by which they might be judged.
From Carlsbad Chopin went to Dresden. His doings there were of great
importance to him, and are of great interest to us. In fact, a new
love-romance was in progress. But the story had better be told
consecutively, for which reason I postpone my account of his stay in the
Saxon capital till the next chapter.
Frederick Wieck, the father and teacher of Clara, who a few years later
became the wife of Robert Schumann, sent the following budget of Leipzig
news to Nauenburg, a teacher of music in Halle, in the autumn of 1835:—
The Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik, Schumann’s paper, of September 29, 1835,
contained the following announcement:—
The details of the account of Chopin’s visit to Leipzig which I am now
going to give, were communicated to me by Ernst Ferdinand Wenzel, the
well-known professor of pianoforte-playing at the Leipzig Conservatorium,
who died in 1880.
In the middle of the year 1835 the words “Chopin is coming” were passing
from mouth to mouth, and caused much stir in the musical circles of
Leipzig. Shortly after this my informant saw Mendelssohn in the street
walking arm in arm with a young man, and he knew at once that the Polish
musician had arrived, for this young man could be no other than Chopin.
From the direction in which the two friends were going, he guessed whither
their steps were tending. He, therefore, ran as fast as his legs would
carry him to his master Wieck, to tell him that Chopin would be with him
in another moment. The visit had been expected, and a little party was
assembled, every one of which was anxious to see and hear the
distinguished artist. Besides Wieck, his wife, daughter, and
sister-in-law, there were present Robert Schumann and Wieck’s pupils
Wenzel, Louis Rakemann, and Ulex. But the irascible pedagogue, who felt
offended because Chopin had not come first to him, who had made such
efforts for the propagation of his music, would not stay and welcome his
visitor, but withdrew sulkily into the inner apartments. Wieck had
scarcely left the room when Mendelssohn and Chopin entered. The former,
who had some engagement, said, “Here is Chopin!” and then left, rightly
thinking this laconic introduction sufficient. Thus the three most
distinguished composers of their time were at least for a moment brought
together in the narrow space of a room. [Footnote: This dictum, like all
superlatives and sweeping assertions, will no doubt raise objectors; but,
I think, it may be maintained, and easily maintained with the saving
clause “apart from the stage.”] Chopin was in figure not unlike
Mendelssohn, but the former was more lightly built and more graceful in
his movements. He spoke German fluently, although with a foreign accent.
The primary object of Chopin’s visit was to make the acquaintance of Clara
Wieck, who had already acquired a high reputation as a pianist. She played
to him among other things the then new and not yet published Sonata in F
sharp minor (Op. 11) by Schumann, which she had lately been studying. The
gentlemen dared not ask Chopin to play because of the piano, the touch of
which was heavy and which consequently would not suit him. But the ladies
were bolder, and did not cease entreating him till he sat down and played
his Nocturne in E flat (Op. 9, No. 2). After the lapse of forty-two years
Wenzel was still in raptures about the wonderful, fairy-like lightness and
delicacy of Chopin’s touch and style. The conversation seems to have
turned on Schubert, one of Schumann’s great favourites, for Chopin, in
illustration of something he said, played the commencement of Schubert’s
Alexander March. Meanwhile Wieck was sorely tried by his curiosity when
Chopin was playing, and could not resist the temptation of listening in
the adjoining room, and even peeping through the door that stood slightly
ajar. When the visit came to a close; Schumann conducted Chopin to the
house of his friend Henrietta Voigt, a pupil of Louis Berger’s, and
Wenzel, who accompanied them to the door, heard Schumann say to Chopin:
“Let us go in here where we shall find a thorough, intelligent pianist and
a good piano.” They then entered the house, and Chopin played and also
stayed for dinner. No sooner had he left, than the lady, who up to that
time had been exceedingly orthodox in her musical opinions and tastes,
sent to Kistner’s music-shop, and got all the compositions by Chopin which
were in stock.
The letter of Mendelssohn which I shall quote presently and an entry in
Henrietta Voigt’s diary of the year 1836, which will be quoted in the next
chapter, throw some doubt on the latter part of Herr Wenzel’s
reminiscences. Indeed, on being further questioned on the subject, he
modified his original information to this, that he showed Chopin,
unaccompanied by Schumann, the way to the lady’s house, and left him at
the door. As to the general credibility of the above account, I may say
that I have added nothing to my informant’s communications, and that in my
intercourse with him I found him to be a man of acute observation and
tenacious memory. What, however, I do not know, is the extent to which the
mythopoeic faculty was developed in him.
[Footnote: Richard Pohl gave incidentally a characterisation of this
exceedingly interesting personality in the Signale of September, 1886, No.
48. Having been personally acquainted with Wenzel and many of his friends
and pupils, I can vouch for its truthfulness. He was “one of the best and
most amiable men I have known,” writes R. Pohl, “full of enthusiasm for
all that is beautiful, obliging, unselfish, thoroughly kind, and at the
same time so clever, so cultured, and so many-sided as—excuse me,
gentlemen—I have rarely found a pianoforte-teacher. He gave
pianoforte lessons at the Conservatorium and in many private houses; he
worked day after day, year after year, from morning till night, and with
no other outcome as far as he himself was concerned than that all his
pupils—especially his female pupils—loved him
enthusiastically. He was a pupil of Friedrich Wieck and a friend of
Schumann.”]
In a letter dated October 6, 1835, and addressed to his family,
Mendelssohn describes another part of Chopin’s sojourn in Leipzig and
gives us his opinion of the Polish artist’s compositions and playing:—
Although Mendelssohn never played any of Chopin’s compositions in public,
he made his piano pupils practise some of them. Karasowski is wrong in
saying that Mendelssohn had no such pupils; he had not many, it is true,
but he had a few. A remark which Mendelssohn once made in his peculiar
naive manner is very characteristic of him and his opinion of Chopin. What
he said was this: “Sometimes one really does not know whether Chopin’s
music is right or wrong.” On the whole, however, if one of the two had to
complain of the other’s judgment, it was not Chopin but Mendelssohn, as we
shall see farther on.
To learn what impression Chopin made on Schumann, we must once more turn
to the Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik, where we find the Polish artist’s visit
to Leipzig twice mentioned:—
The second mention is in the P.S. of a transcendental Schwarmerbrief
addressed by Eusebius (the personification of the gentle, dreamy side of
Schumann’s character) to Chiara (Clara Wieck):—
On his way to Paris, Chopin stopped also at Heidelberg, where he visited
the father of his pupil Adolph Gutmann, who treated him, as one of his
daughters remarked, not like a prince or even a king, but like somebody
far superior to either. The children were taught to look up to Chopin as
one who had no equal in his line. And the daughter already referred to
wrote more than thirty years afterwards that Chopin still stood out in her
memory as the most poetical remembrance of her childhood and youth.
Chopin must have been back in Paris in the first half or about the middle
of October, for the Gazette musicale of the 18th of that month contains
the following paragraph:—
CHAPTER XVIII
1835—1837.
PUBLICATIONS IN 1835 AND 1836.—FIRST PERFORMANCE OF LES HUGUENOTS.—
GUSIKOW, LIPINSKI, THALBERG.—CHOPIN’S IMPRESSIONABLENESS AND
FICKLENESS IN REGARD TO THE FAIR SEX.—THE FAMILY WODZINSKI.—CHOPIN’S
LOVE FOR MARIA WODZINSKA (DRESDEN, 1835; MARIENBAD, 1836).—ANOTHER
VISIT TO LEIPZIG (1836).—CHARACTER OF THE CHIEF EVENTS IN 1837.—MENTION
OF HIS FIRST MEETING WITH GEORGE SAND.—HIS VISIT TO LONDON.—NEWSPAPER
ANNOUNCEMENT OF ANOTHER VISIT TO MARIENBAD.—STATE OF HIS HEALTH IN
1837.
IF we leave out of account his playing in the salons, Chopin’s artistic
activity during the period comprised in this chapter was confined to
teaching and composition. [Footnote: A Paris correspondent wrote in the
Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik of May 17, 1836, that Chopin had not been heard
at all that winter, meaning, of course, that he had not been heard in
public.] The publication of his works enables us to form an approximate
idea of how he was occupied as a creative musician. In the year 1835 were
published: in February, Op. 20, Premier Scherzo (in B minor), dedicated to
Mr. T. Albrecht, and in November, Op. 24, Quatre Mazurkas, dedicated to M.
le Comte de Perthuis. In 1836 appeared: in April, Op. 21, Second Concerto
(in F minor), dedicated to Madame la Comtesse Delphine Potocka: in May,
Op. 27, Deux Nocturnes (in C sharp minor and D flat major), dedicated to
Madame la Comtesse d’Appony; in June, Op. 23, Ballade (in G minor),
dedicated to M. le Baron de Stockhausen; in July, Op. 22, Grande Polonaise
brillante (E flat major) precedee d’un Andante spianato for pianoforte and
orchestra, dedicated to Madame la Baronne d’Est; and Op. 26, Deux
Polonaises (in C sharp minor and E flat minor), dedicated to Mr. J.
Dessauer. It is hardly necessary to point out that the opus numbers do not
indicate the order of succession in which the works were composed. The
Concerto belongs to the year 1830; the above notes show that Op. 24 and 27
were sooner in print than Op. 23 and 26; and Op. 25, although we hear of
its being played by the composer in 1834 and 1835, was not published till
1837.
The indubitably most important musical event of the season 1835-1836, was
the production of Meyerbeer’s Les Huguenots, which took place on February
29, 1836, and had an extraordinary success. The concert-rooms, however,
concern us more than the opera-houses. This year brought to Paris two
Polish musicians: Lipinski, the violinist, and Gusikow, the virtuoso on
the Strohfiedel, [FOOTNOTE: “Straw-fiddle,” Gigelira, or Xylophone, an
instrument consisting of a graduated series of bars of wood that lie on
cords of twisted straw and are struck with sticks.] whom Mendelssohn
called “a true genius,” and another contemporary pointed out as one of the
three great stars (Paganini and Malibran were the two others) at that time
shining in the musical heavens. The story goes that Lipinski asked Chopin
to prepare the ground for him in Paris. The latter promised to do all in
his power if Lipinski would give a concert for the benefit of the Polish
refugees. The violinist at first expressed his willingness to do so, but
afterwards drew back, giving as his reason that if he played for the
Polish refugees he would spoil his prospects in Russia, where he intended
shortly to make an artistic tour. Enraged at this refusal, Chopin declined
to do anything to further his countryman’s plans in Paris. But whether the
story is true or not, Lipinski’s concert at the Hotel de Ville, on March
3, was one of the most brilliant and best-attended of the season.
[FOOTNOTE: Revue et Gazette musicale of March 13, 1836. Mainzer had a
report to the same effect in the Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik.]
The virtuoso, however, whose appearance caused the greatest sensation was
Thalberg. The Gazette musicale announced his arrival on November 8, 1835.
He was first heard at M. Zimmermann’s; Madame Viardot-Garcia, Duprez, and
De Beriot being the other artists that took active parts in the soiree.
The enthusiasm which Thalberg on this occasion as well as subsequently
excited was immense. The Menestrel expressed the all but unanimous opinion
when, on March 13, 1836, it said: “Thalberg is not only the first pianist
in the world, but he is also a most distinguished composer.” His novel
effects astonished and delighted his hearers. The pianists showed their
appreciation by adopting their confrere’s manipulations and treatment of
the piano as soon as these ceased to puzzle them; the great majority of
the rising Parisian pianists became followers of Thalberg, nor were some
of the older ones slow in profiting by his example. The most taking of the
effects which Thalberg brought into vogue was the device of placing the
melody in the middle—i.e., the most sonorous part of the instrument—and
dividing it so between the hands that they could at the same time
accompany it with full chords and brilliant figures. Even if he borrowed
the idea from the harpist Parish-Alvars, or from the pianist Francesco G.
Pollini, there remains to him the honour of having improved the invention
of his forerunners and applied it with superior ability. His greatness,
however, does not solely or even mainly rest on this or any other
ingeniously-contrived and cleverly-performed trick. The secret of his
success lay in the aristocratic nature of his artistic personality, in
which exquisite elegance and calm self-possession reigned supreme. In
accordance with this fundamental disposition were all the details of his
style of playing. His execution was polished to the highest degree; the
evenness of his scales and the clearness of his passages and
embellishments could not be surpassed. If sensuous beauty is the sole end
of music, his touch must be pronounced the ideal of perfection, for it
extracted the essence of beauty. Strange as the expression “unctuous
sonorousness” may sound, it describes felicitously a quality of a style of
playing from which roughness, harshness, turbulence, and impetuosity were
altogether absent. Thalberg has been accused of want of animation,
passion, in short, of soul; but as Ambros remarked with great acuteness—
This simile reminds me of a remark of Heine’s, who thought that Thalberg
distinguished himself favourably from other pianists by what he (Heine)
felt inclined to call “his musical conduct [Betragen].” Here are some more
of the poet-critic’s remarks on the same subject:—
As a curiosity I must quote a passage from a letter dated July 10, 1836,
and addressed by George Sand to the Comtesse d’Agoult. Feelings of
friendship, and, in one case at least, of more than friendship, made these
ladies partial to another prince of the keyboard:—
Liszt, who was at the time of Thalberg’s visit to Paris in Switzerland,
doubted the correctness of the accounts which reached him of this
virtuoso’s achievements. Like Thomas he would trust only his own senses;
and as his curiosity left him no rest, he betook himself in March, 1836,
to Paris. But, unfortunately, he arrived too late, Thalberg having quitted
the capital on the preceding day. The enthusiastic praises which were
everywhere the answer to his inquiries about Thalberg irritated Liszt, and
seemed to him exaggerations based on delusions. To challenge criticism and
practically refute the prevalent opinion, he gave two private soirees, one
at Pleyel’s and another at Erard’s, both of which were crowded, the latter
being attended by more than four hundred people. The result was a
brilliant victory, and henceforth there were two camps. The admiration and
stupefaction of those who heard him were extraordinary; for since his last
appearance Liszt had again made such enormous progress as to astonish even
his most intimate friends. In answer to those who had declared that with
Thalberg a new era began, Berlioz, pointing to Liszt’s Fantasia on I
Pirati and that on themes from La Juive, now made the counter-declaration
that “this was the new school of pianoforte-playing.” Indeed, Liszt was
only now attaining to the fulness of his power as a pianist and composer
for his instrument; and when after another sojourn in Switzerland he
returned in December, 1836, to Paris, and in the course of the season
entered the lists with Thalberg, it was a spectacle for the gods.
“Thalberg,” writes Leon Escudier, “est la grace, comme Liszt la force; le
jeu de l’un est blond, celui de l’autre est brun.” A lady who heard the
two pianists at a concert for the Italian poor, given in the salons of the
Princess Belgiojoso, exclaimed: “Thalberg est le premier pianiste du
monde.”—”Et Liszt?” asked the person to whom the words were
addressed—”Liszt! Liszt—c’est le seul!” was the reply. This is
the spirit in which great artists should be judged. It is oftener
narrowness of sympathy than acuteness of discrimination which makes people
exalt one artist and disparage another who differs from him. In the wide
realm of art there are to be found many kinds of excellence; one man
cannot possess them all and in the highest degree. Some of these
excellences are indeed irreconcilable and exclude each other; most of them
can only be combined by a compromise. Hence, of two artists who differ
from each other, one is not necessarily superior to the other; and he who
is the greater on the whole may in some respects be inferior to the
lesser. Perhaps the reader will say that these are truisms. To be sure
they are. And yet if he considers only the judgments which are every day
pronounced, he may easily be led to believe that these truisms are most
recondite truths now for the first time revealed. When Liszt after his
first return from Switzerland did not find Thalberg himself, he tried to
satisfy his curiosity by a careful examination of that pianist’s
compositions. The conclusions he came to be set forth in a criticism of
Thalberg’s Grande Fantaisie, Op. 22, and the Caprices, Op. 15 and 19,
which in 1837 made its appearance in the Gazette musicale, accompanied by
an editorial foot-note expressing dissent. I called Liszt’s article a
criticism, but “lampoon” or “libel” would have been a more appropriate
designation. In the introductory part Liszt sneers at Thalberg’s title of
“Pianist to His Majesty the Emperor of Austria,” and alludes to his
rival’s distant (i.e., illegitimate) relationship to a noble family,
ascribing his success to a great extent to these two circumstances. The
personalities and abusiveness of the criticism remind one somewhat of the
manner in which the scholars of earlier centuries, more especially of the
sixteenth and seventeenth, dealt critically with each other. Liszt
declares that love of truth, not jealousy, urged him to write; but he
deceived himself. Nor did his special knowledge and experience as a
musician and virtuoso qualify him, as he pretended, above others for the
task he had undertaken; he forgot that no man can be a good judge in his
own cause. No wonder, therefore, that Fetis, enraged at this unprovoked
attack of one artist on a brother-artist, took up his pen in defence of
the injured party. Unfortunately, his retort was a lengthy and pedantic
dissertation, which along with some true statements contained many
questionable, not to say silly, ones. In nothing, however, was he so far
off the mark as in his comparative estimate of Liszt and Thalberg. The
sentences in which he sums up the whole of his reasoning show this
clearly: “You are the pre-eminent man of the school which is effete and
which has nothing more to do, but you are not the man of a new school!
Thalberg is this man—herein lies the whole difference between you
two.” Who can help smiling at this combination of pompous
authoritativeness and wretched short-sightedness? It has been truly
observed by Ambros that there is between Thalberg and Liszt all the
difference that exists between a man of talent and a man of genius;
indeed, the former introduced but a new fashion, whereas the latter
founded really a new school. The one originated a few new effects, the
other revolutionised the whole style of writing for the pianoforte.
Thalberg was perfect in his genre, but he cannot be compared to an artist
of the breadth, universality, and, above all, intellectual and emotional
power of Liszt. It is possible to describe the former, but the latter,
Proteus-like, is apt to elude the grasp of him who endeavours to catch
hold of him. The Thalberg controversy did not end with Fetis’s article.
Liszt wrote a rejoinder in which he failed to justify himself, but
succeeded in giving the poor savant some hard hits. I do not think Liszt
would have approved of the republication of these literary escapades if he
had taken the trouble to re-read them. It is very instructive to compare
his criticism of Thalberg’s compositions with what Schumann—who in
this case is by no means partial—said of them. In the opinion of the
one the Fantaisie sur Les Huguenots is not only one of the most empty and
mediocre works, but it is also so supremely monotonous that it produces
extreme weariness. In the opinion of the other the Fantaisie deserves the
general enthusiasm which it has called forth, because the composer proves
himself master of his language and thoughts, conducts himself like a man
of the world, binds and loosens the threads with so much ease that it
seems quite unintentional, and draws the audience with him wherever he
wishes without either over-exciting or wearying it. The truth, no doubt,
is rather with Schumann than with Liszt. Although Thalberg’s compositions
cannot be ranked with the great works of ideal art, they are superior to
the morceaux of Czerny, Herz, and hoc genus omne, their appearance marking
indeed an improvement in the style of salon music.
But what did Chopin think of Thalberg? He shared the opinion of Liszt,
whose side he took. In fact, Edouard Wolff told me that Chopin absolutely
despised Thalberg. To M. Mathias I owe the following communication, which
throws much light on Chopin’s attitude:—
Thalberg had not much intercourse with Chopin, nor did he exercise the
faintest shadow of an influence over him; but as one of the foremost
pianist-composers—indeed, one of the most characteristic phenomena
of the age—he could not be passed by in silence. Moreover, the noisy
careers of Liszt and Thalberg serve as a set-off to the noiseless one of
Chopin.
I suspect that Chopin was one of that race of artists and poets “qui font
de la passion un instrument de l’art et de la poesie, et dont l’esprit n’a
d’activite qu’autant qu’il est mis en mouvement par les forces motrices du
coeur.” At any rate, the tender passion was a necessary of his existence.
That his disappointed first love did not harden his heart and make him
insensible to the charms of the fair sex is apparent from some remarks of
George Sand, who says that although his heart was ardent and devoted, it
was not continuously so to any one person, but surrendered itself
alternately to five or six affections, each of which, as they struggled
within it, got by turns the mastery over all the others. He would
passionately love three women in the course of one evening party and
forget them as soon as he had turned his back, while each of them imagined
that she had exclusively charmed him. In short, Chopin was of a very
impressionable nature: beauty and grace, nay, even a mere smile, kindled
his enthusiasm at first sight, and an awkward word or equivocal glance was
enough to disenchant him. But although he was not at all exclusive in his
own affections, he was so in a high degree with regard to those which he
demanded from others. In illustration of how easily Chopin took a dislike
to anyone, and how little he measured what he accorded of his heart with
what he exacted from that of others, George Sand relates a story which she
got from himself. In order to avoid misrepresenting her, I shall translate
her own words:—
The same story was told me by other intimate friends of Chopin’s, who
evidently believed in its genuineness; their version differed from that of
George Sand only in this, that there was no allusion to a lady-love in
Poland. Indeed, true as George Sand’s observations are in the main, we
must make allowance for the novelist’s habit of fashioning and
exaggerating, and the woman’s endeavour to paint her dismissed and
aggrieved lover as black as possible. Chopin may have indulged in
innumerable amorous fancies, but the story of his life furnishes at least
one instance of his having loved faithfully as well as deeply. Nor will it
be denied that Chopin’s love for Constantia Gladkowska was a serious
affair, whether the fatal end be attributable to him or her, or both. And
now I have to give an account of another love-affair which deserves
likewise the epithet “serious.”
As a boy Chopin contracted a friendship with the brothers Wodzinski, who
were boarders at his father’s establishment. With them he went repeatedly
to Sluzewo, the property of their father, and thus became also acquainted
with the rest of the family. The nature of the relation in which Chopin
and they stood to each other is shown by a letter written by the former on
July 18, 1834, to one of the brothers who with his mother and other
members of the family was at that time staying at Geneva, whither they had
gone after the Polish revolution of 1830-31, in which the three brothers—Anthony,
Casimir, and Felix—had taken part:—
The Wodzinskis, with the exception of Anthony, returned in the summer of
1835 to Poland, making on their way thither a stay at Dresden. Anthony,
who was then in Paris and in constant intercourse with Chopin, kept the
latter informed of his people’s movements and his people of Chopin’s. Thus
it came about that they met at Dresden in September, 1835, whither the
composer went after his meeting with his parents at Carlsbad, mentioned in
the preceding chapter (p. 288). Count Wodzinski says in his Les trois
Romans de Frederic Chopin that Chopin had spoken to his father about his
project of marrying Maria Wodzinska, and that this idea had sprung up in
his soul by the mere force of recollections. The young lady was then
nineteen years of age, and, according to the writer just mentioned, tall
and slender in figure, and light and graceful in gait. The features, he
tells us, were distinguished neither by regularity nor classical beauty,
but had an indefinable charm. Her black eyes were full of sweetness,
reverie, and restrained fire; a smile of ineffable voluptuousness played
around her lips; and her magnificent hair was as dark as ebony and long
enough to serve her as a mantle. Chopin and Maria saw each other every
evening at the house of her uncle, the Palatine Wodzinski. The latter
concluded from their frequent tete-a-tete at the piano and in corners that
some love-making was going on between them. When he found that his
monitory coughs and looks produced no effect on his niece, he warned his
sister-in-law. She, however, took the matter lightly, saying that it was
an amitie d’enfance, that Maria was fond of music, and that, moreover,
there would soon be an end to all this—their ways lying in opposite
directions, hers eastward to Poland, his westward to France. And thus
things were allowed to go on as they had begun, Chopin passing all his
evenings with the Wodzinskis and joining them in all their walks. At last
the time of parting came, the clock of the Frauenkirche struck the hour of
ten, the carriage was waiting at the door, Maria gave Chopin a rose from a
bouquet on the table, and he improvised a waltz which he afterwards sent
her from Paris, and which she called L’Adieu. Whatever we may think of the
details of this scene of parting, the waltz composed for Maria at Dresden
is an undeniable fact. Facsimiles may be seen in Szulc’s Fryderyk Chopin
and Count Wodziriski’s Les trois Romans de Frederic Chopin. The manuscript
bears the superscription: “Tempo de Valse” on the left, and “pour Mile.
Marie” on the right; and the subscription: “F. Chopin, Drezno [Dresden],
September, 1835.” [FOOTNOTE: It is Op. 69, No. 1, one of the posthumous
works published by Julius Fontana.]
The two met again in the following summer, this time at Marienbad, where
he knew she and her mother were going. They resumed their walks, music,
and conversations. She drew also his portrait. And then one day Chopin
proposed. Her answer was that she could not run counter to her parents’
wishes, nor could she hope to be able to bend their will; but she would
always preserve for him in her heart a grateful remembrance.[FOOTNOTE:
Count Wodzinski relates on p. 255 of his book that at a subsequent period
of her life the lady confided to him the above-quoted answer.] This
happened in August, 1836; and two days after mother and daughter left
Marienbad. Maria Wodzinska married the next year a son of Chopin’s
godfather, Count Frederick Skarbek. The marriage turned but an unhappy
one, and was dissolved. Subsequently the Countess married a Polish
gentleman of the name of Orpiszewski, who died some years ago in Florence.
She, I think, is still alive.
Karasowski relates the affair very differently. He says Chopin, who knew
the brothers Wodzinski in Poland, met them again in Paris, and through
them made the acquaintance of their sister Maria, whose beauty and
amiability inspired him at once with an interest which soon became ardent
love. But that Chopin had known her in Poland may be gathered from the
above letter to Felix Wodzinski, quite apart from the distinct statements
of the author of Les trois Romans that Chopin was a frequent visitor at
Sluzewo, and a great friend of Maria’s. Further, Karasowski, who does not
mention at all the meeting of Chopin and the Wodzinskis at Dresden in
1835, says that Chopin went in the middle of July, 1836, to Marienbad,
where he knew he would find Maria and her mother, and that there he
discovered that she whom he loved reciprocated his affection, the
consequence being an engagement approved of by her relations. When the
sojourn in Marienbad came to an end, the whole party betook itself to
Dresden, where they remained together for some weeks, which they spent
most pleasantly.
[FOOTNOTE: Karasowski relates that Chopin was at the zenith of happiness.
His good humour was irresistible. He imitated the most famous pianists,
and played his dreamy mazurkas in the manner much in favour with Warsaw
amateurs—i.e., strictly in time and with the strongly-accented
rhythm of common dance-tunes. And his friends reminded him of the tricks
which, as a boy, he had played on his visits to the country, and how he
took away his sisters’ kid gloves when he was going to an evening-party,
and could not buy himself new ones, promising to send them dozens as soon
as he had gained a good position in Paris. Count Wodzinski, too, bears
witness to Chopin’s good humour while in the company of the Wodzinskis. In
the course of his account of the sojourn at Marienbad, this writer speaks
of Chopin’s polichinades: “He imitated then this or that famous artist,
the playing of certain pupils or compatriots, belabouring the keyboard
with extravagant gestures, a wild [echevele] and romantic manner, which he
called aller a la chasse aux pigeons.”]
Unless Chopin was twice with the Wodzinskis in Dresden, Karasowski must be
mistaken. That Chopin sojourned for some time at Dresden in 1835 is
evidenced by Wieck’s letter, quoted on p. 288, and by the above-mentioned
waltz. The latter seems also to confirm what Count Wodzinski says about
the presence of the Wodzinskis at Dresden in that year. On the other hand,
we have no such documents to prove the presence at Dresden in 1836 either
of Chopin or the Wodzinskis. According to Karasowski, the engagement made
at Marienbad remained in force till the middle of 1837, when Chopin
received at Paris the news that the lady withdrew from it. [FOOTNOTE: In
explanation of the breaking-off of this supposed engagement, it has also
been said that the latter was favoured by the mother, but opposed by the
father.] The same authority informs us that before this catastrophe Chopin
had thoughts of settling with his future wife in the neighbourhood of
Warsaw, near his beloved parents and sisters. There he would cultivate his
art in retirement, and found schools for the people. How, without a
fortune of his own, and with a wife who, although belonging to a fairly
wealthy family, would not come into the possession of her portion till
after the death of her parents, he could have realised these dreams, I am
at a loss to conjecture.
[FOONOTE: To enable his readers to measure the social distance that
separated Chopin from his beloved one, Count Wodzinski mentions among
other details that her father possessed a domain of about 50,000 acres
(20,000 hectares). It is hardly necessary to add that this large acreage,
which we will suppose to be correctly stated, is much less a measure of
the possessor’s wealth than of his social rank.]
Chopin’s letters, which testify so conclusively to the cordial friendship
existing between him and the Wodzinskis, unfortunately contain nothing
which throws light on his connection with the young lady, although her
name occurs in them several times. On April 2, 1837, Chopin wrote to
Madame Wodzinska as follows:—
The object of another letter, dated May 14, 1837, is likewise to give news
of Anthony Wodzinski, who was fighting in Spain. Miss Maria is mentioned
in the P.S. and urged to write a few words to her brother.
After a careful weighing of the evidence before us, it appears to me that—notwithstanding
the novelistic tricking-out of Les trois Romans de Frederic Chopin—we
cannot but accept as the true account the author’s statement as to
Chopin’s proposal of marriage and Miss Wodzinska’s rejection at Marienbad
in 1836. The testimony of a relation with direct information from one of
the two chief actors in the drama deserves more credit than that of a
stranger with, at best, second-hand information; unless we prefer to
believe that the lady misrepresented the facts in order to show herself to
the world in a more dignified and amiable character than that of a jilt.
The letters can hardly be quoted in support of the engagement, for the
rejection would still admit of the continuation of the old friendship, and
their tone does not indicate the greater intimacy of a closer
relationship.
Subsequent to his stay at Marienbad Chopin again visited Leipzig. But the
promises which Mendelssohn and Chopin had so solemnly made to each other
in the preceding year had not been kept; the latter did not go in the
course of the winter to Leipzig, and if he had gone, the former could not
have performed a new symphony of his in honour of the guest. Several
passages in letters written by Schumann in the early part of 1836 show,
however, that Chopin was not forgotten by his Leipzig friends, with whom
he seems to have been in correspondence. On March 8, 1836, Schumann wrote
to Moscheles:—
The first performance of Mendelssohn’s St. Paul took place at Dusseldorf
on May 22, and was a great success. But neither Schumann nor Chopin was
there. The latter was, no doubt, already planning his excursion to
Marienbad, and could not allow himself the luxury of two holidays within
so short a time.
Here is another scrap from a letter of Schumann’s, dated August 28, 1836,
and addressed to his brother Edward and his sister-in-law Theresa:—
Chopin either had left or was about to leave Marienbad when he received
Schumann’s letter. Had he received it sooner, his answer would not have
been very encouraging. For in his circumstances he could not but have felt
even the most highly-esteemed confrere, the most charming of companions,
in the way.[FOOTNOTE: Mendelscohn’s sister, Rebecka Dirichlet, found him
completely absorbed in his Polish Countess. (See The Mendelssohn Family,
Vol. II, p. 15.)] But although the two musicians did not meet at
Marienbad, they saw each other at Leipzig. How much one of them enjoyed
the visit may be seen in the following extract from a letter which
Schumann wrote to Heinrich Dorn on September 14, 1836:—
Besides the announcement of September 16, 1836, that Chopin had been a day
in Leipzig, that he had brought with him among other things new “heavenly”
etudes, nocturnes, mazurkas, and a new ballade, and that he played much
and “very incomparably,” there occur in Schumann’s writings in the Neue
Zeitschrift fur Musik unmistakable reminiscences of this visit of the
Polish musician. Thus, for instance, in a review of dance-music, which
appeared in the following year, and to which he gave the fantastic form of
a “Report to Jeanquirit in Augsburg of the editor’s last
artistico-historical ball,” the writer relates a conversation he had with
his partner Beda:—
Very interesting is Schumann’s description of how Chopin played some
etudes from his Op. 25; it is to be found in another criticism of the same
year (1837):—
This time we cannot cite a letter of Mendelssohn’s; he was elsewhere
similarly occupied as Chopin in Marienbad. After falling in love with a
Frankfort lady, Miss Jeanrenaud, he had gone to Scheweningen to see
whether his love would stand the test of absence from the beloved object.
It stood the test admirably, and on September 9, a few days before
Chopin’s arrival in Leipzig, Mendelssohn’s engagement to the lady who
became his wife on March 28, 1837, took place.
But another person who has been mentioned in connection with Chopin’s
first visit to Leipzig, Henrietta Voigt, [FOOTNOTE: The editor of “Acht
Briefe und ein Facsimile van Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy” speaks of her as
“the artistic wife of a Leipzig merchant, whose house stood open to
musicians living in and passing through Leipzig.”] has left us an account
of the impression made upon her. An entry in her diary on September 13,
1836, runs thus:—
After this short break of his journey at Leipzig, which he did not leave
without placing a wreath of flowers on the monument of Prince Joseph
Poniatowski, who in 1812 met here with an early death, being drowned in
the river Elster, Chopin proceeded on his homeward journey, that is toward
Paris, probably tarrying again for a day or two at Heidelberg.
The non-artistic events of this period are of a more stirring nature than
the artistic ones. First in time and importance comes Chopin’s meeting
with George Sand, which more than any other event marks an epoch in the
composer’s life. But as this subject has to be discussed fully and at some
length we shall leave it for another chapter, and conclude this with an
account of some other matters.
Mendelssohn, who arrived in London on August 24, 1837, wrote on September
1 to Hiller:—
Chopin accompanied by Camille Pleyel and Stanislas Kozmian, the elder,
came to London on the 11th of July and stayed till the 22nd. Pleyel
introduced him under the name of M. Fritz to his friend James Broadwood,
who invited them to dine with him at his house in Bryanston Square. The
incognito, however, could only be preserved as long as Chopin kept his
hands off the piano. When after dinner he sat down to play, the ladies of
the family suspected, and, suspicion being aroused, soon extracted a
confession of the truth.
Moscheles in alluding in his diary to this visit to London adds an item or
two to its history:—
Particularly interesting are the reminiscences of the writer of an
enthusiastic review [Footnote: Probably J. W. Davison.]of some of Chopin’s
nocturnes and a scherzo in the “Musical World” of February 23, 1838:—
Never robust, Chopin had yet hitherto been free from any serious illness.
Now, however, the time of his troubles begins. In a letter, undated, but
very probably written in the summer of 1837, which he addressed to Anthony
Wodzinski, who had been wounded in Spain, where civil war was then raging,
occur remarks confirmatory of Mendelssohn’s and Moscheles’ statements:—
On the margin, Chopin writes—
With regard to this and to the two preceding letters to members of the
Wodzinski family, I have yet to state that I found them in M. A. Szulc’s
“Fryderyk Chopin.”
CHAPTER XIX.
GEORGE SAND: HER EARLY LIFE (1804—1836); AND HER CHARACTER AS A
WOMAN, THINKER, AND LITERARY ARTIST.
It is now necessary that the reader should be made acquainted with Madame
Dudevant, better known by her literary name, George Sand, whose coming on
the scene has already been announced in the preceding chapter. The
character of this lady is so much a matter of controversy, and a correct
estimate of it so essential for the right understanding of the important
part she plays in the remaining portion of Chopin’s life, that this long
chapter—an intermezzo, a biography in a biography—will not be
regarded as out of place or too lengthy. If I begin far off, as it were
before the beginning, I do so because the pedigree has in this case a
peculiar significance.
The mother of George Sand’s father was the daughter of the Marschal de
Saxe (Count Maurice of Saxony, natural son of August the Strong, King of
Poland and Elector of Saxony, and the Countess Maria Aurora von
Konigsmark) and the dame de l’opera, Mdlle. de Verrieres, whose real name
was Madame de la Riviere, nee Marie Rinteau. This daughter, Marie Aurore,
married at the age of fifteen Comte de Home, a natural son of Louis XV.,
who died soon after; and fifteen years later she condescended to accept
the hand of M. Dupin de Francueil, receveur general, who, although of an
old and well-connected family, did not belong to the high nobility. The
curious may read about Mdlle. de Verrieres in the “Memoires” of Marmontel,
who was one of her many lovers, and about M. Dupin, his father,
mother-in-law, first wife &c., in Rousseau’s “Confessions,” where,
however, he is always called De Francueil. Notwithstanding the disparity
of age, the husband being twice as old as his wife, the marriage of M.
Dupin and the Comtesse de Home proved to be a very happy one. They had one
child, a son, Maurice Francois Elisabeth Dupin. He entered the army in
1798, and two years later, in the course of the Italian campaign, became
first lieutenant and then aide-de-camp to General Dupont.
In Italy and about the same time Maurice Dupin saw and fell in love with
Sophie Victoire Antoinette Delaborde, the daughter of a Paris bird-seller,
who had been a supernumerary at some small theatre, and whose youth, as
George Sand delicately expresses it, “had by the force of circumstances
been exposed to the most frightful hazards.” Sacrificing all the
advantages she was then enjoying, she followed Maurice Dupin to France.
From this liaison sprang several children, all of whom, however, except
one, died very young. A month before the birth of her in whom our interest
centres, Maurice Dupin married Sophie Delaborde. The marriage was a civil
one and contracted without the knowledge of his mother, who was opposed to
this union less on account of Sophie’s plebeian origin than of her
doubtful antecedents.
It was on July 5, 1804, that Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin, who under the
name of George Sand became famous all the world over, saw for the first
time the light of day. The baby, which by a stratagem was placed in the
arms of her grandmother, mollified the feelings of the old lady, whom the
clandestine marriage had put in a great rage, so effectually that she
forgave her son, received his wife, and tried to accommodate herself to
the irremediable. After the Spanish campaign, during which he acted as
aide-de-camp to Murat, Maurice Dupin and his family came to Nohant, his
mother’s chateau in Berry. There little Aurora lost her father when she
was only four years old. Returning home one evening from La Chatre, a
neighbouring town, he was thrown off his horse, and died almost instantly.
This was an event that seriously affected the future of the child, for
only the deceased could keep in check the antagonism of two such
dissimilar characters as those of Aurora’s mother and grandmother. The
mother was “dark-complexioned, pale, ardent, awkward and timid in
fashionable society, but always ready to explode when the storm was
growling too strongly within”; her temperament was that “of a Spaniard—jealous,
passionate, choleric, and weak, perverse and kindly at the same time.”
Abbe Beaumont (a natural son of Mdlle. de Verrieres and the Prince de
Turenne, Duke de Bouillon, and consequently grand-uncle of Aurora) said of
her that she had a bad head but a good heart. She was quite uneducated,
but had good natural parts, sang charmingly, and was clever with her
hands. The grandmother, on the other hand, was “light-complexioned,
blonde, grave, calm, and dignified in her manners, a veritable Saxon of
noble race, with an imposing demeanour full of ease and patronising
goodness.” She had been an assiduous student of the eighteenth century
philosophers, and on the whole was a lady of considerable culture. For
about two years these two women managed to live together, not, however,
without a feeling of discord which was not always successfully suppressed,
and sometimes broke out into open dissension. At last they came to an
arrangement according to which the child was to be left in the keeping of
the grandmother, who promised her daughter-in-law a yearly allowance which
would enable her to take up her abode in Paris. This arrangement had the
advantage for the younger Madame Dupin that she could henceforth devote
herself to the bringing-up of another daughter, born before her
acquaintance with Aurora’s father.
From her mother Aurora received her first instruction in reading and
writing. The taste for literary composition seems to have been innate in
her, for already at the age of five she wrote letters to her grandmother
and half-brother (a natural son of her father’s). When she was seven,
Deschartres, her grandmother’s steward, who had been Maurice Dupin’s
tutor, began to teach her French grammar and versification, Latin,
arithmetic, botany, and a little Greek. But she had no liking for any of
these studies. The dry classifications of plants and words were
distasteful to her; arithmetic she could not get into her head; and poetry
was not her language. History, on the other hand, was a source of great
enjoyment to her; but she read it like a romance, and did not trouble
herself about dates and other unpleasant details. She was also fond of
music; at least she was so as long as her grandmother taught her, for the
mechanical drilling she got from the organist of La Chatre turned her
fondness into indifference. That subject of education, however, which is
generally regarded as the foundation of all education—I mean
religion—was never even mentioned to her. The Holy Scriptures were,
indeed, given into the child’s hands, but she was left to believe or
reject whatever she liked. Her grandmother, who was a deist, hated not
only the pious, but piety itself, and, above all, Roman Catholicism.
Christ was in her opinion an estimable man, the gospel an excellent
philosophy, but she regretted that truth was enveloped in ridiculous
fables. The little of religion which the girl imbibed she owed to her
mother, by whose side she was made to kneel and say her prayers. “My
mother,” writes George Sand in her “Histoire de ma Vie,” from which these
details are taken, “carried poetry into her religious feeling, and I stood
in need of poetry.” Aurora’s craving for religion and poetry was not to
remain unallayed. One night there appeared to her in a dream a phantom,
Corambe by name. The dream-created being took hold of her waking
imagination, and became the divinity of her religion and the title and
central figure of her childish, unwritten romance. Corambe, who was of no
sex, or rather of either sex just as occasion might require—for it
underwent numberless metamorphoses—had “all the attributes of
physical and moral beauty, the gift of eloquence, and the all-powerful
charm of the arts, especially the magic of musical improvisation,” being
in fact an abstract of all the sacred and secular histories with which she
had got acquainted.
The jarrings between her mother and grandmother continued; for of course
their intercourse did not entirely cease. The former visited her relations
at Nohant, and the latter and her grandchildren occasionally passed some
weeks in Paris. Aurora, who loved both, her mother even passionately, was
much harassed by their jealousy, which vented itself in complaints,
taunts, and reproaches. Once she determined to go to Paris and live with
her mother, and was only deterred from doing so by the most cruel means
imaginable—namely, by her grandmother telling her of the dissolute
life which her mother had led before marrying her father.
At the age of thirteen Aurora was sent to the convent of English
Augustines in Paris, the only surviving one of the three or four
institutions of the kind that were founded during the time of Cromwell.
There she remained for the next three years. Her knowledge when she
entered this educational as well as religious establishment was not of the
sort that enables its possessor to pass examinations; consequently she was
placed in the lowest class, although in discussion she could have held her
own even against her teachers. Much learning could not be acquired in the
convent, but the intercourse with other children, many of them belonging,
like the nuns, to English-speaking nations, was not without effect on the
development of her character. There were three classes of pupils, the
diables, betes, and devotes (the devils, blockheads, and devout). Aurora
soon joined the first, and became one of their ringleaders. But all of a
sudden a change came over her. From one extreme she fell into the other.
From being the wildest of the wild she became the most devout of the
devout: “There was nothing strong in me but passion, and when that of
religion began to break out, it devoured everything in my heart; and
nothing in my brain opposed it.” The acuteness of this attack of religious
mania gradually diminished; still she harboured for some time the project
of taking the veil, and perhaps would have done so if she had been left to
herself.
After her return-to Nohant her half-brother Hippolyte, who had recently
entered the army, gave her riding lessons, and already at the end of a
week she and her mare Colette might be seen leaping ditches and hedges,
crossing deep waters, and climbing steep inclines. “And I, the eau
dormante of the convent, had become rather more daring than a hussar and
more robust than a peasant.” The languor which had weighed upon her so
long had all of once given way to boisterous activity. When she was
seventeen she also began seriously to think of self-improvement; and as
her grandmother was now paralytic and mentally much weakened, Aurora had
almost no other guidance than that of chance and her own instinct. Thomas
a Kempis’ “Imitation of Christ,” which had been her guide since her
religious awakening, was now superseded, not, however, without some
struggles, by Chateaubriand’s “Le Genie du Christianisme.” The book was
lent her by her confessor with a view to the strengthening of her faith,
but it produced quite the reverse effect, detaching her from it for ever.
After reading and enjoying Chateaubriand’s book she set to work on the
philosophers and essayists Mably, Locke, Condillac, Montesquieu, Bacon,
Bossuet, Aristotle, Leibnitz, Pascal, Montaigne, and then turned to the
poets and moralists La Bruyere, Pope, Milton, Dante, Virgil, Shakespeare,
&c. But she was not a metaphysician; the tendencies of her mind did
not impel her to seek for scientific solutions of the great mysteries.
“J’etais,” she says, “un etre de sentiment, et le sentiment seul tranchait
pour moi les questions a man usage, qui toute experience faite, devinrent
bientot les seules questions a ma, portee.” This “le sentiment seul
tranchait pour moi les questions” is another self-revelation, or instance
of self-knowledge, which it will be useful to remember. What more natural
than that this “being of sentiment” should prefer the poets to the
philosophers, and be attracted, not by the cold reasoners, but by
Rousseau, “the man of passion and sentiment.” It is impossible to describe
here the various experiences and doings of Aurora. Without enlarging on
the effects produced upon her by Byron’s poetry, Shakespeare’s “Hamlet,”
and Chateaubriand’s “Rene”; on her suicidal mania; on the long rides
which, clad in male attire, she took with Deschartres; on the death of her
grandmother, whose fortune she inherited; on her life in Paris with her
extravagantly-capricious mother; on her rupture with her father’s family,
her aristocratic relations, because she would not give up her mother—I
say, without enlarging on all this we will at once pass on to her
marriage, about which there has been so much fabling.
Aurore Dupin married Casimir Dudevant in September, 1822, and did so of
her own free will. Nor was her husband, as the story went, a bald-headed,
grey-moustached old colonel, with a look that made all his dependents
quake. On the contrary, Casimir Dudevant, a natural son of Colonel
Dudevant (an officer of the legion of honour and a baron of the Empire),
was, according to George Sand’s own description, “a slender, and rather
elegant young man, with a gay countenance and a military manner.” Besides
good looks and youth—he was twenty-seven—he must also have
possessed some education, for, although he did not follow any profession,
he had been at a military school, served in the army as sub-lieutenant,
and on leaving the army had read for the bar and been admitted a
barrister. There was nothing romantic in the courtship, but at the same
time it was far from commonplace.
She found sincerity not only in his words, but also in his whole conduct;
indeed, what lady could question a suitor’s sincerity after hearing him
say that he had been struck at first sight by her good-natured and
sensible look, but that he had not thought her either beautiful or pretty?
Shortly after their marriage the young couple proceeded to Nohant, where
they spent the winter. In June, 1823, they went to Paris, and there their
son Maurice was born. Their only other offspring, the daughter Solange,
did not come into the world till fiveyears later. The discrepancies of the
husband and wife’s character, which became soon apparent, made themselves
gradually more and more felt. His was a practical, hers a poetic nature.
Under his management Nohant assumed an altogether different aspect—there
was now order, neatness, and economy, where there was previously
confusion, untidiness, and waste. She admitted that the change was for the
better, but could not help regretting the state of matters that had been—the
old dog Phanor taking possession of the fire-place and putting his muddy
paws upon the carpet; the old peacock eating the strawberries in the
garden; and the wild neglected nooks, where as a child she had so often
played and dreamed. Both loved the country, but they loved it for
different reasons. He was especially fond of hunting, a consequence of
which was that he left his wife much alone. And when he was at home his
society may not always have been very entertaining, for what liveliness he
had seems to have been rather in his legs than in his brain. Writing to
her mother on April i, 1828, Madame Dudevant says: “Vous savez comme il
est paresseux de l’esprit et enrage des jambes.” On the other hand, her
temper, which was anything but uniformly serene, must have been trying to
her husband. Occasionally she had fits of weeping without any immediate
cause, and one day at luncheon she surprised her husband by a sudden burst
of tears which she was unable to account for. As M. Dudevant attributed
his wife’s condition to the dulness of Nohant, the recent death of her
grandmother, and the air of the country, he proposed a change of scene,
which he did the more readily as he himself did not in the least like
Berry. The pleasant and numerous company they found in the house of the
friends with whom they went to stay at once revived her spirits, and she
became us frolicsome as she had before been melancholy. George Sand
describes her character as continually alternating between “contemplative
solitude and complete giddiness in conditions of primitive innocence.” It
is hardly to be wondered at that one who exhibited such glaring and
unaccountable contrasts of character was considered by some people
whimsical (bizarre) and by her husband an idiot. She herself admits the
possibility that he may not have been wrong. At any rate, little by little
he succeeded in making her feel the superiority of reason and intelligence
so thoroughly that for a long time she was quite crushed and stupefied in
company. Afraid of finding themselves alone at Nohant, the ill-matched
pair continued their migration on leaving their friends. Madame Dudevant
made great efforts to see through her husband’s eyes and to think and act
as he wished, but no sooner did she accord with him than she ceased to
accord with her own instincts. Whatever they undertook, wherever they
went, that sadness “without aim and name” would from time to time come
over her. Thinking that the decline of her religiousness was the cause of
her lowness of spirits, she took counsel with her old confessor, the
Jesuit Abbe de Premord, and even passed, with her husband’s consent, some
days in the retirement of the English convent. After staying during the
spring of 1825 at Nohant, M. and Madame Dudevant set out for the south of
France on July 5, the twenty-first anniversary of the latter’s birthday.
In what George Sand calls the “History of my Life,” she inserted some
excerpts from a diary kept by her at this time, which throw much light on
the relation that existed between wife and husband. If only we could be
sure that it is not like so much in the book the outcome of her powerful
imagination! Besides repeated complaints about her husband’s ill-humour
and frequent absences, we meet with the following ominous reflections on
marriage:—
The following extracts give us some glimpses which enable us to realise
the situation:—
In addition to the above, we must read a remark suggested by certain
entries in the diary:—
M. and Madame Dudevant spent the greater part of autumn and the whole
winter at Guillery, the chateau of Colonel Dudevant. Had the latter not
died at this time, he might perhaps have saved the young people from those
troubles towards which they were drifting, at least so his daughter-in-law
afterwards thought. In the summer of 1826 the ill-matched couple returned
to Nohant, where they continued to live, a few short absences excepted,
till 1831. Hitherto their mutual relation had left much to be desired,
henceforth it became worse and worse every day. It would, however, be a
mistake to account for this state of matters solely by the dissimilarity
of their temperaments—the poetic tendency on the one side, the
prosaic on the other—for although it precluded an ideal matrimonial
union, it by no means rendered an endurable and even pleasant
companionship impossible. The real cause of the gathering clouds and
imminent storm is to be sought elsewhere. Madame Dudevant was endowed with
great vitality; she was, as it were, charged with an enormous amount of
energy, which, unless it found an outlet, oppressed her and made her
miserable. Now, in her then position, all channels were closed up. The
management of household affairs, which, if her statement may be trusted,
she neither considered beneath her dignity nor disliked, might have served
as a safety-valve; but her administration came to an untimely end. When,
after the first year of their married life, her husband examined the
accounts, he discovered that she had spent 14,000 francs instead of
10,000, and found himself constrained to declare that their purse was too
light for her liberality. Not having anything else to do, and her
uselessness vexing her, she took to doctoring the poor and concocting
medicines. Hers, however, was not the spirit that allows itself to be
fettered by the triple vow of obedience, silence, and poverty. No wonder,
therefore, that her life, which she compared to that of a nun, was not to
her taste. She did not complain so much of her husband, who did not
interfere with her reading and brewing of juleps, and was in no way a
tyrant, as of being the slave of a given situation from which he could not
set her free. The total lack of ready money was felt by her to constitute
in our altogether factitious society an intolerable situation, frightful
misery or absolute powerlessness. What she missed was some means of which
she might dispose, without compunction and uncontrolled, for an artistic
treat, a beautiful book, a week’s travelling, a present to a poor friend,
a charity to a deserving person, and such like trifles, which, although
not indispensable, make life pleasant. “Irresponsibility is a state of
servitude; it is something like the disgrace of the interdict.” But
servitude and disgrace are galling yokes, and it was not likely that so
strong a character would long and meekly submit to them. We have, however,
not yet exhausted the grievances of Madame Dudevant. Her brother
Hippolyte, after mismanaging his own property, came and lived for the sake
of economy at Nohant. His intemperance and that of a friend proved
contagious to her husband, and the consequence was not only much rioting
till late into the night, but occasionally also filthy conversations. She
began, therefore, to consider how the requisite means might be obtained—which
would enable her to get away from such undesirable surroundings, and to
withdraw her children from these evil influences. For four years she
endeavoured to discover an employment by which she could gain her
livelihood. A milliner’s business was out of the question without capital
to begin with; by needlework no more than ten sous a day could be earned;
she was too conscientious to make translation pay; her crayon and
water-colour portraits were pretty good likenesses, but lacked
originality; and in the painting of flowers and birds on cigar-cases,
work-boxes, fans, &c., which promised to be more successful, she was
soon discouraged by a change of fashion.
At last Madame Dudevant made up her mind to go to Paris and try her luck
in literature. She had no ambition whatever, and merely hoped to be able
to eke out in this way her slender resources. As regards the capital of
knowledge she was possessed of she wrote: “I had read history and novels;
I had deciphered scores; I had thrown an inattentive eye over the
newspapers….Monsieur Neraud [the Malgache of the “Lettres d’un
Voyageur”] had tried to teach me botany. According to the “Histoire de ma
Vie” this new departure was brought about by an amicable arrangement; her
letters, as in so many cases, tell, however, a very different tale.
Especially important is a letter written, on December 3, 1830, to Jules
Boucoiran, who had lately been tutor to her children, and whom, after the
relation of what had taken place, she asks to resume these duties for her
sake now that she will be away from Nohant and her children part of the
year. Boucoiran, it should be noted, was a young man of about twenty, who
was a total stranger to her on September 2, 1829, but whom she addressed
on November 30 of that year as “Mon cher Jules.” Well, she tells him in
the letter in question that when looking for something in her husband’s
writing-desk she came on a packet addressed to her, and on which were
further written by his hand the words “Do not open it till after my
death.” Piqued by curiosity, she did open the packet, and found in it
nothing but curses upon herself. “He had gathered up in it,” she says,
“all his ill-humour and anger against me, all his reflections on my
perversity.” This was too much for her; she had allowed herself to be
humiliated for eight years, now she would speak out.
She feigned intractability on all these points, but after some time
relented and consented to return to Nohant if her conditions were
accepted. From the “Histoire de ma Vie” we learn what these conditions
were. She demanded her daughter, permission to pass twice three months
every year in Paris, and an allowance of 250 francs per month during the
time of her absence from Nohant. Her letters, however, show that her
daughter was not with her during her first three months at Paris.
Madame Dudevant proceeded to Paris at the beginning of 1831. Her
establishment there was of the simplest. It consisted of three little
rooms on the fifth story (a mansarde) in a house on the Quai Saint-Michel.
She did the washing and ironing herself, the portiere assisting her in the
rest of the household work. The meals came from a restaurant, and cost two
francs a day. And thus she managed to keep within her allowance. I make
these and the following statements on her own authority. As she found her
woman’s attire too expensive, little suited for facing mud and rain, and
in other respects inconvenient, she provided herself with a coat
(redingote-guerite), trousers, and waistcoat of coarse grey cloth, a hat
of the same colour, a large necktie, and boots with little iron heels.
This latter part of her outfit especially gave her much pleasure. Having
often worn man’s clothes when riding and hunting at Nohant, and
remembering that her mother used to go in the same guise with her father
to the theatre during their residence in Paris, she felt quite at home in
these habiliments and saw nothing shocking in donning them. Now began what
she called her literary school-boy life (vie d’ecolier litteraire), her
vie de gamin. She trotted through the streets of Paris at all times and in
all weathers, went to garrets, studios, clubs, theatres, coffee-houses, in
fact, everywhere except to salons. The arts, politics, the romance of
society and living humanity, were the studies which she passionately
pursued. But she gives those the lie who said of her that she had the
“curiosite du vice.”
The literary men with whom she had constant intercourse, and with whom she
was most closely connected, came, like herself, from Berry. Henri de
Latouche (or Delatouche, as George Sand writes), a native of La Chatre,
who was editor of the Figaro, enrolled her among the contributors to this
journal. But she had no talent for this kind of work, and at the end of
the month her payment amounted to perhaps from twelve to fifteen francs.
Madame Dudevant and the two other Berrichons, Jules Sandeau and Felix
Pyat, were, so to speak, the literary apprentices of Delatouche, who not
only was much older than they, having been born in 1785, but had long ago
established his reputation as a journalist, novelist, and dramatic writer.
The first work which Madame Dudevant produced was the novel “Rose et
Blanche”; she wrote it in collaboration with Jules Sandeau, whose relation
to her is generally believed to have been not only of a literary nature.
The novel, which appeared in 1831, was so successful that the publishers
asked the authors to write them another. Madame Dudevant thereupon wrote
“Indiana”, but without the assistance of Jules Sandeau. She was going to
have it published under the nom de plume Jules Sand, which they had
assumed on the occasion of “Rose et Blanche.” But Jules Sandeau objected
to this, saying that as she had done all the work, she ought to have all
the honour. To satisfy both, Jules Sandeau, who would not adorn himself
with another’s plumes, and the publishers, who preferred a known to an
unknown name, Delatouche gave Madame Dudevant the name of George Sand,
under which henceforth all her works were published, and by which she was
best known in society, and generally called among her friends. “Valentine”
appeared, like “Indiana,” in 1832, and was followed in 1833 by Lelia. For
the first two of these novels she received 3,000 francs. When Buloz bought
the Revue des deux Mondes, she became one of the contributors to that
journal. This shows that a great improvement had taken place in her
circumstances, and that the fight she had to fight was not a very hard
one. Indeed, in the course of two years she had attained fame, and was now
a much-praised and much-abused celebrity.
All this time George Sand had, according to agreement, spent alternately
three months in Paris and three months at Nohant. A letter written by M.
Dudevant to his wife in 1831 furnishes a curious illustration of the
relation that existed between husband and wife. The accommodating spirit
which pervades it is most charming:—
In August, 1833, George Sand and Alfred de Musset met for the first time
at a dinner which the editor Buloz gave to the contributors to the Revue
des deux Mondes. The two sat beside each other. Musset called on George
Sand soon after, called again and again, and before long was passionately
in love with her. She reciprocated his devotion. But the serene
blissfulness of the first days of their liaison was of short duration.
Already in the following month they fled from the Parisian surroundings
and gossipings, which they regarded as the disturbers of their harmony.
After visiting Genoa, Florence, and Pisa, they settled at Venice. Italy,
however, did not afford them the hoped-for peace and contentment. It was
evident that the days of “adoration, ecstasy, and worship” were things of
the past. Unpleasant scenes became more and more frequent. How, indeed,
could a lasting concord be maintained by two such disparate characters?
The woman’s strength and determination contrasted with the man’s weakness
and vacillation; her reasoning imperturbation, prudent foresight, and love
of order and activity, with his excessive irritability and sensitiveness,
wanton carelessness, and unconquerable propensity to idleness and every
kind of irregularity. While George Sand sat at her writing-table engaged
on some work which was to bring her money and fame, Musset trifled away
his time among the female singers and dancers of the noiseless city. In
April, 1834, before the poet had quite recovered from the effects of a
severe attack of typhoid fever, which confined him to his bed for several
weeks, he left George Sand after a violent quarrel and took his departure
from Venice. This, however, was not yet the end of their connection. Once
more, in spite of all that had happened, they came together; but it was
only for a fortnight (at Paris, in the autumn of 1834), and then they
parted for ever.
It is impossible, at any rate I shall not attempt, to sift the true from
the false in the various accounts which have been published of this
love-drama. George Sand’s version may be read in her Lettres d’un Voyageur
and in Elle et Lui; Alfred de Musset’s version in his brother Paul’s book
Lui et Elle. Neither of these versions, however, is a plain, unvarnished
tale. Paul de Musset seems to keep on the whole nearer the truth, but he
too cannot be altogether acquitted of the charge of exaggeration. Rather
than believe that by the bedside of her lover, whom she thought
unconscious and all but dead, George Sand dallied with the physician, sat
on his knees, retained him to sup with her, and drank out of one glass
with him, one gives credence to her statement that what Alfred de Musset
imagined to be reality was but the illusion of a feverish dream. In
addition to George Sand’s and Paul de Musset’s versions, Louise Colet has
furnished a third in her Lui, a publication which bears the stamp of
insincerity on almost every page, and which has been described, I think by
Maxime du Camp, as worse than a lying invention—namely, as a
systematic perversion of the truth. A passage from George Sand’s Elle et
Lui, in which Therese and Laurent, both artists, are the representatives
of the novelist and poet, will indicate how she wishes the story to be
read:—
I shall not continue the quotation, the discussion becomes too nauseous.
One cannot help sympathising with Alfred de Musset’s impatient
interruption of George Sand’s unctuous lecturing reported in his brother’s
book—”My dear, you speak so often of chastity that it becomes
indecent.” Or this other interruption reported by Louise Colet:—
It is hardly necessary to say that George Sand had much intercourse with
men of intellect. Several litterateurs of some distinction have already
been mentioned. Sainte-Beuve and Balzac were two of the earliest of her
literary friends, among whom she numbered also Heine. With Lamartine and
other cultivators of the belles-lettres she was likewise acquainted. Three
of her friends, men of an altogether different type and calibre, have,
however, a greater claim on the attention of the student of George Sand’s
personality than any of those just named, because their speculations and
teachings gave powerful impulses to her mind, determined the direction of
her thoughts, and widened the sphere of her intellectual activity. The
influences of these three men—the advocate Michel of Bourges, an
earnest politician; the philosopher and political economist: Pierre
Leroux, one of the founders of the “Encyclopedie Nouvelle,” and author of
“De l’humanite, de son principe et de son avenir”; and the Abbe Lamennais,
the author of the “Essai sur l’indifference en matiere de religion,”
“Paroles d’un Croyant,” &c.—are clearly traceable in the
“Lettres a Marcie, Spiridion,” “Les sept Cordes de la Lyre,” “Les
Compagnons du tour de France,” “Consuelo,” “La Comtesse de Rudolstadt,”
“Le Peche de M. Antoine,” “Le Meunier d’Angibault,” &c. George Sand
made the acquaintance of Pierre Leroux and the Abbe Lammenais in 1835. The
latter was introduced to her by her friend Liszt, who knew all the
distinguished men of the day, and seems to have often done her similar
services. George Sand’s friendship with Michel of Bourges, the Everard of
her “Lettres d’un Voyageur,” dates farther back than 1835.
During George Sand’s stay in Venice M. Dudevant had continued to write to
her in an amicable and satisfied tone. On returning in the summer of 1834
to France she therefore resumed her periodical sojourns at Nohant; but the
pleasure of seeing her home and children was as short-lived as it was
sweet, for she soon discovered that neither the former nor the latter,
“morally speaking,” belonged to her. M. Dudevant’s ideas of how they ought
to be managed differed entirely from those of his wife, and altogether
things had become very uncongenial to her. George Sand, whose view of the
circumstances I am giving, speaks mysteriously of abnormal and dangerous
influences to which the domestic hearth was exposed, and of her inability
to find in her will, adverse as it was to daily struggles and family
quarrels, the force to master the situation. From the vague and
exceedingly brief indications of facts which are scattered here and there
between eloquent and lengthy dissertations on marriage in all its aspects,
on the proper pride of woman, and more of the same nature, we gather,
however, thus much: she wished to be more independent than she had been
hitherto, and above all to get a larger share of her revenues, which
amounted to about 15,000 francs, and out of which her husband allowed her
and her daughter only 3,000 francs. M. Dudevant, it must be noted, had all
along been living on his wife’s income, having himself only expectations
which would not be realised till after his stepmother’s death. By the
remonstrances of his wife and the advice of her brother he was several
times prevailed upon to agree to a more equitable settlement. But no
sooner had he given a promise or signed a contract than he revoked what he
had done. According to one of these agreements George Sand and her
daughter were to have a yearly allowance of 6,000 francs; according to
another M. Dudevant was to have a yearly allowance of 7,000 francs and
leave Nohant and the remainder of the revenues to his wife. The terms of
the latter of these agreements were finally accepted by both parties, but
not till after more than a year’s quarrelling and three lawsuits. George
Sand sued for a divorce, and the Court of La Chatre gave judgment in her
favour on February 16, 1836. This judgment was confirmed after a second
trial by the same Court on May 11, 1836.
[Footnote: What George Sand calls her “matrimonial biography” can be read
in “Le Droit” (“Journal des Tribunaux”) of May 18, 1836. The account there
given, no doubt inspired by her advocate if not directly by herself,
contains some interesting items, but leaves others unmentioned. One would
have liked to learn something more of the husband’s pleadings.
The proceedings began on October 30, 1835, when “Madame D——- a
forme centre son mari une demande en separation de corps. Cette demande
etait fondee sur les injures graves, sevices et mauvais traitements dont
elle se plaignait de la part de son mari.”
The following is a passage from Michel of Bourges, her advocate’s defence:
“Des 1824, la vie intime etait devenue difficile; les egards auxquels
toute femme a droit furent oublies, des actes d’emportement et de violence
revelerent de la part de M. D——- un caractere peu facile, peu
capable d’apprecier le devouement et la delicatesse qu’on lui avail
temoignes. Les mauvais traitements furent d’abord plus rares que les
mauvais precedes, ainsi les imputations d’imbecillite, de stupidite,
furent prodiguees a Madame D——- le droit de raisonner, de
prendre l’art a la conversation lui fut interdit… des relations avec
d’autres femmes furent connues de l’epouse,et vers le mois de Decembre,
1828, toute cohabitation intime cessa.
“Les enfants eux-memes eurent quelque part dans les mauvais traitements.”]
M. Dudevant then appealed to the Court of Cassation at Bourges, where the
case was tried on July 25; but he withdrew his appeal before judgment was
given. The insinuations and revelations made in the course of these
lawsuits were anything but edifying. George Sand says that she confined
herself to furnishing the proofs strictly demanded by the law, and
revealed only such facts as were absolutely necessary. But these facts and
proofs must have been of a very damaging nature, for M. Dudevant answered
them by imputations to merit one hundred-thousandth part of which would
have made her tremble. “His attorney refused to read a libel. The judges
would have refused to listen to it.” Of a deposition presented by M.
Dudevant to the Court, his wife remarks that it was “dictated, one might
have said, drawn up,” by two servants whom she had dismissed. She
maintains that she did not deserve this treatment, as she betrayed of her
husband’s conduct only what he himself was wont to boast of.
George Sand’s letters [Footnote: George Sand: Correspondence 1812-1876;
Six volumes (Paris: Calman Levy).] seem to me to show conclusively that
her chief motives for seeking a divorce were a desire for greater
independence and above all for more money. Complaints of ill-treatment are
not heard of till they serve to justify an action or to attain a purpose.
And the exaggeration of her varying statements must be obvious to all but
the most careless observer. George Sand is slow in making up her mind; but
having made it up she acts with fierce promptitude, obstinate vigour, and
inconsiderate unscrupulousness, in one word, with that concentration of
self which sees nothing but its own desires. On the whole, I should say
that M. Dudevant was more sinned against than sinning. George Sand, even
as she represents herself in the Histoire de ma Vie and in her letters,
was far from being an exemplary wife, or indeed a woman with whom even the
most angelic of husbands would have found it easy to live in peace and
happiness.
From the letters, which reveal so strikingly the ungentlewomanlikeness
(not merely in a conventional sense) of her manners and her numerous and
curious intimacies with men of all ages, more especially with young men, I
shall now cull a few characteristic passages in proof of what I have said.
After saying that she leaves her husband full liberty to do what he likes—”qu’il
a des maitresses ou n’en a pas, suivant son appetit,”—and speaking
highly of his management of their affairs, she writes in the same letter
as follows:—
The materials made use of in the foregoing sketch of George Sand’s life up
to 1836 consist to a very considerable extent of her own DATA, and in part
even of her own words. From this fact, however, it ought not to be
inferred that her statements can always be safely accepted without
previous examination, or at any time be taken au pied de la lettre.
Indeed, the writer of the Histoire de ma Vie reveals her character
indirectly rather than directly, unawares rather than intentionally. This
so-called “history” of her life contains some truth, although not all the
truth; but it contains it implicitly, not explicitly. What strikes the
observant reader of the four-volumed work most forcibly, is the attitude
of serene self-admiration and self-satisfaction which the autobiographer
maintains throughout. She describes her nature as pre-eminently “confiding
and tender,” and affirms that in spite of the great and many wrongs she
was made to suffer, she never wronged anyone in all her life. Hence the
perfect tranquillity of conscience she always enjoyed. Once or twice, it
is true, she admits that she may not be an angel, and that she as well as
her husband may have had faults. Such humble words, however, ought not to
be regarded as penitent confessions of a sinful heart, but as generous
concessions of a charitable mind. In short, a thorough belief in her own
virtuousness and superior excellence was the key-note of her character.
The Pharisaical tendency to thank God for not having made her like other
people pervades every page of her autobiography, of which Charles Mazade
justly says that it is—
George Sand declares again and again that she abstains from speaking of
certain matters out of regard for the feelings or memories of other
persons, whereas in reality she speaks recklessly of everybody as long as
she can do so without compromising herself. What virtuous motives can have
prompted her to publish her mother’s shame? What necessity was there to
expatiate on her brother’s drunkenness? And if she was the wronged and yet
pitiful woman she pretended to be, why, instead of burying her husband’s,
Musset’s, and others’ sins in silence, does she throw out against them
those artful insinuations and mysterious hints which are worse than open
accusations? Probably her artistic instincts suggested that a dark
background would set off more effectively her own glorious luminousness.
However, I do not think that her indiscretions and misrepresentations
deserve always to be stigmatised as intentional malice and conscious
falsehood. On the contrary, I firmly believe that she not only tried to
deceive others, but that she actually deceived herself. The habit of
self-adoration had given her a moral squint, a defect which was aggravated
by a powerful imagination and excellent reasoning faculties. For, swayed
as these were by her sentiments and desires, they proved themselves most
fertile in generating flattering illusions and artful sophisms. George
Sand was indeed a great sophist. She had always in readiness an
inexhaustible store of interpretations and subterfuges with which to
palliate, excuse, or even metamorphose into their contraries the most
odious of her words and actions. It is not likely that any one ever
equalled, much less surpassed, her expertness in hiding ugly facts or
making innocent things look suspicious. To judge by her writings and
conversations she never acted spontaneously, but reasoned on all matters
and on all occasions.
George Sand’s three great words were “maternity,” “chastity,” and “pride.”
She uses them ad nauseam, and thereby proves that she did not possess the
genuine qualities. No doubt, her conceptions of the words differed from
those generally accepted: by “pride” (orgueil), for instance, she seems to
have meant a kind of womanly self-respect debased by a supercilious
haughtiness and self-idolatry. But, as I have said already, she was a
victim to self-deception. So much is certain, the world, with an approach
to unanimity rarely attained, not only does not credit her with the
virtues which she boasts of, but even accuses her of the very opposite
vices. None of the writers I have consulted arrives, in discussing George
Sand’s character, at conclusions which tally with her own estimate; and
every person, in Paris and elsewhere, with whom I have conversed on the
subject condemned her conduct most unequivocally. Indeed, a Parisian—who,
if he had not seen much of her, had seen much of many who had known her
well—did not hesitate to describe her to me as a female Don Juan,
and added that people would by-and-by speak more freely of her adventures.
Madame Audley (see “Frederic Chopin, sa vie et ses oeuvres,” p. 127) seems
to me to echo pretty exactly the general opinion in summing up her
strictures thus:—
Many of the current rumours about her doings were no doubt inventions of
idle gossips and malicious enemies, but the number of well-ascertained
facts go far to justify the worst accusations. And even though the
evidence of deeds were wanting, have we not that of her words and opinions
as set forth in her works? I cannot help thinking that George Sand’s
fondness for the portraiture of sensual passion, sometimes even of sensual
passion in its most brutal manifestations, is irreconcilable with true
chastity. Many a page in her novels exhibits indeed a surprising knowledge
of the physiology of love, a knowledge which presupposes an extensive
practical acquaintance with as wellas attentive study of the subject. That
she depicts the most repulsive situations with a delicacy of touch which
veils the repulsiveness and deceives the unwary rather aggravates the
guilt. Now, though the purity of a work of art is no proof of the purity
of the artist (who may reveal only the better part of his nature, or give
expression to his aspirations), the impurity of a work of art always
testifies indubitably to the presence of impurity in the artist, of
impurity in thought, if not in deed. It is, therefore, not an unwarranted
assumption to say that the works of George Sand prove conclusively that
she was not the pure, loving, devoted, harmless being she represents
herself in the “Histoire de ma Vie.” Chateaubriand said truly that: “le
talent de George Sand a quelque ratine dans la corruption, elle
deviendrait commune en devenant timoree.” Alfred Nettement, who, in his
“Histoire de la litterature franqaise sous le gouvernement de Juillet,”
calls George Sand a “painter of fallen and defiled natures,” remarks that—
Perhaps it will be objected to this that the moral extravagances and
audacious sophistries to be met with in “Lelia,” in “Leoni,” and other
novels of hers, belong to the characters represented, and not to the
author. Unfortunately this argument is untenable after the publication of
George Sand’s letters, for there she identifies herself with Lelia, and
develops views identical with those that shocked us in Leoni and
elsewhere.
[Footnote: On May 26, 1833, she writes to her friend Francois Rollinat
with regard to this book: “It is an eternal chat between us. We are the
gravest personages in it.” Three years later, writing to the Comtesse
d’Agoult, her account differs somewhat: “I am adding a volume to ‘Lelia.’
This occupies me more than any other novel has as yet done. Lelia is not
myself, je suis meilleure enfant; but she is my ideal.”—Correspondance,
vol. I., pp. 248 and 372.]
These letters, moreover, contain much that is damaging to her claim to
chastity. Indeed, one sentence in a letter written in June, 1835
(Correspondance, vol. I., p. 307), disposes of this claim decisively. The
unnecessarily graphic manner in which she here deals with an indelicate
subject would be revolting in a man addressing a woman, in a woman
addressing a man it is simply monstrous.
As a thinker, George Sand never attained to maturity; she always remained
the slave of her strong passions and vitiated principles. She never wrote
a truer word than when she confessed that she judged everything by
sympathy. Indeed, what she said of her childhood applies also to her
womanhood: “Il n’y avait de fort en moi que la passion… rien dans man
cerveau fit obstacle.” George Sand often lays her finger on sore places,
fails, however, not only to prescribe the right remedy, but even to
recognise the true cause of the disease. She makes now and then acute
observations, but has not sufficient strength to grapple successfully with
the great social, philosophical, and religious problems which she so
boldly takes up. In fact, reasoning unreasonableness was a very frequent
condition of George Sand’s mind. That the unreasonableness of her
reasoning remains unseen by many, did so at any rate in her time, is due
to the marvellous beauty and eloquence of her language. The best that can
be said of her subversive theories was said by a French critic—namely,
that they were in reality only “le temoignage d’aspirations genereuses et
de nobles illusions.” But even this is saying too much, for her
aspirations and illusions are far from being always generous and noble. If
we wish to see George Sand at her best we must seek her out in her quiet
moods, when she contents herself with being an artist, and unfolds before
us the beauties of nature and the secrets of the human heart. Indeed,
unless we do this, we cannot form a true idea of her character. Not all
the roots of her talent were imbedded in corruption. She who wrote Lelia
wrote also Andre, she who wrote Lucrezia Floriani wrote also La petite
Fadette. And in remembering her faults and shortcomings justice demands
that we should not forget her family history, with its dissensions and
examples of libertinism, and her education without system, continuity,
completeness, and proper guidance.
The most precious judgment pronounced on George Sand is by one who was at
once a true woman and a great poet. Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning saw in
her the “large-brained woman and large-hearted man… whose soul, amid the
lions of her tumultuous senses, moans defiance and answers roar for roar,
as spirits can”; but who lacked “the angel’s grace of a pure genius
sanctified from blame.” This is from the sonnet to George Sand, entitled
“A Desire.” In another sonnet, likewise addressed to George Sand and
entitled “A Recognition,” she tells her how vain it was to deny with a
manly scorn the woman’s nature… while before
VOLUME II.
CHAPTER XX.
1836—1838.
THE LOVES OF CELEBRITIES.—VARIOUS ACCOUNTS OF CHOPIN AND GEORGE
SAND’S FIRST MEETING.—CHOPIN’S FIRST IMPRESSION OF HER.—A
COMPARISON OF THE TWO CHARACTERS.—PORTRAYALS OF CHOPIN AND GEORGE
SAND.—HER POWER OF PLEASING.—CHOPIN’S PUBLICATIONS IN 1837 AND
1838.—HE PLAYS AT COURT AND AT CONCERTS IN PARIS AND ROUEN.—CRITICISM.
THE loves of famous men and women, especially of those connected with
literature and the fine arts, have always excited much curiosity. In the
majority of cases the poet’s and artist’s choice of a partner falls on a
person who is incapable of comprehending his aims and sometimes even of
sympathising with his striving. The question “why poets are so apt to
choose their mates, not for any similarity of poetical endowment, but for
qualities which might make the happiness of the rudest handicrafts-man as
well as that of the ideal craftsman” has perhaps never been better
answered than by Nathaniel Hawthorne, who remarks that “at his highest
elevation the poet needs no human intercourse; but he finds it dreary to
descend, and be a stranger.” Still, this is by no means a complete
solution of the problem which again and again presents itself and
challenges our ingenuity. Chopin and George Sand’s case belongs to the
small minority of loves where both parties are distinguished practitioners
of ideal crafts. Great would be the mistake, however, were we to assume
that the elective affinities of such lovers are easily discoverable On the
contrary, we have here another problem, one which, owing to the higher,
finer, and more varied factors that come into play, is much more difficult
to solve than the first. But before we can engage in solving the problem,
it must be properly propounded. Now, to ascertain facts about the
love-affairs of poets and artists is the very reverse of an easy task; and
this is so partly because the parties naturally do not let outsiders into
all their secrets, and partly because romantic minds and imaginative
litterateurs are always busy developing plain facts and unfounded rumours
into wonderful myths. The picturesqueness of the story, the piquancy of
the anecdote, is generally in inverse proportion to the narrator’s
knowledge of the matter in question. In short, truth is only too often
most unconscionably sacrificed to effect. Accounts, for instance, such as
L. Enault and Karasowski have given of Chopin’s first meeting with George
Sand can be recommended only to those who care for amusing gossip about
the world of art, and do not mind whether what they read is the simple
truth or not, nay, do not mind even whether it has any verisimilitude.
Nevertheless, we will give these gentlemen a hearing, and then try if we
cannot find some firmer ground to stand on.
L. Enault relates that Chopin and George Sand met for the first time at
one of the fetes of the Marquis de C., where the aristocracy of Europe
assembled—the aristocracy of genius, of birth, of wealth, of beauty,
&c.:—
Karasowski labours hard to surpass Enault, but is not like him a master of
the ars artem celare. The weather, he tells us, was dull and damp, and had
a depressing effect on the mind of Chopin. No friend had visited him
during the day, no book entertained him, no musical idea gladdened him. It
was nearly ten o’clock at night (the circumstantiality of the account
ought to inspire confidence) when he bethought himself of paying a visit
to the Countess C. (the Marquis, by some means, magical or natural, has
been transformed into a Countess), this being her jour fixe, on which an
intellectual and agreeable company was always assembled at her house.
Skipping the fine description of the brilliant company assembled in the
salon, the enumeration of the topics on which the conversation ran, and
the observation that Chopin, being disinclined to talk, seated himself in
a corner and watched the beautiful ladies as they glided hither and
thither, we will join Karasowski again where, after the departure of the
greater number of the guests, Chopin goes to the piano and begins to
improvise.
All this is undoubtedly very pretty, and would be invaluable in a novel,
but I am afraid we should embarrass Karasowski were we to ask him to name
his authorities.
Of this meeting at the house of the Marquis de C.—i.e., the Marquis
de Custine—I was furnished with a third version by an eye-witness—namely,
by Chopin’s pupil Adolph Gutmann. From him I learned that the occasion was
neither a full-dress ball nor a chance gathering of a jour fixe, but a
musical matinee. Gutmann, Vidal (Jean Joseph), and Franchomme opened the
proceedings with a trio by Mayseder, a composer the very existence of
whose once popular chamber-music is unknown to the present generation.
Chopin played a great deal, and George Sand devoured him with her eyes.
Afterwards the musician and the novelist walked together a long time in
the garden. Gutmann was sure that this matinee took place either in 1836
or in 1837, and was inclined to think that it was in the first-mentioned
year.
Franchomme, whom I questioned about the matinee at the Marquis de
Custine’s, had no recollection of it. Nor did he remember the circumstance
of having on this or any other occasion played a trio of Mayseder’s with
Gutmann and Vidal. But this friend of the Polish pianist—composer,
while confessing his ignorance as to the place where the latter met the
great novelist for the first time, was quite certain as to the year when
he met her. Chopin, Franchomme informed me, made George Sand’s
acquaintance in 1837, their connection was broken in 1847, and he died, as
everyone knows, on October 17, 1849. In each of these dates appears the
number which Chopin regarded with a superstitious dread, which he avoided
whenever he could-for instance, he would not at any price take lodgings in
a house the number of which contained a seven—and which may be
thought by some to have really exercised a fatal influence over him. It is
hardly necessary to point out that it was this fatal number which fixed
the date in Franchomme’s memory.
But supposing Chopin and George Sand to have really met at the Marquis de
Custine’s, was this their first meeting?
[FOONOTE: That they were on one occasion both present at a party given by
the Marquis de Custine may be gathered from Freiherr von Flotow’s
Reminiscences of his life in Paris (published in the “Deutsche Revue” of
January, 1883, p. 65); but not that this was their first meeting, nor the
time when it took place. As to the character of this dish of
reminiscences, I may say that it is sauced and seasoned for the
consumption of the blase magazine reader, and has no nutritive substance
whatever.]
I put the question to Liszt in the course of a conversation I had with him
some years ago in Weimar. His answer was most positive, and to the effect
that the first meeting took place at Chopin’s own apartments. “I ought to
know best,” he added, “seeing that I was instrumental in bringing the two
together.” Indeed, it would be difficult to find a more trustworthy
witness in this matter than Liszt, who at that time not only was one of
the chief comrades of Chopin, but also of George Sand. According to him,
then, the meeting came about in this way. George Sand, whose curiosity had
been excited both by the Polish musician’s compositions and by the
accounts she had heard of him, expressed to Liszt the wish to make the
acquaintance of his friend. Liszt thereupon spoke about her to Chopin, but
the latter was averse to having any intercourse with her. He said he did
not like literary women, and was not made for their society; it was
different with his friend, who there found himself in his element. George
Sand, however, did not cease to remind Liszt of his promise to introduce
her to Chopin. One morning in the early part of 1837 Liszt called on his
friend and brother-artist, and found him in high spirits on account of
some compositions he had lately finished. As Chopin was anxious to play
them to his friends, it was arranged to have in the evening a little party
at his rooms.
This seemed to Liszt an excellent opportunity to redeem the promise which
he had given George Sand when she asked for an introduction; and, without
telling Chopin what he was going to do, he brought her with him along with
the Comtesse d’Agoult. The success of the soiree was such that it was soon
followed by a second and many more.
In the foregoing accounts the reader will find contradictions enough to
exercise his ingenuity upon. But the involuntary tricks of memory and the
voluntary ones of imagination make always such terrible havoc of facts
that truth, be it ever so much sought and cared for, appears in history
and biography only in a more or less disfigured condition. George Sand’s
own allusion to the commencement of the acquaintance agrees best with
Liszt’s account. After passing in the latter part of 1836 some months in
Switzerland with Liszt and the Comtesse d’Agoult, she meets them again at
Paris in the December of the same year:—
To reconcile Liszt’s account with George Sand’s remark that Chopin was one
of those whose acquaintance she made at Madame d’Agoult’s or through her,
we have only to remember the intimate relation in which Liszt stood to
this lady (subsequently known in literature under the nom de plume of
Daniel Stern), who had left her husband, the Comte d’Agoult, in 1835.
And now at last we can step again from the treacherous quicksand of
reminiscences on the terra firma of documents. The following extracts from
some letters of George Sand’s throw light on her relation to Chopin in the
early part of 1837:—
[FOOTNOTE: Albert Grzymala, a man of note among the Polish refugees. He
was a native of Dunajowce in Podolia, had held various military and other
posts—those of maitre des requites, director of the Bank of Poland,
attache to the staff of Prince Poniatowski, General Sebastiani, and
Lefebvre, &c.—and was in 1830 sent by the Polish Government on a
diplomatic mission to Berlin, Paris, and London. (See L’Amanach de
L’Emigration polonaise, published at Paris some forty years ago.) He must
not be confounded with the publicist Francis Grzymala, who at Warsaw was
considered one of the marechaux de plume, and at Paris was connected with
the Polish publication Sybilla. With one exception (Vol. I., p. 3), the
Grzymala spoken of in these volumes is Albert Grzymala, sometimes also
called Count Grzymala. This title, however, was, if I am rightly informed,
only a courtesy title. The Polish nobility as such was untitled, titles
being of foreign origin and not legally recognised. But many Polish
noblemen when abroad assume the prefix de or von, or the title “Count,” in
order to make known their rank.]
Chopin’s love for George Sand was not instantaneous like that of Romeo for
Juliet. Karasowski remembers having read in one of those letters of the
composer which perished in 1863: “Yesterday I met George Sand…; she made
a very disagreeable impression upon me.” Hiller in his Open Letter to
Franz Liszt writes:—
Liszt, in discussing this matter with me, spoke only of Chopin’s “reserve”
towards George Sand, but said nothing of his “aversion” to her. And
according to this authority the novelist’s extraordinary mind and
attractive conversation soon overcame the musician’s reserve. Alfred de
Musset’s experience had been of a similar nature. George Sand did not
particularly please him at first, but a few visits which he paid her
sufficed to inflame his heart with a violent passion. The liaisons of the
poet and musician with the novelist offer other points of resemblance
besides the one just mentioned: both Musset and Chopin were younger than
George Sand—the one six, the other five years; and both,
notwithstanding the dissimilarity of their characters, occupied the
position of a weaker half. In the case of Chopin I am reminded of a saying
of Sydney Smith, who, in speaking of his friends the historian Grote and
his wife, remarked: “I do like them both so much, for he is so lady-like,
and she is such a perfect gentleman.” Indeed, Chopin was described to me
by his pupil Gutmann as feminine in looks, gestures, and taste; as to
George Sand, although many may be unwilling to admit her perfect
gentlemanliness, no one can doubt her manliness:—
The enthusiasm with which the Poles of her acquaintance spoke of their
countrywomen, and the amorous suavity, fulness of feeling, and spotless
nobleness which she admired in the Polish composer’s inspirations, seem to
have made her anticipate, even before meeting Chopin, that she would find
in him her ideal lover, one whose love takes the form of worship. To quote
Liszt’s words: “She believed that there, free from all dependence, secure
against all inferiority, her role would rise to the fairy-like power of
some being at once the superior and the friend of man.” Were it not
unreasonable to regard spontaneous utterances—expressions of passing
moods and fancies, perhaps mere flights of rhetoric—as
well-considered expositions of stable principles, one might be tempted to
ask: Had George Sand found in Chopin the man who was “bold or vile enough”
to accept her “hard and clear” conditions? [FOOTNOTE: See extract from one
of her letters in the preceding chapter, Vol. I., p. 334.]
While the ordinary position of man and woman was entirely reversed in this
alliance, the qualities which characterised them can nevertheless hardly
ever have been more nearly diametrically opposed. Chopin was weak and
undecided; George Sand strong and energetic. The former shrank from
inquiry and controversy; the latter threw herself eagerly into them.
[FOOTNOTE: George Sand talks much of the indolence of her temperament: we
may admit this fact, but must not overlook another one—namely, that
she was in possession of an immense fund of energy, and was always ready
to draw upon it whenever speech or action served her purpose or fancy.]
The one was a strict observer of the laws of propriety and an almost
exclusive frequenter of fashionable society; the other, on the contrary,
had an unmitigated scorn for the so-called proprieties and so-called good
society. Chopin’s manners exhibited a studied refinement, and no woman
could be more particular in the matter of dress than he was. It is
characteristic of the man that he was so discerning a judge of the
elegance and perfection of a female toilette as to be able to tell at a
glance whether a dress had been made in a first-class establishment or in
an inferior one. The great composer is said to have had an unlimited
admiration for a well-made and well-carried (bien porte) dress. Now what a
totally different picture presents itself when we turn to George Sand, who
says of herself, in speaking of her girlhood, that although never boorish
or importunate, she was always brusque in her movements and natural in her
manners, and had a horror of gloves and profound bows. Her fondness for
male garments is as characteristic as Chopin’s connoisseurship of the
female toilette; it did not end with her student life, for she donned them
again in 1836 when travelling in Switzerland.
The whole of Chopin’s person was harmonious. “His appearance,” says
Moscheles, who saw him in 1839, “is exactly like his music [ist
identificirt mit seiner Musik], both are tender and schwarmerisch.”
[FOOTNOTE: I shall not attempt to translate this word, but I will give the
reader a recipe. Take the notions “fanciful,” “dreamy,” and “enthusiastic”
(in their poetic sense), mix them well, and you have a conception of
schwarmerisck.]
A slim frame of middle height; fragile but wonderfully flexible limbs;
delicately-formed hands; very small feet; an oval, softly-outlined head; a
pale, transparent complexion; long silken hair of a light chestnut colour,
parted on one side; tender brown eyes, intelligent rather than dreamy; a
finely-curved aquiline nose; a sweet subtle smile; graceful and varied
gestures: such was the outward presence of Chopin. As to the colour of the
eyes and hair, the authorities contradict each other most thoroughly.
Liszt describes the eyes as blue, Karasowski as dark brown, and M. Mathias
as “couleur de biere.” [FOOTNOTE: This strange expression we find again in
Count Wodzinski’s Les trois Romans de Frederic Chopin, where the author
says: “His large limpid, expressive, and soft eyes had that tint which the
English call auburn, which the Poles, his compatriots, describe as piwne
(beer colour), and which the French would denominate brown.”] Of the hair
Liszt says that it was blonde, Madame Dubois and others that it was
cendre, Miss L. Ramann that it was dark blonde, and a Scotch lady that it
was dark brown. [FOOTNOTE: Count Wodzinski writes: “It was not blonde, but
of a shade similar to that of his eyes: ash-coloured (cendre), with golden
reflections in the light.”] Happily the matter is settled for us by an
authority to which all others must yield—namely, by M. T.
Kwiatkowski, the friend and countryman of Chopin, an artist who has drawn
and painted the latter frequently. Well, the information I received from
him is to the effect that Chopin had des yeux bruns tendres (eyes of a
tender brown), and les cheveux blonds chatains (chestnut-blonde hair).
Liszt, from whose book some of the above details are derived, completes
his portrayal of Chopin by some characteristic touches. The timbre of his
voice, he says, was subdued and often muffled; and his movements had such
a distinction and his manners such an impress of good society that one
treated him unconsciously like a prince. His whole appearance made one
think of that of the convolvuli, which on incredibly slender stems balance
divinely-coloured chalices of such vapourous tissue that the slightest
touch destroys them.
And whilst Liszt attributes to Chopin all sorts of feminine graces and
beauties, he speaks of George Sand as an Amazon, a femme-heros, who is not
afraid to expose her masculine countenance to all suns and winds. Merimee
says of George Sand that he has known her “maigre comme un clou et noire
comme une taupe.” Musset, after their first meeting, describes her, to
whom he at a subsequent period alludes as femme a l’oeil sombre, thus:—
The most complete literary portrayal of George Sand that has been handed
down to us, however, is by Heine. He represents her as Chopin knew her,
for although he published the portrait as late as 1854 he did not
represent her as she then looked; indeed, at that time he had probably no
intercourse with her, and therefore was obliged to draw from memory. The
truthfulness of Heine’s delineation is testified by the approval of many
who knew George Sand, and also by Couture’s portrait of her:—
While admiring the clever drawing and the life-like appearance of the
portrait, we must, however, not overlook the exaggerations and
inaccuracies. The reader cannot have failed to detect the limner tripping
with regard to Musset, who occupied not many years but less than a year
the post of cavaliere servente. But who would expect religious adherence
to fact from Heine, who at all times distinguishes himself rather by wit
than conscientiousness? What he says of George Sand’s taciturnity in
company and want of wit, however, must be true; for she herself tells us
of these negative qualities in the Histoire de ma Vie.
The musical accomplishments of Chopin’s beloved one have, of course, a
peculiar interest for us. Liszt, who knew her so well, informed me that
she was not musical, but possessed taste and judgment. By “not musical” he
meant no doubt that she was not in the habit of exhibiting her practical
musical acquirements, or did not possess these latter to any appreciable
extent. She herself seems to me to make too much of her musical talents,
studies, and knowledge. Indeed, her writings show that, whatever her
talents may have been, her taste was vague and her knowledge very limited.
When we consider the diversity of character, it is not a matter for wonder
that Chopin was at first rather repelled than attracted by the personality
of George Sand. Nor is it, on the other hand, a matter for wonder that her
beauty and power of pleasing proved too strong for his antipathy. How
great this power of pleasing was when she wished to exercise it, the
reader may judge from the incident I shall now relate. Musset’s mother,
having been informed of her son’s projected tour to Italy, begged him to
give it up. The poet promised to comply with her request: “If one must
weep, it shall not be you,” he said. In the evening George Sand came in a
carriage to the door and asked for Madame Musset; the latter came out, and
after a short interview gave her consent to her son’s departure. Chopin’s
unsuccessful wooing of Miss Wodzinska and her marriage with Count Skarbek
in this year (1837) may not have been without effect on the composer. His
heart being left bruised and empty was as it were sensitised (if I may use
this photographic term) for the reception of a new impression by the
action of love. In short, the intimacy between Chopin and George Sand grew
steadily and continued to grow till it reached its climax in the autumn of
1838, when they went together to Majorca. Other matters, however, have to
be adverted to before we come to this passage of Chopin’s life. First I
shall have to say a few words about his artistic activity during the years
1837 and 1838.
Among the works composed by Chopin in 1837 was one of the Variations on
the March from I Puritani, which were published under the title Hexameron:
Morceau de Concert. Grandes variations de bravoure sur la marche des
Puritains de Bellini, composees pour le concert de Madame la Princesse
Belgiojoso au benefice des pauvres, par M.M. Liszt, Thalberg, Pixis, H.
Herz, Czerny, et Chopin. This co-operative undertaking was set on foot by
the Princess, and was one of her many schemes to procure money for her
poor exiled countrymen. Liszt played these Variations often at his
concerts, and even wrote orchestral accompaniments to them, which,
however, were never published.
Chopin’s publications of the year 1837 are: in October, Op. 25, Douze
Etudes, dedicated to Madame la Comtesse d’Agoult; and in December, Op. 29,
Impromptu (in A flat major), dedicated to Mdlle. la Comtesse de Lobau; Op.
30, Quatre Mazurkas, dedicated to Madame la Princesse de Wurtemberg, nee
Princesse Czartoryska; Op. 31, Deuxieme Scherzo (B flat minor), dedicated
to Mdlle. la Comtesse Adele de Furstenstein; and Op. 32, Deux Nocturnes (B
major and A flat major), dedicated to Madame la Baronne de Billing. His
publications of the year 1838 are: in October, Op. 33, Quatre Mazurkas,
dedicated to Mdlle. la Comtesse Mostowska; and, in December, Op. 34, Trois
Valses brillantes (A flat major, A minor, and F major), respectively
dedicated to Mdlle. de Thun-Hohenstein, Madame G. d’Ivri, and Mdlle. A.
d’Eichthal. This last work appeared at Paris first in an Album des
Pianistes, a collection of unpublished pieces by Thalberg, Chopin,
Doehler, Osborne, Liszt, and Mereaux. Two things in connection with this
album may yet be mentioned—namely, that Mereaux contributed to it a
Fantasia on a mazurka by Chopin, and that Stephen Heller reviewed it in
the Gazette musicale. Chopin was by no means pleased with the insertion of
the waltzes in Schlesinger’s Album des Pianistes. But more of this and his
labours and grievances as a composer in the next chapter.
There are also to be recorded some public and semi-public appearances of
Chopin as a virtuoso. On February 25, 1838, the Gazette musicale informs
its readers that Chopin, “that equally extraordinary and modest pianist,”
had lately been summoned to Court to be heard there en cercle intime. His
inexhaustible improvisations, which almost made up the whole of the
evening’s entertainment, were particularly admired by the audience, which
knew as well as a gathering of artists how to appreciate the composer’s
merits. At a concert given by Valentin Alkan on March 3, 1838, Chopin
performed with Zimmermann, Gutmann, and the concert-giver, the latter’s
arrangement of Beethoven’s A major Symphony (or rather some movements from
it) for two pianos and eight hands. And in the Gazette musicale of March
25, 1838, there is a report by M. Legouve of Chopin’s appearance at a
concert given by his countryman Orlowski at Rouen, where the latter had
settled after some years stay in Paris. From a writer in the Journal de
Rouen (December 1, 1849) we learn that ever since this concert, which was
held in the town-hall, and at which the composer played his E minor
Concerto with incomparable perfection, the name of Chopin had in the
musical world of Rouen a popularity which secured to his memory an
honourable and cordial sympathy. But here is what Legouve says about this
concert. I transcribe the notice in full, because it shows us both how
completely Chopin had retired from the noise and strife of publicity, and
how high he stood in the estimation of his contemporaries.
Chopin’s artistic achievements, however, were not unanimously received
with such enthusiastic approval. A writer in the less friendly La France
musicale goes even so far as to stultify himself by ridiculing, a propos
of the A flat Impromptu, the composer’s style. This jackanapes—who
belongs to that numerous class of critics whose smartness of verbiage
combined with obtuseness of judgment is so well-known to the serious
musical reader and so thoroughly despised by him—ignores the
spiritual contents of the work under discussion altogether, and condemns
without hesitation every means of expression which in the slightest degree
deviates from the time-honoured standards. We are told that Chopin’s mode
of procedure in composing is this. He goes in quest of an idea, writes,
writes, modulates through all the twenty-four keys, and, if the idea fails
to come, does without it and concludes the little piece very nicely
(tres-bien). And now, gentle reader, ponder on this momentous and
immeasurably sad fact: of such a nature was, is, and ever will be the
great mass of criticism.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHOPIN’S VISITS TO NOHANT IN 1837 AND 1838.—HIS ILL HEALTH.—HE
DECIDES TO GO WITH MADAME SAND AND HER CHILDREN TO MAJORCA.—MADAME
SAND’S ACCOUNT OF THIS MATTER AND WHAT OTHERS THOUGHT ABOUT IT.—CHOPIN
AND HIS FELLOW—TRAVELLERS MEET AT PERPIGNAN IN THE BEGINNING OF
NOVEMBER, 1838, AND PROCEED BY PORT-VENDRES AND BARCELONA TO PALMA.—THEIR
LIFE AND EXPERIENCES IN THE TOWN, AT THE VILLA SON-VENT, AND AT THE
MONASTERY OF VALDEMOSA, AS DESCRIBED IN CHOPIN’S AND GEORGE SAND’S
LETTERS, AND THE LATTER’S “MA VIE” AND “UN HIVER A MAJORQUE.”—THE
PRELUDES.—RETURN TO FRANCE BY BARCELONA AND MARSEILLES IN THE END OF
FEBRUARY, 1839.
In a letter written in 1837, and quoted on p. 313 of Vol. I., Chopin said:
“I may perhaps go for a few days to George Sand’s.” How heartily she
invited him through their common friends Liszt and the Comtesse d’Agoult,
we saw in the preceding chapter. We may safely assume, I think, that
Chopin went to Nohant in the summer of 1837, and may be sure that he did
so in the summer of 1838, although with regard to neither visit reliable
information of any kind is discoverable. Karasowski, it is true, quotes
four letters of Chopin to Fontana as written from Nohant in 1838, but
internal evidence shows that they must have been written three years
later.
We know from Mendelssohn’s and Moscheles’ allusions to Chopin’s visit to
London that he was at that time ailing. He himself wrote in the same year
(1837) to Anthony Wodzinski that during the winter he had been again ill
with influenza, and that the doctors had wanted to send him to Ems. As
time went on the state of his health seems to have got worse, and this led
to his going to Majorca in the winter of 1838-1839. The circumstance that
he had the company of Madame Sand on this occasion has given rise to much
discussion. According to Liszt, Chopin was forced by the alarming state of
his health to go to the south in order to avoid the severities of the
Paris winter; and Madame Sand, who always watched sympathetically over her
friends, would not let him depart alone, but resolved to accompany him.
Karasowski, on the other hand, maintains that it was not Madame Sand who
was induced to accompany Chopin, but that Madame Sand induced Chopin to
accompany her. Neither of these statements tallies with Madame Sand’s own
account. She tells us that when in 1838 her son Maurice, who had been in
the custody of his father, was definitively entrusted to her care, she
resolved to take him to a milder climate, hoping thus to prevent a return
of the rheumatism from which he had suffered so much in the preceding
year. Besides, she wished to live for some time in a quiet place where she
could make her children work, and could work herself, undisturbed by the
claims of society.
Seeing that Liszt—who was at the time in Italy—and Karasowski
speak only from hearsay, we cannot do better than accept George Sand’s
account, which contains nothing improbable. In connection with this
migration to the south, I must, however, not omit to mention certain
statements of Adolph Gutmann, one of Chopin’s pupils. Here is the
substance of what Gutmann told me. Chopin was anxious to go to Majorca,
but for some time was kept in suspense by the scantiness of his funds.
This threatening obstacle, however, disappeared when his friend the
pianoforte-maker and publisher, Camille Pleyel, paid him 2,000 francs for
the copyright of the Preludes, Op. 28. Chopin remarked of this transaction
to Gutmann, or in his hearing: “I sold the Preludes to Pleyel because he
liked them [parcequ’il les aimait].” And Pleyel exclaimed on one occasion:
“These are my Preludes [Ce sont mes Preludes].” Gutmann thought that
Pleyel, who was indebted to Chopin for playing on his instruments and
recommending them, wished to assist his friend in a delicate way with some
money, and therefore pretended to be greatly taken with these compositions
and bent upon possessing them. This, however, cannot be quite correct; for
from Chopin’s letters, which I shall quote I presently, it appears that he
had indeed promised Pleyel the Preludes, but before his departure received
from him only 500 francs, the remaining 1,500 being paid months
afterwards, on the delivery of the manuscript. These letters show, on the
other hand, that when Chopin was in Majorca he owed to Leo 1,000 francs,
which very likely he borrowed from him to defray part of the expenses of
his sojourn in the south.
[FOOTNOTE: August Leo, a Paris banker, “the friend and patron of many
artists,” as he is called by Moscheles, who was related to him through his
wife Charlotte Embden, of Hamburg. The name of Leo occurs often in the
letters and conversations of musicians, especially German musicians, who
visited Paris or lived there in the second quarter of this century. Leo
kept house together with his brother-in-law Valentin. (See Vol. I., p.
254.)]
Chopin kept his intention of going with Madame Sand to Majorca secret from
all but a privileged few. According to Franchomme, he did not speak of it
even to his friends. There seem to have been only three exceptions—Fontana,
Matuszynski, and Grzymala, and in his letters to the first he repeatedly
entreats his friend not to talk about him. Nor does he seem to have been
much more communicative after his return, for none of Chopin’s
acquaintances whom I questioned was able to tell me whether the composer
looked back on this migration with satisfaction or with regret; still less
did they remember any remark made by him that would throw a more searching
light on this period of his life.
Until recently the only sources of information bearing on Chopin’s stay in
Majorca were George Sand’s “Un Hiver a Majorque” and “Histoire de ma Vie.”
But now we have also Chopin’s letters to Fontana (in the Polish edition of
Karasowski’s “Chopin”) and George Sand’s “Correspondance,” which
supplement and correct the two publications of the novelist. Remembering
the latter’s tendency to idealise everything, and her disinclination to
descend to the prose of her subject, I shall make the letters the backbone
of my narrative, and for the rest select my material cautiously.
Telling Chopin that she would stay some days at Perpignan if he were not
there on her arrival, but would proceed without him if he failed to make
his appearance within a certain time, Madame Sand set out with her two
children and a maid in the month of November, 1838, for the south of
France, and, travelling for travelling’s sake, visited Lyons, Avignon,
Vaucluse, Nimes, and other places. The distinguished financier and
well-known Spanish statesman Mendizabal, their friend, who was going to
Madrid, was to accompany Chopin to the Spanish frontier. Madame Sand was
not long left in doubt as to whether Chopin would realise his reve de
voyage or not, for he put in his appearance at Perpignan the very next day
after her arrival there. Madame Sand to Madame Marliani, [FOOTNOTE: The
wife of the Spanish politician and author, Manuel Marliani. We shall hear
more of her farther on.] November, 1838:— Chopin arrived at
Perpignan last night, fresh as a rose, and rosy as a turnip; moreover, in
good health, having stood his four nights of the mail-coach heroically. As
to ourselves, we travelled slowly, quietly, and surrounded at all stations
by our friends, who overwhelmed us with kindness.
As the weather was fine and the sea calm Chopin did not suffer much on the
passage from Port-Vendres to Barcelona. At the latter town the party
halted for a while-spending some busy days within its walls, and making an
excursion into the country-and then took ship for Palma, the capital of
Majorca and the Balearic Isles generally. Again the voyagers were favoured
by the elements.
When night had passed into day, the steep coasts of Majorca, dentelees au
soleil du matin par les aloes et les palmiers, came in sight, and soon
after El Mallorquin landed its passengers at Palma. Madame Sand had left
Paris a fortnight before in extremely cold weather, and here she found in
the first half of November summer heat. The newcomers derived much
pleasure from their rambles through the town, which has a
strongly-pronounced character of its own and is rich in fine and
interesting buildings, among which are most prominent the magnificent
Cathedral, the elegant Exchange (la lonja), the stately Town-Hall, and the
picturesque Royal Palace (palacio real). Indeed, in Majorca everything is
picturesque,
But picturesqueness alone does not make man’s happiness, and Palma seems
to have afforded little else. If we may believe Madame Sand, there was not
a single hotel in the town, and the only accommodation her party could get
consisted of two small rooms, unfurnished rather than furnished, in some
wretched place where travellers are happy to find “a folding-bed, a
straw-bottomed chair, and, as regards food, pepper and garlic a
discretion.” Still, however great their discomfort and disgust might be,
they had to do their utmost to hide their feelings; for, if they had made
faces on discovering vermin in their beds and scorpions in their soup,
they would certainly have hurt the susceptibilities of the natives, and
would probably have exposed themselves to unpleasant consequences. No
inhabitable apartments were to be had in the town itself, but in its
neighbourhood a villa chanced to be vacant, and this our party rented at
once.
Madame Sand to Madame Marliani; Palma, November 14, 1838:—
The furniture of the villa was indeed of the most primitive kind, and the
walls were only whitewashed, but the house was otherwise convenient, well
ventilated—in fact, too well ventilated—and above all
beautifully situated at the foot of rounded, fertile mountains, in the
bosom of a rich valley which was terminated by the yellow walls of Palma,
the mass of the cathedral, and the sparkling sea on the horizon.
Chopin to Fontana; Palma, November 15, 1838:—
[FOOTNOTE: Julius Fontana, born at Warsaw in 1810, studied music (at the
Warsaw Conservatoire under Elsner) as an amateur and law for his
profession; joined in 1830 the Polish insurrectionary army; left his
country after the failure of the insurrection; taught the piano in London;
played in 1835 several times with success in Paris; resided there for some
years; went in 1841 to Havannah; on account of the climate, removed to New
York; gave there concerts with Sivori; and returned to Paris in 1850. This
at least is the account we get of him in Sowinski’s “Les Musiciens
polonais et slaves.” Mr. A. J. Hipkins, who became acquainted with Fontana
during a stay which the latter made in London in 1856 (May and early part
of June), described him to me as “an honourable and gentlemanly man.” From
the same informant I learned that Fontana married a lady who had an income
for life, and that by this marriage he was enabled to retire from the
active exercise of his profession. Later on he became very deaf, and this
great trouble was followed by a still greater one, the death of his wife.
Thus left deaf and poor, he despaired, and, putting a pistol to one of his
ears, blew out his brains. According to Karasowski he died at Paris in
1870. The compositions he published (dances, fantasias, studies, &c.)
are of no importance. He is said to have published also two books, one on
Polish orthography in 1866 and one on popular astronomy in 1869. The above
and all the following letters of Chopin to Fontana are in the possession
of Madame Johanna Lilpop, of Warsaw, and are here translated from
Karasowski’s Polish edition of his biography of Chopin. Many of the
letters are undated, and the dates suggested by Karasowski generally
wrong. There are, moreover, two letters which are given as if dated by
Chopin; but as the contents point to Nohant and 1841 rather than to
Majorca and 1838 and 1839, I shall place them in Chapter XXIV., where also
my reasons for doing so will be more particularly stated. A third letter,
supposed by Karasowski to be written at Valdemosa in February, I hold to
be written at Marseilles in April. It will be found in the next chapter.]
George Sand relates in “Un Hiver a Majorque” that the first days which her
party passed at the Son-Vent (House of the Wind)—this was the name
of the villa they had rented—were pretty well taken up with
promenading and pleasant lounging, to which the delicious climate and
novel scenery invited. But this paradisaic condition was suddenly changed
as if by magic when at the end of two or three weeks the wet season began
and the Son-Vent became uninhabitable.
The outcasts decamped speedily from the Son-Vent. But before Senor Gomez
had done with his tenants, he made them pay for the whitewashing and the
replastering of the whole house, which he held to have been infected by
Chopin.
And now let us turn once more from George Sand’s poetical inventions,
distortions, and exaggerations, to the comparative sobriety and
trustworthiness of letters.
Chopin to Fontana; Palma, December 3, 1838:—
[FOOTNOTE: to Madame Dubois I owe the information that Albrecht, an
attache to the Saxon legation (a post which gave him a good standing in
society) and at the same time a wine-merchant (with offices in the Place
Vendome—his specialty being “vins de Bordeaux”), was one of Chopin’s
“fanatic friends.” In the letters there are allusions to two Albrechts,
father and son; the foregoing information refers to the son, who, I think,
is the T. Albrecht to whom the Premier Scherzo, Chopin’s Op. 20, is
dedicated.]
Chopin to Fontana; Palma, December 14, 1838:—
Madame Sand to Madame Marliani; Palma, December 14, 1838:—
…The people of this country are generally very gracious, very obliging;
but all this in words…
On December 15, 1838, then, the Sand party took possession of their
quarters in the monastery of Valdemosa, and thence the next letters are
dated.
Chopin to Fontana; “Palma, December 28, 1838, or rather Valdemosa, a few
miles distant from Palma”:—
Chopin to Fontana; Valdemosa, January 12, 1839:—
Madame Sand to Madame Marliani; Valdemosa, January 15, 1839:—
Madame Sand to M. A. M. Duteil; Valdemosa, January 20, 1839:—
Madame Sand to Madame Marliani; Valdemosa, February 22, 1839:—
This brings us to the end of the known letters written by Chopin and
Madame Sand from Majorca. And now let us see what we can find in George
Sand’s books to complete the picture of the life of her and her party at
Valdemosa, of which the letters give only more or less disconnected
indications. I shall use the materials at my disposal freely and
cautiously, quoting some passages in full, regrouping and summing-up
others, and keeping always in mind—which the reader should likewise
do—the authoress’s tendency to emphasise, colour, and embellish, for
the sake of literary and moral effect.
Not to extend this chapter too much, I refer the curious to George Sand’s
“Un Hiver a Majorque” for a description of the “admirable, grandiose, and
wild nature” in the midst of which the “poetic abode” of her and her party
was situated—of the grandly and beautifully-varied surface of the
earth, the luxuriant southern vegetation, and the marvellous phenomena of
light and air; of the sea stretching out on two sides and meeting the
horizon; of the surrounding formidable peaks, and the more distant
round-swelling hills; of the eagles descending in the pursuit of their
prey down to the orange trees of the monastery gardens; of the avenue of
cypresses serpentining from the top of the mountain to the bottom of the
gorge; of the torrents covered with myrtles; in short, of the immense
ensemble, the infinite details, which overwhelm the imagination and outvie
the poet’s and painter’s dreams. Here it will be advisable to confine
ourselves to the investigation of a more limited sphere, to inspect rather
narrow interiors than vast landscapes.
As the reader has gathered from the preceding letters, there was no longer
a monastic community at Valdemosa. The monks had been dispersed some time
before, and the monastery had become the property of the state. During the
hot summer months it was in great part occupied by small burghers from
Palma who came in quest of fresh air. The only permanent inhabitants of
the monastery, and the only fellow-tenants of George Sand’s party, were
two men and one woman, called by the novelist respectively the Apothecary,
the Sacristan, and Maria Antonia. The first, a remnant of the dispersed
community, sold mallows and couch-grass, the only specifics he had; the
second was the person in whose keeping were the keys of the monastery; and
the third was a kind of housekeeper who, for the love of God and out of
neighbourly friendship, offered her help to new-comers, and, if it was
accepted, did not fail to levy heavy contributions.
The monastery was a complex of strongly-constructed, buildings without any
architectural beauty, and such was, its circumference and mass of stones
that it would have been easy to house an army corps. Besides the dwelling
of the superior, the cells of the lay-brothers, the lodgings for visitors,
the stables, and other structures, there were three cloisters, each
consisting of twelve cells and twelve chapels. The most ancient of these
cloisters, which is also the smallest, dates from the 15th century.
In the cells were stored up the remains of all sorts of fine old furniture
and sculpture, but these could only be seen through the chinks, for the
cells were carefully locked, and the sacristan would not open them to
anyone. The second cloister, although of more recent date, was likewise in
a dilapidated state, which, however, gave it character. In stormy weather
it was not at all safe to pass through it on account of the falling
fragments of walls and vaults.
In the same book from which the above passage is extracted we find also a
minute description of the new cloister; the chapels, variously ornamented,
covered with gilding, decorated with rude paintings and horrible statues
of saints in coloured wood, paved in the Arabic style with enamelled
faience laid out in various mosaic designs, and provided with a fountain
or marble conch; the pretty church, unfortunately without an organ, but
with wainscot, confessionals, and doors of most excellent workmanship, a
floor of finely-painted faience, and a remarkable statue in painted wood
of St. Bruno; the little meadow in the centre of the cloister,
symmetrically planted with box-trees, &c., &c.
George Sand’s party occupied one of the spacious, well-ventilated, and
well-lighted cells in this part of the monastery. I shall let her describe
it herself.
Even without being told, we should have known that the artists who had now
become inmates of the monastery were charmed with their surroundings.
Moreover, George Sand did her utmost to make life within doors
comfortable. When the furniture bought from the Spanish refugee had been
supplemented by further purchases, they were, considering the
circumstances, not at all badly off in this respect. The tables and
straw-bottomed chairs were indeed no better than those one finds in the
cottages of peasants; the sofa of white wood with cushions of mattress
cloth stuffed with wool could only ironically be called “voluptuous”; and
the large yellow leather trunks, whatever their ornamental properties
might be, must have made but poor substitutes for wardrobes. The
folding-beds, on the other hand, proved irreproachable; the mattresses,
though not very soft, were new and clean, and the padded and quilted
chintz coverlets left nothing to be desired. Nor does this enumeration
exhaust the comforts and adornments of which the establishment could
boast. Feathers, a rare article in Majorca, had been got from a French
lady to make pillows for Chopin; Valenciennes matting and long-fleeced
sheep skins covered the dusty floor; a large tartan shawl did duty as an
alcove curtain; a stove of somewhat eccentric habits, and consisting
simply of an iron cylinder with a pipe that passed through the window, had
been manufactured for them at Palma; a charming clay vase surrounded with
a garland of ivy displayed its beauty on the top of the stove; a beautiful
large Gothic carved oak chair with a small chest convenient as a book-case
had, with the consent of the sacristan, been brought from the monks’
chapel; and last, but not least, there was, as we have already read in the
letters, a piano, in the first weeks only a miserable Majorcan instrument,
which, however, in the second half of January, after much waiting, was
replaced by one of Pleyel’s excellent cottage pianos.
[FOOTNOTE: By the way, among the many important and unimportant doubtful
points which Chopin’s and George Sand’s letters settle, is also that of
the amount of duty paid for the piano. The sum originally asked by the
Palma custom-house officers seems to have been from 500 to 600 francs, and
this demand was after a fortnight’s negotiations reduced to 300 francs.
That the imaginative novelist did not long remember the exact particulars
of this transaction need not surprise us. In Un Hiver a Majorque she
states tha the original demand was 700 francs, and the sum ultimately paid
about 400 francs.]
These various items collectively and in conjunction with the rooms in
which they were gathered together form a tout-ensemble picturesque and
homely withal. As regards the supply of provisions, the situation of our
Carthusians was decidedly less brilliant. Indeed, the water and the juicy
raisins, Malaga potatoes, fried Valencia pumpkins, &c., which they had
for dessert, were the only things that gave them unmixed satisfaction.
With anything but pleasure they made the discovery that the chief
ingredient of Majorcan cookery, an ingredient appearing in all imaginable
and unimaginable guises and disguises, was pork. Fowl was all skin and
bones, fish dry and tasteless, sugar of so bad a quality that it made them
sick, and butter could not be procured at all. Indeed, they found it
difficult to get anything of any kind. On account of their non-attendance
at church they were disliked by the villagers of Valdemosa, who sold their
produce to such heretics only at twice or thrice the usual price. Still,
thanks to the good offices of the French consul’s cook, they might have
done fairly well had not wet weather been against them. But, alas, their
eagerly-awaited provisions often arrived spoiled with rain, oftener still
they did not arrive at all. Many a time they had to eat bread as hard as
ship-biscuits, and content themselves with real Carthusian dinners. The
wine was good and cheap, but, unfortunately, it had the objectionable
quality of being heady.
These discomforts and wants were not painfully felt by George Sand and her
children, nay, they gave, for a time at least, a new zest to life. It was
otherwise with Chopin. “With his feeling for details and the wants of a
refined well-being, he naturally took an intense dislike to Majorca after
a few days of illness.” We have already seen what a bad effect the wet
weather and the damp of Son-Vent had on Chopin’s health. But, according to
George Sand, [FOOTNOTE: “Un Hiver a Marjorque,” pp. 161-168. I suspect
that she mixes up matters in a very unhistorical manner; I have, however,
no means of checking her statements, her and her companion’s letters being
insufficient for the purpose. Chopin certainly was not likely to tell his
friend the worst about his health.] it was not till later, although still
in the early days of their sojourn in Majorca, that his disease declared
itself in a really alarming manner. The cause of this change for the worse
was over-fatigue incurred on an excursion which he made with his friends
to a hermitage three miles [FOOTNOTE: George Sand does not say what kind
of miles] distant from Valdemosa; the length and badness of the road alone
would have been more than enough to exhaust his fund of strength, but in
addition to these hardships they had, on returning, to encounter a violent
wind which threw them down repeatedly. Bronchitis, from which he had
previously suffered, was now followed by a nervous excitement that
produced several symptoms of laryngeal phthisis. [FOOTNOTE: In the
Histoire de ma Vie George Sand Bays: “From the beginning of winter, which
set in all at once with a diluvian rain, Chopin showed, suddenly also, all
the symptoms of pulmonary affection.”] The physician, judging of the
disease by the symptoms that presented themselves at the time of his
visits, mistook its real nature, and prescribed bleeding, milk diet, &c.
Chopin felt instinctively that all this would be injurious to him, that
bleeding would even be fatal. George Sand, who was an experienced nurse,
and whose opportunities for observing were less limited than those of the
physician, had the same presentiment. After a long and anxious struggle
she decided to disregard the strongly-urged advice of the physician and to
obey the voice that said to her, even in her sleep: “Bleeding will kill
him; but if you save him from it, he will not die,” She was persuaded that
this voice was the voice of Providence, and that by obeying it she saved
her friend’s life. What Chopin stood most in need of in his weakness and
languor was a strengthening diet, and that, unfortunately, was impossible
to procure:—
Chopin’s most ardent wish was to get away from Majorca and back to France.
But for some time he was too weak to travel, and when he had got a little
stronger, contrary winds prevented the steamer from leaving the port. The
following words of George Sand depict vividly our poor Carthusian friends’
situation in all its gloom:—
If George Sand’s serenity and gaiety succumbed to these influences, we may
easily imagine how much more they oppressed Chopin, of whom she tells us
that—
The above-quoted letters have already given us some hints of how the
prisoners of Valdemosa passed their time. In the morning there were first
the day’s provisions to be procured and the rooms to be tidied—which
latter business could not be entrusted to Maria Antonia without the
sacrifice of their night’s rest. [FOOTNOTE: George Sand’s share of the
household work was not so great as she wished to make the readers of Un
Hiver a Majorque believe, for it consisted, as we gather from her letters,
only in giving a helping hand to her maid, who had undertaken to cook and
clean up, but found that her strength fell short of the requirements.]
Then George Sand would teach her children for some hours. These lessons
over, the young ones ran about and amused themselves for the rest of the
day, while their mother sat down to her literary studies and labours. In
the evening they either strolled together through the moonlit cloisters or
read in their cell, half of the night being generally devoted by the
novelist to writing. George Sand says in the “Histoire de ma Vie” that she
wrote a good deal and read beautiful philosophical and historical works
when she was not nursing her friend. The latter, however, took up much of
her time, and prevented her from getting out much, for he did not like to
be left alone, nor, indeed, could he safely be left long alone. Sometimes
she and her children would set out on an expedition of discovery, and
satisfy their curiosity and pleasantly while away an hour or two in
examining the various parts of the vast aggregation of buildings; or the
whole party would sit round the stove and laugh over the rehearsal of the
morning’s transactions with the villagers. Once they witnessed even a ball
in this sanctuary. It was on Shrove-Tuesday, after dark, that their
attention was roused by a strange, crackling noise. On going to the door
of their cell they could see nothing, but they heard the noise
approaching. After a little there appeared at the opposite end of the
cloister a faint glimmer of white light, then the red glare of torches,
and at last a crew the sight of which made their flesh creep and their
hair stand on end—he-devils with birds’ heads, horses’ tails, and
tinsel of all colours; she-devils or abducted shepherdesses in white and
pink dresses; and at the head of them Lucifer himself, horned and, except
the blood-red face, all black. The strange noise, however, turned out to
be the rattling of castanets, and the terrible-looking figures a merry
company of rich farmers and well-to-do villagers who were going to have a
dance in Maria Antonia’s cell. The orchestra, which consisted of a large
and a small guitar, a kind of high-pitched violin, and from three to four
pairs of castanets, began to play indigenous jotas and fandangos which,
George Sand tells us, resemble those of Spain, but have an even bolder
form and more original rhythm. The critical spectators thought that the
dancing of the Majorcans was not any gayer than their singing, which was
not gay at all, and that their boleros had “la gravite des ancetres, et
point de ces graces profanes qu’on admire en Andalousie.” Much of the
music of these islanders was rather interesting than pleasing to their
visitors. The clicking of the castanets with which they accompany their
festal processions, and which, unlike the broken and measured rhythm of
the Spaniards, consists of a continuous roll like that of a drum “battant
aux champs,” is from time to time suddenly interrupted in order to sing in
unison a coplita on a phrase which always recommences but never finishes.
George Sand shares the opinion of M. Tastu that the principal Majorcan
rhythms and favourite fioriture are Arabic in type and origin.
Of quite another nature was the music that might be heard in those winter
months in one of the cells of the monastery of Valdemosa. “With what poesy
did his music fill this sanctuary, even in the midst of his most grievous
troubles!” exclaims George Sand. I like to picture to myself the vaulted
cell, in which Pleyel’s piano sounded so magnificently, illumined by a
lamp, the rich traceries of the Gothic chair shadowed on the wall, George
Sand absorbed in her studies, her children at play, and Chopin pouring out
his soul in music.
It would be a mistake to think that those months which the friends spent
in Majorca were for them a time of unintermittent or even
largely-predominating wretchedness. Indeed, George Sand herself admits
that, in spite of the wildness of the country and the pilfering habits of
the people, their existence might have been an agreeable one in this
romantic solitude had it not been for the sad spectacle of her companion’s
sufferings and certain days of serious anxiety about his life. And now I
must quote a. long but very important passage from the “Histoire de ma
Vie”:—
Although George Sand cannot be acquitted of the charge of exaggerating the
weak points in her lover’s character, what she says about his being a
detestable patient seems to have a good foundation in fact. Gutmann, who
nursed him often, told me that his master was very irritable and difficult
to manage in sickness. On the other hand, Gutmann contradicted George
Sand’s remarks about the Preludes, saying that Chopin composed them before
starting on his journey. When I mentioned to him that Fontana had made a
statement irreconcilable with his, and suggested that Chopin might have
composed some of the Preludes in Majorca, Gutmann maintained firmly that
every one of them was composed previously, and that he himself had copied
them. Now with Chopin’s letters to Fontana before us we must come to the
conclusion that Gutmann was either under a false impression or confirmed a
rash statement by a bold assertion, unless we prefer to assume that
Chopin’s labours on the Preludes in Majorca were confined to selecting,
[FOOTNOTE: Internal evidence suggests that the Preludes consist (to a
great extent at least) of pickings from the composer’s portfolios, of
pieces, sketches, and memoranda written at various times and kept to be
utilised when occasion might offer.] filing, and polishing. My opinion—which
not only has probability but also the low opus number (28) and the letters
in its favour—is that most of the Preludes, if not all, were
finished or sketched before Chopin went to the south, and that a few, if
any, were composed and the whole revised at Palma and Valdemosa. Chopin
cannot have composed many in Majorca, because a few days after his arrival
there he wrote: from Palma (Nov. 15, 1838) to Fontana that he would send
the Preludes soon; and it was only his illness that prevented him from
doing so. There is one statement in George Sand’s above-quoted narrative
which it is difficult to reconcile with other statements in “Un Hiver a
Majorque” and in her and Chopin’s letters. In the just-mentioned book (p.
177) she says that the journey in question was made for the purpose of
rescuing the piano from the hands of the custom-house officers; and in a
letter of January 15, 1839, to her friend Madame Marliani (quoted on p.
31), which does not contain a word about adventures on a stormy night,
[They are first mentioned in the letter of January 20, 1839, quoted on p.
32.] she writes that the piano is still in the clutches of the
custom-house officers. From this, I think, we may conclude that it must
have taken place after January 15. But, then, how could Chopin have
composed on that occasion a Prelude included in a work the manuscript of
which he sent away on the lath? Still, this does not quite settle the
question. Is it not possible that Chopin may have afterwards substituted
the new Prelude for one of those already forwarded to France? To this our
answer must be that it is possible, but that the letters do not give any
support to such an assumption. Another and stronger objection would be the
uncertainty as to the correctness of the date of the letter. Seeing that
so many of Chopin’s letters have been published with wrong dates, why not
also that of January 12? Unfortunately, we cannot in this case prove or
disprove the point by internal evidence. There is, however, one factor we
must be especially careful not to forget in our calculations—namely,
George Sand’s habitual unconscientious inaccuracy; but the nature of her
narrative will indeed be a sufficient warning to the reader, for nobody
can read it without at once perceiving that it is not a plain, unvarnished
recital of facts.
It would be interesting to know which were the compositions that Chopin
produced at Valdemosa. As to the Prelude particularly referred to by
George Sand, it is generally and reasonably believed to be No. 6 (in B
minor). [FOOTNOTE: Liszt, who tells the story differently, brings in the F
sharp minor Prelude. (See Liszt’s Chopin, new edition, pp. 273 and 274.)]
The only compositions besides the Preludes which Chopin mentions in his
letters from Majorca are the Ballade, Op, 38, the Scherzo, Op. 39, and the
two Polonaises, Op. 40. The peevish, fretful, and fiercely-scornful
Scherzo and the despairingly-melancholy second Polonaise (in C minor) are
quite in keeping with the moods one imagines the composer to have been in
at the time. Nor is there anything discrepant in the Ballade. But if the
sadly-ailing composer really created, and not merely elaborated and
finished, in Majorca the superlatively-healthy, vigorously-martial,
brilliantly-chivalrous Polonaise in A major, we have here a remarkable
instance of the mind’s ascendency over the body, of its independence of
it. This piece, however, may have been conceived under happier
circumstances, just as the gloomy Sonata, Op. 35 (the one in B flat minor,
with the funeral march), and the two Nocturnes, Op. 37—the one (in G
minor) plaintive, longing, and prayerful; the other (in G major) sunny and
perfume-laden—may have had their origin in the days of Chopin’s
sojourn in the Balearic island. A letter of Chopin’s, written from Nohant
in the summer of 1839, leaves, as regards the Nocturnes, scarcely room for
such a conjecture. On the other hand, we learn from the same letter that
he composed at Palma the sad, yearning Mazurka in E minor (No. 2 of Op.
41).
As soon as fair weather set in and the steamer resumed its weekly courses
to Barcelona, George Sand and her party hastened to leave the island. The
delightful prospects of spring could not detain them.
In fact, Valdemosa, which at first was enchanting to them, lost afterwards
much of its poesy in their eyes. George Sand, as we have seen, said that
their sojourn was I in many respects a frightful fiasco; it was so
certainly as far as Chopin was concerned, for he arrived with a cough and
left the place spitting blood.
The passage from Palma to Barcelona was not so pleasant as that from
Barcelona to Palma had been. Chopin suffered much from sleeplessness,
which was caused by the noise and bad smell of the most favoured class of
passengers on board the Mallorquin—i.e., pigs. “The captain showed
us no other attention than that of begging us not to let the invalid lie
down on the best bed of the cabin, because according to Spanish prejudice
every illness is contagious; and as our man thought already of burning the
couch on which the invalid reposed, he wished it should be the worst.”
[FOOTNOTE: “Un Hiver a Majorque,” pp. 24—25.]
On arriving at Barcelona George Sand wrote from the Mallorquin and sent by
boat a note to M. Belves, the officer in command at the station, who at
once came in his cutter to take her and her party to the Meleagre, where
they were well received by the officers, doctor, and all the crew. It
seemed to them as if they had left the Polynesian savages and were once
more in civilised society. When they shook hands with the French consul
they could contain themselves no longer, but jumped for joy and cried
“Vive La France!”
A fortnight after their leaving Palma the Phenicien landed them at
Marseilles. The treatment Chopin received from the French captain of this
steamer differed widely from that he had met with at the hands of the
captain of the Mallorquin; for fearing that the invalid was not quite
comfortable in a common berth, he gave him his own bed. [FOOTNOTE: “Un
Hiver a Majorque,” p. 183.]
An extract from a letter written by George Sand from Marseilles on March
8, 1839, to her friend Francois Rollinat, which contains interesting
details concerning Chopin in the last scenes of the Majorca intermezzo,
may fitly conclude this chapter.
CHAPTER XXII.
STAY AT MARSEILLES (FROM MARCH TO MAY, 1839) AS DESCRIBED IN CHOPIN’S AND
MADAME SAND’S LETTERS.—HIS STATE OF HEALTH.—COMPOSITIONS AND
THEIR PUBLICATION.—PLAYING THE ORGAN AT A FUNERAL SERVICE FOR
NOURRIT.—AN EXCURSION TO GENOA.—DEPARTURE FOR NOHANT.
As George Sand and her party were obliged to stop at Marseilles, she had
Chopin examined by Dr. Cauviere. This celebrated physician thought him in
great danger, but, on seeing him recover rapidly, augured that with proper
care his patient might nevertheless live a long time. Their stay at
Marseilles was more protracted than they intended and desired; in fact,
they did not start for Nohant till the 22nd of May. Dr. Cauviere would not
permit Chopin to leave Marseilles before summer; but whether this was the
only cause of the long sojourn of the Sand party in the great commercial
city, or whether there were others, I have not been able to discover.
Happily, we have first-hand information—namely, letters of Chopin
and George Sand—to throw a little light on these months of the
pianist-composer’s life. As to his letters, their main contents consist of
business matters—wranglings about terms, abuse of publishers, &c.
Here and there, however, we find also a few words about his health,
characteristic remarks about friends and acquaintances, interesting hints
about domestic arrangements and the like—the allusion (in the letter
of March 2, 1839) to a will made by him some time before, and which he
wishes to be burned, will be read with some curiosity.
An extract or two from the letter which George Sand wrote on March 8,
1839, to Francois Rollinat, launches us at once in medias res.
Chopin to Fontana; Marseilles, March 2, 1839:—
Chopin to Fontana; Marseilles, March 6, 1839:—
Chopin to Fontana; Marseilles, March 10, 1839:—
Chopin to Fontana; March 17, 1839:—
Madame Sand to Madame Marliani; Marseilles, April 22, 1839:—
Further on in the letter, after inviting Madame Marliani and her husband
to come to Nohant in May, she proceeds thus:—
The following letter of Chopin to Fontana, which Karasowski thinks was
written at Valdemosa in the middle of February, ought to be dated
Marseilles, April, 1839:—
Chopin to Fontana; Marseilles, March 25 [should no doubt be April 25],
1839:—
One subject mentioned in this letter deserves a fuller explanation than
Chopin vouchsafes. Adolphe Nourrit, the celebrated tenor singer, had in a
state of despondency, caused by the idea that since the appearance of his
rival Duprez his popularity was on the wane, put an end to his life by
throwing himself out of a window at Naples on the 8th of March, 1839.
[FOOTNOTE: This is the generally-accepted account of Nourrit’s death. But
Madame Garcia, the mother of the famous Malibran, who at the time was
staying in the same house, thought it might have been an accident, the
unfortuante artist having in the dark opened a window on a level with the
floor instead of a door. (See Fetis: Biographie universelle des
Musiciens.)] Madame Nourrit brought her husband’s body to Paris, and it
was on the way thither that a funeral service was held at Marseilles for
the much-lamented man and singer.
Le Sud, Journal de la Mediterranee of April 25, 1839, [FOOTNOTE: Quoted in
L. M. Quicherat’s Adolphe Nourrit, sa vie, son talent, son caractere]
shall tell us of Chopin’s part in this service:—
A less colourless account, one full of interesting facts and free from
conventional newspaper sentiment and enthusiasm, we find in a letter of
Chopin’s companion.
Madame Sand to Madame Marliani; Marseilles, April 28, 1839:—
Thanks to the revivifying influences of spring and Dr. Cauviere’s
attention and happy treatment, Chopin was able to accompany George Sand on
a trip to Genoa, that vaga gemma del mar, fior delta terra. It gave George
Sand much pleasure to see again, now with her son Maurice by her side, the
beautiful edifices and pictures of the city which six years before she had
visited with Musset. Chopin was probably not strong enough to join his
friends in all their sight-seeing, but if he saw Genoa as it presents
itself on being approached from the sea, passed along the Via Nuova
between the double row of magnificent palaces, and viewed from the cupola
of S. Maria in Carignano the city, its port, the sea beyond, and the
stretches of the Riviera di Levante and Riviera di Ponente, he did not
travel to Italy in vain. Thus Chopin got at last a glimpse of the land
where nine years before he had contemplated taking up his abode for some
time.
On returning to Marseilles, after a stormy passage, on which Chopin
suffered much from sea-sickness, George Sand and her party rested for a
few days at the house of Dr. Cauviere, and then set out, on the 22nd of
May, for Nohant.
Madame Sand to Madame Marliani; Marseilles, May 20, 1839:—
CHAPTER XXIII.
JUNE TO OCTOBER, 1839.
GEORGE SAND AND CHOPIN’S RETURN TO NOHANT.—STATE OF HIS HEALTH.—HIS
POSITION IN HIS FRIEND’S HOUSE.—HER ACCOUNT OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP.—HIS
LETTERS TO FONTANA, WHICH, AMONG MANY OTHER MATTERS, TREAT OF HIS
COMPOSITIONS AND OF PREPARATIONS TO BE MADE FOR HIS AND GEORGE SAND’S
ARRIVAL IN PARIS.
The date of one of George Sand’s letters shows that the travellers were
settled again at Nohant on the 3rd of June, 1839. Dr. Papet, a rich friend
of George Sand’s, who practised his art only for the benefit of the poor
and his friends, took the convalescent Chopin at once under his care. He
declared that his patient showed no longer any symptoms of pulmonary
affection, but was suffering merely from a slight chronic laryngeal
affection which, although he did not expect to be able to cure it, need
not cause any serious alarm.
On returning to Nohant, George Sand had her mind much exercised by the
question how to teach her children. She resolved to undertake the task
herself, but found she was not suited for it, at any rate, could not
acquit herself of it satisfactorily without giving up writing. This
question, however, was not the only one that troubled her.
Among those with whom the family at Nohant had much intercourse, and who
were frequent guests at the chateau, was also an old acquaintance of ours,
one who had not grown in wisdom as in age, I mean George Sand’s
half-brother, Hippolyte Chatiron, who was now again living in Berry, his
wife having inherited the estate of Montgivray, situated only half a
league from Nohant.
In short, George Sand presents herself as a sister of mercy, who, prompted
by charity, sacrifices her own happiness for that of another.
Contemplating the possibility of her son falling ill and herself being
thereby deprived of the joys of her work, she exclaims: “What hours of my
calm and invigorating life should I be able to devote to another patient,
much more difficult to nurse and comfort than Maurice?”
The discussion of this matter by George Sand is so characteristic of her
that, lengthy as it is, I cannot refrain from giving it in full.
If this is a sincere confession, we can only wonder at the height of
self-deception attainable by the human mind; if, however, it is meant as a
justification, we cannot but be surprised at the want of skill displayed
by the generally so clever advocate. In fact, George Sand has in no
instance been less happy in defending her conduct and in setting forth her
immaculate virtuousness. The great words “chastity” and “maternity” are of
course not absent. George Sand could as little leave off using them as
some people can leave off using oaths. In either case the words imply much
more than is intended by those from whose mouths or pens they come. A
chaste woman speculating on “real love” and “passing diversions,” as
George Sand does here, seems to me a strange phenomenon. And how
charmingly naive is the remark she makes regarding her relations with
Chopin as a “PRESERVATIVE against emotions which she no longer wished to
know”! I am afraid the concluding sentence, which in its unction is worthy
of Pecksniff, and where she exhibits herself as an ascetic and martyr in
all the radiance of saintliness, will not have the desired effect, but
will make the reader laugh as loud as Musset is said to have done when she
upbraided him with his ungratefulness to her, who had been devoted to him
to the utmost bounds of self-abnegation, to the sacrifice of her noblest
impulses, to the degradation of her chaste nature.
George Sand, looking back in later years on this period of her life,
thought that if she had put into execution her project of becoming the
teacher of her children, and of shutting herself up all the year round at
Nohant, she would have saved Chopin from the danger which, unknown to her,
threatened him—namely, the danger of attaching himself too
absolutely to her. At that time, she says, his love was not so great but
that absence would have diverted him from it. Nor did she consider his
affection exclusive. In fact, she had no doubt that the six months which
his profession obliged him to pass every year in Paris would, “after a few
days of malaise and tears,” have given him back to “his habits of
elegance, exquisite success, and intellectual coquetry.” The correctness
of the facts and the probability of the supposition may be doubted. At any
rate, the reasons which led her to assume the non-exclusiveness of
Chopin’s affection are simply childish. That he spoke to her of a romantic
love-affair he had had in Poland, and of sweet attractions he had
afterwards experienced in Paris, proves nothing. What she says about his
mother having been his only passion is still less to the point. But
reasoning avails little, and the strength of Chopin’s love was not put to
the test. He went, indeed, in the autumn of 1839 to Paris, but not alone;
George Sand, professedly for the sake of her children’s education, went
there likewise. “We were driven by fate,” she says, “into the bonds of a
long connection, and both of us entered into it unawares.” The words
“driven by fate,” and “entered into it unawares,” sound strange, if we
remember that they apply not to a young girl who, inexperienced and
confiding, had lost herself in the mazes of life, but to a novelist
skilled in the reading of human hearts, to a constantly-reasoning and
calculating woman, aged 35, who had better reasons than poor Amelia in
Schiller’s play for saying “I have lived and loved.”
After all this reasoning, moralising, and sentimentalising, it is pleasant
to be once more face to face with facts, of which the following letters,
written by Chopin to Fontana during the months from June to October, 1839,
contain a goodly number. The rather monotonous publishing transactions
play here and there again a prominent part, but these Nohant letters are
on the whole more interesting than the Majorca letters, and decidedly more
varied as regards contents than those he wrote from Marseilles—they
tell us much more of the writer’s tastes and requirements, and even reveal
something of his relationship to George Sand. Chopin, it appears to me,
did not take exactly the same view of this relationship as the novelist.
What will be read with most interest are Chopin’s directions as to the
decoration and furnishing of his rooms, the engagement of a valet, the
ordering of clothes and a hat, the taking of a house for George Sand, and
certain remarks made en passant on composers and other less-known people.
CHAPTER XXIV.
1839-1842.
RETURN OF GEORGE SAND AND CHOPIN TO PARIS.—GEORGE SAND IN THE RUE
PIGALLE.—CHOPIN IN THE RUE TRONCHET: REMINISCENCES OF BRINLEY
RICHARDS AND MOSCHELES.—SOIREES AT LEO’S AND ST. CLOUD.—CHOPIN
JOINS MADAME SAND IN THE RUE PIGALLE.—EXTRACTS FROM GEORGE SAND’S
CORRESPONDANCE; A LETTER OF MADAME SAND’S TO CHOPIN; BALZAC ANECDOTES.—MADAME
SAND AND CHOPIN DO NOT GO TO NOHANT IN 1840.—COMPOSITIONS OF THIS
PERIOD.—ABOUT CHOPIN AS A PIANIST.—LETTERS WRITTEN TO FONTANA
IN THE SUMMER AND AUTUMN OF 1841.
Although Chopin and George Sand came to Paris towards the end of October,
1839, months passed before the latter got into the house which Fontana had
taken for her. This we learn from a letter written by her to her friend
Gustave Papet, and dated Paris, January, 1840, wherein we read:—
How greatly the interiors of George Sand’s pavilions in the Rue Pigalle
differed from those of Senor Gomez’s villa and the cells in the monastery
of Valdemosa, may be gathered from Gutmann’s description of two of the
apartments.
[FOOTNOTE: I do not guarantee the correctness of all the following
details, although I found them in a sketch of Gutmann’s life inspired by
himself (“Der Lieblings-schuler Chopin’s”, No. 3 of “Schone Geister,” by
Bernhard Stavenow, Bremen, 1879), and which he assured me was trustworthy.
The reasons of my scepticism are—1, Gutmann’s imaginative memory and
tendency to show himself off to advantage; 2, Stavenow’s love of fine
writing and a good story; 3, innumerable misstatements that can be
indisputably proved by documents.]
Regarding the small salon, he gives only the general information that it
was quaintly fitted up with antique furniture. But of George Sand’s own
room, which made a deeper impression upon him, he mentions so many
particulars—the brown carpet covering the whole floor, the walls
hung with a dark-brown ribbed cloth (Ripsstoff), the fine paintings, the
carved furniture of dark oak, the brown velvet seats of the chairs, the
large square bed, rising but little above the floor, and covered with a
Persian rug (Teppich)—that it is easy to picture to ourselves the
tout-ensemble of its appearance. Gutmann tells us that he had an early
opportunity of making these observations, for Chopin visited his pupil the
very day after his arrival (?), and invited him at once to call on George
Sand in order to be introduced to her. When Gutmann presented himself in
the small salon above alluded to, he found George Sand seated on an
ottoman smoking a cigarette. She received the young man with great
cordiality, telling him that his master had often spoken to her of him
most lovingly. Chopin entered soon after from an adjoining apartment, and
then they all went into the dining-room to have dinner. When they were
seated again in the cosy salon, and George Sand had lit another cigarette,
the conversation, which had touched on a variety of topics, among the rest
on Majorca, turned on art. It was then that the authoress said to her
friend: “Chop, Chop, show Gutmann my room that he may see the pictures
which Eugene Delacroix painted for me.”
Chopin on arriving in Paris had taken up his lodgings in the Rue Tronchet,
No. 5, and resumed teaching. One of his pupils there was Brinley Richards,
who practised under him one of the books of studies. Chopin also assisted
the British musician in the publication, by Troupenas, of his first
composition, having previously looked over and corrected it. Brinley
Richards informed me that Chopin, who played rarely in these lessons,
making his corrections and suggestions rather by word of mouth than by
example, was very languid, indeed so much so that he looked as if he felt
inclined to lie down, and seemed to say: “I wish you would come another
time.”
About this time, that is in the autumn or early in the winter of 1839,
Moscheles came to Paris. We learn from his diary that at Leo’s, where he
liked best to play, he met for the first time Chopin, who had just
returned from the country, and whose acquaintance he was impatient to
make. I have already quoted what Moscheles said of Chopin’s appearance—namely,
that it was exactly like [identificirt mit] his music, both being delicate
and dreamy [schwarmerisch]. His remarks on his great contemporary’s
musical performances are, of course, still more interesting to us.
In addition to this characterisation of the artist Chopin, Moscheles’
notes afford us also some glimpses of the man. “Chopin was lively, merry,
nay, exceedingly comical in his imitations of Pixis, Liszt, and a
hunchbacked pianoforte-player.” Some days afterwards, when Moscheles saw
him at his own house, he found him an altogether different Chopin:—
Gutmann relates that Chopin sent for him early in the morning of the day
following that on which he paid the above-mentioned visit to George Sand,
and said to him:—
Gutmann, who did not yet know the work (Op. 39), thereupon sat down at
Chopin’s piano, and by dint of hard practising managed to play it at the
appointed hour from memory, and to the satisfaction of the composer.
Gutmann’s account does not tally in several of its details with
Moscheles’. As, however, Moscheles does not give us reminiscences, but
sober, business-like notes taken down at the time they refer to, and
without any attempt at making a nice story, he is the safer authority.
Still, thus much at least we may assume to be certain:—Gutmann
played the Scherzo, Op. 39, on this occasion, and his rendering of it was
such as to induce his master to dedicate it to him.
Comte de Perthuis, the adjutant of King Louis Philippe, who had heard
Chopin and Moscheles repeatedly play the latter’s Sonata in E flat major
for four hands, spoke so much and so enthusiastically about it at Court
that the royal family, wishing “to have also the great treat,” invited the
two artists to come to St. Cloud. The day after this soiree Moscheles
wrote in his diary:—
To show his gratitude, the king sent the two artists valuable presents: to
Chopin a gold cup and saucer, to Moscheles a travelling case. “The king,”
remarked Chopin, “gave Moscheles a travelling case to get the sooner rid
of him.” The composer was fond of and had a talent for throwing off sharp
and witty sayings; but it is most probable that on this occasion the words
were prompted solely by the fancy, and that their ill-nature was only
apparent. Or must we assume that the man Moscheles was less congenial to
Chopin than the artist? Moscheles was a Jew, and Chopin disliked the Jews.
As, however, the tempting opportunity afforded by the nature of the king’s
present to Moscheles is sufficient to account for Chopin’s remark, and no
proofs warranting a less creditable explanation are forthcoming, it would
be unfair to listen to the suggestions of suspicion.
George Sand tells us in the “Histoire de ma Vie” that Chopin found his
rooms in the Rue Tronchet cold and damp, and felt sorely the separation
from her. The consequence of this was that the saintly woman, the sister
of mercy, took, after some time, pity upon her suffering worshipper, and
once more sacrificed herself. Not to misrepresent her account, the only
one we have, of this change in the domestic arrangements of the two
friends, I shall faithfully transcribe her delicately-worded statements:—
Let us see if we cannot get some glimpses of the life in the pavilions of
the Rue Pigalle, No. 16. In the first months of 1840, George Sand was busy
with preparations for the performance of her drama Cosima, moving heaven
and earth to bring about the admission of her friend Madame Dorval into
the company of the Theatre-Francais, where her piece, in which she wished
this lady to take the principal part, was to be performed. Her son Maurice
passed his days in the studio of Eugene Delacroix; and Solange gave much
time to her lessons, and lost much over her toilet. Of Grzymala we hear
that he is always in love with all the beautiful women, and rolls his big
eyes at the tall Borgnotte and the little Jacqueline; and that Madame
Marliani is always up to her ears in philosophy. This I gathered from
George Sand’s Correspondance, where, as the reader will see presently,
more is to be found.
George Sand to Chopin; Cambrai, August 13, 1840:—
From a letter written two days later to her son, we learn that Madame
Viardot after all gave two concerts at Cambrai. But amusing as the letter
is, we will pass it over as not concerning us here. Of another letter
(September 20,1840), likewise addressed to her son, I shall quote only one
passage, although it contains much interesting matter about the friends
and visitors of the inmates of the pavilions of the Rue Pigalle, No. 16:—
Stavenow, in Schone Geister (see foot-note, p. 70), tells an anecdote of
Balzac, which may find a place here:—
George Sand to her son; Paris, September 4, 1840:—
In the summer of 1840 George Sand did not go to Nohant, and Chopin seems
to have passed most of, if not all, the time in Paris. From a letter
addressed to her half-brother, we learn that the reason of her staying
away from her country-seat was a wish to economise:—
George Sand’s fits of economy never lasted very long. At any rate, in the
summer of 1841 we find her again at Nohant. But as it is my intention to
treat of Chopin’s domestic life at Nohant and in Paris with some fulness
in special chapters, I shall now turn to his artistic doings.
In 1839 there appeared only one work by Chopin, Op. 28, the “Preludes,”
but in the two following years as many as sixteen—namely, Op. 35-50.
Here is an enumeration of these compositions, with the dates of
publication and the dedications.
[FOOTNOTE: Both the absence of dedications in the case of some
compositions, and the persons to whom others are dedicated, have a
biographical significance. They tell us of the composer’s absence from
Paris and aristocratic society, and his return to them.]
The “Vingt-quatre Preludes,” Op. 28, published in September, 1839, have a
twofold dedication, the French and English editions being dedicated a son
ami Pleyel, and the German to Mr. J. C. Kessler. The publications of 1840
are: in May—Op. 35, “Sonate” (B flat minor); Op. 36, “Deuxieme
Impromptu” (F sharp minor); Op. 37, “Deux Nocturnes” (G minor and G
major); in July—Op. 42, “Valse” (A flat major); in September—Op.
38, “Deuxieme Ballade” (F major), dedicated to Mr. R. Schumann; in October—Op.
39, “Troisieme Scherzo” (C sharp minor), dedicated to Mr. A. Gutmann; in
November—Op. 40, “Deux Polonaises” (A major and C minor), dedicated
to Mr. J. Fontana; and in December—Op. 41, “Quatre Mazurkas” (C
sharp and E minor, B and A flat major), dedicated to E. Witwicki. Those of
1841 are: in October—Op. 43, “Tarantelle” (A flat major), without
any dedication; and in November—Op. 44, “Polonaise” (F sharp minor),
dedicated to Madame la Princesse Charles de Beauvau; Op. 45, “Prelude” (C
sharp minor), dedicated to Madame la Princesse Elizabeth Czernicheff; Op.
46, “Allegro de Concert” (A major), dedicated to Mdlle. F. Muller; Op. 47,
“Troisieme Ballade” (A flat major), dedicated to Mdlle. P. de Noailles;
Op. 48, “Deux Nocturnes” (C minor and F sharp minor), dedicated to Mdlle.
L. Duperre; Op. 49, “Fantaisie” (F minor), dedicated to Madame la
Princesse C. de Souzzo; and Op. 50, “Trois Mazurkas” (G and A flat major,
and C sharp minor), dedicated to Mr. Leon Smitkowski.
Chopin’s genius had now reached the most perfect stage of its development,
and was radiating with all the intensity of which its nature was capable.
Notwithstanding such later creations as the fourth “Ballade,” Op. 52, the
“Barcarolle,” Op. 60, and the “Polonaise,” Op. 53, it can hardly be said
that the composer surpassed in his subsequent works those which he had
published in recent years, works among which were the first three
ballades, the preludes, and a number of stirring polonaises and charming
nocturnes, mazurkas, and other pieces.
However, not only as a creative artist, but also as an executant, Chopin
was at the zenith of his power. His bodily frame had indeed suffered from
disease, but as yet it was not seriously injured, at least, not so
seriously as to disable him to discharge the functions of a musical
interpreter. Moreover, the great majority of his compositions demanded
from the executant other qualities than physical strength, which was
indispensable in only a few of his works. A writer in the “Menestrel”
(April 25, 1841) asks himself the question whether Chopin had progressed
as a pianist, and answers: “No, for he troubles himself little about the
mechanical secrets of the piano; in him there is no charlatanism; heart
and genius alone speak, and in these respects his privileged organisation
has nothing to learn.” Or rather let us say, Chopin troubled himself
enough about the mechanical secrets of the piano, but not for their own
sakes: he regarded them not as ends, but as means to ends, and although
mechanically he may have made no progress, he had done so poetically. Love
and sorrow, those most successful teachers of poets and musicians, had not
taught him in vain.
It was a fortunate occurrence that at this period of his career Chopin was
induced to give a concert, and equally fortunate that men of knowledge,
judgment, and literary ability have left us their impressions of the
event. The desirability of replenishing an ever-empty purse, and the
instigations of George Sand, were no doubt the chief motive powers which
helped the composer to overcome his dislike to playing in public.
“Do you practise when the day of the concert approaches?” asked Lenz.
[FOOTNOTE: Die grossen Pianoforte-Virtusen unstrer Zeit, p. 36.] “It is a
terrible time for me,” was Chopin’s answer; “I dislike publicity, but it
is part of my position. I shut myself up for a fortnight and play Bach.
That is my preparation; I never practise my own compositions.” What
Gutmann told me confirms these statements. Chopin detested playing in
public, and became nervous when the dreaded time approached. He then
fidgeted a great deal about his clothes, and felt very unhappy if one or
the other article did not quite fit or pinched him a little. On one
occasion Chopin, being dissatisfied with his own things, made use of a
dress-coat and shirt of his pupil Gutmann. By the way, the latter, who
gave me this piece of information, must have been in those days of less
bulk, and, I feel inclined to add, of less height, than he was when I
became acquainted with him.
Leaving the two concerts given by Chopin in 1841 and 1842 to be discussed
in detail in the next chapter, I shall now give a translation of the
Polish letters which he wrote in the summer and autumn of 1841 to Fontana.
The letters numbered 4 and 5 are those already alluded to on p. 24
(foot-note 3) which Karasowski gives as respectively dated by Chopin:
“Palma, November 17, 1838”; and “Valdemosa, January 9, 1839.” But against
these dates militate the contents: the mention of Troupenas, with whom the
composer’s business connection began only in 1840 (with the Sonata, Op.
35); the mention of the Tarantelle, which was not published until 1841;
the mention (contradictory to an earlier inquiry—see p. 30) of the
sending back of a valet nowhere else alluded to; the mention of the
sending and arrival of a piano, irreconcilable with the circumstances and
certain statements in indisputably correctly-dated letters; and, lastly,
the absence of all mention of Majorca and the Preludes, those important
topics in the letters really from that place and of that time. Karasowski
thinks that the letters numbered 1, 2, 3, and 9 were of the year 1838, and
those numbered 6, 7, and 8 of the year 1839; but as the “Tarantelle,” Op.
43, the “Polonaise,” Op. 44, the “Prelude,” Op. 45, the “Allegro de
Concert,” Op. 46, the third “Ballade,” Op. 47, the two “Nocturnes,” Op.
48, and the “Fantaisie,” Op. 49, therein mentioned, were published in
1841, I have no doubt that they are of the year 1841. The mention in the
ninth letter of the Rue Pigalle, 16, George Sand’s and Chopin’s abode in
Paris, of Pelletan, the tutor of George Sand’s son Maurice, and of the
latter’s coming to Paris, speaks likewise against 1838 and for 1841, 1840
being out of the question, as neither George Sand nor Chopin was in this
year at Nohant. What decides me especially to reject the date 1839 for the
seventh letter is that Pauline Garcia had then not yet become the wife of
Louis Viardot. There is, moreover, an allusion to a visit of Pauline
Viardot to Nohant in the summer of 1841 in one of George Sand’s letters
(August 13, 1841). In this letter occurs a passage which is important for
the dating both of the fifth and the seventh letter. As to the order of
succession of the letters, it may be wrong, it certainly does not
altogether satisfy me; but it is the result of long and careful weighing
of all the pros and cons. I have some doubt about the seventh letter,
which, read by the light of George Sand’s letter, ought perhaps to be
placed after the ninth. But the seventh letter is somewhat of a puzzle.
Puzzles, owing to his confused statements and slipshod style, are,
however, not a rare thing in Chopin’s correspondence. The passage in the
above-mentioned letter of George Sand runs thus: “Pauline leaves me on the
16th [of August]; Maurice goes on the 17th to fetch his sister, who should
be here on the 23rd.”
These letters of the romantic tone-poet to a friend and fellow-artist will
probably take the reader by surprise, nay, may even disillusionise him.
Their matter is indeed very suggestive of a commercial man writing to one
of his agents. Nor is this feature, as the sequel will show, peculiar to
the letters just quoted. Trafficking takes up a very large part of
Chopin’s Parisian correspondence; [FOOTNOTE: I indicate by this phrase
comprehensively the whole correspondence since his settling in the French
capital, whether written there or elsewhere.] of the ideal within him that
made him what he was as an artist we catch, if any, only rare glimmerings
and glimpses.
CHAPTER XXV.
TWO PUBLIC CONCERTS, ONE IN 1841 AND ANOTHER IN 1842.—CHOPIN’S STYLE
OF PLAYING: TECHNICAL QUALITIES; FAVOURABLE PHYSICAL CONDITIONS; VOLUME OF
TONE; USE OF THE PEDALS; SPIRITUAL QUALITIES; TEMPO RUBATO; INSTRUMENTS.—HIS
MUSICAL SYMPATHIES AND ANTIPATHIES.—OPINIONS ON MUSIC AND MUSICIANS.
The concert which Chopin gave in 1841, after several years of retirement,
took place at Pleyel’s rooms on Monday, the 26th of April. It was like his
subsequent concerts a semi-public rather than a public one, for the
audience consisted of a select circle of pupils, friends, and partisans
who, as Chopin told Lenz, took the tickets in advance and divided them
among themselves. As most of the pupils belonged to the aristocracy, it
followed as a matter of course that the concert was emphatically what
Liszt calls it, “un concert de fashion.” The three chief musical papers of
Paris: the “Gazette Musicale,” the “France Musicale,” and the “Menestrel”
were unanimous in their high, unqualified praise of the concert-giver,
“the king of the fete, who was overwhelmed with bravos.” The pianoforte
performances of Chopin took up by far the greater part of the programme,
which was varied by two arias from Adam’s “La Rose de Peronne,” sung by
Mdme. Damoreau—Cinti, who was as usual “ravissante de perfection,”
and by Ernst’s “Elegie,” played by the composer himself “in a grand style,
with passionate feeling and a purity worthy of the great masters.”
Escudier, the writer of the notice in the “France Musicale,” says of
Ernst’s playing: “If you wish to hear the violin weep, go and hear Ernst;
he produces such heart-rending, such passionate sounds, that you fear
every moment to see his instrument break to pieces in his hands. It is
difficult to carry farther the expression of sadness, of suffering, and of
despair.”
To give the reader an idea of the character of the concert, I shall quote
largely from Liszt’s notice, in which he not only sets forth the merits of
the artists, but also describes the appearance of the room and the
audience. First, however, I must tell a pretty anecdote of which this
notice reminds me. When Liszt was moving about among the audience during
the intervals of the concert, paying his respects here and there, he came
upon M. Ernest Legouve. The latter told him of his intention to give an
account of the concert in the “Gazette Musicale.” Liszt thereupon said
that he had a great wish to write one himself, and M. Legouve, although
reluctantly, gave way. When it came to the ears of Chopin that Liszt was
going to report on the concert, he remarked: “Il me donnera un petit
royaume dans son empire” (He will give me a little kingdom in his empire).
[FOOTNOTE: Since I wrote the above, M. Legouve has published his “Soixante
ans de Souvenirs,” and in this book gives his version of the story, which,
it is to be hoped, is less incorrect than some other statements of his
relating to Chopin: “He [Chopin] had asked me to write a report of the
concert. Liszt claimed the honour. I hastened to announce this good news
to Chopin, who quietly said to me: “I should have liked better if it had
been you.” “What are you thinking of my dear friend! An article by Liszt,
that is a fortunate thing for the public and for you. Trust in his
admiration for your talent. I promise you qu’il vous fera un beau
royaume.’—’Oui, me dit-il en souriant, dans son empire!'””]
These few words speak volumes. But here is what Liszt wrote about the
concert in the “Gazette musicale” of May 2, 1841:—
An account of the concert in La France musicale of May 2, 1841, contained
a general characterisation of Chopin’s artistic position with regard to
the public coinciding with that given by Liszt, but the following excerpts
from the other parts of the article may not be unacceptable to the reader:—
The words with which the critic of the Menestrel closes his remarks,
describe well the nature of the emotions which the artist excited in his
hearers:—
The concert, which was beyond a doubt a complete success, must have given
Chopin satisfaction in every respect. At any rate, he faced the public
again before a year had gone by. In the Gazette Musicale of February 20,
1842, we read that on the following evening, Monday, at Pleyel’s rooms,
the haute societe de Paris et tous les artistes s’y donneront rendez-vous.
The programme of the concert was to be as follows:—
Maurice Bourges, who a week later reports on the concert, states more
particularly what Chopin played. He mentions three mazurkas in A flat
major, B major, and A minor; three studies in A flat major, F minor, and C
minor; the Ballade in A flat major; four nocturnes, one of which was that
in F sharp minor; a prelude in D flat; and an impromptu in G (G flat
major?). Maurice Bourges’s account is not altogether free from strictures.
He finds Chopin’s ornamentations always novel, but sometimes mannered
(manierees). He says: “Trop de recherche fine et minutieuse n’est pas
quelquefois sans pretention et san froideur.” But on the whole the
critique is very laudatory. “Liszt and Thalberg excite, as is well known,
violent enthusiasm; Chopin also awakens enthusiasm, but of a less
energetic, less noisy nature, precisely because he causes the most
intimate chords of the heart to vibrate.”
From the report in the “France musicale” we see that the audience was not
less brilliant than that of the first concert:—
This description is so graphic that one seems to see the actual scene, and
imagines one’s self one of the audience. It also points out a very
characteristic feature of these concerts—namely, the preponderance
of the fair sex. As regards Chopin’s playing, the writer remarks that the
genre of execution which aims at the imitation of orchestral effects suits
neither Chopin’s organisation nor his ideas:—
I shall now try to give the reader a clearer idea of what Chopin’s style
of playing was like than any and all of the criticisms and descriptions I
have hitherto quoted can have done. And I do this not only in order to
satisfy a natural curiosity, but also, and more especially, to furnish a
guide for the better understanding and execution of the master’s works.
Some, seeing that no music reflects more clearly its author’s nature than
that of Chopin, may think that it would be wiser to illustrate the style
of playing by the style of composition, and not the style of composition
by the style of playing. Two reasons determine me to differ from them. Our
musical notation is an inadequate exponent of the conceptions of the great
masters—visible signs cannot express the subtle shades of the
emotional language; and the capabilities of Chopin the composer and of
Chopin the executant were by no means coextensive—we cannot draw
conclusions as to the character of his playing from the character of his
Polonaises in A major (Op. 40) and in A flat (Op. 53), and certain
movements of the Sonata in B flat minor (Op. 35). The information
contained in the following remarks is derived partly from printed
publications, partly from private letters and conversations; nothing is
admitted which does not proceed from Chopin’s pupils, friends, and such
persons as have frequently heard him.
What struck everyone who had the good fortune to hear Chopin was the fact
that he was a pianist sui generis. Moscheles calls him an unicum;
Mendelssohn describes him as “radically original” (Gruneigentumlich);
Meyerbeer said of him that he knew no pianist, no composer for the piano,
like him; and thus I could go on quoting ad infinitum. A writer in the
“Gazette musicale” (of the year 1835, I think), who, although he places at
the head of his article side by side the names of Liszt, Hiller, Chopin,
and—Bertini, proved himself in the characterisation of these
pianists a man of some insight, remarks of Chopin: “Thought, style,
conception, even the fingering, everything, in fact, appears individual,
but of a communicative, expansive individuality, an individuality of which
superficial organisations alone fail to recognise the magnetic influence.”
Chopin’s place among the great pianists of the second quarter of this
century has been felicitously characterised by an anonymous contemporary:
Thalberg, he said, is a king, Liszt a prophet, Chopin a poet, Herz an
advocate, Kalkbrenner a minstrel, Madame Pleyel a sibyl, and Doehler a
pianist.
But if our investigation is to be profitable, we must proceed
analytically. It will be best to begin with the fundamental technical
qualities. First of all, then, we have to note the suppleness and equality
of Chopin’s fingers and the perfect independence of his hands. “The
evenness of his scales and passages in all kinds of touch,” writes Mikuli,
“was unsurpassed, nay, prodigious.” Gutmann told me that his master’s
playing was particularly smooth, and his fingering calculated to attain
this result. A great lady who was present at Chopin’s last concert in
Paris (1848), when he played among other works his Valse in D flat (Op.
64, No. 1), wished to know “le secret de Chopin pour que les gammes
fussent si COULEES sur le piano.” Madame Dubois, who related this incident
to me, added that the expression was felicitous, for this “limpidite
delicate” had never been equalled. Such indeed were the lightness,
delicacy, neatness, elegance, and gracefulness of Chopin’s playing that
they won for him the name of Ariel of the piano. The reader will remember
how much Chopin admired these qualities in other artists, notably in
Mdlle. Sontag and in Kalkbrenner.
So high a degree and so peculiar a kind of excellence was of course
attainable only under exceptionally favourable conditions, physical as
well as mental. The first and chief condition was a suitably formed hand.
Now, no one can look at Chopin’s hand, of which there exists a cast,
without perceiving at once its capabilities. It was indeed small, but at
the same time it was thin, light, delicately articulated, and, if I may
say so, highly expressive. Chopin’s whole body was extraordinarily
flexible. According to Gutmann, he could, like a clown, throw his legs
over his shoulders. After this we may easily imagine how great must have
been the flexibility of his hands, those members of his body which he had
specially trained all his life. Indeed, the startlingly wide-spread
chords, arpeggios, &c., which constantly occur in his compositions,
and which until he introduced them had been undreamt-of and still are far
from being common, seemed to offer him no difficulty, for he executed them
not only without any visible effort, but even with a pleasing ease and
freedom. Stephen Heller told me that it was a wonderful sight to see one
of those small hands expand and cover a third of the keyboard. It was like
the opening of the mouth of a serpent which is going to swallow a rabbit
whole. In fact, Chopin appeared to be made of caoutchouc.
In the criticisms on Chopin’s public performances we have met again and
again with the statement that he brought little tone out of the piano.
Now, although it is no doubt true that Chopin could neither subdue to his
sway large audiences nor successfully battle with a full orchestra, it
would be a mistake to infer from this that he was always a weak and
languid player. Stephen Heller, who declared that Chopin’s tone was rich,
remembered hearing him play a duet with Moscheles (the latter’s duet, of
which Chopin was so fond), and on this occasion the Polish pianist, who
insisted on playing the bass, drowned the treble of his partner, a
virtuoso well known for his vigour and brilliancy. Were we, however, to
form our judgment on this single item of evidence, we should again arrive
at a wrong conclusion. Where musical matters—i.e., matters generally
estimated according to individual taste and momentary impressibility alone—are
concerned, there is safety only in the multitude of witnesses. Let us,
therefore, hear first what Chopin’s pupils have got to say on this point,
and then go and inquire further. Gutmann said that Chopin played generally
very quietly, and rarely, indeed hardly ever, fortissimo. The A flat major
Polonaise (Op. 53), for instance, he could not thunder forth in the way we
are accustomed to hear it. As for the famous octave passages which occur
in it, he began them pianissimo and continued thus without much increase
in loudness. And, then, Chopin never thumped. M. Mathias remarks that his
master had extraordinary vigour, but only in flashes. Mikuli’s preface to
his edition of the works of Chopin affords more explicit information. We
read there:—
We may summarise these various depositions by saying with Lenz that, being
deficient in physical strength, Chopin put his all in the cantabile style,
in the connections and combinations, in the detail. But two things are
evident, and they ought to be noted: (1) The volume of tone, of pure tone,
which Chopin was capable of producing was by no means inconsiderable; (2)
he had learnt the art of economising his means so as to cover his
shortcomings. This last statement is confirmed by some remarks of
Moscheles which have already been quoted—namely, that Chopin’s piano
was breathed forth so softly that he required no vigorous forte to produce
the desired contrasts; and that one did not miss the orchestral effects
which the German school demanded from a pianist, but allowed one’s self to
be carried away as by a singer who takes little heed of the accompaniment
and follows his own feelings.
In listening to accounts of Chopin’s style of playing, we must not leave
out of consideration the time to which they refer. What is true of the
Chopin of 1848 is not true of the Chopin of 1831 nor of 1841. In the last
years of his life he became so weak that sometimes, as Stephen Heller told
me, his playing was hardly audible. He then made use of all sorts of
devices to hide the want of vigour, often modifying the original
conception of his compositions, but always producing beautiful effects.
Thus, to give only one example (for which and much other interesting
information I am indebted to Mr. Charles Halle), Chopin played at his last
concert in Paris (February, 1848) the two forte passages towards the end
of the Barcarole, not as they are printed, but pianissimo and with all
sorts of dynamic finesses. Having possessed himself of the most recondite
mysteries of touch, and mastered as no other pianist had done the subtlest
gradations of tone, he even then, reduced by disease as he was, did not
give the hearer the impression of weakness. At least this is what Mr. Otto
Goldschmidt relates, who likewise was present at this concert. There can
be no doubt that what Chopin aimed at chiefly, or rather, let us say, what
his physical constitution permitted him to aim at, was quality not
quantity of tone. A writer in the “Menestrel” (October 21, 1849) remarks
that for Chopin, who in this was unlike all other pianists, the piano had
always too much tone; and that his constant endeavour was to
SENTIMENTALISE the timbre, his greatest care to avoid everything which
approached the fracas pianistique of the time.
Of course, a true artist’s touch has besides its mechanical also its
spiritual aspect. With regard to this it is impossible to overlook the
personal element which pervaded and characterised Chopin’s touch. M.
Marmontel does not forget to note it in his “Pianistes Celebres.” He
writes:—
In connection with Chopin’s production of tone, I must not omit to mention
his felicitous utilisation of the loud and soft pedals. It was not till
the time of Liszt, Thalberg, and Chopin that the pedals became a power in
pianoforte-playing. Hummel did not understand their importance, and failed
to take advantage of them. The few indications we find in Beethoven’s
works prove that this genius began to see some of the as yet latent
possibilities. Of the virtuosi,
Moscheles was the first who made a more extensive and artistic use of the
pedals, although also he employed them sparingly compared with his
above-named younger contemporaries. Every pianist of note has, of course,
his own style of pedalling. Unfortunately, there are no particulars
forthcoming with regard to Chopin’s peculiar style; and this is the more
to be regretted as the composer was very careless in his notation of the
pedals. Rubinstein declares that most of the pedal marks in Chopin’s
compositions are wrongly placed. If nothing more, we know at least thus
much: “No pianist before him [Chopin] has employed the pedals alternately
or simultaneously with so much tact and ability,” and “in making
constantly use of the pedal he obtained des harmonies ravissantes, des
bruissements melodiques qui etonnaient et charmaient.” [FOOTNOTE:
Marmontel: “Les Pianistes celebres.”]
The poetical qualities of Chopin’s playingare not so easily defined as the
technical ones. Indeed, if they are definable at all they are so only by
one who, like Liszt, is a poet as well as a great pianist. I shall,
therefore, transcribe from his book some of the most important remarks
bearing on this matter.
After saying that Chopin idealised the fugitive poesy inspired by fugitive
apparitions like “La Fee aux Miettes,” “Le Lutin d’Argail,” &c., to
such an extent as to render its fibres so thin and friable that they
seemed no longer to belong to our nature, but to reveal to us the
indiscreet confidences of the Undines, Titanias, Ariels, Queen Mabs, and
Oberons, Liszt proceeds thus:—
It is interesting to compare this description with that of another poet, a
poet who sent forth his poetry daintily dressed in verse as well as
carelessly wrapped in prose. Liszt tells us that Chopin had in his
imagination and talent something “qui, par la purete de sa diction, par
ses accointances avec La Fee aux Miettes et Le Lutin d’Argail, par ses
rencon-tres de Seraphine et de Diane, murmurant a son oreille leurs plus
confidentielles plaintes, leurs reves les plus innommes,” [FOOTNOTE: The
allusions are to stories by Charles Nodier. According to Sainte-Beuve, “La
Fee aux Miettes” was one of those stories in which the author was
influenced by Hoffmann’s creations.] reminded him of Nodier. Now, what
thoughts did Chopin’s playing call up in Heine?
But to return to Liszt. A little farther on than the passage I quoted
above he says:—
Let us try if it is not possible to obtain a clearer notion of this
mysterious tempo rubato. Among instrumentalists the “stolen time” was
brought into vogue especially by Chopin and Liszt. But it is not an
invention of theirs or their time. Quanz, the great flutist (see Marpurg:
“Kritische Beitrage.” Vol. I.), said that he heard it for the first time
from the celebrated singer Santa Stella Lotti, who was engaged in 1717 at
the Dresden Opera, and died in 1759 at Venice. Above all, however, we have
to keep in mind that the tempo rubato is a genus which comprehends
numerous species. In short, the tempo rubato of Chopin is not that of
Liszt, that of Liszt is not that of Henselt, and so on. As for the general
definitions we find in dictionaries, they can afford us no particular
enlightenment. But help comes to us from elsewhere. Liszt explained
Chopin’s tempo rubato in a very poetical and graphic manner to his pupil
the Russian pianist Neilissow:—”Look at these trees!” he said, “the
wind plays in the leaves, stirs up life among them, the tree remains the
same, that is Chopinesque rubato.” But how did the composer himself
describe it? From Madame Dubois and other pupils of Chopin we learn that
he was in the habit of saying to them: “Que votre main gauche soit votre
maitre de chapelle et garde toujours la mesure” (Let your left hand be
your conductor and always keep time). According to Lenz Chopin taught
also: “Angenommen, ein Stuck dauert so und so viel Minuten, wenn das Ganze
nur so lange gedauert hat, im Einzelnen kann’s anders sein!” (Suppose a
piece lasts so and so many minutes, if only the whole lasts so long, the
differences in the details do not matter). This is somewhat ambiguous
teaching, and seems to be in contradiction to the preceding precept.
Mikuli, another pupil of Chopin’s, explains his master’s tempo rubato
thus:—”While the singing hand, either irresolutely lingering or as
in passionate speech eagerly anticipating with a certain impatient
vehemence, freed the truth of the musical expression from all rhythmical
fetters, the other, the accompanying hand, continued to play strictly in
time.” We get a very lucid description of Chopin’s tempo rubato from the
critic of the Athenaeum who after hearing the pianist-composer at a London
matinee in 1848 wrote:—”He makes free use of tempo rubato; leaning
about within his bars more than any player we recollect, but still subject
to a presiding measure such as presently habituates the ear to the
liberties taken.” Often, no doubt, people mistook for tempo rubato what in
reality was a suppression or displacement of accent, to which kind of
playing the term is indeed sometimes applied. The reader will remember the
following passage from a criticism in the “Wiener Theaterzeitung” of 1829:—”There
are defects noticeable in the young man’s [Chopin’s] playing, among which
is perhaps especially to be mentioned the non-observance of the indication
by accent of the commencement of musical phrases.” Mr. Halle related to me
an interesting dispute bearing on this matter. The German pianist told
Chopin one day that he played in his mazurkas often 4/4 instead of 3/4
time. Chopin would not admit it at first, but when Mr. Halle proved his
case by counting to Chopin’s playing, the latter admitted the correctness
of the observation, and laughing said that this was national. Lenz reports
a similar dispute between Chopin and Meyerbeer. In short, we may sum up in
Moscheles’ words, Chopin’s playing did not degenerate into Tactlosigkeit
[lit., timelessness], but it was of the most charming originality. Along
with the above testimony we have, however, to take note of what Berlioz
said on the subject: “Chopin supportait mal le frein de la mesure; il a
pousse beaucoup trap loin, selon moi, l’independance rhythmique.” Berlioz
even went so far as to say that “Chopin could not play strictly in time
[ne pouvait pas jouer regulierement].”
Indeed, so strange was Chopin’s style that when Mr. Charles Halle first
heard him play his compositions he could not imagine how what he heard was
represented by musical signs. But strange as Chopin’s style of playing was
he thinks that its peculiarities are generally exaggerated. The Parisians
said of Rubinstein’s playing of compositions of Chopin: “Ce n’est pas ca!”
Mr. Halle himself thinks that Rubinstein’s rendering of Chopin is clever,
but not Chopinesque. Nor do Von Bulow’s readings come near the original.
As for Chopin’s pupils, they are even less successful than others in
imitating their master’s style. The opinion of one who is so distinguished
a pianist and at the same time was so well acquainted with Chopin as Mr.
Halle is worth having. Hearing Chopin often play his compositions he got
so familiar with that master’s music and felt so much in sympathy with it
that the composer liked to have it played by him, and told him that when
he was in the adjoining room he could imagine he was playing himself.
But it is time that we got off the shoals on which we have been lying so
long. Well, Lenz shall set us afloat:—
One day Chopin took Lenz with him to the Baronne Krudner and her friend
the Countess Scheremetjew to whom he had promised to play the variations
of Beethoven’s Sonata in A flat major (Op. 26). And how did he play them?
Chopin’s purity of style, self-command, and aristocratic reserve have to
be quite especially noted by us who are accustomed to hear the master’s
compositions played wildly, deliriously, ostentatiously. J. B. Cramer’s
remarks on Chopin are significant. The master of a bygone age said of the
master of the then flourishing generation:—
What one reads and hears of Chopin’s playing agrees with the account of
his pupil Mikuli, who remarks that, with all the warmth which Chopin
possessed in so high a degree, his rendering was nevertheless temperate
[massvoll], chaste, nay, aristocratic, and sometimes even severely
reserved. When, on returning home from the above-mentioned visit to the
Russian ladies, Lenz expressed his sincere opinion of Chopin’s playing of
Beethoven’s variations, the master replied testily: “I indicate
(j’indique); the hearer must complete (parachever) the picture.” And when
afterwards, while Chopin was changing his clothes in an adjoining room,
Lenz committed the impertinence of playing Beethoven’s theme as he
understood it, the master came in in his shirt-sleeves, sat down beside
him, and at the end of the theme laid his hand on Lenz’s shoulder and
said: “I shall tell Liszt of it; this has never happened to me before; but
it is beautiful—well, BUT MUST ONE THEN ALWAYS SPEAK SO PASSIONATELY
(si declamatoirement)?” The italics in the text, not those in parentheses,
are mine. I marked some of Chopin’s words thus that they might get the
attention they deserve. “Tell me with whom you associate, and I will tell
you who you are.” Parodying this aphorism one might say, not without a
good deal of truth: Tell me what piano you use, and I will tell you what
sort of a pianist you are. Liszt gives us all the desirable information as
to Chopin’s predilection in this respect. But Lenz too has, as we have
seen, touched on this point. Liszt writes:—
Chopin himself said:—
From the fact that Chopin played during his visit to Great Britain in 1848
at public concerts as well as at private parties on instruments of
Broadwood’s, we may conclude that he also appreciated the pianos of this
firm. In a letter dated London, 48, Dover Street, May 6, 1848, he writes
to Gutmann: “Erard a ete charmant, il m’a fait poser un piano. J’ai un de
Broadwood et un de Pleyel, ce qui fait 3, et je ne trouve pas encore le
temps pour les jouer.” And in a letter dated Edinburgh, August 6, and
Calder House, August 11, he writes to Franchomme: “I have a Broadwood
piano in my room, and the Pleyel of Miss Stirling in the salon.”
Here, I think, will be the fittest place to record what I have learnt
regarding Chopin’s musical taste and opinions on music and musicians, and
what will perhaps illustrate better than any other part of this book the
character of the man and artist. His opinions of composers and musical
works show that he had in a high degree les vices de ses qualites. The
delicacy of his constitution and the super-refinement of his breeding,
which put within his reach the inimitable beauties of subtlest tenderness
and grace that distinguish his compositions and distinguished his playing,
were disqualifications as well as qualifications. “Every kind of uncouth
roughness [toutes les rudesses sauvages] inspired him with aversion,” says
Liszt. “In music as in literature and in every-day life everything which
bordered on melodrama was torture to him.” In short, Chopin was an
aristocrat with all the exclusiveness of an aristocrat.
The inability of men of genius to appreciate the merit of one or the other
of their great predecessors and more especially of their contemporaries
has often been commented on and wondered at, but I doubt very much whether
a musician could be instanced whose sympathies were narrower than those of
Chopin. Besides being biographically important, the record of the master’s
likings and dislikings will teach a useful lesson to the critic and
furnish some curious material for the psychological student.
Highest among all the composers, living and dead, Chopin esteemed Mozart.
Him he regarded as “the ideal type, the poet par excellence.” It is
related of Chopin—with what truth I do not know—that he never
travelled without having either the score of “Don Giovanni” or that of the
“Requiem” in his portmanteau. Significant, although not founded on fact,
is the story according to which he expressed the wish that the “Requiem”
should be performed at his funeral service. Nothing, however, shows his
love for the great German master more unmistakably and more touchingly
than the words which on his death-bed he addressed to his dear friends the
Princess Czartoryska and M. Franchomme: “You will play Mozart together,
and I shall hear you.” And why did Chopin regard Mozart as the ideal type,
the poet par excellence? Liszt answers: “Because Mozart condescended more
rarely than any other composer to cross the steps which separate
refinement from vulgarity.” But what no doubt more especially stirred
sympathetic chords in the heart of Chopin, and inspired him with that
loving admiration for the earlier master, was the sweetness, the grace,
and the harmoniousness which in Mozart’s works reign supreme and
undisturbed—the unsurpassed and unsurpassable perfect loveliness and
lovely perfection which result from a complete absence of everything that
is harsh, hard, awkward, unhealthy, and eccentric. And yet, says Liszt of
Chopin:—
The composer who next to Mozart stood highest in Chopin’s esteem was Bach.
“It was difficult to say,” remarks Mikuli, “which of the two he loved
most.” Chopin not only, as has already been mentioned, had works of Bach
on his writing-table at Valdemosa, corrected the Parisian edition for his
own use, and prepared himself for his concerts by playing Bach, but also
set his pupils to study the immortal cantor’s suites, partitas, and
preludes and fugues. Madame Dubois told me that at her last meeting with
him (in 1848) he recommended her “de toujours travailler Bach,” adding
that that was the best means of making progress.
Hummel, Field, and Moscheles were the pianoforte composers who seem to
have given Chopin most satisfaction. Mozart and Bach were his gods, but
these were his friends. Gutmann informed me that Chopin was particularly
fond of Hummel; Liszt writes that Hummel was one of the composers Chopin
played again and again with the greatest pleasure; and from Mikuli we
learn that of Hummel’s compositions his master liked best the Fantasia,
the Septet, and the Concertos. Liszt’s statement that the Nocturnes of
Field were regarded by Chopin as “insuffisants” seems to me disproved by
unexceptionable evidence. Chopin schooled his pupils most assiduously and
carefully in the Nocturnes as well as in the Concertos of Field, who was,
to use Madame Dubois’s words, “an author very sympathetic to him.” Mikuli
relates that Chopin had a predilection for Field’s A flat Concerto and the
Nocturnes, and that, when playing the latter, he used to improvise the
most charming embellishments. To take liberties with another artist’s
works and complain when another artist takes liberties with your own works
is very inconsistent, is it not? But it is also thoroughly human, and
Chopin was not exempt from the common failing. One day when Liszt did with
some composition of Chopin’s what the latter was in the habit of doing
with Field’s Nocturnes, the enraged composer is said to have told his
friend to play his compositions as they were written or to let them alone.
M. Marmontel writes:—
This, however, is a digression. Little need be added to what has already
been said in another chapter of the third composer of the group we were
speaking of. Chopin, the reader will remember, told Moscheles that he
loved his music, and Moscheles admitted that he who thus complimented him
was intimately acquainted with it. From Mikuli we learn that Moscheles’
studies were very sympathetic to his master. As to Moscheles’ duets, they
were played by Chopin probably more frequently than the works of any other
composer, excepting of course his own works. We hear of his playing them
not only with his pupils, but with Osborne, with Moscheles himself, and
with Liszt, who told me that Chopin was fond of playing with him the duets
of Moscheles and Hummel.
Speaking of playing duets reminds me of Schubert, who, Gutmann informed
me, was a favourite of Chopin’s. The Viennese master’s “Divertissement
hongrois” he admired without reserve. Also the marches and polonaises a
quatre mains he played with his pupils. But his teaching repertoire seems
to have contained, with the exception of the waltzes, none of the works a
deux mains, neither the sonatas, nor the impromptus, nor the “Moments
musicals.” This shows that if Schubert was a favourite of Chopin’s, he was
so only to a certain extent. Indeed, Chopin even found fault with the
master where he is universally regarded as facile princeps. Liszt remarks:—
Gutmann informed me that he brought the A flat major Sonata with him from
Germany in 1836 or 1837, and that Chopin did not know it then. It is hard
enough to believe that Liszt asked Lenz in 1828 if the composer of the
“Freischutz” had also written for the piano, but Chopin’s ignorance in
1836 is much more startling. Did fame and publications travel so slowly in
the earlier part of the century? Had genius to wait so long for
recognition? If the statement, for the correctness of which Gutmann alone
is responsible, rests on fact and not on some delusion of memory, this
most characteristic work of Weber and one of the most important items of
the pianoforte literature did not reach Chopin, one of the foremost
European pianists, till twenty years after its publication, which took
place in December, 1816.
That Chopin had a high opinion of Beethoven may be gathered from a story
which Lenz relates in an article written for the “Berliner Musikzeitung”
(Vol. XXVI). Little Filtsch—the talented young Hungarian who made
Liszt say: “I shall shut my shop when he begins to travel”—having
played to a select company invited by his master the latter’s Concerto in
E minor, Chopin was so pleased with his pupil’s performance that he went
with him to Schlesinger’s music-shop, asked for the score of “Fidelio,”
and presented it to him with the words:—”I am in your debt, you have
given me great pleasure to-day, I wrote the concerto in a happy time,
accept, my dear young friend, the great master work! read in it as long as
you live and remember me also sometimes.” But Chopin’s high opinion of
Beethoven was neither unlimited nor unqualified. His attitude as regards
this master, which Franchomme briefly indicated by saying that his friend
loved Beethoven, but had his dislikes in connection with him, is more
fully explained by Liszt.
I am able to illustrate this most excellent general description by some
examples. Chopin said that Beethoven raised him one moment up to the
heavens and the next moment precipitated him to the earth, nay, into the
very mire. Such a fall Chopin experienced always at the commencement of
the last movement of the C minor Symphony. Gutmann, who informed me of
this, added that pieces such as the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata
(C sharp minor) were most highly appreciated by his master. One day when
Mr. Halle played to Chopin one of the three Sonatas, Op. 31 (I am not sure
which it was), the latter remarked that he had formerly thought the last
movement VULGAR. From this Mr. Halle naturally concluded that Chopin could
not have studied the works of Beethoven thoroughly. This conjecture is
confirmed by what we learn from Lenz, who in 1842 saw a good deal of
Chopin, and thanks to his Boswellian inquisitiveness, persistence, and
forwardness, made himself acquainted with a number of interesting facts.
Lenz and Chopin spoke a great deal about Beethoven after that visit to the
Russian ladies mentioned in a foregoing part of this chapter. They had
never spoken of the great master before. Lenz says of Chopin:—
Chopin, on being told by Lenz that Beethoven had in the F minor Quartet
anticipated Mendelssohn, Schumann, and him; and that the scherzo prepared
the way for his mazurka-fantasias, said: “Bring me this quartet, I do not
know it.” According to Mikuli Chopin was a regular frequenter of the
concerts of the Societe des Concerts du Conservatoire and of the Alard,
Franchomme, &c., quartet party. But one of the most distinguished
musicians living in Paris, who knew Chopin’s opinion of Beethoven,
suspects that the music was for him not the greatest attraction of the
Conservatoire concerts, that in fact, like most of those who went there,
he considered them a fashionable resort. True or not, the suspicion is
undeniably significant. “But Mendelssohn,” the reader will say, “surely
Chopin must have admired and felt in sympathy with this sweet-voiced,
well-mannered musician?” Nothing, however, could be farther from the
truth. Chopin hated Mendelssohn’s D minor Trio, and told Halle that that
composer had never written anything better than the first Song without
Words. Franchomme, stating the case mildly, says that Chopin did not care
much for Mendelssohn’s music; Gutmann, however, declared stoutly that his
master positively disliked it and thought it COMMON. This word and the
mention of the Trio remind me of a passage in Hiller’s “Mendelssohn:
Letters and Recollections,” in which the author relates how, when his
friend played to him the D minor Trio after its completion, he was
favourably impressed by the fire, spirit, and flow, in one word, the
masterly character of the work, but had some misgivings about certain
pianoforte passages, especially those based on broken chords, which,
accustomed as he was by his constant intercourse with Liszt and Chopin
during his stay of several years in Paris to the rich passage work of the
new school, appeared to him old-fashioned. Mendelssohn, who in his letters
repeatedly alludes to his sterility in the matter of new pianoforte
passages, allowed himself to be persuaded by Hiller to rewrite the
pianoforte part, and was pleased with the result. It is clear from the
above that if Mendelssohn failed to give Chopin his due, Chopin did more
than apply the jus talionis.
Schumann, however, found still less favour in the eyes of Chopin than
Mendelssohn; for whilst among the works which, for instance, Madame
Dubois, who was Chopin’s pupil for five years, studied under her master,
Mendelssohn was represented at least by the Songs without Words and the G
minor Concerto, Schumann was conspicuous by his total absence. And let it
be remarked that this was in the last years of Chopin’s life, when
Schumann had composed and published almost all his important works for
pianoforte alone and many of his finest works for pianoforte with other
instruments. M. Mathias, Chopin’s pupil during the years 1839-1844, wrote
to me: “I think I recollect that he had no great opinion of Schumann. I
remember seeing the “Carnaval,” Op. 9, on his table; he did not speak very
highly of it.” In 1838, when Stephen Heller was about to leave Augsburg
for Paris, Schumann sent him a copy of his “Carnaval” (published in
September, 1837), to be presented to Chopin. This copy had a title-page
printed in various colours and was most tastefully bound; for Schumann
knew Chopin’s love of elegance, and wished to please him. Soon after his
arrival in Paris, Heller called on the Polish musician and found him
sitting for his portrait. On receiving the copy of the “Carnaval” Chopin
said: “How beautifully they get up these things in Germany!” but uttered
not a word about the music. However, we shall see presently what his
opinion of it was. Some time, perhaps some years, after this first meeting
with Chopin, Heller was asked by Schlesinger whether he would advise him
to publish Schumann’s “Carnaval.” Heller answered that it would be a good
speculation, for although the work would probably not sell well at first,
it was sure to pay in the long run. Thereupon Schlesinger confided to
Heller what Chopin had told him—namely, that the “Carnaval” was not
music at all. The contemplation of this indifference and more than
indifference of a great artist to the creations of one of his most
distinguished contemporaries is saddening, especially if we remember how
devoted Schumann was to Chopin, how he admired him, loved him, upheld him,
and idolised him. Had it not been for Schumann’s enthusiastic praise and
valiant defence Chopin’s fame would have risen and spread, more slowly in
Germany.
“Of virtuoso music of any kind I never saw anything on his desk, nor do I
think anybody else ever did,” says Mikuli.. This, although true in the
main, is somewhat too strongly stated. Kalkbrenner, whose “noisy
virtuosities [virtuosites tapageuses] and decorative expressivities
[expressivites decoratives]” Chopin regarded with antipathy, and Thalberg,
whose shallow elegancies and brilliancies he despised, were no doubt
altogether banished from his desk; this, however, seems not to have been
the case with Liszt, who occasionally made his appearance there. Thus
Madame Dubois studied under Chopin Liszt’s transcription of Rossini’s
“Tarantella” and of the Septet from Donizetti’s “Lucia di Lammermoor.” But
the compositions of Liszt that had Chopin’s approval were very limited in
number. Chopin, who viewed making concessions to bad taste at the cost of
true art and for the sake of success with the greatest indignation, found
his former friend often guilty of this sin. In 1840 Liszt’s transcription
of Beethoven’s “Adelaide” was published in a supplement to the Gazette
musicale. M. Mathias happened to come to Chopin on the day when the latter
had received the number of the journal which contained the piece in
question, and found his master furious, outre, on account of certain
cadenzas which he considered out of place and out of keeping.
We have seen in one of the earlier chapters how little Chopin approved of
Berlioz’s matter and manner; some of the ultra-romanticist’s antipodes did
not fare much better. As for Halevy, Chopin had no great opinion of him;
Meyerbeer’s music he heartily disliked; and, although not insensible to
Auber’s French esprit and liveliness, he did not prize this master’s works
very highly. Indeed, at the Italian opera-house he found more that was to
his taste than at the French opera-houses. Bellini’s music had a
particular charm for Chopin, and he was also an admirer of Rossini.
The above notes exemplify and show the truth of Liszt’s remark:—
CHAPTER XXVI.
1843-1847.
CHOPIN’S PECUNIARY CIRCUMSTANCES, AND BUSINESS EXPERIENCES WITH
PUBLISHERS.—LETTERS TO FRANCHOMME.—PUBLICATIONS FROM 1842-7.—SOJOURNS
AT NOHANT.—LISZT, MATTHEW ARNOLD, GEORGE SAND, CHARLES ROLLINAT, AND
EUGENE DELACROIX ON NOHANT AND LIFE AT NOHANT.—CHOPIN’S MODE OF
COMPOSITION.—CHOPIN AND GEORGE SAND TAKE UP THEIR PARIS QUARTERS IN
THE CITE D’ORLEANS.—THEIR WAY OF LIFE THERE, PARTICULARLY CHOPIN’S,
AS DESCRIBED BY HIS PUPILS LINDSAY SLOPER, MATHIAS, AND MADAME DUBOIS, AND
MORE ESPECIALLY BY LENZ, MADAME SAND HERSELF, AND PROFESSOR ALEXANDER
CHODZKO (DOMESTIC RELATIONS, APARTMENTS, MANNERS, SYMPATHIES, HIS TALENT
FOR MIMICRY, GEORGE SAND’S FRIENDS, AND HER ESTIMATE OF CHOPIN’S
CHARACTER).
Chopin’s life from 1843 to 1847 was too little eventful to lend itself to
a chronologically progressive narrative. I shall, therefore, begin this
chapter with a number of letters written by the composer during this
period to his friend Franchomme, and then endeavour to describe Chopin’s
mode of life, friends, character, &c.
The following fascicle of letters, although containing less about the
writer’s thoughts, feelings, and doings than we could wish, affords
nevertheless matter of interest. At any rate, much additional light is
thrown on Chopin’s pecuniary circumstances and his dealings with his
publishers.
Impecuniosity seems to have been a chronic state with the artist and
sometimes to have pressed hard upon him. On one occasion it even made him
write to the father of one of his pupils, and ask for the payment of the
fees for five lessons (100 francs). M. Mathias tells me that the letter is
still in his possession. One would hardly have expected such a proceeding
from a grand seigneur like Chopin, and many will, no doubt, ask, how it
was that a teacher so much sought after, who got 20 francs a lesson, and
besides had an income from his compositions, was reduced to such straits.
The riddle is easily solved. Chopin was open-handed and not much of an
economist: he spent a good deal on pretty trifles, assisted liberally his
needy countrymen, made handsome presents to his friends, and is said to
have had occasionally to pay bills of his likewise often impecunious
lady-love. Moreover, his total income was not so large as may be supposed,
for although he could have as many pupils as he wished, he never taught
more than five hours a day, and lived every year for several months in the
country. And then there is one other point to be taken into consideration:
he often gave his lessons gratis. From Madame Rubio I learned that on one
occasion when she had placed the money for a series of lessons on the
mantel-piece, the master declined to take any of it, with the exception of
a 20-franc piece, for which sum he put her name down on a subscription
list for poor Poles. Lindsay Sloper, too, told me that Chopin declined
payment for the lessons he gave him.
Chopin’s business experiences were not, for the most part, of a pleasant
nature; this is shown as much by the facts he mentions in his letters as
by the distrust with which he speaks of the publishers. Here are some more
particulars on the same subject. Gutmann says that Chopin on his return
from Majorca asked Schlesinger for better terms. But the publisher, whilst
professing the highest opinion of the composer’s merit, regretted that the
sale of the compositions was not such as to allow him to pay more than he
had hitherto done. [FOOTNOTE: Chopin’s letters show that Gutmann’s
statement is correct. Troupenas was Chopin’s publisher for some time after
his return from Majorca.] Stephen Heller remembered hearing that Breitkopf
and Hartel, of Leipzig, wrote to their Paris agent informing him that they
would go on publishing Chopin’s compositions, although, considering their
by no means large sale, the terms at which they got them were too high.
Ed. Wolff related to me that one day he drove with his countryman to the
publisher Troupenas, to whom Chopin wished to sell his Sonata (probably
the one in B flat minor). When after his negotiations with the publisher
Chopin was seated again in the carriage, he said in Polish: “The pig, he
offered me 200 francs for my Sonata!” Chopin’s relations with England were
even less satisfactory. At a concert at which Filtsch played, Chopin
introduced Stephen Heller to Wessel or to a representative ofthat firm,
but afterwards remarked: “You won’t find them pleasant to deal with.”
Chopin at any rate did not find them pleasant to deal with. Hearing that
Gutmann was going to London he asked his pupil to call at Wessel’s and try
to renew the contract which had expired. The publisher on being applied to
answered that not only would he not renew the contract, but that he would
not even print Chopin’s compositions if he got them for nothing. Among the
pieces offered was the Berceuse. With regard to this story of Gutmann’s it
has, however, to be stated that, though it may have some foundation of
fact, it is not true as he told it; for Wessel certainly had published the
Berceuse by June 26, 1845, and also published in the course of time the
five following works. Then, however, the connection was broken off by
Wessel. Chopin’s grumblings at his English publisher brings before us only
one side of the question. The other side comes in view in the following
piece of information with which Wessel’s successor, Mr. Edwin Ashdown,
favoured me:—”In 1847 Mr. Wessel got tired of buying Chopin’s works,
which at that time had scarcely any sale, and discontinued the agreement,
his last assignment from Chopin (of Op. 60, 61, and 62) being dated July
17, 1847.” Wessel advertised these works on September 26, 1846.
Although in the first of the following letters the day, month, and year
when it was written are not mentioned, and the second and third inform us
only of the day and month, but not of the year, internal evidence shows
that the first four letters form one group and belong to the year 1844.
Chopin places the date sometimes at the head, sometimes at the foot, and
sometimes in the middle of his letters; to give it prominence I shall
place it always at the head, but indicate where he places it in the
middle.
Chateau de Nohant, near La Chatre, Indre [August 1, 1844].
This will be the proper place to mention the compositions of the years
1842-47, about the publication of many of which we have read so much in
the above letters. There is no new publication to be recorded in 1842. The
publications of 1843 were: in February—Op. 51, Allegro vivace,
Troisieme Impromptu (G flat major), dedicated to Madame la Comtesse
Esterhazy; in December—Op. 52, Quatrieme Ballade (F minor),
dedicated to Madame la Baronne C. de Rothschild; Op. 53, Huitieme
Polonaise (A flat major), dedicated to Mr. A. Leo; and Op. 54, Scherzo,
No. 4 (E major), dedicated to Mdlle. J. de Caraman. Those of 1844 were: in
August—Op. 55, Deux Nocturnes (F minor and E flat major), dedicated
to Mdlle. J. H. Stirling; and Op. 56, Trois Mazurkas (A minor, A flat
major, and F sharp minor), dedicated to Mdlle. C. Maberly. Those of 1845:
in May—Op. 57, Berceuse (D flat major), dedicated to Mdlle. Elise
Gavard; and in June—Op. 58, Sonate (B minor), dedicated to Madame la
Comtesse E. de Perthuis. Those of 1846: in April—Op. 59, Trois
Mazurkas (A minor, A flat major, and F sharp minor); and in September—Op.
60, Barcarole (F sharp major), dedicated to Madame la Baronne de
Stockhausen; Op. 61, Polonaise-Fantaisie (A flat major), dedicated to
Madame A. Veyret; and Op. 62, Deux Nocturnes (B major and E major),
dedicated to Mdlle. R. de Konneritz. Those of 1847: in September—Op.
63, Trois Mazurkas (B major, F minor, and C sharp minor), dedicated to
Madame la Comtesse L. Czosnowska, and Op. 64, Trois Valses (D flat major,
C sharp minor, and A flat major), respectively dedicated to Madame la
Comtesse Delphine Potocka, Madame la Baronne Nathaniel de Rothschild, and
Madame la Baronne Bronicka; and lastly, in October—Op. 65, Sonate (G
minor), pour piano et violoncelle, dedicated to Mr. A. Franchomme.
From 1838 to 1846 Chopin passed regularly every year, with the exception
of 1840, three or four months at Nohant. The musical papers announced
Chopin’s return to town sometimes at the beginning of October, sometimes
at the beginning of November. In 1844 he must either have made a longer
stay at Nohant than usual or paid it a visit during the winter, for in the
“Gazette musicale” of January 5, 1845, we read: “Chopin has returned to
Paris and brought with him a new grand Sonata and variantes. These two
important works will soon be published.”
[FOOTNOTE: The new Sonata here mentioned is the one in B minor, Op. 58,
which was published in June, 1845. As to the other item mentioned, I am
somewhat puzzled. Has the word to be taken in its literal sense of
“various readings,” i.e., new readings of works already known (the
context, however, does not favour this supposition), or does it refer to
the ever-varying evolutions of the Berceuse, Op. 57. published in May,
1845, or, lastly, is it simply a misprint?]
George Sand generally prolonged her stay at Nohant till pretty far into
the winter, much to the sorrow of her malade ordinaire (thus Chopin used
to style himself), who yearned for her return to Paris.
According to Liszt, the country and the vie de chateau pleased Chopin so
much that for the sake of enjoying them he put up with company that did
not please him at all. George Sand has a different story to tell. She
declares that the retired life and the solemnity of the country agreed
neither with Chopin’s physical nor with his moral health; that he loved
the country only for a fortnight, after which he bore it only out of
attachment to her; and that he never felt regret on leaving it. Whether
Chopin loved country life or not, whether he liked George Sand’s Berry
friends and her guests from elsewhere or not, we may be sure that he
missed Paris and his accustomed Paris society.
“Of all the troubles I had not to endure but to contend against, the
sufferings of my malade ordinaire were not the least,” says George Sand.
“Chopin always wished for Nohant, and never could bear it.” And, speaking
of the later years, when the havoc made in Chopin’s constitution by the
inroads of his malady showed itself more and more, she remarks: “Nohant
had become repugnant to him. His return in the spring still filled him
with ecstatic joy for a short time. But as soon as he began to work
everything round him assumed a gloomy aspect.”
Before we peep into Chopin’s room and watch him at work, let us see what
the chateau of Nohant and life there were like. “The railway through the
centre of France went in those days [August, 1846] no further than
Vierzon,” [FOOTNOTE: The opening of the extension of the line to
Chateauroux was daily expected at that time.] writes Mr. Matthew Arnold in
an account of a visit paid by him to George Sand:—
The Chateau of Nohant is indeed, as Mr. Matthew Arnold says, a plain
house, only the roof with its irregularly distributed dormars and
chimney-stacks of various size giving to it a touch of picturesqueness. On
the other hand, the ground-floor, with its central door flanked on each
side by three windows, and the seven windowed story above, impresses one
with the sense of spaciousness.
Liszt, speaking of a three months’ stay at Nohant made by himself and his
friend the Comtesse d’Agoult in the summer of 1837—i.e., before the
closer connection of George Sand and Chopin began—relates that the
hostess and her guests spent the days in reading good books, receiving
letters from absent friends, taking long walks on the banks of the Indre,
and in other equally simple occupations and amusements. In the evenings
they assembled on the terrace. There, where the light of the lamps cast
fantastic shadows on the neighbouring trees, they sat listening to the
murmuring of the river and the warbling of the nightingales, and breathing
in the sweet perfume of the lime-trees and the stronger scent of the
larches till the Countess would exclaim: “There you are again dreaming,
you incorrigible artists! Do you not know that the hour for working has
come?” And then George Sand would go and write at the book on which she
was engaged, and Liszt would betake himself to the old scores which he was
studying with a view to discover some of the great masters’ secrets.
[FOOTNOTE: Liszt. “Essays and Reisebriefe eines Baccalaureus der
Tonkunst.” Vol. II., pp. 146 and 147 of the collected works.]
Thus was Nohant in quiet days. But the days at Nohant were by no means
always quiet. For George Sand was most hospitable, kept indeed literally
open house for her friends, and did so regardless of credit and debit. The
following passage from a letter written by her in 1840 from Paris to her
half-brother Hippolyte Chatiron gives us a good idea of the state of
matters:—
In George Sand’s letters many glimpses may be caught of the life at
Nohant. To some of them I have already drawn the reader’s attention in
preceding chapters; now I shall point out a few more.
Charles Rollinat, a friend of George Sand’s, the brother of one of George
Sand’s most intimate and valued friends, Francois Rollinat, published in
“Le Temps” (September 1, 1874) a charming “Souvenir de Nohant,” which
shows us the the chateau astir with a more numerous company:—
[FOOTNOTE: Charles Rollinat, a younger brother of Francois, went
afterwards to Russia, where, according to George Sand (see letter to
Edmond Plauchut, April 8, 1874), he was for twenty-five years “professeur
de musique et haut enseignement, avec une bonne place du gouvernement.” He
made a fortune and lost it, retaining only enough to live upon quietly in
Italy. He tried then to supplement his scanty income by literary work
(translations from the Russian). George Sand, recalling the days of long
ago, says: “Il chantait comme on ne chante plus, excepte Pauline
[Viardot-Garcia]!”]
Unfortunately, the greater portion of M. Rollinat’s so-called Souvenir
consists of “poetry WITHOUT truth.” Nevertheless, we will not altogether
ignore his pretty stories.
One evening when Liszt played a piece of Chopin’s with embellishments of
his own, the composer became impatient and at last, unable to restrain
himself any longer, walked up to Liszt and said with his ENGLISH PHLEGM:—
M. Rollinat then proceeds to tell his readers that Chopin, believing he
had eclipsed Liszt that evening, boasted of it, and said: “How vexed he
was!” It seems that the author felt that this part of the story put a
dangerously severe strain on the credulity of his readers, for he thinks
it necessary to assure them that these were the ipsissima verba of Chopin.
Well, the words in question came to the ears of Liszt, and he resolved at
once to have his revenge.
Five days afterwards the friends were again assembled in the same place
and at the same time. Liszt asked Chopin to play, and had all the lights
put out and all the curtains drawn; but when Chopin was going to the
piano, Liszt whispered something in his ear and sat down in his stead. He
played the same composition which Chopin had played on the previous
occasion, and the audience was again enchanted. At the end of the piece
Liszt struck a match and lighted the candles which stood on the piano. Of
course general stupefaction ensued.
Instead of commenting on the improbability of a generous artist thus
cruelly taunting his sensitive rival, I shall simply say that Liszt had
not the slightest recollection of ever having imitated Chopin’s playing in
a darkened room. There may be some minute grains of truth mixed up with
all this chaff of fancy—Chopin’s displeasure at the liberties Liszt
took with his compositions was no doubt one of them—but it is
impossible to separate them.
M. Rollinat relates also how in 184-, when Chopin, Liszt, the Comtesse
d’Agoult, Pauline Garcia, Eugene Delacroix, the actor Bocage, and other
celebrities were at Nohant, the piano was one moonlit night carried out to
the terrace; how Liszt played the hunting chorus from Weber’s Euryanthe,
Chopin some bars from an impromptu he was then composing; how Pauline
Garcia sang Nel cor piu non mi sento, and a niece of George Sand a popular
air; how the echo answered the musicians; and how after the music the
company, which included also a number of friends from the neighbouring
town, had punch and remained together till dawn. But here again M.
Rollinat’s veracity is impugned on all sides. Madame Viardot-Garcia
declares that she was never at Nohant when Liszt was there; and Liszt did
not remember having played on the terrace of the chateau. Moreover, seeing
that the first performance of the Prophete took place on April 16, 1849,
is it likely that Madame Pauline Garcia was studying her part before or in
1846? And unless she did so she could not meet Chopin at Nohant when she
was studying it.
M. Rollinat is more trustworthy when he tells us that there was a pretty
theatre and quite an assortment of costumes at the chateau; that the
dramas and comedies played there were improvised by the actors, only the
subject and the division into scenes being given; and that on two pianos,
concealed by curtains, one on the right and one on the left of the stage,
Chopin and Liszt improvised the musical part of the entertainment. All
this is, however, so much better and so much more fully told by George
Sand (in Dernieres Pages: Le Theatre des Marionnettes de Nohant) that we
will take our information from her. It was in the long nights of a winter
that she conceived the plan of these private theatricals in imitation of
the comedia dell’ arte—namely, of “pieces the improvised dialogue of
which followed a written sketch posted up behind the scenes.”
To get away from the quicksands of Souvenirs—for George Sand’s
pages, too, were written more than thirty years after the occurrences she
describes, and not published till 1877—I shall make some extracts
from the contemporaneous correspondence of George Sand’s great friend, the
celebrated painter Eugene Delacroix. [FOOTNOTE: Lettres de Eugene
Delacroix (1815 a 1863) recucillies et publiees par M. Philippe Burty.
Paris, 1878.] The reader cannot fail to feel at once the fresh breeze of
reality that issues from these letters, which contain vivid sketches full
of natural beauties and free from affectation and striving after effect:—
Amidst the affectations, insincerities, and superficialities of Chopin’s
social intercourse, Delacroix’s friendship—we have already seen that
the musician reciprocated the painter’s sentiments—stands out like a
green oasis in a barren desert. When, on October 28, 1849, a few days
after Chopin’s death, Delacroix sent a friend a ticket for the funeral
service of the deceased, he speaks of him as “my poor and dear Chopin.”
But the sincerity of Delacroix’s esteem and the tenderness of his love for
Chopin are most fully revealed in some lines of a letter which he wrote on
January 7, 1861, to Count Czymala [Grzymala]:—
The first three of the above extracts from Delacroix’s letters enable us
to form a clear idea of what the everyday life at Nohant was like, and
after reading them we can easily imagine that its monotony must have had a
depressing effect on the company-loving Chopin. But the drawback was
counterbalanced by an advantage. At Paris most of Chopin’s time was
occupied with teaching and the pleasures of society, at Nohant he could
devote himself undisturbed and undistracted to composition. And there is
more than sufficient evidence to prove that in this respect Chopin
utilised well the quiet and leisure of his rural retirement.
Few things excite the curiosity of those who have a taste for art and
literature so much as an artist’s or poet’s mode of creation. With what
interest, for instance, do we read Schindler’s account of how Beethoven
composed his Missa Solemnis—of the master’s absolute detachment from
the terrestrial world during the time he was engaged on this work; of his
singing, shouting, and stamping, when he was in the act of giving birth to
the fugue of the Credo! But as regards musicians, we know, generally
speaking, very little on the subject; and had not George Sand left us her
reminiscences, I should not have much to tell the reader about Chopin’s
mode of creation. From Gutmann I learned that his master worked long
before he put a composition to paper, but when it was once in writing did
not keep it long in his portfolio. The latter part of this statement is
contradicted by a remark of the better-informed Fontana, who, in the
preface to Chopin’s posthumous works, says that the composer, whether from
caprice or nonchalance, had the habit of keeping his manuscripts sometimes
a very long time in his portfolio before giving them to the public. As
George Sand observed the composer with an artist’s eye and interest, and
had, of course, better opportunities than anybody else to observe him, her
remarks are particularly valuable. She writes:—
A critic remarks in reference to this account that Chopin’s mode of
creation does not show genius, but only passion. From which we may
conclude that he would not, like Carlyle, have defined genius as the power
of taking infinite pains. To be sure, the great Scotchman’s definition is
inadequate, but nothing is more false than the popular notion that the
great authors throw off their works with the pleasantest ease, that
creation is an act of pure enjoyment. Beethoven’s sketch-books tell a
different story; so do also Balzac’s proof-sheets and the manuscripts of
Pope’s version of the Iliad and Odyssey in the British Museum. Dr. Johnson
speaking of Milton’s MSS. observed truly: “Such reliques show how
excellence is acquired.” Goethe in writing to Schiller asks him to return
certain books of “Wilhelm Meister” that he may go over them A FEW TIMES
before sending them to the press. And on re-reading one of these books he
cut out one third of its contents. Moreover, if an author writes with
ease, this is not necessarily a proof that he labours little, for he may
finish the work before bringing it to paper. Mozart is a striking
instance. He has himself described his mode of composing—which was a
process of accumulation, agglutination, and crystallisation—in a
letter to a friend. The constitution of the mind determines the mode of
working. Some qualities favour, others obstruct the realisation of a first
conception. Among the former are acuteness and quickness of vision, the
power of grasping complex subjects, and a good memory. But however varied
the mode of creation may be, an almost unvarying characteristic of the
production of really precious and lasting artwork is ungrudging
painstaking, such as we find described in William Hunt’s “Talks about
Art”:—”If you could see me dig and groan, rub it out and start
again, hate myself and feel dreadfully! The people who do things easily,
their things you look at easily, and give away easily.” Lastly and
briefly, it is not the mode of working, but the result of this working
which demonstrates genius.
As Chopin disliked the pavilion in the Rue Pigalle, George Sand moved with
her household in 1842 to the quiet, aristocratic-looking Cite (Court or
Square) d’Orleans, where their friend Madame Marliani arranged for them a
vie de famille. To get to the Cite d’Orleans one has to pass through two
gateways—the first leads from the Rue Taitbout (close to the Rue St.
Lazare), into a small out-court with the lodge of the principal concierge;
the second, into the court itself. In the centre is a grass plot with four
flower-beds and a fountain; and between this grass plot and the footpath
which runs along the houses extends a carriage drive. As to the houses
which form the square, they are well and handsomely built, the block
opposite the entrance making even some architectural pretensions. Madame
Sand’s, Madame Marliani’s, and Chopin’s houses, which bore respectively
the numbers 5, 4, and 3, were situated on the right side, the
last-mentioned being just in the first right-hand corner on entering from
the out-court. On account of the predilection shown for it by artists and
literary men as a place of abode, the Court d’Orldans has not inaptly been
called a little Athens. Alexander Dumas was one of the many celebrities
who lived there at one time or other; and Chopin had for neighbours the
famous singer Pauline Viardot-Garcia, the distinguished
pianoforte-professor Zimmermann, and the sculptor Dantan, from whose
famous gallery of caricatures, or rather charges, the composer’s portrait
was not absent. Madame Marliani, the friend of George Sand and Chopin, who
has already repeatedly been mentioned in this book, was the wife of Manuel
Marliani, Spanish Consul in Paris, author, [FOOTNOTE: Especially notable
among his political and historical publications in Spanish and French is:
“Histoire politique de l’Espagne moderne suivie d’un apercu sur les
finances.” 2 vols. in 8vo (Paris, 1840).] politician, and subsequently
senator. Lenz says that Madame Marliani was a Spanish countess and a fine
lady; and George Sand describes her as good-natured and active, endowed
with a passionate head and maternal heart, but destined to be unhappy
because she wished to make the reality of life yield to the ideal of her
imagination and the exigences of her sensibility.
Some excerpts from a letter written by George Sand on November 12, 1842,
to her friend Charles Duvernet, and a passage from Ma Vie will bring scene
and actors vividly before us:—
Although George Sand speaks only of a salon, Chopin’s official residence,
as we may call it, consisted of several rooms. They were elegantly
furnished and always adorned with flowers—for he loved le luxe and
had the coquetterie des appartements.
[FOOTNOTE: When I visited in 1880 M. Kwiatkowski in Paris, he showed me
some Chopin relics: 1, a pastel drawing by Jules Coignet (representing Les
Pyramides d’Egypte), which hung always above the composer’s piano; 2, a
little causeuse which Chopin bought with his first Parisian savings; 3, an
embroidered easy-chair worked and presented to him by the Princess
Czartoiyska; and 4, an embroidered cushion worked and presented to him by
Madame de Rothschild. If we keep in mind Chopin’s remarks about his
furniture and the papering of his rooms, and add to the above-mentioned
articles those which Karasowski mentions as having been bought by Miss
Stirling after the composer’s death, left by her to his mother, and
destroyed by the Russians along with his letters in 1861 when in
possession of his sister Isabella Barcinska—his portrait by Ary
Scheffer, some Sevres porcelain with the inscription “Offert par Louis
Philippe a Frederic Chopin,” a fine inlaid box, a present from one of the
Rothschild family, carpets, table-cloths, easy-chairs, &c., worked by
his pupils—we can form some sort of idea of the internal
arrangements of the pianist-composer’s rooms.]
Nevertheless, they exhibited none of the splendour which was to be found
in the houses of many of the celebrities then living in Paris. “He
observed,” remarks Liszt, “on this point as well as in the then so
fashionable elegancies of walking-sticks, pins, studs, and jewels, the
instinctive line of the comme il faut between the too much and the too
little.” But Chopin’s letters written from Nohant in 1839 to Fontana have
afforded the reader sufficient opportunities to make himself acquainted
with the master’s fastidiousness and good taste in matters of furniture
and room decoration, above all, his horror of vulgar gaudiness.
Let us try to get some glimpses of Chopin in his new home. Lindsay Sloper,
who—owing, no doubt, to a great extent at least, to the letter of
recommendation from Moscheles which he brought with him—had got
permission from Chopin to come for a lesson as often as he liked at eight
o’clock in the morning, found the master at that hour not in deshabille,
but dressed with the greatest care. Another early pupil, M. Mathias,
always fell in with the daily-attending barber. M. Mathias told me also of
Chopin’s habit of leaning with his back against the mantel-piece while he
was chatting at the end of the lesson. It must have been a pretty sight to
see the master in this favourite attitude of his, his coat buttoned up to
the chin (this was his usual style), the most elegant shoes on his small
feet, faultless exquisiteness characterising the whole of his attire, and
his small eyes sparkling with esprit and sometimes with malice.
Of all who came in contact with Chopin, however, no one made so much of
his opportunities as Lenz: some of his observations on the pianist have
already been quoted, those on the man and his surroundings deserve
likewise attention. [FOOTNOTE: W. von Lenz: “Die Grossen
Pianoforte-Virtuosen unserer Zeit.”] Lenz came to Paris in the summer or
autumn of the year 1842; and as he wished to study Chopin’s mazurkas with
the master himself, he awaited impatiently his return from Nohant. At
last, late in October, Lenz heard from Liszt that Chopin had arrived in
town; but Liszt told him also that it was by no means an easy thing to get
lessons from Chopin, that indeed many had journeyed to Paris for the
purpose and failed even to get sight of him. To guard Lenz against such a
mishap, Liszt gave him a card with the words “Laissez passer, Franz Liszt”
on it, and advised him to call on Chopin at two o’clock. The enthusiastic
amateur was not slow in availing himself of his artist friend’s card and
advice. But on reaching his destination he was met in the anteroom by a
male servant—”an article of luxury in Paris, a rarissima avis in the
house of an artist,” observes Lenz—who informed him that Chopin was
not in town. The visitor, however, was not to be put off in this way, and
insisted that the card should be taken in to Chopin. Fortune favours the
brave. A moment after the servant had left the room the great artist made
his appearance holding the card in his hand: “a young man of middle
height, slim, thin, with a careworn, speaking face and the finest Parisian
tournure.” Lenz does not hesitate to declare that he hardly ever met a
person so naturally elegant and winning. But here is what took place at
this interview.
Lenz sat down at the piano, tried the gue of it—an expression at
which Chopin, who was leaning languidly on the piano and looking with his
intelligent eyes straight in his visitor’s face, smiled—and then
struck up the Mazurka in B flat major. When he came to a passage in which
Liszt had taught him to introduce a volata through two octaves, Chopin
whispered blandly:—
Lenz had, of course, too imaginative a turn of mind to leave facts in
their native nakedness, but this tendency of his is too apparent to need
pointing out. What betrays him is the wonderful family likeness of his
portraits, a kind of vapid esprit, not distantly related to silliness,
with which the limner endows his unfortunate sitters, Chopin as well as
Liszt and Tausig. Indeed, the portraits compared with the originals are
like Dresden china figures compared with Greek statuary. It seems to me
also very improbable that so perfect a gentleman as Chopin was should
subject a stranger to an examination as to his reading and general
occupation. These questions have very much the appearance of having been
invented by the narrator for the sake of the answers. However,
notwithstanding the many unmistakable embellishments, Lenz’s account was
worth quoting, for after all it is not without a basis of fact and truth.
The following reminiscences of the lively Russian councillor, although not
wanting in exaggerations, are less open to objections:—
How high an opinion the master had of this talented pupil appears from his
assertion that the boy played the E minor Concerto better than he himself.
Lenz mentions Filtsch and his playing of the E minor Concerto only in
passing in “Die grossen Pianoforte-Virtuosen unserer Zeit,” but devotes to
them more of his leisure in an article which appeared in the Berliner
Musikzeitung (Vol. XXVI.), the amusing gossip of which deserves notice
here on account of the light thrown by some of its details on Chopin’s
ways and the company he received in his salon. On one occasion when
Filtsch had given his master particular satisfaction by a tasteful
rendering of the second solo of the first movement of the E minor
Concerto, Chopin said: “You have played this well, my boy (mon garcon), I
must try it myself.” Lenz relates that what now followed was
indescribable: the little one (der Kleine) burst into tears, and Chopin,
who indeed had been telling them the story of his artist life, said, as if
speaking to himself, “I have loved it! I have already once played it!”
Then, turning to Filtsch, he spoke these words: “Yours is a beautiful
artist nature (une belle nature d’artiste), you will become a great
artist.” Whilst the youthful pianist was studying the Concerto with
Chopin, he was never allowed to play more than one solo at a time, the
work affecting too much the feelings of the composer, who, moreover,
thought that the whole was contained in every one of the solos; and when
he at last got leave to perform the whole, an event for which he prepared
himself by fasting and prayers of the Roman Catholic Church, and by such
reading as was pointed out by his master, practising being forbidden for
the time, Chopin said to him: “As you have now mastered the movement so
well, we will bring it to a hearing.”
The reader must understand that I do not vouch for the strict correctness
of Lenz’s somewhat melodramatic narrative; and having given this warning I
shall, to keep myself free from all responsibility, simply translate the
rest of what is yet to be told:—
The destination of this walk was Schlesinger’s music-shop, where Chopin
presented his promising young pupil with the score of Beethoven’s
“Fidelio”:—
A scene of a very different nature which occurred some years later was
described to me by Madame Dubois. This lady, then still Mdlle. O’Meara and
a pupil of Chopin’s, had in 1847 played, accompanied on a second piano by
her master, the latter’s Concerto in E minor at a party of Madame de
Courbonne’s. Madame Girardin, who was among the guests, afterwards wrote
most charmingly and eulogistically about the young girl’s beauty and
talent in one of her Lettres parisiennes, which appeared in La Presse and
were subsequently published in a collected form under the title of “Le
Vicomte de Launay.” Made curious by Madame Girardin’s account, and
probably also by remarks of Chopin and others, George Sand wished to see
the heroine of that much-talked-of letter. Thus it came to pass that one
day when Miss O’Meara was having her lesson, George Sand crossed the
Square d’Orleans and paid Chopin a visit in his apartments. The master
received her with all the grace and amiability he was capable of. Noticing
that her pardessus was bespattered with mud, he seemed to be much vexed,
and the exquisitely-elegant gentleman (l’homme de toutes les elegances )
began to rub off with his small, white hands the stains which on any other
person would have caused him disgust. And Mdlle. O’Meara, child as she
still was, watched what was going on from the corner of her eye and
thought: “Comme il aime cette femme!” [FOOTNOTE: Madame A. Audley gives an
altogether incorrect account of this incident in her FREDERIC CHOPIN.
Madame Girardin was not one of the actors, and Mdlle. O’Meara did not
think the thoughts attributed to her.]
Whenever Chopin’s connection with George Sand is mentioned, one hears a
great deal of the misery and nothing or little of the happiness which
accrued to him out of it. The years of tenderness and devotion are slurred
over and her infidelities, growing indifference, and final desertion are
dwelt upon with undue emphasis. Whatever those of Chopin’s friends who
were not also George Sand’s friends may say, we may be sure that his joys
outweighed his sorrows. Her resoluteness must have been an invaluable
support to so vacillating a character as Chopin’s was; and, although their
natures were in many respects discordant, the poetic element of hers
cannot but have found sympathetic chords in his. Every character has many
aspects, but the world is little disposed to see more than one side of
George Sand’s—namely, that which is most conspicuous by its defiance
of law and custom, and finds expression in loud declamation and
denunciation. To observe her in one of her more lovable attitudes of mind,
we will transport ourselves from Chopin’s to her salon.
Louis Enault relates how one evening George Sand, who sometimes thought
aloud when with Chopin—this being her way of chatting—spoke of
the peacefulness of the country and unfolded a picture of the rural
harmonies that had all the charming and negligent grace of a village idyl,
bringing, in fact, her beloved Berry to the fireside of the room in the
Square d’Orleans.
Here is another anecdote of quiet home-life. George Sand had a little dog
which was in the habit of turning round and round in the endeavour to
catch its tail. One evening when it was thus engaged, she said to Chopin:
“If I had your talent, I would compose a pianoforte piece for this dog.”
Chopin at once sat down at the piano, and improvised the charming Waltz in
D flat (Op. 64), which hence has obtained the name of Valse du petit
chien. This story is well known among the pupils and friends of the
master, but not always told in exactly the same way. According to another
version, Chopin improvised the waltz when the little dog was playing with
a ball of wool. This variation, however, does not affect the pith of the
story.
The following two extracts tell us more about the intimate home-life at
Nohant and in the Court d’Orleans than anything we have as yet met with.
In another of George Sand’s letters to her son—it is dated November
28, 1843—we read about Chopin’s already often-mentioned valet.
Speaking of the foundation of a provincial journal, “L’Eclaireur de
l’Indre,” by herself and a number of her friends, and of their being on
the look-out for an editor who would be content with the modest salary of
2,000 francs, she says:—
Chopin treated George Sand with the greatest respect and devotion; he was
always aux petits soins with her. It is characteristic of the man and
exemplifies strikingly the delicacy of his taste and feeling that his
demeanour in her house showed in no way the intimate relation in which he
stood to the mistress of it: he seemed to be a guest like any other
occasional visitor. Lenz wishes to make us believe that George Sand’s
treatment of Chopin was unworthy of the great artist, but his statements
are emphatically contradicted by Gutmann, who says that her behaviour
towards him was always respectful. If the lively Russian councillor in the
passages I am going to translate describes correctly what he heard and
saw, he must have witnessed an exceptional occurrence; it is, however,
more likely that the bad reception he received from the lady prejudiced
him against her.
Lenz relates that one day Chopin took him to the salon of Madame Marliani,
where there was in the evening always a gathering of friends.
George Sand was probably out of humour on the evening in question; that it
was not her usual manner of receiving visitors may be gathered from what
Chopin said soon after to Lenz when the latter came to him for a lesson.
“George Sand,” he said, “called with me on you. What a pity you were not
at home! I regretted it very much. George Sand thought she had been
uncivil to you. You would have seen how amiable she can be. You have
pleased her.”
Alexander Chodzko, the learned professor of Slavonic literature at the
College de France, told me that he was half-a-dozen times at George Sand’s
house. Her apartments were furnished in a style in favour with young men.
First you came into a vestibule where hats, coats, and sticks were left,
then into a large salon with a billiard-table. On the mantel-piece were to
be found the materials requisite for smoking. George Sand set her guests
an example by lighting a cigar. M. Chodzko met there among others the
historian and statesman Guizot, the litterateur Francois, and Madame
Marliani. If Chopin was not present, George Sand would often ask the
servant what he was doing, whether he was working or sleeping, whether he
was in good or bad humour. And when he came in all eyes were directed
towards him. If he happened to be in good humour George Sand would lead
him to the piano, which stood in one of the two smaller apartments
adjoining the salon. These smaller apartments were provided with couches
for those who wished to talk. Chopin began generally to prelude
apathetically and only gradually grew warm, but then his playing was
really grand. If, however, he was not in a playing mood, he was often
asked to give some of his wonderful mimetic imitations. On such occasions
Chopin retired to one of the side-rooms, and when he returned he was
irrecognisable. Professor Chodzko remembers seeing him as Frederick the
Great.
Chopin’s talent for mimicry, which even such distinguished actors as
Bocage and Madame Dorval regarded with admiration, is alluded to by Balzac
in his novel “Un Homme d’affaires,” where he says of one of the characters
that “he is endowed with the same talent for imitating people which
Chopin, the pianist, possesses in so high a degree; he represents a
personage instantly and with astounding truth.” Liszt remarks that Chopin
displayed in pantomime an inexhaustible verve drolatique, and often amused
himself with reproducing in comical improvisations the musical formulas
and peculiar ways of certain virtuosos, whose faces and gestures he at the
same time imitated in the most striking manner. These statements are
corroborated by the accounts of innumerable eye and ear-witnesses of such
performances. One of the most illustrative of these accounts is the
following very amusing anecdote. When the Polish musician Nowakowski
[FOOTNOTE: He visited Paris in 1838, 1841, and 1846, partly for the
purpose of making arrangements for the publication of his compositions,
among which are Etudes dedicated to Chopin.] visited Paris, he begged his
countryman to bring him in contact with Kalkbrenner, Liszt, and Pixis.
Chopin, replying that he need not put himself to the trouble of going in
search of these artists if he wished to make their acquaintance, forthwith
sat down at the piano and assumed the attitude, imitated the style of
playing, and mimicked the mien and gestures, first of Liszt and then of
Pixis. Next evening Chopin and Nowakowski went together to the theatre.
The former having left the box during one of the intervals, the latter
looked round after awhile and saw Pixis sitting beside him. Nowakowski,
thinking Chopin was at his favourite game, clapped Pixis familiarly on the
shoulder and said: “Leave off, don’t imitate now!” The surprise of Pixis
and the subsequent confusion of Nowakowski may be easily imagined. When
Chopin, who at this moment returned, had been made to understand what had
taken place, he laughed heartily, and with the grace peculiar to him knew
how to make his friend’s and his own excuses. One thing in connection with
Chopin’s mimicry has to be particularly noted—it is very
characteristic of the man. Chopin, we learn from Liszt, while subjecting
his features to all kinds of metamorphoses and imitating even the ugly and
grotesque, never lost his native grace, “la grimace ne parvenait meme pas
a l’enlaidir.”
We shall see presently what George Sand has to say about her lover’s
imitative talent; first, however, we will make ourselves acquainted with
the friends with whom she especially associated. Besides Pierre Leroux,
Balzac, Pauline Viardot-Garcia, and others who have already been mentioned
in the foregoing chapters, she numbered among her most intimate friends
the Republican politician and historian Louis Blanc, the Republican
litterateur Godefroy Cavaignac, the historian Henri Martin, and the
litterateur Louis Viardot, the husband of Pauline Garcia.
[FOOTNOTE: This name reminds me of a passage in Louis Blanc’s “Histoire de
la Revolution de 1840” (p. 210 of Fifth Edition. Paris, 1880). “A short
time before his [Godefroy Cavaignac’s] end, he was seized by an
extraordinary desire to hear music once more. I knew Chopin. I offered to
go to him, and to bring him with me, if the doctor did not oppose it. The
entreaties thereupon took the character of a supplication. With the
consent, or rather at the urgent prayer, of Madame Cavaignac, I betook
myself to Chopin. Madame George Sand was there. She expressed in a
touching manner the lively interest with which the invalid inspired her;
and Chopin placed himself at my service with much readiness and grace. I
conducted him then into the chamber of the dying man, where there was a
bad piano. The great artist begins…Suddenly he is interrupted by sobs.
Godefroy, in a transport of sensibility which gave him a moment’s physical
strength, had quite unexpectedly raised himself in his bed of suffering,
his face bathed in tears. Chopin stopped, much disturbed; Madame
Cavaignac, leaning towards her son, anxiously interrogated him with her
eyes. He made an effort to become self-possessed; he attempted to smile,
and with a feeble voice said, ‘Do not be uneasy, mamma, it is nothing;
real childishness…Ah! how beautiful music is, understood thus!’ His
thought was—we had no difficulty in divining it—that he would
no longer hear anything like it in this world, but he refrained from
saying so.”]
Friends not less esteemed by her than these, but with whom she was less
intimate, were the Polish poet Mickiewicz, the famous bass singer
Lablache, the excellent pianist and composer Alkan aine, the Italian
composer and singing-master Soliva (whom we met already in Warsaw), the
philosopher and poet Edgar Quinet, General Guglielmo Pepe
(commander-in-chief of the Neapolitan insurrectionary army in 1820-21),
and likewise the actor Bocage, the litterateur Ferdinand Francois, the
German musician Dessauer, the Spanish politician Mendizabal, the dramatist
and journalist Etienne Arago, [FOOTNOTE: The name of Etienne Arago is
mentioned in “Ma Vie,” but it is that of Emmanuel Arago which occurs
frequently in the “Corrcspcndance.”] and a number of literary and other
personages of less note, of whom I shall mention only Agricol Perdiguier
and Gilland, the noble artisan and the ecrivain proletaire, as George Sand
calls them.
Although some of George Sand’s friends were also Chopin’s, there can be no
doubt that the society which gathered around her was on the whole not
congenial to him. Some remarks which Liszt makes with regard to George
Sand’s salon at Nohant are even more applicable to her salon in Paris.
These are, of course, only mere surmises, but Liszt, although often wrong
as to incidents, is, thanks to his penetrative genius, generally right as
to essences. Indeed, if George Sand’s surroundings and Chopin’s character
and tastes are kept in view nothing seems to be more probable than that
his over-delicate susceptibilities may have occasionally been shocked by
unrestrained vivacity, loud laughter, and perhaps even coarse words; that
his uncompromising idealism may have been disturbed by the discordance of
literary squabbles, intrigues, and business transactions; that his
peaceable, non-speculative, and non-argumentative disposition may have
been vexed and wearied by discussions of political, social, religious,
literary, and artistic problems. Unless his own art was the subject,
Chopin did not take part in discussions. And Liszt tells us that Chopin
not only, like most artists, lacked a generalising mind [esprit
generalisateur], but showed hardly any inclination for aesthetics, of
which he had not even heard much. We may be sure that to Chopin to whom
discussions of any kind were distasteful, those of a circle in which, as
in that of George Sand, democratic and socialistic, theistic and atheistic
views prevailed, were particularly so. For, notwithstanding his bourgeois
birth, his sympathies were with the aristocracy; and notwithstanding his
neglect of ritual observances, his attachment to the Church of Rome
remained unbroken. Chopin does not seem to have concealed his dislike to
George Sand’s circle; if he did not give audible expression to it, he made
it sufficiently manifest by seeking other company. That she was aware of
the fact and displeased with it, is evident from what she says of her
lover’s social habits in Ma Vie. The following excerpt from that work is
an important biographical contribution; it is written not without
bitterness, but with hardly any exaggeration:—
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHOPIN IN HIS SOCIAL RELATIONS: HIS PREDILECTION FOR THE FASHIONABLE SALON
SOCIETY (ACCOUNTS BY MADAME GIRARDIN AND BERLIOZ); HIS NEGLECT OF THE
SOCIETY OF ARTISTS (ARY SCHEFFER, MARMONTEL, HELLER, SCHULHOFF, THE PARIS
CORRESPONDENT OF THE MUSICAL WORLD); APHORISMS BY LISZT ON CHOPIN IN HIS
SOCIAL ASPECT.—CHOPIN’S FRIENDSHIPS.—GEORGE SAND, LISZT, LENZ,
HELLER, MARMONTEL, AND HILLER ON HIS CHARACTER (IRRITABILITY, FITS OF
ANGER—SCENE WITH MEYERBEER—GAIETY AND RAILLERY, LOVE OF
SOCIETY, AND LITTLE TASTE FOR READING, PREDILECTION FOR THINGS POLISH).—HIS
POLISH, GERMAN, ENGLISH, AND RUSSIAN FRIENDS.—THE PARTY MADE FAMOUS
BY LISZT’S ACCOUNT.—HIS INTERCOURSE WITH MUSICIANS (OSBORNE,
BERLIOZ, BAILLOT, CHERUBINI, KALKBRENNER, FONTANA, SOWINSKI, WOLFF,
MEYERBEER, ALKAN, ETC.).—HIS FRIENDSHIP WITH LISZT.—HIS
DISLIKE TO LETTER-WRITING.
George Sand, although one of the cleverest of the literary portrayers who
have tried their hand at Chopin, cannot be regarded as one of the most
impartial; but it must be admitted that in describing her deserted lover
as un homme du monde par excellence, non pas du monde trop officiel, trop
nombreux, she says what is confirmed by all who have known him, by his
friends, foes, and those that are neither. Aristocratic society, with
which he was acquainted from his earliest childhood, had always a great
charm for him. When at the beginning of 1833, a little more than two years
after his arrival in Paris, he informed his friend Dziewanowski that he
moved in the highest society—among ambassadors, princes, and
ministers—it is impossible not to see that the fact gives him much
satisfaction. Without going so far as to say with a great contemporary of
Chopin, Stephen Heller, that the higher you go in society the greater is
the ignorance you find, I think that little if any good for either heart
or mind can come from intercourse with that section of the people which
proudly styles itself “society” (le monde). Many individuals that belong
to it possess, no doubt, true nobility, wisdom, and learning, nay, even
the majority may possess one or the other or all of them in some degree,
but these qualities are so out of keeping with the prevailing frivolity
that few have the moral courage to show their better nature. If Chopin
imagined that he was fully understood as an artist by society, he was
sadly mistaken. Liszt and Heller certainly held that he was not fully
understood, and they did not merely surmise or speak from hearsay, for
neither of them was a stranger in that quarter, although the latter
avoided it as much as possible. What society could and did appreciate in
Chopin was his virtuosity, his elegance, and his delicacy. It is not my
intention to attempt an enumeration of Chopin’s aristocratic friends and
acquaintances, but in the dedications of his works the curious will find
the most important of them. There, then, we read the names of the Princess
Czartoryska, Countess Plater, Countess Potocka, Princesse de Beauvau,
Countess Appony, Countess Esterhazy, Comte and Comtesse de Perthuis,
Baroness Bronicka, Princess Czernicheff, Princess Souzzo, Countess
Mostowska, Countess Czosnowska, Comtesse de Flahault, Baroness von
Billing, Baron and Baroness von Stockhausen, Countess von Lobau, Mdlle. de
Noailles, &c. And in addition to these we have representatives of the
aristocracy of wealth, Madame C. de Rothschild foremost amongst them.
Whether the banker Leo with whom and his family Chopin was on very
friendly terms may be mentioned in this connection, I do not know. But we
must remember that round many of the above names cluster large families.
The names of the sisters Countess Potocka and Princesse de Beauvau call up
at once that of their mother, Countess Komar. Many of these here
enumerated are repeatedly mentioned in the course of this book, some will
receive particular attention in the next chapter. Now we will try to get a
glimpse of Chopin in society.
Madame de Girardin, after having described in one of her “Lettres
parisiennes” (March 7, 1847) [FOOTNOTE: The full title of the work is: “Le
Vicomte de Launay—Lettres parisiennes par Mdme. Emile de Girardin.”
(Paris: Michel Levy freres.)] with what success Mdlle. O’Meara accompanied
by her master played his E minor Concerto at a soiree of Madame de
Courbonne, proceeds thus:—
Although Madame Girardin’s language and opinions are fair specimens of
those prevalent in the beatified regions in which Chopin delighted to
move, we will not follow her rhapsodic eulogy of his playing. That she
cannot be ranked with the connoisseurs is evident from her statement that
the sonata BEGINS with the funeral march, and that the FINALE is one of
the most magnificent creations of the composer. Notwithstanding Madame
Girardin’s subsequent remark that Chopin’s playing at Madame de
Courbonne’s was quite an exception, her letter may mislead the reader into
the belief that the great pianist was easily induced to sit down at the
piano. A more correct idea may be formed of the real state of matters from
a passage in an article by Berlioz (Feuilleton du Journal des Debats,
October 27, 1849) in which the supremacy of style over matter is a little
less absolute than in the lady’s elegant chit-chat:—
Chopin’s predilection for the fashionable salon society led him to neglect
the society of artists. That he carried the odi profanum vulgus, et arceo
too far cannot for a moment be doubted. For many of those who sought to
have intercourse with him were men of no less nobility of sentiment and
striving than himself. Chopin offended even Ary Scheffer, the great
painter, who admired him and loved him, by promising to spend an evening
with him and again and again disappointing him. Musicians, with a few
exceptions. Chopin seems always to have been careful to keep at a
distance, at least after the first years of his arrival in Paris. This is
regrettable especially in the case of the young men who looked up to him
with veneration and enthusiasm, and whose feelings were cruelly hurt by
the polite but unsympathetic reception he gave them:—
As to Stephen Heller—who himself told me that he would have liked to
be more with Chopin, but was afraid of being regarded as intrusive—Mr.
Heller thinks that Chopin had an antipathy to him, which considering the
amiable and truly gentlemanly character of this artist seems rather
strange.
If the details of Karasowski’s account of Chopin’s and Schulhoff’s first
meeting are correct, the Polish artist was in his aloofness sometimes even
deficient in that common civility which good-breeding and consideration
for the feelings of others demand. Premising that Fetis in telling the
story is less circumstantial and lays the scene of the incident in the
pianoforte-saloon of Pleyel, I shall quote Karasowski’s version, as he may
have had direct information from Schulhoff, who since 1855 has lived much
of his time at Dresden, where Karasowski also resides:—
The behaviour of Chopin during the latter part of this transaction made,
no doubt, amends for that of the earlier. But the ungracious manner in
which he granted the young musician permission to play to him, and
especially his turning his back to Schulhoff when the latter began to
play, are not excused by the fact that he was often bothered by dilettante
tormentors.
The Paris correspondent of the Musical World, writing immediately after
the death of the composer, describes the feeling which existed among the
musicians in the French capital, and also suggests an explanation and
excuse. In the number of the paper bearing date November 10, 1849, we read
as follows:—
The reasoning does not seem to me quite conclusive. Would it not have been
possible to live in retirement without drawing upon himself the accusation
of supercilious hauteur? Moreover, as Chopin was strong enough to frequent
fashionable salons, he cannot have been altogether unable to hold
intercourse with his brother-artists. And, lastly, who are the pianist
friends that were as devotedly attached to him as the most romantic of his
aristocratic worshippers? The fact that Chopin became subsequently less
social and more reticent than he had been in his early Paris days,
confined himself to a very limited number of friends and families, and had
relations of an intimate nature with only a very few musicians, cannot,
therefore, be attributable to ill-health alone, although that too had, no
doubt, something to do with it, directly or indirectly. In short, the
allegation that Chopin was “spoiled by the caprice of society,” as the
above-quoted correspondent puts it, is not only probable, but even very
likely. Fastidious by nature and education, he became more so, partly in
consequence of his growing physical weakness, and still more through the
influence of the society with which, in the exercise of his profession and
otherwise, he was in constant contact. His pupils and many of his other
admirers, mostly of the female sex and the aristocratic class, accustomed
him to adulation and adoration to such an extent as to make these to be
regarded by him as necessaries of life. Some excerpts from Liszt’s book,
which I shall quote here in the form of aphorisms, will help to bring
Chopin, in his social aspect, clearly before the reader’s eyes:—
The last dictum and part of the last but one were already quoted by me in
an earlier chapter, but for the sake of completeness, and also because
they form an excellent starting-point for the following additional remarks
on Chopin’s friendships, I have repeated them here. First of all, I
venture to make the sweeping assertion that Chopin had among his
non-Polish friends none who could be called intimate in the fullest sense
of the word, none to whom he unbosomed himself as he did to Woyciechowski
and Matuszynski, the friends of his youth, and Grzymala, a friend of a
later time. Long cessation of personal intercourse together with the
diverging development of their characters in totally unlike conditions of
life cannot but have diminished the intimacy with the first named.
[FOOTNOTE: Titus Woyciechowski continued to live on his estate Poturzyn,
in the kingdom of Poland.] With Matuszyriski Chopin remained in close
connection till this friend’s death. [FOOTNOTE: Karasowski says in the
first volume of his Polish biography of Chopin that Matuszynski died on
April 20, 1842; and in the second that he died after Chopin’s father, but
in the same year—that is, in 1844.] How he opened his whole heart to
Grzymala we shall see in a subsequent chapter. That his friendship with
Fontana was of a less intimate character becomes at once apparent on
comparing Chopin’s letters to him with those he wrote to the three other
Polish friends. Of all his connections with non-Poles there seems to be
only one which really deserves the name of friendship, and that is his
connection with Franchomme. Even here, however, he gave much less than he
received. Indeed, we may say—speaking generally, and not only with a
view to Franchomme—that Chopin was more loved than loving. But he
knew well how to conceal his deficiencies in this respect under the
blandness of his manners and the coaxing affectionateness of his language.
There is something really tragic, and comic too, in the fact that every
friend of Chopin’s thought that he had more of the composer’s love and
confidence than any other friend. Thus, for instance, while Gutmann told
me that Franchomme was not so intimate with Chopin that the latter would
confide any secrets to him, Franchomme made to me a similar statement with
regard to Gutmann. And so we find every friend of Chopin declaring that
every other friend was not so much of a friend as himself. Of Chopin’s
procedures in friendship much may be learned from his letters; in them is
to be seen something of his insinuating, cajoling ways, of his endeavours
to make the person addressed believe himself a privileged favourite, and
of his habit of speaking not only ungenerously and unlovingly, but even
unjustly of other persons with whom he was apparently on cordial terms. In
fact, it is only too clear that Chopin spoke differently before the faces
and behind the backs of people. You remember how in his letters to Fontana
he abuses Camille Pleyel in a manner irreconcilable with genuine love and
esteem. Well, to this same Camille Pleyel, of whom he thus falls foul when
he thinks himself in the slightest aggrieved, he addresses on one occasion
the following note. Mark the last sentence:—
And, again, how atrociously he reviles in the same letters the banker Leo,
who lends him money, often takes charge of his manuscripts, procures
payment for them, and in whose house he has been for years a frequent
visitor. Mr. Ch. Halle informed me that Chopin was on particularly good
terms with the Leos. From Moscheles’ diary we learn that the writer made
Chopin’s acquaintance at the banker’s house. Stephen Heller told me that
he met Chopin several times at Leo’s, and that the Polish composer visited
there often, and continued to go there when he had given up going to many
other houses. And from the same informant I learned also that Madame Leo
as well as her husband took a kindly interest in Chopin, showing this, for
instance, by providing him with linen. And yet Leo, this man who does him
all sorts of services, and whose smiling guest he is before and after, is
spoken of by Chopin as if he were the most “despicable wretch imaginable”;
and this for no other reason than that everything has not been done
exactly as he wished it to be done. Unless we assume these revilings to be
no more than explosions of momentary ill-humour, we must find Chopin
convicted of duplicity and ingratitude. In the letters to Fontana there
are also certain remarks about Matuszynski which I do not like. Nor can
they be wholly explained away by saying that they are in part fun and in
part indirect flattery of his correspondent. It would rather seem that
Chopin’s undoubtedly real love for Matuszynski was not unmixed with a
certain kind of contempt. And here I must tell the reader that while Poles
have so high an opinion of their nation in comparison with other nations,
and of their countrymen with other countrymen, they have generally a very
mean opinion of each other. Indeed, I never met with a Pole who did not
look down with a self-satisfied smile of pity on any of his
fellow-countrymen, even on his best friend. It seems that their feeling of
individual superiority is as great as that of their national superiority.
Liszt’s observations (see Vol. I., p. 259) and those of other writers
(Polish as well as non-Polish) confirm mine, which else might rightly be
supposed to be based on too limited an experience. To return to
Matuszynski, he may have been too ready to advise and censure his friend,
and not practical enough to be actively helpful. After reading the letters
addressed to them one comes to the conclusion that Fontana’s and
Franchomme’s serviceableness and readiness to serve went for something in
his appreciation of them as friends. At any rate, he did not hesitate to
exploiter them most unconscionably. Taking a general view of the letters
written by him during the last twelve years of his life, one is struck by
the absence of generous judgments and the extreme rareness of sympathetic
sentiments concerning third persons. As this was not the case in his
earlier letters, ill-health and disappointments suggest themselves
naturally as causes of these faults of character and temper. To these
principal causes have, however, to be added his nationality, his
originally delicate constitution, and his cultivation of salon manners and
tastes. His extreme sensitiveness, fastidiousness, and irritability may be
easily understood to derive from one or the other of these conditions.
George Sand’s Ma Vie throws a good deal of light on Chopin’s character;
let us collect a few rays from it:—
The following extracts from Liszt’s book partly corroborate, partly
supplement, the foregoing evidence:—
Chopin, however, did not always control his temper. Heller remembers
seeing him more than once in a passion, and hearing him speak very harshly
to Nowakowski. The following story, which Lenz relates in “Die grossen
Pianoforte-Virtuosen unserer Zeit,” is also to the point.
Exhibitions of temper like this were no doubt rare, indeed, hardly ever
occurred except in his intercourse with familiars and, more especially,
fellow-countrymen—sometimes also with pupils. In passing I may
remark that Chopin’s Polish vocabulary was much less choice than his
French one. As a rule, Chopin’s manners were very refined and
aristocratic, Mr. Halle thinks they were too much so. For this refinement
resulted in a uniform amiability which left you quite in the dark as to
the real nature of the man. Many people who made advances to Chopin found
like M. Marmontel—I have this from his own mouth—that he had a
temperament sauvage and was difficult to get at. And all who came near him
learned soon from experience that, as Liszt told Lenz, he was ombrageux.
But while Chopin would treat outsiders with a chilly politeness, he
charmed those who were admitted into his circle both by amiability and
wit. “Usually,” says Liszt, “he was lively, his caustic mind unearthed
quickly the ridiculous far below the surface where it strikes all eyes.”
And again, “the playfulness of Chopin attacked only the superior keys of
the mind, fond of witticism as he was, recoiling from vulgar joviality,
gross laughter, common merriment, as from those animals more abject than
venomous, the sight of which causes the most nauseous aversion to certain
sensitive and delicate natures.” Liszt calls Chopin “a fine connoisseur in
raillery and an ingenious mocker.” The testimony of other acquaintances of
Chopin and that of his letters does not allow us to accept as holding good
generally Mr. Halle’s experience, who, mentioning also the Polish artist’s
wit, said to me that he never heard him utter a sarcasm or use a cutting
expression.
Fondness of society is a characteristic trait in Chopin’s mental
constitution. Indeed, Hiller told me that his friend could not be without
company. For reading, on the other hand, he did not much care. Alkan
related to me that Chopin did not even read George Sand’s works—which
is difficult to believe—and that Pierre Leroux, who liked Chopin and
always brought him his books, might have found them any time afterwards
uncut on the pianist’s table, which is not so difficult to believe, as
philosophy and Chopin are contraries. According to what I learned from
Hiller, Chopin took an interest in literature but read very little. To
Heller it seemed that Chopin had no taste for literature, indeed, he made
on him the impression of an uneducated man. Heller, I must tell the reader
parenthetically, was both a great reader and an earnest thinker, over whom
good books had even the power of making him neglect and forget mistress
Musica without regret and with little compunction. But to return to
Chopin. Franchomme excused his friend by saying that teaching and the
claims of society left him no time for reading. But if Chopin neglected
French literature—not to speak of other ancient and modern
literatures—he paid some attention to that of his native country; at
any rate, new publications of Polish books were generally to be found on
his table. The reader will also remember that Chopin, in his letters to
Fontana, alludes twice to books of poetry—one by Mickiewicz which
was sent him to Majorca, the other by Witwicki which he had lost sight of.
Indeed, anything Polish had an especial charm and value for Chopin.
Absence from his native country so far from diminishing increased his love
for it. The words with which he is reported to have received the pianist
Mortier de Fontaine, who came to Paris in 1833 and called on him with
letters of introduction, are characteristic in this respect: “It is enough
that you have breathed the air of Warsaw to find a friend and adviser in
me.” There is, no doubt, some exaggeration in Liszt’s statement that
whoever came to Chopin from Poland, whether with or without letters of
introduction, was sure of a hearty welcome, of being received with open
arms. On the other hand, we may fully believe the same authority when he
says that Chopin often accorded to persons of his own country what he
would not accord to anyone else—namely, the right of disturbing his
habits; that he would sacrifice his time, money, and comfort to people who
were perhaps unknown to him the day before, showing them the sights of the
capital, having them to dine with him, and taking them in the evening to
some theatre. We have already seen that his most intimate friends were
Poles, and this was so in the aristocratic as well as in the
conventionally less-elevated circles. However pleasant his relations with
the Rothschilds may have been—indeed, Franchomme told me that his
friend loved the house of Rothschild and that this house loved him, and
that more especially Madame Nathaniel Rothschild preserved a touching
remembrance of him [FOOTNOTE: Chopin dedicated to Madame la Baronne C.
Rothschild the Waltz, Op. 64, No. 2 (Parisian Edition), and the Ballade,
Op. 52.]—they can have been but of small significance in comparison
with the almost passionate attachment he had to Prince Alexander
Czartoryski and his wife the Princess Marcelline. And if we were to
compare his friendship for any non-Polish gentleman or lady with that
which he felt for the Countess Delphine Potocka, to whom he dedicated two
of his happiest inspirations in two very different genres (the F minor
Concerto, Op. 21, and the D flat major Waltz, Op. 64, No. I), the result
would be again in favour of his compatriot. There were, indeed, some who
thought that he felt more than friendship for this lady; this, however, he
energetically denied.
[FOOTNOTE: Of this lady Kwiatkowski said that she took as much trouble and
pride in giving choice musical entertainments as other people did in
giving choice dinners. In Sowinski’s Musiciens polonais we read that she
had a beautiful soprano voice and occupied the first place among the
amateur ladies of Paris. “A great friend of the illustrious Chopin, she
gave formerly splendid concerts at her house with the old company of the
Italians, which one shall see no more in Paris. To cite the names of
Rubini, Lablache, Tamburini, Malibran, Grisi, Persiani, is to give the
highest idea of Italian singing. The Countess Potocka sang herself
according to the method of the Italian masters.”]
But although Chopin was more devoted and more happy in his Polish
friendships, he had beloved as well as loving friends of all nationalities—Germans,
English, and even Russians. That as a good Pole he hated the Russians as a
nation may be taken for granted. Of his feelings and opinions with regard
to his English friends and the English in general, information will be
forthcoming in a subsequent chapter. The Germans Chopin disliked
thoroughly, partly, no doubt, from political reasons, partly perhaps on
account of their inelegance and social awkwardness. Still, of this nation
were some of his best friends, among them Hiller, Gutmann, Albrecht, and
the Hanoverian ambassador Baron von Stockhausen.
[FOOTNOTE: Gutmann, in speaking to me of his master’s dislike, positively
ascribed it to the second of the above causes. In connection with this we
must, however, not forget that the Germans of to-day differ from the
Germans of fifty years ago as much socially as politically. Nor have the
social characters of their neighbours, the French and the English,
remained the same.]
Liszt has given a glowing description of an improvised soiree at Chopin’s
lodgings in the Rue de la Chaussee d’Antin—that is, in the years
before the winter in Majorca. At this soiree, we are told, were present
Liszt himself, Heine, Meyerbeer, Nourrit, Hiller, Delacroix, Niemcewicz,
Mickiewicz, George Sand, and the Comtesse d’Agoult. Of course, this is a
poetic licence: these men and women cannot have been at one and the same
time in Chopin’s salon. Indeed, Hiller informed me that he knew nothing of
this party, and that, moreover, as long as he was in Paris (up to 1836)
there were hardly ever more numerous gatherings at his friend’s lodgings
than of two or three. Liszt’s group, however, brings vividly before us one
section of Chopin’s social surroundings: it shows us what a poetic
atmosphere he was breathing, amidst what a galaxy of celebrities he was
moving. A glimpse of the real life our artist lived in the early Paris
years this extravagant effort of a luxuriant imagination does not afford.
Such glimpses we got in his letters to Hiller and Franchomme, where we
also met with many friends and acquaintances with less high-sounding
names, some of whom Chopin subsequently lost by removal or death. In
addition to the friends who were then mentioned, I may name here the
Polish poet Stephen Witwicki, the friend of his youth as well as of his
manhood, to whom in 1842 he dedicated his Op. 41, three mazurkas, and
several of whose poems he set to music; and the Polish painter
Kwiatkowski, an acquaintance of a later time, who drew and painted many
portraits of the composer, and more than one of whose pictures was
inspired by compositions of his friend. I have not been able to ascertain
what Chopin’s sentiments were with regard to Kwiatkowski, but the latter
must have been a frequent visitor, for after relating to me that the
composer was fond of playing in the dusk, he remarked that he heard him
play thus almost all his works immediately after they were composed.
As we have seen in the chapters treating of Chopin’s first years in Paris,
there was then a goodly sprinkling of musicians among his associates—I
use the word “associates” advisedly, for many of them could not truly be
called friends. When he was once firmly settled, artistically and
socially, not a few of these early acquaintances lapsed. How much this was
due to the force of circumstances, how much to the choice of Chopin, is
difficult to determine. But we may be sure that his distaste to the
Bohemianism, the free and easy style that obtains among a considerable
portion of the artistic tribe, had at least as much to do with the result
as pressure of engagements. Of the musicians of whom we heard so much in
the first years after his coming to Paris, he remained in close connection
only with one-namely, with Franchomme. Osborne soon disappeared from his
circle. Chopin’s intercourse with Berlioz was in after years so rare that
some of their common friends did not even know of its existence. The
loosening of this connection was probably brought about by the departure
of Hiller in 1836 and the quarrel with Liszt some time after, which broke
two links between the sensitive Pole and the fiery Frenchman. The ageing
Baillot and Cherubini died in 1842. Kalkbrenner died but a short time
before Chopin, but the sympathy existing between them was not strong
enough to prevent their drifting apart. Other artists to whom the
new-comer had paid due homage may have been neglected, forgotten, or lost
sight of when success was attained and the blandishments of the salons
were lavished upon him. Strange to say, with all his love for what
belonged to and came from Poland, he kept compatriot musicians at a
distance. Fontana was an exception, but him he cherished, no doubt, as a
friend of his youth in spite of his profession, or, if as a musician at
all, chiefly because of his handiness as a copyist. For Sowinski, who was
already settled in Paris when Chopin arrived there, and who assisted him
at his first concert, he did not care. Consequently they had afterwards
less and less intercourse, which, indeed, in the end may have ceased
altogether. An undated letter given by Count Wodziriski in “Les trois
Romans de Frederic Chopin,” no doubt originally written in Polish, brings
the master’s feelings towards his compatriot, and also his irritability,
most vividly before the reader.
Edouard Wolff came to Paris in 1835, provided with a letter of
introduction from Chopin’s master Zywny; [FOOTNOTE: See Vol. I., p. 31.]
but, notwithstanding this favourable opening of their acquaintanceship, he
was only for some time on visiting terms with his more distinguished
compatriot. Wolff himself told me that Chopin would never hear one of his
compositions. From any other informant I would not have accepted this
statement as probable, still less as true. [FOOTNOTE: Wolff dedicated in
1841 his Grand Allegro de Concert pour piano still, Op. 59, a son ami
Chopin; but the latter never repaid him the compliment.] These remarks
about Wolff remind me of another piece of information I got from this
pianist-composer a few months before his death—namely, that Chopin
hated all Jews, Meyerbeer and Halevy among the rest. What Pole does not
hate the Jews? That Chopin was not enamoured of them we have seen in his
letters. But that he hated Meyerbeer is a more than doubtful statement.
Franchomme said to me that Meyerbeer was not a great friend of Chopin’s;
but that the latter, though he did not like his music, liked him as a man.
If Lenz reports accurately, Meyerbeer’s feelings towards Chopin were, no
doubt, warmer than Chopin’s towards Meyerbeer. When after the scene about
the rhythm of a mazurka Chopin had left the room, Lenz introduced himself
to Meyerbeer as a friend of the Counts Wielhorski, of St. Petersburg. On
coming to the door, where a coupe was waiting, the composer offered to
drive him home, and when they were seated said:—
Kwiatkowski told me a pretty story which se non vero is certainly ben
trovato. When on one occasion Meyerbeer had fallen out with his wife, he
sat down to the piano and played a nocturne or some other composition
which Chopin had sent him. And such was the effect of the music on his
helpmate that she came and kissed him. Thereupon Meyerbeer wrote Chopin a
note telling him of what had taken place, and asking him to come and see
their conjugal happiness. Among the few musicians with whom Chopin had in
later years friendly relations stands out prominently, both by his genius
and the preference shown him, the pianist and composer Alkan aine (Charles
Henri Valentine), who, however, was not so intimate with the Polish
composer as Franchomme, nor on such easy terms of companionship as Hiller
and Liszt had been. The originality of the man and artist, his high aims
and unselfish striving, may well have attracted Chopin; but as an
important point in Alkan’s favour must be reckoned the fact that he was
also a friend of George Sand’s. Indeed, some of the limitations of
Chopin’s intercourse were, no doubt, made on her account. Kwiatkowski told
me that George Sand hated Chopin’s Polish friends, and that some of them
were consequently not admitted at all and others only reluctantly. Now
suppose that she disliked also some of the non-Polish friends, musicians
as well as others, would not her influence act in the same way as in the
case of the Poles?
But now I must say a few words about Chopin and Liszt’s friendship, and
how it came to an end. This connection of the great pianists has been the
subject of much of that sentimental talk of which writers on music and of
musical biography are so fond. This, however, which so often has been
represented as an ideal friendship, was really no friendship at all, but
merely comradeship. Both admired each other sincerely as musicians. If
Chopin did not care much for Liszt’s compositions, he had the highest
opinion of him as a pianist. We have seen in the letter of June 20, 1833,
addressed to Hiller and conjointly written by Chopin and Liszt, how
delighted Chopin was with Liszt’s manner of playing his studies, and how
he wished to be able to rob him of it. He said on one occasion to his
pupil Mdlle. Kologrivof [FOOTNOTE: Afterwards Madame Rubio.]: “I like my
music when Liszt plays it.” No doubt, it was Liszt’s book with its
transcendentally-poetic treatment which induced the false notion now
current. Yet whoever keeps his eyes open can read between the lines what
the real state of matters was. The covert sneers at and the
openly-expressed compassion for his comrade’s whims, weaknesses, and
deficiencies, tell a tale. Of Chopin’s sentiments with regard to Liszt we
have more than sufficient evidence. Mr. Halle, who arrived in Paris at the
end of 1840, was strongly recommended to the banker Mallet. This
gentleman, to give him an opportunity to make the acquaintance of the
Polish pianist, invited both to dinner. On this occasion Mr. Halle asked
Chopin about Liszt, but the reticent answer he got was indicative rather
of dislike than of anything else. When in 1842 Lenz took lessons from
Chopin, the latter defined his relations with Liszt thus: “We are friends,
we were comrades.” What he meant by the first half of the statement was,
no doubt: “Now we meet only on terms of polite acquaintanceship.” When the
comradeship came to an end I do not know, but I think I do know how it
came to an end. When I asked Liszt about the cause of the termination of
their friendship, he said: “Our lady-loves had quarrelled, and as good
cavaliers we were in duty bound to side with them.” [FOOTNOTE: Liszt’s
words in describing to me his subsequent relation with Chopin were similar
to those of Chopin to Lenz. He said: “There was a cessation of intimacy,
but no enmity. I left Paris soon after, and never saw him again.”] This,
however, was merely a way to get rid of an inconvenient question.
Franchomme explained the mystery to me, and his explanation was confirmed
by what I learned from Madame Rubio. The circumstances are of too delicate
a nature to be set forth in detail. But the long and short of the affair
is that Liszt, accompanied by another person, invaded Chopin’s lodgings
during his absence, and made himself quite at home there. The discovery of
traces of the use to which his rooms had been put justly enraged Chopin.
One day, I do not know how long after the occurrence, Liszt asked Madame
Rubio to tell her master that he hoped the past would be forgotten and the
young man’s trick (Junggesellenstuck) wiped out. Chopin then said that he
could not forget, and was much better as he was; and further, that Liszt
was not open enough, having always secrets and intrigues, and had written
in some newspapers feuilleton notices unfavourable to him. This last
accusation reminds one at once of the remark he made when he heard that
Liszt intended to write an account of one of his concerts for the Gazette
musicale. I have quoted the words already, but may repeat them here: “Il
me donnera un petit royaume dans son empire” (He will give me a little
kingdom in his empire). In this, as in most sayings of Chopin regarding
Liszt, irritation against the latter is distinctly noticeable. The cause
of this irritation may be manifold, but Liszt’s great success as a
concert-player and his own failure in this respect [FOOTNOTE: I speak here
only of his inability to impress large audiences, to move great masses.]
have certainly something to do with it. Liszt, who thought so likewise,
says somewhere in his book that Chopin knew how to forgive nobly. Whether
this was so or not, I do not venture to decide. But I am sure if he
forgave, he never forgot. An offence remained for ever rankling in his
heart and mind.
From Chopin’s friends to his pupils is but one step, and not even that,
for a great many of his pupils were also his friends; indeed, among them
were some of those who were nearest to his heart, and not a few in whose
society he took a particular delight. Before I speak, however, of his
teaching, I must say a few words about a subject which equally relates to
our artist’s friends and pupils, and to them rather than to any other
class of people with whom he had any dealings.
Liszt’s account of Chopin’s bizarrerie is in the main correct, although we
have, of course, to make some deduction for exaggeration. In fact, Gutmann
told me that his master sometimes began a letter twenty times, and finally
flung down the pen and said: “I’ll go and tell her [or “him,” as the case
might be] myself.”
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHOPIN AS A TEACHER: HIS SUCCESS OR WANT OF SUCCESS AS SUCH; HIS PUPILS,
AMATEUR AND PROFESSIONAL; METHOD OF TEACHING; AND TEACHING REPERTOIRE.
As Chopin rarely played in public and could not make a comfortable living
by his compositions, there remained nothing for him but to teach, which,
indeed, he did till his strength forsook him. But so far from regarding
teaching as a burden, says his pupil Mikuli, he devoted himself to it with
real pleasure. Of course, a teacher can only take pleasure in teaching
when he has pupils of the right sort. This advantage, however, Chopin may
have enjoyed to a greater extent than most masters, for according to all
accounts it was difficult to be received as a pupil—he by no means
gave lessons to anyone who asked for them. As long as he was in fair
health, he taught during the season from four to five hours a day, in
later years only, or almost only, at home. His fee for a lesson was twenty
francs, which were deposited by the pupil on the mantelpiece.
Was Chopin a good teacher? His pupils without exception most positively
affirm it. But outsiders ask: How is it, then, that so great a virtuoso
has not trained players who have made the world ring with their fame? Mr.
Halle, whilst pointing out the fact that Chopin’s pupils have not
distinguished themselves, did not wish to decide whether this was owing to
a deficiency in the master or to some other cause. Liszt, in speaking to
me on this subject, simply remarked: “Chopin was unfortunate in his pupils—none
of them has become a player of any importance, although some of his noble
pupils played very well.” If we compare Liszt’s pianistic offspring with
Chopin’s, the difference is indeed striking. But here we have to keep in
mind several considerations—Chopin taught for a shorter period than
Liszt; most of his pupils, unlike Liszt’s, were amateurs; and he may not
have met with the stuff out of which great virtuosos are made. That Chopin
was unfortunate in his pupils may be proved by the early death of several
very promising ones. Charles Filtsch, born at Hermannstadt, Transylvania
(Hungary), about 1830, of whom Liszt and Lenz spoke so highly (see Chapter
XXVI.), died on May 11, 1845, at Venice, after having in 1843 made a
sensation in London and Vienna, both by the poetical and technical
qualities of his playing. In London “little Filtsch” played at least twice
in public (on June 14 at the St. James’s Theatre between two plays, and on
July 4 at a matinee of his own at the Hanover Square Rooms), repeatedly in
private, and had also the honour to appear before the Queen at Buckingham
Palace. J. W. Davison relates in his preface to Chopin’s mazurkas and
waltzes (Boosey & Co.) a circumstance which proves the young
virtuoso’s musicianship. “Engaged to perform Chopin’s second concerto in
public, the orchestral parts not being obtainable, Filtsch, nothing
dismayed, wrote out the whole of them from memory.” Another short-lived
great talent was Paul Gunsberg. “This young man,” Madame Dubois informed
me, “was endowed with an extraordinary organisation. Chopin had made of
him an admirable executant. He died of consumption, otherwise he would
have become celebrated.” I do not know in which year Gunsberg died. He was
still alive on May 11, 1855. For on that day he played with his
fellow-pupil Tellefsen, at a concert given by the latter in Paris, a duet
of Schumann’s. A third pupil of Chopin prematurely snatched away by death
was Caroline Hartmann, the daughter of a manufacturer, born at Munster,
near Colmar, in 1808. She came to Paris in 1833, and died the year after—of
love for Chopin, as Edouard Wolff told me. Other authorities, however,
ascribe the sad effect to a less romantic cause. They say that through
persevering study under the direction of Chopin and Liszt she became an
excellent pianist, but that the hard work brought on a chest complaint to
which she succumbed on July 30, 1834. The GAZETTE MUSICALE of August 17,
1834, which notices her death, describes her as a pupil of Liszt, Chopin,
and Pixis, without commenting on her abilities. Spohr admired her as a
child. But if Chopin has not turned out virtuosos of the calibre of Tausig
and Hans von Bulow, he has nevertheless formed many very clever pianists.
It would serve no purpose except that of satisfying idle curiosity to draw
up a list of all the master’s ascertainable pupils. Those who wish,
however, to satisfy this idle curiosity can do so to some extent by
scanning the dedications of Chopin’s works, as the names therein to be
found—with a few and mostly obvious exceptions—are those of
pupils. The array of princesses, countesses, &c., will, it is to be
hoped, duly impress the investigator. Let us hear what the illustrious
master Marmontel has to say on this subject:—
Two of Chopin’s amateur and a few more of his professional pupils ought to
be briefly noticed here—first and chiefly of the amateurs, the
Princess Marcelline Czartoryska, who has sometimes played in public for
charitable purposes, and of whom it has often been said that she is the
most faithful transmitter of her master’s style. Would the praise which is
generally lavished upon her have been so enthusiastic if the lady had been
a professional pianist instead of a princess? The question is ungracious
in one who has not had the pleasure of hearing her, but not unnaturally
suggests itself. Be this as it may, that she is, or was, a good player,
who as an intimate friend and countrywoman thoroughly entered into the
spirit of her master’s music, seems beyond question.
[FOOTNOTE: “The Princess Marcelline Czartoryska,” wrote Sowinski in 1857
in the article “Chopin” of his “Musicien polonais,” “who has a fine
execution, seems to have inherited Chopin’s ways of procedure, especially
in phrasing and accentuation. Lately the Princess performed at Paris with
much success the magnificent F minor Concerto at a concert for the benefit
of the poor.” A critic, writing in the Gazette Musicale of March 11, 1855,
of a concert given by the Princess—at which she played an andante
with variations for piano and violoncello by Mozart, a rondo for piano and
orchestra by Mendelssohn, and Chopin’s F minor Concerto, being assisted by
Alard as conductor, the violoncellist Franchomme, and the singers Madame
Viardot and M. Fedor—praised especially her rendering of the ADAGIO
in Chopin’s Concerto. Lenz was the most enthusiastic admirer of the
Princess I have met with. He calls her (in the Berliner Musikzeitung, Vol.
XXVI) a highly-gifted nature, the best pupil [Schulerin] of Chopin, and
the incarnation of her master’s pianoforte style. At a musical party at
the house of the Counts Wilhorski at St. Petersburg, where she performed a
waltz and the Marche funebre by Chopin, her playing made such an
impression that it was thought improper to have any more music on that
evening, the trio of the march having, indeed, moved the auditors to
tears. The Princess told Lenz that on one occasion when Chopin played to
her this trio, she fell on her knees before him and felt unspeakably
happy.]
G. Chouquet reminded me not to omit to mention among Chopin’s pupils
Madame Peruzzi, the wife of the ambassador of the Duke of Tuscany to the
court of Louis Philippe:—
But enough of amateurs. Mdlle. Friederike Muller, now for many years
married to the Viennese pianoforte-maker J. B. Streicher, is regarded by
many as the most, and is certainly one of the most gifted of Chopin’s
favourite pupils. [FOOTNOTE: She played already in public at Vienna in the
fourth decade of this century, which must have been before her coming to
Paris (see Eduard Hanslick, Geschichte des Concertwesens in Wien, p. 326).
Marriage brought the lady’s professional career to a close.] That the
composer dedicated to her his Allegro de Concert, Op. 46, may be regarded
as a mark of his love and esteem for her. Carl Mikuli found her assistance
of great importance in the preparation of his edition of Chopin’s works,
as she had received lessons from the master for several years, and,
moreover, had had many opportunities of hearing him on other occasions.
The same authority refers to Madame Dubois (nee O’Meara) [FOOTNOTE: A
relation of Edward Barry O’Meara, physician to the first Napoleon at St.
Helena, and author of “Napoleon in Exile.”] and to Madame Rubio (NEE Vera
de Kologrivof) as to “two extremely excellent pianists [hochst
ausgezeichnete Pianistinnen] whose talent enjoyed the advantage of the
master’s particular care.” The latter lady was taught by Chopin from 1842
to 1849, and in the last years of his life assisted him, as we shall see,
by taking partial charge of some of his pupils. Madame Dubois, who studied
under Kalkbrenner from the age of nine to thirteen, became then a pupil of
Chopin, with whom she remained five years. It was very difficult to obtain
his consent to take another pupil, but the influence of M. Albrecht, a
common friend of her father’s and Chopin’s, stood her in good stead.
Although I heard her play only one or two of her master’s minor pieces,
and under very unfavourable circumstances too—namely, at the end of
the teaching season and in a tropical heat—I may say that her suave
touch, perfect legato, and delicate sentiment seemed to me to bear out the
above-quoted remark of M. Marmontel. Madame Dubois, who is one of the most
highly-esteemed teachers of the piano in Paris, used to play till recently
in public, although less frequently in later than in earlier years. And
here I must extract a passage from Madame Girardin’s letter of March 7,
1847, in Vol. IV. of “Le Vicomte de Launay,” where, after describing
Mdlle. O’Meara’s beauty, more especially her Irish look—”that
mixture of sadness and serenity, of profound tenderness and shy dignity,
which you never find in the proud and brilliant looks which you admire in
the women of other nations “—she says:—
As regards Chopin’s male pupils, we have to note George Mathias (born at
Paris in 1826), the well-known professor of the piano at the Paris
Conservatoire, [FOOTNOTE: He retired a year or two ago.] and still more
widely-known composer of more than half-a-hundred important works
(sonatas, trios, concertos, symphonic compositions, pianoforte pieces,
songs, &c.), who enjoyed the master’s teaching from 1839 to 1844;
Lysberg (1821-1873), whose real name was Charles Samuel Bovy, for many
years professor of the piano at the Conservatoire of his native town,
Geneva, and a very fertile composer of salon pieces for the piano
(composer also of a one-act comic opera, La Fills du Carillonneur),
distinguished by “much poetic feeling, an extremely careful form, an
original colouring, and in which one often seems to see pass a breath of
Weber or Chopin”; [FOOTNOTE: Supplement et Complement to Fetis’ Biographie
universelle des Musiciens, published under the direction of Arthur
Pougin.] the Norwegian Thomas Dyke Acland Tellefsen (1823-1874), a teacher
of the piano in Paris and author of an edition of Chopin’s works; Carl
Mikuli (born at Czernowitz in 1821), since 1858 artistic director of the
Galician Musical Society (conservatoire, concerts, &c.), and author of
an edition of Chopin’s works; and Adolph Gutmann, the master’s favourite
pupil par excellence, of whom we must speak somewhat more at length.
Karasowski makes also mention of Casimir Wernik, who died at St.
Petersburg in 1859, and of Gustav Schumann, a teacher of the piano at
Berlin, who, however, was only during the winter of 1840-1841 with the
Polish master. For Englishmen the fact of the late Brinley Richards and
Lindsay Sloper having been pupils of Chopin—the one for a short, the
other for a longer period—will be of special interest.
Adolph Gutmann was a boy of fifteen when in 1834 his father brought him to
Paris to place him under Chopin. The latter, however, did not at first
feel inclined to accept the proposed trust; but on hearing the boy play he
conceived so high an idea of his capacities that he agreed to undertake
his artistic education. Chopin seems to have always retained a thorough
belief in his muscular pupil, although some of his great pianist friends
thought this belief nothing but a strange delusion. There are also piquant
anecdotes told by fellow-pupils with the purpose of showing that Chopin
did not care very much for him. For instance, the following: Some one
asked the master how his pupil was getting on, “Oh, he makes very good
chocolate,” was the answer. Unfortunately, I cannot speak of Gutmann’s
playing from experience, for although I spent eight days with him, it was
on a mountain-top in the Tyrol, where there were no pianos. But Chopin’s
belief in Gutmann counts with me for something, and so does Moscheles’
reference to him as Chopin’s “excellent pupil”; more valuable, I think,
than either is the evidence of Dr. A. C. Mackenzie, who at my request
visited Gutmann several times in Florence and was favourably impressed by
his playing, in which he noticed especially beauty of tone combined with
power. As far as I can make out Gutmann planned only once, in 1846, a
regular concert-tour, being furnished for it by Chopin with letters of
introduction to the highest personages in Berlin, Warsaw, and St.
Petersburg. Through the intervention of the Countess Rossi (Henriette
Sontag), he was invited to play at a court-concert at Charlottenburg in
celebration of the King’s birthday. [FOOTNOTE: His part of the programme
consisted of his master’s E minor Concerto (2nd and 3rd movements) and No.
3 of the first book of studies, and his own tenth study.] But the day
after the concert he was seized with such home-sickness that he returned
forthwith to Paris, where he made his appearance to the great astonishment
of Chopin. The reader may perhaps be interested in what a writer in the
Gazette Musicale said about Chopin’s favourite pupil on March 24, 1844:—
Of course, the expression of any individual opinion is no conclusive
proof. Gutmann was so successful as a teacher and in a way also as a
composer (his compositions, I may say in passing, were not in his master’s
but in a light salon style) that at a comparatively early period of his
life he was able to retire from his profession. After travelling for some
time he settled at Florence, where he invented the art, or, at least,
practised the art which he had previously invented, of painting with
oil-colours on satin. He died at Spezzia on October 27, 1882.
[FOOTNOTE: The short notice of Gutmann in Fetis’ Biographie Universelle
des Musiciens, and those of the followers of this by no means infallible
authority, are very incorrect. Adolfo Gutmann, Riccordi Biografici, by
Giulio Piccini (Firenze: Guiseppe Polverini, 1881), reproduces to a great
extent the information contained in Der Lieblingsschuler Chopin’s in
Bernhard Stavenow’s Schone Geister (Bremen: Kuhlmann, 1879), both which
publications, eulogistic rather than biographical, were inspired by
Gutmann.]
Whatever interest the reader may have taken in this survey of Chopin’s
pupils, he is sure to be more deeply interested by the account of the
master’s manner and method of teaching. Such an account, which would be
interesting in the case of any remarkable virtuoso who devoted himself to
instruction, is so in a higher degree in that of Chopin: first, because it
may help us to solve the question why so unique a virtuoso did not form a
single eminent concert-player; secondly, because it throws still further
light on his character as a man and artist; and thirdly, because, as
Mikuli thinks may be asserted without exaggeration, “only Chopin’s pupils
knew the pianist in the fulness of his unrivalled height.” The materials
at my disposal are abundant and not less trustworthy than abundant. My
account is based chiefly on the communications made to me by a number of
the master’s pupils—notably, Madame Dubois, Madame Rubio, M.
Mathias, and Gutmann—and on Mikuli’s excellent preface to his
edition of Chopin’s works. When I have drawn upon other sources, I have
not done so without previous examination and verification. I may add that
I shall use as far as possible the ipsissima verba of my informants:—
The Polish master, who was so original in many ways, differed from his
confreres even in the way of starting his pupils. With him the normal
position of the hand was not that above the keys c, d, e, f, g (i.e.,
above five white keys), but that above the keys e, f sharp, g sharp, a
sharp, b (I.E., above two white keys and three black keys, the latter
lying between the former). The hand had to be thrown lightly on the
keyboard so as to rest on these keys, the object of this being to secure
for it not only an advantageous, but also a graceful position:—
[FOOTNOTE: Kleczynski, in Chopin: De l’interpretation de ses oeuvres—Trois
conferences faites a Varsovie, says that he was told by several of the
master’s pupils that the latter sometimes held his hands absolutely flat.
When I asked Madame Dubois about the correctness of this statement, she
replied: “I never noticed Chopin holding his hands flat.” In short, if
Chopin put his hands at any time in so awkward a position, it was
exceptional; physical exhaustion may have induced him to indulge in such
negligence when the technical structure of the music he was playing
permitted it.]
How much stiffness and jerkiness exasperated him may be judged from what
Madame Zaleska related to M. Kleczynski. A pupil having played somewhat
carelessly the arpeggio at the beginning of the first study (in A flat
major) of the second book of Clementi’s Preludes et Exercices, the master
jumped from his chair and exclaimed: “What is that? Has a dog been
barking?” [Qu’est-ce? Est-ce un chien qui vient d’aboyer?] The rudeness of
this exclamation will, no doubt, surprise. But polite as Chopin generally
was, irritation often got the better of him, more especially in later
years when bad health troubled him. Whether he ever went the length of
throwing the music from the desk and breaking chairs, as Karasowski says,
I do not know and have not heard confirmed by any pupil. Madame Rubio,
however, informed me that Chopin was very irritable, and when teaching
amateurs used to have always a packet of pencils about him which, to vent
his anger, he silently broke into bits. Gutmann told me that in the early
stages of his discipleship Chopin sometimes got very angry, and stormed
and raged dreadfully; but immediately was kind and tried to soothe his
pupil when he saw him distressed and weeping.
Indeed, the pupils were so far from bearing their master the least grudge
that, to use M. Marmontel’s words, they had more for him than admiration:
a veritable idolatry. But it is time that after this excursion—which
hardly calls for an excuse—we return to the more important part of
our subject, the master’s method of teaching.
To resume Mikuli’s narrative:—
All who have had the good fortune to hear Chopin play agree in declaring
that one of the most distinctive features of his style of execution was
smoothness, and smoothness, as we have seen in the foregoing notes, was
also one of the qualities on which he most strenuously insisted in the
playing of his pupils. The reader will remember Gutmann’s statement to me,
mentioned in a previous chapter, that all his master’s fingering was
calculated for the attainment of this object. Fingering is the mainspring,
the determining principle, one might almost say the life and soul, of the
pianoforte technique. We shall, therefore, do well to give a moment’s
consideration to Chopin’s fingering, especially as he was one of the
boldest and most influential revolutionisers of this important department
of the pianistic art. His merits in this as in other respects, his various
claims to priority of invention, are only too often overlooked. As at one
time all ameliorations in the theory and practice of music were ascribed
to Guido of Arezzo, so it is nowadays the fashion to ascribe all
improvements and extensions of the pianoforte technique to Liszt, who more
than any other pianist drew upon himself the admiration of the world, and
who through his pupils continued to make his presence felt even after the
close of his career as a virtuoso. But the cause of this false opinion is
to be sought not so much in the fact that the brilliancy of his artistic
personality threw all his contemporaries into the shade, as in that other
fact, that he gathered up into one web the many threads new and old which
he found floating about during the years of his development. The
difference between Liszt and Chopin lies in this, that the basis of the
former’s art is universality, that of the latter’s, individuality. Of the
fingering of the one we may say that it is a system, of that of the other
that it is a manner. Probably we have here also touched on the cause of
Liszt’s success and Chopin’s want of success as a teacher. I called Chopin
a revolutioniser of fingering, and, I think, his full enfranchisement of
the thumb, his breaking-down of all distinctions of rank between the other
fingers, in short, the introduction of a liberty sometimes degenerating
into licence, justifies the expression. That this master’s fingering is
occasionally eccentric (presupposing peculiarly flexible hands and a
peculiar course of study) cannot be denied; on the whole, however, it is
not only well adapted for the proper rendering of his compositions, but
also contains valuable contributions to a universal system of fingering.
The following particulars by Mikuli will be read with interest, and cannot
be misunderstood after what has just now been said on the subject:—
But if with Chopin smoothness was one of the qualities upon which he
insisted strenuously in the playing of his pupils, he was by no means
satisfied with a mere mechanical perfection. He advised his pupils to
undertake betimes thorough theoretical studies, recommending his friend,
the composer and theorist Henri Reber as a teacher. He advised them also
to cultivate ensemble playing—trios, quartets, &c., if
first-class partners could be had, otherwise pianoforte duets. Most
urgent, however, he was in his advice to them to hear good singing, and
even to learn to sing. To Madame Rubio he said: “You must sing if you wish
to play”; and made her take lessons in singing and hear much Italian opera—this
last, the lady remarked, Chopin regarded as positively necessary for a
pianoforte-player. In this advice we recognise Chopin’s ideal of
execution: beauty of tone, intelligent phrasing, truthfulness and warmth
of expression. The sounds which he drew from the pianoforte were pure tone
without the least admixture of anything that might be called noise. “He
never thumped,” was Gutmann’s remark to me. Chopin, according to Mikuli,
repeatedly said that when he heard bad phrasing it appeared to him as if
some one recited, in a language he did not know, a speech laboriously
memorised, not only neglecting to observe the right quantity of the
syllables, but perhaps even making full stops in the middle of words. “The
badly-phrasing pseudo-musician,” he thought, “showed that music was not
his mother-tongue, but something foreign, unintelligible to him,” and
that, consequently, “like that reciter, he must altogether give up the
idea of producing any effect on the auditor by his rendering.” Chopin
hated exaggeration and affectation. His precept was: “Play as you feel.”
But he hated the want of feeling as much as false feeling. To a pupil
whose playing gave evidence of nothing but the possession of fingers, he
said emphatically, despairingly: “METTEZ-Y DONc TOUTE VOTRE AME!” (Do put
all your soul into it!)
[FOOTNOTE: “In dynamical shading [im nuanciren],” says Mikuli, “he was
exceedingly particular about a gradual increase and decrease of loudness.”
Karasowski writes: “Exaggeration in accentuation was hateful to him, for,
in his opinion, it took away the poesy from playing, and gave it a certain
didactic pedantry.”]
With regard to Chopin’s playing to his pupils we must keep in mind what
was said in foot-note 12 on page 184. On another point in the above
quotation one of Madame Dubois’s communications to me throws some welcome
light:—
Judging from various reports, Chopin seems to have regarded his Polish
pupils as more apt than those of other nationalities to do full justice to
his compositions. Karasowski relates that when one of Chopin’s French
pupils played his compositions and the auditors overwhelmed the performer
with their praise, the master used often to remark that his pupil had done
very well, but that the Polish element and the Polish enthusiasm had been
wanting. Here it is impossible not to be reminded of the contention
between Chopin on the one hand and Liszt and Hiller on the other hand
about the possibility of foreigners comprehending Polish national music
(See Vol. 1., p. 256). After revealing the mystery of Chopin’s tempo
rubato, Liszt writes in his book on this master:—
There is one thing which is worth inquiring into before we close this
chapter, for it may help us to a deeper insight into Chopin’s character as
a teacher—I mean his teaching repertoire. Mikuli says that,
carefully arranged according to their difficulty, Chopin placed before his
pupils the following compositions: the concertos and sonatas of Clementi,
Mozart, Bach, Handel, Scarlatti, Dussek, Field, Hummel, Ries, Beethoven;
further, Weber, Moscheles, Mendelssohn, Hiller, Schumann, and his own
works. This enumeration, however, does not agree with accounts from other
equally authentic sources. The pupils of Chopin I have conversed and
corresponded with never studied any Schumann under their master. As to the
cultivation of Beethoven, it was, no doubt, limited. M. Mathias, it is
true, told me that Chopin showed a preference for Clementi (Gradus ad
Parnassum), Bach, Field (of him much was played, notably his concertos),
and naturally for Beethoven, Weber, &c.—Clementi, Bach, and
Field being always the composers most laid under contribution in the case
of debutants. Madame Rubio, on the other hand, confined herself to stating
that Chopin put her through Hummel, Moscheles, and Bach; and did not
mention Beethoven at all. Gutmann’s statements concerning his master’s
teaching contain some positive evidence with regard to the Beethoven
question. What he said was this: Chopin held that dementi’s Gradus ad
Parnassum, Bach’s pianoforte fugues, and Hummel’s compositions were the
key to pianoforte-playing, and he considered a training in these composers
a fit preparation for his own works. He was particularly fond of Hummel
and his style. Beethoven he seemed to like less. He appreciated such
pieces as the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata (C sharp minor, Op.
27, No. 2). Schubert was a favourite with him. This, then, is what I
learned from Gutmann. In parenthesis, as it were, I may ask: Is it not
strange that no pupil, with the exception of Mikuli, mentions the name of
Mozart, the composer whom Chopin is said to have so much admired? Thanks
to Madame Dubois, who at my request had the kindness to make out a list of
the works she remembers having studied under Chopin, we shall be able to
form a pretty distinct idea of the master’s course of instruction, which,
to be sure, would be modified according to the capacities of his pupils
and the objects they had in view. Well, Madame Dubois says that Chopin
made her begin with the second book of Clementi’s Preludes et Exercices,
and that she also studied under him the same composer’s Gradus ad
Parnassum and Bach’s forty-eight preludes and fugues. Of his high opinion
of the teaching qualities of Bach’s compositions we may form an idea from
the recommendation to her at their last meeting—already mentioned in
an earlier chapter—to practise them constantly, “ce sera votre
meilleur moyen de progresser” (this will be your best means to make
progress). The pieces she studied under him included the following ones:
Of Hummel, the Rondo brillant sur un theme russe (Op. 98), La Bella
capricciosa, the Sonata in F sharp minor (Op. 81), the Concertos in A
minor and B minor, and the Septet; of Field, several concertos (the one in
E flat among others) and several nocturnes (“Field” she says, “lui etait
tres sympathique”); of Beethoven, the concertos and several sonatas (the
Moonlight, Op. 27, No. 2; the one with the Funeral March, Op. 26; and the
Appassionata, Op. 57); of Weber, the Sonatas in C and A flat major (Chopin
made his pupils play these two works with extreme care); of Schubert, the
Landler and all the waltzes and some of the duets (the marches,
polonaises, and the Divertissement hongrois, which last piece he admired
sans reserve); of Mendelssohn, only the G minor Concerto and the Songs
without Words; of Liszt, no more than La Tarantelle de Rossini and the
Septet from Lucia (“mais ce genre de musique ne lui allait pas,” says my
informant); and of Schumann, NOTHING.
Madame Streicher’s interesting reminiscences, given in Appendix III., form
a supplement to this chapter.
CHAPTER XXIX.
RUPTURE OF THE SAND-CHOPIN CONNECTION.—HER OWN, LISZT’S, AND
KARASOWSKI’S ACCOUNTS.-THE LUCREZIA FLORIANI INCIDENT.—FURTHER
INVESTIGATION OF THE CAUSES OF THE RUPTURE BY THE LIGHT OF LETTERS AND THE
INFORMATION OF GUTMANN, FRANCHOMME, AND MADAME RUBIO.—SUMMING-UP OF
THE EVIDENCE.—CHOPIN’S COMPOSITIONS IN 1847.—GIVES A CONCERT,
HIS LAST IN PARIS (1848): WHAT AND HOW HE PLAYED; THE CHARACTER OF THE
AUDIENCE.—GEORGE SAND AND CHOPIN MEET ONCE MORE.—THE FEBRUARY
REVOLUTION; CHOPIN MAKES UP HIS MIND TO VISIT ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND.
WE now come to the catastrophe of Chopin’s life, the rupture of his
connection with George Sand. Although there is no lack of narratives in
which the causes, circumstances, and time of this rupture are set forth
with absolute positiveness, it is nevertheless an undeniable fact that we
are not at the present moment, nor, all things well considered, shall be
even in the most distant future, in a position to speak on this subject
otherwise than conjecturally.
[FOOTNOTE: Except the letter of George Sand given on p. 75, and the note
of Chopin to George Sand which will be given a little farther on, nothing,
I think, of their correspondence has become public. But even if their
letters were forth-coming, it is more likely than not that they would fail
to clear up the mystery. Here I ought, perhaps, to reproduce the somewhat
improbable story told in the World of December 14, 1887, by the Paris
correspondent who signs himself “Theoc.” He writes as follows: “I have
heard that it was by saving her letters to Chopin that M. Alexandre Dumas
won the friendship of George Sand. The anecdote runs thus: When Chopin
died, his sister found amongst his papers some two hundred letters of
Madame Sand, which she took with her to Poland. By chance this lady had
some difficulties at the frontier with the Russian custom-house officials;
her trunks were seized, and the box containing the letters was mislaid and
lost. A few years afterwards, one of the custom-house officials found the
letters and kept them, not knowing the name and the address of the Polish
lady who had lost them. M. Dumas discovered this fact, and during a
journey in Russia he explained to this official how painful it would be if
by some indiscretion these letters of the illustrious novelist ever got
into print. ‘Let me restore them to Madame Sand,’ said M. Dumas. ‘And my
duty?’ asked the customs official. ‘If anybody ever claims the letters,’
replied M. Dumas, ‘I authorise you to say that I stole them.’ On this
condition M. Dumas, then a young man, obtained the letters, brought them
back to Paris, and restored them to Madame Sand, whose acquaintance he
thus made. Madame Sand burnt all her letters to Chopin, but she never
forgot the service that M. Dumas had rendered her.”]
I have done my utmost to elucidate the tragic event which it is impossible
not to regard as one of the most momentous crises in Chopin’s life, and
have succeeded in collecting besides the material already known much that
is new; but of what avail is this for coming to a final decision if we
find the depositions hopelessly contradictory, and the witnesses more or
less untrustworthy—self-interest makes George Sand’s evidence
suspicious, the instability of memory that of others. Under the
circumstances it seems to me safest to place before the reader the
depositions of the various witnesses—not, however, without comment—and
leave him to form his own conclusions. I shall begin with the account
which George Sand gives in her Ma Vie:—
Liszt’s account is noteworthy because it gives us the opinion of a man who
knew the two principal actors in the drama intimately, and had good
opportunities to learn what contemporary society thought about it. Direct
knowledge of the facts, however, Liszt had not, for he was no longer a
friend either of the one or the other of the two parties:—
However unreliable Liszt’s facts may be, the PHILOSOPHY of his account
shows real insight. Karasowski, on the other hand, has neither facts nor
insight. He speaks with a novelist’s confidence and freedom of characters
whom he in no way knows, and about whom he has nothing to tell but the
vaguest and most doubtful of second-hand hearsays:—
By this heroic means Karasowski understands the publication of George
Sand’s novel Lucrezia Floriani (in 1847), concerning which he says the
story goes that “out of refined cruelty the proof-sheets were handed to
him [Chopin] with the request to correct the misprints.” Karasowski also
reports as a “fact” that
George Sand’s view of the Lucrezia Floriani incident must be given in
full. In Ma Vie she writes as follows:—
The arguments advanced by George Sand are anything but convincing; in
fact, her defence is extremely weak. She does not even tell us that she
did not make use of Chopin as a model. That she drew a caricature and not
a portrait will hardly be accepted as an excuse, nay, is sure to be
regarded as the very head and front of her offending. But George Sand had
extraordinarily naive notions on this subject, notions which are not
likely to be shared by many, at least not by many outside the fraternities
of novelists and dramatists. Having mentioned, in speaking of her
grand-uncle the Abbe de Beaumont, that she thought of him when sketching
the portrait of a certain canon in Consuelo, and that she had very much
exaggerated the resemblance to meet the requirements of the romance, she
remarks that portraits traced in this way are no longer portraits, and
that those who feel offended on recognising themselves do an injustice
both to the author and themselves. “Caricature or idealisation,” she
writes, “it is no longer the original model, and this model has little
judgment if it thinks it recognises itself, if it becomes angry or vain on
seeing what art or imagination has been able to make of it.” This is
turning the tables with a vengeance; and if impudence can silence the
voice of truth and humanity, George Sand has gained her case. In her
account of the Lucrezia Floriani incident George Sand proceeds as usual
when she is attacked and does not find it more convenient simply to
declare that she will not condescend to defend herself—namely, she
envelops the whole matter in a mist of beautiful words and sentiments out
of which issues—and this is the only clearly-distinguishable thing—her
own saintly self in celestial radiance. But notwithstanding all her
arguments and explanations there remains the fact that Liszt and thousands
of others, I one of them, read Lucrezia Floriani and were not a moment in
doubt that Chopin was the prototype of Prince Karol. We will not charge
George Sand with the atrocity of writing the novel for the purpose of
getting rid of Chopin; but we cannot absolve her from the sin of being
regardless of the pain she would inflict on one who once was dear to her,
and who still loved her ardently. Even Miss Thomas, [FOOTNOTE: In George
Sand, a volume of the “Eminent Women Series.”] who generally takes George
Sand at her own valuation, and in this case too tries to excuse her,
admits that in Lucrezia Floriani there was enough of reality interwoven to
make the world hasten to identify or confound Chopin with Prince Karol,
that Chopin, the most sensitive of mortals, could not but be pained by the
inferences which would be drawn, that “perhaps if only as a genius he had
the right to be spared such an infliction,” and that, therefore, “one must
wish it could have appeared in this light to Madame Sand.” This is a mild
way of expressing disapproval of conduct that shows, to say the least, an
inhuman callousness to the susceptibilities of a fellow-being. And to
speak of the irresistible prompting of genius in connection with one who
had her faculties so well under her control is downright mockery. It
would, however, be foolish to expect considerateness for others in one who
needlessly detailed and proclaimed to the world not only the little
foibles but also the drunkenness and consequent idiocy and madness of a
brother whose family was still living. Her practice was, indeed, so much
at variance with her profession that it is preposterous rather to accept
than to doubt her words. George Sand was certainly not the
self-sacrificing woman she pretended to be; for her sacrifices never
outlasted her inclinations, they were, indeed, nothing else than an
abandonment to her desires. And these desires were the directors of her
reason, which, aided by an exuberant imagination, was never at a loss to
justify any act, be it ever so cruel and abject. In short, the chief
characteristic of George Sand’s moral constitution was her incapacity of
regarding anything she did otherwise than as right. What I have said is
fully borne out by her Ma Vie and the “Correspondance,” which, of course,
can be more easily and safely examined than her deeds and spoken words.
And now we will continue our investigations of the causes and
circumstances of the rupture. First I shall quote some passages from
letters written by George Sand, between which will be inserted a note from
Chopin to her. If the reader does not see at once what several of these
quotations have to do with the matter under discussion, he will do so
before long.
The following letter, of an earlier date than those from which my last two
excerpts are taken, is more directly concerned with Chopin.
If all that George Sand here says is bona fide, the letter proves that the
rupture had not yet taken place. Indeed, Gutmann was of opinion that it
did not take place till 1848, shortly before Chopin’s departure for
England, that, in-fact, she, her daughter, and son-in-law were present at
the concert he gave on February 16, 1848. That this, however, was not the
case is shown both by a letter written by George Sand from Nohant on
February 18, 1848, and by another statement of Gutmann’s, according to
which one of the causes of the rupture was the marriage of Solange with
Clesinger of which Chopin (foreseeing unhappiness which did not fail to
come, and led to separation) did not approve. Another cause, he thought,
was Chopin’s disagreements with Maurice Sand. There were hasty remarks and
sharp retorts between lover and son, and scenes in consequence. Gutmann is
a very unsatisfactory informant, everything he read and heard seemed to
pass through the retort of his imagination and reappear transformed as his
own experience.
A more reliable witness is Franchomme, who in a letter to me summed up the
information which he had given me on this subject by word of mouth as
follows:—
Of the quarrel at Nohant, Franchomme gave the following account:—There
was staying at that time at Nohant a gentleman who treated Madame
Clesinger invariably with rudeness. One day as Clesinger and his wife went
downstairs the person in question passed without taking off his hat. The
sculptor stopped him, and said, “Bid madam a good day”; and when the
gentleman or churl, as the case may be, refused, he gave him a box on the
ear. George Sand, who stood at the top of the stairs, saw it, came down,
and gave in her turn Clesinger a box on the ear. After this she turned her
son-in-law together with his wife out of her house, and wrote the
above-mentioned letter to Chopin.
Madame Rubio had also heard of the box on the ear which George Sand gave
Clesinger. According to this informant there were many quarrels between
mother and daughter, the former objecting to the latter’s frequent visits
to Chopin, and using this as a pretext to break with him. Gutmann said to
me that Chopin was fond of Solange, though not in love with her. But now
we have again got into the current of gossip, and the sooner we get out of
it the better.
Before I draw my conclusions from the evidence I have collected, I must
find room for some extracts from two letters, respectively written on
August 9, 1847, and December 14,1847, to Charles Poncy. The contents of
these extracts will to a great extent be a mystery to the reader, a
mystery to which I cannot furnish the key. Was Solange the chief subject
of George Sand’s lamentations? Had Chopin or her brother, or both, to do
with this paroxysm of despair?
After saying how she has been overwhelmed by a chain of chagrins, how her
purest intentions have had a fatal issue, how her best actions have been
blamed by men and punished by heaven as crimes, she proceeds:—
The next quotation is from the letter dated Nohant, December 14, 1847.
Desirez is the wife of Charles Poncy, to whom the letter is addressed.
We have, then, the choice of two explanations of the rupture: George
Sand’s, that it was caused by the disagreement of Chopin and her son; and
Franchomme’s, that it was brought about by Chopin’s disregard of George
Sand’s injunction not to receive her daughter and son-in-law. I prefer the
latter version, which is reconcilable with George Sand’s letters,
confirmed by the testimony of several of Chopin’s friends, and given by an
honest, simple-minded man who may be trusted to have told a plain
unvarnished tale.
[FOOTNOTE: The contradictions are merely apparent, and disappear if we
consider that George Sand cannot have had any inclination to give to
Gutmann and Poncy an explanation of the real state of matters. Moreover,
when she wrote to the former the rupture had, according to Franchomme, not
yet taken place.]
But whatever reason may have been alleged to justify, whatever
circumstance may have been the ostensible cause of the rupture, in reality
it was only a pretext. On this point all agree—Franchomme, Gutmann,
Kwiatkowski, Madame Rubio, Liszt, &c. George Sand was tired of Chopin,
and as he did not leave her voluntarily, the separation had to be forced
upon him. Gutmann thought there was no rupture at all. George Sand went to
Nohant without Chopin, ceased to write to him, and thus the connection
came to an end. Of course, Chopin ought to have left her before she had
recourse to the “heroic means” of kicking him, metaphorically speaking,
out of doors. But the strength of his passion for this woman made him
weak. If a tithe of what is rumoured about George Sand’s amorous escapades
is true, a lover who stayed with her for eight years must have found his
capacity of overlooking and forgiving severely tested. We hear on all
sides of the infidelities she permitted herself. A Polish friend of
Chopin’s informed me that one day when he was about to enter the
composer’s, room to pay him a visit, the married Berrichon female servant
of George Sand came out of it; and Chopin, who was lying ill in bed, told
him afterwards that she had been complaining of her mistress and husband.
Gutmann, who said that Chopin knew of George Sand’s occasional
infidelities, pretended to have heard him say when she had left him behind
in Paris: “I would overlook all if only she would allow me to stay with
her at Nohant.” I regard these and such like stories, especially the last
one, with suspicion (is it probable that the reticent artist was
communicative on so delicate a subject, and with Gutmann, his pupil and a
much younger man?), but they cannot be ignored, as they are characteristic
of how Chopin’s friends viewed his position. And yet, tormented as he must
have been in the days of possession, crushed as he was by the loss,
tempted as he subsequently often felt to curse her and her deceitfulness,
he loved and missed George Sand to the very end—even the day before
his death he said to Franchomme that she had told him he would die in no
other arms but hers (que je ne mourrais que dans ses bras).
If George Sand had represented her separation from Chopin as a matter of
convenience, she would have got more sympathy and been able to make out a
better case.
Besides Chopin’s illnesses became more frequent, his strength diminished
from day to day, and care and attendance were consequently more than ever
needful. That he was a “detestable patient” has already been said. The
world takes it for granted that the wife or paramour of a man of genius is
in duty bound to sacrifice herself for him. But how does the matter stand
when there is genius on both sides, and self-sacrifice of either party
entails loss to the world? By the way, is it not very selfish and
hypocritical of this world which generally does so little for men of
genius to demand that women shall entirely, self-denyingly devote
themselves to their gifted lovers? Well, both George Sand and Chopin had
to do work worth doing, and if one of them was hampered by the other in
doing it, the dissolution of the union was justified. But perhaps this was
not the reason of the separation. At any rate, George Sand does not
advance such a plea. Still, it would have been unfair not to discuss this
possible point of view.
The passage from the letter of George Sand dated September 1, 1846, which
I quoted earlier in this chapter, justifies us, I think, in assuming that,
although she was still keeping on her apartments in the Square d’Orleans,
the phalanstery had ceased to exist. The apartments she gave up probably
sometime in 1847; at any rate, she passed the winter of 1847-8, for the
most part at least, at Nohant; and when after the outbreak of the
revolution of 1848 she came to Paris (between the 9th and 14th of March),
she put up at a hotel garni. Chopin continued to live in his old quarters
in the Square d’Orldans, and, according to Gutmann, was after the
cessation of his connection with George Sand in the habit of dining either
with him (Gutmann) or Grzymala, that is to say, in their company.
It is much to be regretted that no letters are forthcoming to tell us of
Chopin’s feelings and doings at this time. I can place before the reader
no more than one note, the satisfactory nature of which makes up to some
extent for its brevity. It is addressed to Franchomme; dated Friday,
October 1, 1847; and contains only these few words:—
In this year—i.e., 1847—appeared the three last works which
Chopin published, although among his posthumous compositions there are two
of a later date. The Trois Mazurkas, Op. 63 (dedicated to the Comtesse L.
Czosnowska), and the Trois Valses, Op. 64 (dedicated respectively to
Madame la Comtesse Potocka, Madame la Baronne de Rothschild, and Madame la
Baronne Bronicka), appeared in September, and the Sonata for piano and
violoncello, Op. 65 (dedicated to Franchomme), in October. Now I will say
of these compositions only that the mazurkas and waltzes are not inferior
to his previous works of this kind, and that the sonata is one of his most
strenuous efforts in the larger forms. Mr. Charles Halle remembers going
one evening in 1847 with Stephen Heller to Chopin, who had invited some
friends to let them hear this sonata which he had lately finished. On
arriving at his house they found him rather unwell; he went about the room
bent like a half-opened penknife. The visitors proposed to leave him and
to postpone the performance, but Chopin would not hear of it. He said he
would try. Having once begun, he soon became straight again, warming as he
proceeded. As will be seen from some remarks of Madame Dubois’s, which I
shall quote farther on, the sonata did not make an altogether favourable
impression on the auditors.
The name of Madame Dubois reminds me of the soiree immortalised by a
letter of Madame Girardin (see the one of March 7, 1847, in Vol. IV. of Le
Vicomte de Launay), and already several times alluded to by me in
preceding chapters. At this soiree Chopin not only performed several of
his pieces, but also accompanied on a second piano his E minor Concerto
which was played by his pupil, the youthful and beautiful Mdlle. Camille
O’Meara. But the musical event par excellence of the period of Chopin’s
life with which we are concerned in this chapter is his concert, the last
he gave in Paris, on February 16, 1848. Before I proceed with my account
of it, I must quote a note, enclosing tickets for this concert, which
Chopin wrote at this time to Franchomme. It runs thus: “The best places en
evidence for Madame D., but not for her cook.” Madame D. was Madame Paul
Delaroche, the wife of the great painter, and a friend of Franchomme’s.
But here is a copy of the original programme:—
The report of “M. S.” in the Gazette musicale of February 20, 1848,
transports us at once into the midst of the exquisite, perfume-laden
atmosphere of Pleyel’s rooms on February 16:—
As this report, although it enables us to realise the atmosphere, is
otherwise lacking in substance, we must try to get further information
elsewhere. Happily, there is plenty at our disposal.
Stephen Heller’s remark to me, that Chopin became in his last years so
weak that his playing was sometimes hardly audible, I have already related
in a preceding chapter. There I have also mentioned what Mr. Charles
Halle’ told me—namely, that in the latter part of his life Chopin
often played forte passages piano and even pianissimo, that, for instance,
at the concert we are speaking of he played the two forte passages towards
the end of the Barcarole pianissimo and with all sorts of dynamic
finesses. Mr. Otto Goldschmidt, who was present at the concert on February
16, 1848, gave some interesting recollections of it, after the reading of
a paper on the subject of Chopin, by Mr. G. A. Osborne, at one of the
meetings of the Musical Association (see Proceedings, of the Musical
Association for the year 1879-80):—
In connection with what Mr. Goldschmidt and the writer in the Gazette
musicale say about the difficulty of admission and a sifted list, I have
to record, and I shall do no more than record, Franchomme’s denial. “I
really believe,” he said to me, “that this is a mere fiction. I saw Chopin
every day; how, then, could I remain ignorant of it?”
To complete my account of Chopin’s last concert in Paris, I have yet to
add some scraps of information derived from Un nid d’autographes, by Oscar
Comettant, who was present at it, and, moreover, reported on it in Le
Siecle. The memory of the event was brought back to him when on looking
over autographs in the possession of Auguste Wolff, the successor of
Camille Pleyel, he found a ticket for the above described concert. As the
concert so was also the ticket unlike that of any other artist. “Les
lettres d’ecriture anglaise etaient gravees au burin et imprimees en
taille-douce sur de beau papier mi-carton glace, d’un carre long elegant
et distingue.” It bore the following words and figures:—
M. Comettant, in contradiction to what has been said by others about
Chopin’s physical condition, states that when the latter came on the
platform, he walked upright and without feebleness; his face, though pale,
did not seem greatly altered; and he played as he had always played. But
M. Comettant was told that Chopin, having spent at the concert all his
moral and physical energy, afterwards nearly fainted in the artists’ room.
In March Chopin and George Sand saw each other once more. We will rest
satisfied with the latter’s laconic account of the meeting already quoted:
“Je serrai sa main tremblante et glacee. Je voulu lui parler, il
s’echappa.” Karasowski’s account of this last meeting is in the feuilleton
style and a worthy pendant to that of the first meeting:—
And then follow wonderful conversations, sighs, blushes, tears, a lady
hiding behind an ivy screen, and afterwards advancing with a gliding step,
and whispering with a look full of repentance: “Frederick!” Alas, this was
not the way George Sand met her dismissed lovers. Moreover, let it be
remembered she was at this time not a girl in her teens, but a woman of
nearly forty-four.
The outbreak of the revolution on February 22, 1848, upset the
arrangements for the second concert, which was to take place on the 10th
of March, and, along with the desire to seek forgetfulness of the grievous
loss he had sustained in a change of scene, decided him at last to accept
the pressing and unwearied invitations of his Scotch and English friends
to visit Great Britain. On April 2 the Gazette musicale announced that
Chopin would shortly betake himself to London and pass the season there.
And before many weeks had passed he set out upon his journey. But the
history of his doings in the capital and in other parts of the United
Kingdom shall be related in another chapter.
CHAPTER XXX.
DIFFERENCE OF STYLE IN CHOPIN’S WORKS.——THEIR CHARACTERISTICS
DISCUSSED, AND POPULAR PREJUDICES CONTROVERTED.——POLISH
NATIONAL MUSIC AND ITS INFLUENCE ON CHOPIN.——CHOPIN A PERSONAL
AS WELL AS NATIONAL TONE-POET.—A REVIEW OF SOME OF HIS LESS PERFECT
COMPOSITIONS AND OF HIS MASTERPIECES: BOLERO; RONDEAU; VARIATIONS;
TARANTELLE; ALLEGRO DE CONCERT; TWO SONATAS FOR PIANOFORTE (OP. 38 AND
58); SONATA (OP. 65) AND GRAND DUO CONCERTANT FOR PIANOFORTE AND
VIOLONCELLO; FANTAISIE; MAZURKAS; POLONAISES; VALSES; ETUDES; PRELUDES;
SCHERZI; IMPROMPTUS; NOCTURNES; BERCEUSE; BARCAROLE; AND BALLADES——-THE
SONGS.——VARIOUS EDITIONS.
Before we inquire into the doings and sufferings of Chopin in England and
Scotland, let us take a general survey of his life-work as a composer. We
may fitly do so now; as at the stage of his career we have reached, his
creative activity had come to a close. The last composition he published,
the G minor Sonata for piano and violoncello, Op. 65, appeared in October,
1847; and among his posthumous compositions published by Fontana there are
only two of later date—namely, the mazurkas, No. 2 of Op. 67 (G
minor) and No. 4 of Op. 68 (F minor), which came into existence in 1849.
Neither of these compositions can be numbered with the master’s best
works, but the latter of them is interesting, because it seems in its
tonal writhings and wailings a picture of the bodily and mental torments
Chopin was at the time enduring.
A considerable number of the master’s works I have already discussed in
Chapters III., VIII., and XIII. These, if we except the two Concertos, Op.
II and 21 (although they, too, do not rank with his chefs-d’oeuvre), are,
however, for us of greater importance biographically, perhaps also
historically, than otherwise. It is true, we hear now and then of some
virtuoso playing the Variations, Op. 2, or the Fantasia on Polish airs,
Op. 13, nay, we may hear even of the performance of the Trio, Op. 8; but
such occurrences are of the rarest rarity, and, considering how rich
musical literature is in unexceptionable concert-pieces and chamber
compositions, one feels on the whole pleased that these enterprising
soloists and trio-players find neither much encouragement nor many
imitators. While in examining the earlier works, the praise bestowed on
them was often largely mixed with censure, and the admiration felt for
them tempered by dissatisfaction; we shall have little else than pure
praise and admiration for the works that remain to be considered, at least
for the vast majority of them. One thing, however, seems to me needful
before justice can be done to the composer Chopin: certain prejudices
abroad concerning him have to be combated. I shall, therefore, preface my
remarks on particular compositions and groups of compositions by some
general observations.
It is sometimes said that there are hardly any traces of a development in
the productions of Chopin, and that in this respect he is unlike all the
other great masters. Such an opinion cannot be the result of a thorough
and comprehensive study of the composer’s works. So far from agreeing with
those who hold it, I am tempted to assert that the difference of style
between Chopin’s early and latest works (even when juvenile compositions
like the first two Rondos are left out of account) is as great as that
between Beethoven’s first and ninth Symphony. It would be easy to classify
the Polish master’s works according to three and even four (with the usual
exceptions) successive styles, but I have no taste for this cheap kind of
useless ingenuity. In fact, I shall confine myself to saying that in
Chopin’s works there are clearly distinguishable two styles—the
early virtuosic and the later poetic style. The latter is in a certain
sense also virtuosic, but with this difference, that its virtuosity is not
virtuosity for virtuosity’s sake. The poetic style which has thrown off
the tinsel showiness of its predecessor does not, however, remain
unchanged, for its texture becomes more and more close, and affords
conclusive evidence of the increasing influence of Johann Sebastian Bach.
Of course, the grand master of fugue does not appear here, as it were,
full life-size, in peruke, knee-breeches, and shoe-buckles, but his
presence in spite of transformation and attenuation is unmistakable. It
is, however, not only in the closeness and complexity of texture that we
notice Chopin’s style changing: a striving after greater breadth and
fulness of form are likewise apparent, and, alas! also an increase in
sombreness, the result of deteriorating health. All this the reader will
have to keep in mind when he passes in review the master’s works, for I
shall marshal them by groups, not chronologically.
Another prejudice, wide-spread, almost universal, is that Chopin’s music
is all languor and melancholy, and, consequently, wanting in variety. Now,
there can be no greater error than this belief. As to variety, we should
be obliged to wonder at its infiniteness if he had composed nothing but
the pieces to which are really applicable the epithets dreamy, pensive,
mournful, and despondent. But what vigour, what more than manly vigour,
manifests itself in many of his creations! Think only of the Polonaises in
A major (Op. 40, No. 1) and in A flat major (Op. 53), of many of his
studies, the first three of his ballades, the scherzos, and much besides!
To be sure, a great deal of this vigour is not natural, but the outcome of
despair and maddening passion. Still, it is vigour, and such vigour as is
not often to be met with. And, then, it is not the only kind to be found
in his music. There is also a healthy vigour, which, for instance, in the
A major Polonaise assumes a brilliantly-heroic form. Nor are serene and
even joyous moods so rare that it would be permissible to ignore them.
While thus controverting the so-called vox Dei (are not popular opinions
generally popular prejudices?) and the pseudo-critics who create or follow
it, I have no intention either to deny or conceal the Polish master’s
excess of languor and melancholy. I only wish to avoid vulgar
exaggeration, to keep within the bounds of the factual. In art as in life,
in biography as in history, there are not many questions that can be
answered by a plain “yea” or “nay”. It was, indeed, with Chopin as has
been said of him, “his heart was sad, his mind was gay. “One day when
Chopin, Liszt, and the Comtesse d’Agoult spent the after-dinner hours
together, the lady, deeply moved by the Polish composer’s playing,
ventured to ask him “by what name he called the extraordinary feeling
which he enclosed in his compositions, like unknown ashes in superb urns
of most exquisitely-chiselled alabaster? “He answered her that—
After a long dissertation on the meaning of the word zal, Liszt, from
whose book this quotation is taken, proceeds thus:—
Read together with my matter-of-fact statements, Liszt’s hyperbolical and
circumlocutional poetic prose will not be misunderstood by the reader. The
case may be briefly summed up thus. Zal is not to be found in every one of
Chopin’s compositions, but in the greater part of them: sometimes it
appears clearly on the surface, now as a smooth or lightly-rippled flow,
now as a wildly-coursing, fiercely-gushing torrent; sometimes it is dimly
felt only as an undercurrent whose presence not unfrequently becomes
temporarily lost to ear and eye. We must, however, take care not to
overlook that this zal is not exclusively individual, although its width
and intensity are so.
The remarks on Polish folk-music lead us naturally to the question of
Chopin’s indebtedness to it, which, while in one respect it cannot be too
highly rated, is yet in another respect generally overrated. The opinion
that every peculiarity which distinguishes his music from that of other
masters is to be put to the account of his nationality, and may be traced
in Polish folk-music, is erroneous. But, on the other hand, it is
emphatically true that this same folk-music was to him a potent inspirer
and trainer. Generally speaking, however, Chopin has more of the spirit
than of the form of Polish folk-music. The only two classes of his
compositions where we find also something of the form are his mazurkas and
polonaises; and, what is noteworthy, more in the former, the dance of the
people, than in the latter, the dance of the aristocracy. In Chopin’s
mazurkas we meet not only with many of the most characteristic rhythms,
but also with many equally characteristic melodic and harmonic traits of
this chief of all the Polish dances.
Polish national music conforms in part to the tonality prevailing in
modern art-music, that is, to our major and minor modes; in part, however,
it reminds one of other tonalities—for instance, of that of the
mediaeval church modes, and of that or those prevalent in the music of the
Hungarians, Wallachians, and other peoples of that quarter.
[FOOTNOTE: The strictly diatonic church modes (not to be confounded with
the ancient Greek modes bearing the same names) differ from each other by
the position of the two semitones: the Ionian is like our C major; the
Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian. &c., are like the
series of natural notes starting respectively from d, c, f, g, a, &c.
The characteristic interval of the Hungarian scale is the augmented second
(a, b, c, d#, e, f, g#, a).]
The melodic progression, not always immediate, of an augmented fourth and
major seventh occurs frequently, and that of an augmented second
occasionally. Skips of a third after or before one or more steps of a
second are very common. In connection with these skips of a third may be
mentioned that one meets with melodies evidently based on a scale with a
degree less than our major and minor scales, having in one place a step of
a third instead of a second. [FOOTNOTE: Connoisseurs of Scotch music, on
becoming acquainted with Polish music, will be incited by many traits of
the latter to undertake a comparative study of the two.] The opening and
the closing note stand often to each other in the relation of a second,
sometimes also of a seventh. The numerous peculiarities to be met with in
Polish folkmusic with regard to melodic progression are not likely to be
reducible to one tonality or a simple system of tonalities. Time and
district of origin have much to do with the formal character of the
melodies. And besides political, social, and local influences direct
musical ones—the mediaeval church music, eastern secular music,
&c.—have to be taken into account. Of most Polish melodies it
may be said that they are as capricious as they are piquant. Any attempt
to harmonise them according to our tonal system must end in failure. Many
of them would, indeed, be spoiled by any kind of harmony, being
essentially melodic, not outgrowths of harmony.
[FOOTNOTE: To those who wish to study this subject may be recommended
Oskar Kolberg’s Piesni Ludu Polskiego (Warsaw, 1857), the best collection
of Polish folk-songs. Charles Lipinski’s collection, Piesni Polskie i
Ruskie Luttu Galicyjskiego, although much less interesting, is yet
noteworthy.]
To treat, however, this subject adequately, one requires volumes, not
pages; to speak on it authoritatively, one must have studied it more
thoroughly than I have done. The following melodies and snatches of
melodies will to some extent illustrate what I have said, although they
are chosen with a view rather to illustrate Chopin’s indebtedness to
Polish folk-music than Polish folk-music itself:—
[11 music score excerpts illustrated here]
Chopin, while piquantly and daringly varying the tonality prevailing in
art-music, hardly ever departs from it altogether—he keeps at least
in contact with it, however light that contact may be now and then in the
mazurkas.
[FOOTNOTE: One of the most decided exceptions is the Mazurka, Op. 24, No.
2, of which only the A fiat major part adheres frankly to our tonality.
The portion beginning with the twenty-first bar and extending over that
and the next fifteen bars displays, on the other hand, the purest Lydian,
while the other portions, although less definite as regards tonality, keep
in closer touch with the mediaeval church smode [sic: mode] than with our
major and minor.]
Further, he adopted only some of the striking peculiarities of the
national music, and added to them others which were individual. These
individual characteristics—those audacities of rhythm, melody, and
harmony (in progressions and modulations, as well as in single chords)—may,
however, be said to have been fathered by the national ones. As to the
predominating chromaticism of his style, it is not to be found in Polish
folk-music; although slight rudiments are discoverable (see Nos. 6-12 of
the musical illustrations). Of course, no one would seek there his
indescribably-exquisite and highly-elaborate workmanship, which alone
enabled him to give expression to the finest shades and most sudden
changes of gentle feelings and turbulent passions. Indeed, as I have
already said, it is rather the national spirit than the form which
manifests itself in Chopin’s music. The writer of the article on Polish
music in Mendel’s Conversations-Lexikon remarks:—
Liszt, as so often, has also in connection with this aspect of the
composer Chopin some excellent remarks to offer.
George Sand tells us that Chopin’s works were the mysterious and vague
expression of his inner life. That they were the expression of his inner
life is indeed a fact which no attentive hearer can fail to discover
without the aid of external evidence. For the composer has hardly written
a bar in which, so to speak, the beating of his heart may not be felt.
Chopin revealed himself only in his music, but there he revealed himself
fully. And was this expression of his inner life really “mysterious and
vague”? I think not! At least, no effusion of words could have made
clearer and more distinct what he expressed. For the communications of
dreams and visions such as he dreamt and saw, of the fluctuating emotional
actualities such as his sensitive heart experienced, musical forms are, no
doubt, less clumsy than verbal and pictorial ones. And if we know
something of his history and that of his nation, we cannot be at a loss to
give names and local habitations to the impalpable, but emotionally and
intellectually-perceptible contents of his music. We have to distinguish
in Chopin the personal and the national tone-poet, the singer of his own
joys and sorrows and that of his country’s. But, while distinguishing
these two aspects, we must take care not to regard them as two separate
things. They were a duality the constitutive forces of which alternately
assumed supremacy. The national poet at no time absorbed the personal, the
personal poet at no time disowned the national. His imagination was always
ready to conjure up his native atmosphere, nay, we may even say that,
wherever he might be, he lived in it. The scene of his dreams and visions
lay oftenest in the land of his birth. And what did the national poet
dream and see in these dreams and visions? A past, present, and future
which never existed and never will exist, a Poland and a Polish people
glorified. Reality passed through the refining fires of his love and
genius and reappeared in his music sublimated as beauty and poetry. No
other poet has like Chopin embodied in art the romance of the land and
people of Poland. And, also, no other poet has like him embodied in art
the romance of his own existence. But whereas as a national poet he was a
flattering idealist, he was as a personal poet an uncompromising realist.
The masterpieces of Chopin consist of mazurkas, polonaises, waltzes,
etudes, preludes, nocturnes (with which we will class the berceuse and
barcarole), scherzos and impromptus, and ballades. They do not, however,
comprise all his notable compositions. And about these notable
compositions which do not rank with his masterpieces, either because they
are of less significance or otherwise fail to reach the standard of
requisite perfectness, I shall first say a few words.
Chopin’s Bolero, Op. 19, may be described as a Bolero a la polonaise. It
is livelier in movement and more coquettish in character than the
compositions which he entitles polonaises, but for all that its
physiognomy does not on the whole strike one as particularly Spanish,
certainly not beyond the first section of the Bolero proper and the
seductive strains of the Pililento, the second tempo of the introduction.
And in saying this I am not misled by the points of resemblance in the
rhythmical accompaniment of these dances. Chopin published the Bolero in
1834, four years before he visited Spain, but one may doubt whether it
would have turned out less Polish if he had composed it subsequently.
Although an excellent imitator in the way of mimicry, he lacked the talent
of imitating musical thought and character; at any rate, there are no
traces of it in his works. The cause of this lack of talent lies, of
course, in the strength of his subjectivism in the first place, and of his
nationalism in the second. I said the Bolero was published four years
before his visit to Spain. But how many years before this visit was it
composed? I think a good many years earlier; for it has so much of his
youthful style about it, and not only of his youthful style, but also of
his youthful character—by which I mean that it is less intensely
poetic. It is not impossible that Chopin was instigated to write it by
hearing the Bolero in Auber’s “La Muette de Portici” (“Masaniello”), which
opera was first performed on February 28, 1828. These remarks are thrown
out merely as hints. The second composition which we shall consider will
show how dangerous it is to dogmatise on the strength of internal
evidence.
Op. 16, a lightsome Rondeau with a dramatic Introduction, is, like the
Bolero, not without its beauties; but in spite of greater individuality,
ranks, like it, low among the master’s works, being patchy, unequal, and
little poetical.
If ever Chopin is not Chopin in his music, he is so in his Variations
brillantes (in B flat major) sur le Rondeau favori: “Je vends des
Scapulaires” de Ludovic, de Herold et Halevy, Op. 12. Did we not know that
he must have composed the work about the middle of 1833, we should be
tempted to class it with the works which came into existence when his
individuality was as yet little developed. [FOOTNOTE: The opera Ludovic,
on which Herold was engaged when he died on January 19, 1833, and which
Halevy completed, was produced in Paris on May 16, 1833. From the German
publishers of Chopin’s Op. 12 I learned that it appeared in November,
1833. In the Gazette musicale of January 26, 1834, may be read a review of
it.] But knowing what we do, we can only wonder at the strange phenomenon.
It is as if Chopin had here thrown overboard the Polish part of his natal
inheritance and given himself up unrestrainedly and voluptuously to the
French part. Besides various diatonic runs of an inessential and purely
ornamental character, there is in the finale actually a plain and
full-toned C flat major scale. What other work of the composer could be
pointed out exhibiting the like feature? Of course, Chopin is as little
successful in entirely hiding his serpentining and chromaticising tendency
as Mephistopheles in hiding the limp arising from his cloven foot. Still,
these fallings out of the role are rare and transient, and, on the whole,
Chopin presents himself as a perfect homme du monde who knows how to say
the most insignificant trifles with the most exquisite grace imaginable.
There can. be nothing more amusing than the contemporary critical opinions
regarding this work, nothing more amusing than to see the at other times
censorious Philistines unwrinkle their brows, relax generally the
sternness of their features, and welcome, as it were, the return of the
prodigal son. We wiser critics of to-day, who, of course, think very
differently about this matter, can, nevertheless, enjoy and heartily
applaud the prettiness and elegance of the simple first variation, the
playful tripping second, the schwarmerische melodious third, the merry
swinging fourth, and the brilliant finale.
From Chopin’s letters we see that the publication of the Tarantelle, Op.
43, which took place in the latter part of 1841, was attended with
difficulties and annoyances. [FOOTNOTE: Herr Schuberth, of Leipzig,
informed me that a honorarium of 500 francs was paid to Chopin for this
work on July 1, 1841. The French publisher deposited the work at the
library of the Conservatoire in October, 1841.] What these difficulties
and annoyances were, is, however, only in part ascertainable. To turn from
the publication to the composition itself, I may say that it is full of
life, indeed, spirited in every respect, in movement and in boldness of
harmonic and melodic conception. The Tarantelle is a translation from
Italian into Polish, a transmutation of Rossini into Chopin, a Neapolitan
scene painted with opaque colours, the south without its transparent sky,
balmy air, and general brightness. That this composition was inspired by
impressions received from Rossini’s Tarantella, and not from impressions
received in Italy (of which, as has already been related, he had a short
glimpse in 1839), is evident. A comparison of Chopin’s Op. 43 with Liszt’s
glowing and intoxicating transcription of Rossini’s composition may be
recommended as a study equally pleasant and instructive. Although not an
enthusiastic admirer of Chopin’s Tarantelle, I protest in the interest of
the composer and for justice’s sake against Schumann’s dictum: “Nobody can
call that beautiful music; but we pardon the master his wild fantasies,
for once he may let us see also the dark sides of his inner life.”
The Allegro de Concert, Op. 46, which was published in November, 1841,
although written for the pianoforte alone, contains, nevertheless,
passages which are more distinctly orchestral than anything Chopin ever
wrote for the orchestra. The form resembles somewhat that of the concerto.
In the first section, which occupies the place of the opening tutti, we
cannot fail to distinguish the entrances of single instruments, groups of
instruments, and the full orchestra. The soloist starts in the
eighty-seventh bar, and in the following commences a cadenza. With the a
tempo comes the first subject (A major), and the passage-work which brings
up the rear leads to the second subject (E major), which had already
appeared in the first section in A major. The first subject, if I may
dignify the matter in question with that designation, does not recur
again, nor was it introduced by the tutti. The central and principal
thought is what I called the second subject. The second section concludes
with brilliant passage-work in E major, the time—honoured shake
rousing the drowsy orchestra from its sweet repose. The hint is not lost,
and the orchestra, in the disguise of the pianoforte, attends to its duty
right vigorously. With the poco rit. the soloist sets to work again, and
in the next bar takes up the principal subject in A minor. After that we
have once more brilliant passage-work, closing this time in A major, and
then a final tutti. The Allegro de Concert gives rise to all sorts of
surmises. Was it written first for the pianoforte and orchestra, as
Schumann suspects? Or may we make even a bolder guess, and suppose that
the composer, at a more advanced age, worked up into this Allegro de
Concert a sketch for the first movement of a concerto conceived in his
younger days? Have we, perhaps, here a fragment or fragments of the
Concerto for two pianos which Chopin, in a letter written at Vienna on
December 21, 1830, said he would play in public with his friend Nidecki,
if he succeeded in writing it to his satisfaction? And is there any
significance in the fact that Chopin, when (probably in the summer of
1841) sending the manuscript of this work to Fontana, calls it a Concerto?
Be this as it may, the principal subject and some of the passage-work
remind one of the time of the concertos; other things, again, belong
undoubtedly to a later period. The tutti and solo parts are unmistakable,
so different is the treatment of the pianoforte: in the former the style
has the heaviness of an arrangement, in the latter it has Chopin’s usual
airiness. The work, as a whole, is unsatisfactory, nay, almost
indigestible. The subjects are neither striking nor important. Of the
passage-work, that which follows the second subject contains the most
interesting matter. Piquant traits and all sorts of fragmentary beauties
are scattered here and there over the movement. But after we have
considered all, we must confess that this opus adds little or nothing to
the value of our Chopin inheritance.
[FOOTNOTE: In justice to the composer I must here quote a criticism which
since I wrote the above appeared in the Athenaum (January 21, 1888):—”The
last-named work [the Allegro de Concert, Op. 46] is not often heard, and
is generally regarded as one of Chopin’s least interesting and least
characteristic pieces. Let us hasten to say that these impressions are
distinctly wrong; the executive difficulties of the work are extremely
great, and a mere mastery of them is far from all that is needed. When M.
de Pachmann commenced to play it was quickly evident that his reading
would be most remarkable, and in the end it amounted to an astounding
revelation. That which seemed dry and involved became under his fingers
instinct with beauty and feeling; the musicians and amateurs present
listened as if spellbound, and opinion was unanimous that the performance
was nothing short of an artistic creation. For the sake of the composer,
if not for his own reputation, the pianist should repeat it, not once, but
many times.” Notwithstanding this decided judgment of a weighty authority—for
such everyone will, without hesitation, acknowledge the critic in question
to be—I am unable, after once more examining the work, to alter my
previously formed opinion.]
As a further confirmation of the supposed origin of the Allegro de
Concert, I may mention the arrangement of it for piano and orchestra (also
for two pianos) by Jean Louis Nicode.
[FOOTNOTE: Nicode has done his work well so far as he kept close to the
text of Chopin; but his insertion of a working-out section of more than
seventy bars is not justifiable, and, moreover, though making the work
more like an orthodox first movement of a concerto, does not enhance its
beauty and artistic value.]
To the Sonata in B flat minor, Op. 35 (published in May, 1840), this most
powerful of Chopin’s works in the larger forms, Liszt’s remark, “Plus de
volonte que d’inspiration,” is hardly applicable, although he used the
expression in speaking of Chopin’s concertos and sonatas in general; for
there is no lack of inspiration here, nor are there traces of painful,
unrewarded effort. Each of the four pieces of which the sonata consists is
full of vigour, originality, and interest. But whether they can be called
a sonata is another question. Schumann, in his playful manner, speaks of
caprice and wantonness, and insinuates that Chopin bound together four of
his maddest children, and entitled them sonata, in order that he might
perhaps under this name smuggle them in where otherwise they would not
penetrate. Of course, this is a fancy of Schumann’s. Still, one cannot
help wondering whether the composer from the first intended to write a
sonata and obtained this result—amphora coepit institui; currente
rota cur urceus exit?—or whether these four movements got into
existence without any predestination, and were afterwards put under one
cover. [FOOTNOTE: At any rate, the march was finished before the rest of
the work. See the quotation from one of Chopin’s letters farther on.] With
all Schumann’s admiration for Chopin and praise of this sonata, it appears
to me that he does not give Chopin his due. There is something gigantic in
the work which, although it does not elevate and ennoble, being for the
most part a purposeless fuming, impresses one powerfully. The first
movement begins with four bars grave, a groan full of pain; then the
composer, in restless, breathless haste, is driven by his feelings onward,
ever onward, till he comes to the lovely, peaceful second subject (in D
flat major, a real contrast this time), which grows by-and-by more
passionate, and in the concluding portion of the first part transcends the
limits of propriety—VIDE those ugly dissonances. The connection of
the close of the first part with the repetition of this and the beginning
of the second part by means of the chord of the dominant seventh in A flat
and that in D flat with the suspended sixth, is noteworthy. The strange
second section, in which the first subject is worked out, has the
appearance rather of an improvisation than of a composition. After this a
few bars in 6/4 time, fiercely wild (stretto) at first, but gradually
subsiding, lead to the repeat in B flat major of the second subject—the
first subject does not appear again in its original form. To the close,
which is like that of the corresponding section in the first part (6/4),
is added a coda (2/2) introducing the characteristic motive of the first
subject. In the scherzo, the grandest movement and the climax of the
sonata, the gloom and the threatening power which rise to a higher and
higher pitch become quite weird and fear-inspiring; it affects one like
lowering clouds, rolling of thunder, and howling and whistling of the wind—to
the latter, for instance, the chromatic successions of chords of the sixth
may not inappropriately be likened. The piu lento is certainly one of the
most scherzo-like thoughts in Chopin’s scherzos—so light and joyful,
yet a volcano is murmuring under this serenity. The return of this piu
lento, after the repeat of the first section, is very fine and
beneficently refreshing, like nature after a storm. The Marche funebre
ranks among Chopin’s best-known and most highly-appreciated pieces. Liszt
mentions it with particular distinction, and grows justly eloquent over
it. I do not altogether understand Schumann’s objection: “It is still more
gloomy than the scherzo,” he says, “and contains even much that is
repulsive; in its place an adagio, perhaps in D flat, would have had an
incomparably finer effect.” Out of the dull, stupefied brooding, which is
the fundamental mood of the first section, there rises once and again
(bars 7 and 8, and 11 and 12) a pitiable wailing, and then an outburst of
passionate appealing (the forte passage in D flat major), followed by a
sinking helplessness (the two bars with the shakes in the bass),
accompanied by moans and deep breathings. The two parts of the second
section are a rapturous gaze into the beatific regions of a beyond, a
vision of reunion of what for the time is severed. The last movement may
be counted among the curiosities of composition—a presto in B flat
minor of seventy-five bars, an endless series of triplets from beginning
to end in octaves. It calls up in one’s mind the solitude and dreariness
of a desert. “The last movement is more like mockery than music,” says
Schumann, but adds, truly and wisely—
J. W. Davison, in the preface to an edition of Chopin’s mazurkas, relates
that Mendelssohn, on being questioned about the finale of one of Chopin’s
sonatas (I think it must have been the one before us), said briefly and
bitterly, “Oh, I abhor it!” H. Barbedette remarks in his “Chopin,” a
criticism without insight and originality, of this finale, “C’est Lazare
grattant de ses ongles la pierre de son tombeau et tombant epuise de
fatigue, de faim et de desespoir.” And now let the reader recall the words
which Chopin wrote from Nohant to Fontana in the summer of 1839:—
The meaning of which somewhat obscure interpretation seems to be, that
after the burial the good neighbours took to discussing the merits of the
departed, not without a spice of backbiting.
The Sonata in B minor, Op. 58, the second of Chopin’s notable pianoforte
sonatas (the third if we take into account the unpalatable Op. 4), made
its appearance five years later, in June, 1845. Unity is as little
discernible in this sonata as in its predecessor. The four movements of
which the work consists are rather affiliated than cognate; nay, this may
be said even of many parts of the movements. The first movement by far
surpasses the other three in importance: indeed, the wealth of beautiful
and interesting matter which is here heaped up—for it is rather an
unsifted accumulation than an artistic presentation and evolution—would
have sufficed many a composer for several movements. The ideas are very
unequal and their course very jerky till we come to the second subject (D
major), which swells out into a broad stream of impassioned melody.
Farther on the matter becomes again jerky and mosaic-like. While the close
of the first part is very fine, the beginning of the second is a
comfortless waste. Things mend with the re-entrance of the subsidiary part
of the second subject (now in D flat major), which, after being dwelt upon
for some time and varied, disappears, and is followed by a repetition of
portions of the first subject, the whole second subject (in B major), and
the closing period, which is prolonged by a coda to make the close more
emphatic and satisfying. A light and graceful quaver figure winds with now
rippling, now waving motion through the first and third sections of the
scherzo; in the contrasting second section, with the sustained
accompaniment and the melody in one of the middle parts, the entrance of
the bright A major, after the gloom of the preceding bars, is very
effective. The third movement has the character of a nocturne, and as such
cannot fail to be admired. In the visionary dreaming of the long middle
section we imagine the composer with dilated eyes and rapture in his look—it
is rather a reverie than a composition. The finale surrounds us with an
emotional atmosphere somewhat akin to that of the first movement, but more
agitated. After eight bold introductory bars with piercing dissonances
begins the first subject, which, with its rhythmically
differently-accompanied repetition, is the most important constituent of
the movement. The rest, although finely polished, is somewhat
insignificant. In short, this is the old story, plus de volonte que
d’inspiration, that is to say, inspiration of the right sort. And also,
plus de volonte que de savoir-faire.
There is one work of Chopin’s to which Liszt’s dictum, plus de volnte que
d’inspiratio, applies in all, and even more than all its force. I allude
to the Sonata (in G minor) for piano and violoncello, Op. 65 (published in
September, 1847), in which hardly anything else but effort, painful
effort, manifests itself. The first and last movements are immense
wildernesses with only here and there a small flower. The middle
movements, a Scherzo and an Andante, do not rise to the dignity of a
sonata, and, moreover, lack distinction, especially the slow movement, a
nocturne-like dialogue between the two instruments. As to the beauties—such
as the first subject of the first movement (at the entrance of the
violoncello), the opening bars of the Scherzo, part of the ANDANTE, &c.—they
are merely beginnings, springs that lose themselves soon in a sandy waste.
Hence I have not the heart to controvert Moscheles who, in his diary, says
some cutting things about this work: “In composition Chopin proves that he
has only isolated happy thoughts which he does not know how to work up
into a rounded whole. In the just published sonata with violoncello I find
often passages which sound as if someone were preluding on the piano and
knocked at all the keys to learn whether euphony was at home.” [FOOTNOTE:
Aus Moscheles’ Leben; Vol. II., p. 171.] An entry of the year 1850 runs as
follows: “But a trial of patience of another kind is imposed on me by
Chopin’s Violoncello Sonata, which I am arranging for four hands. To me it
is a tangled forest, through which now and then penetrates a gleam of the
sun.” [FOOTNOTE: Ibid., Vol. II., p. 216.] To take up after the
last-discussed work a composition like the Grand Duo Concertant for piano
and violoncello, on themes from “Robert le Diable,” by Chopin and A.
Franchomme, is quite a relief, although it is really of no artistic
importance. Schumann is right when he says of this DUO, which saw the
light of publicity (without OPUS number) in 1833:14 [FOOTNOTE: The first
performance of Meyerbeer’s “Robert le Diable” took place at the Paris
Opera on November 21, 1831.] “A piece for a SALON where behind the
shoulders of counts and countesses now and then rises the head of a
celebrated artist.” And he may also be right when he says:—
The mention of the DUO is somewhat out of place here, but the Sonata, Op.
65, in which the violoncello is employed, naturally suggested it.
We have only one more work to consider before we come to the groups of
masterpieces in the smaller forms above enumerated. But this last work is
one of Chopin’s best compositions, and in its way no less a masterpiece
than these. Unfettered by the scheme of a definite form such as the sonata
or concerto, the composer develops in the Fantaisie, Op. 49 (published in
November, 1841), his thought with masterly freedom. There is an
enthralling weirdness about this work, a weirdness made up of force of
passion and an indescribable fantastic waywardness. Nothing more common
than the name of Fantasia, here we have the thing! The music falls on our
ears like the insuppressible outpouring of a being stirred to its heart’s
core, and full of immeasurable love and longing. Who would suspect the
composer’s fragility and sickliness in this work? Does it not rather
suggest a Titan in commotion? There was a time when I spoke of the
Fantasia in a less complimentary tone, now I bow down my head regretfully
and exclaim peccavi. The disposition of the composition may be thus
briefly indicated. A tempo di marcia opens the Fantasia—it forms the
porch of the edifice. The dreamy triplet passages of the poco a poco piu
mosso are comparable to galleries that connect the various blocks of
buildings. The principal subject, or accumulation of themes, recurs again
and again in different keys, whilst other subjects appear only once or
twice between the repetitions of the principal subject.
The mazurkas of Chopin are a literature in themselves, said Lenz, and
there is some truth in his saying. They may, indeed, be called a
literature in themselves for two reasons—first, because of their
originality, which makes them things sui generis; and secondly, because of
the poetical and musical wealth of their contents. Chopin, as I have
already said, is most national in the mazurkas and polonaises, for the
former of which he draws not only inspiration, but even rhythmic, melodic,
and harmonic motives from his country’s folk-music. Liszt told me, in a
conversation I had with him, that he did not care much for Chopin’s
mazurkas. “One often meets in them with bars which might just as well be
in another place.” But he added, “And yet as Chopin puts them, perhaps
nobody else could have put them.” And mark, those are the words of one who
also told me that when he sometimes played half-an-hour for his amusement,
he liked to resort to Chopin. Moscheles, I suspect, had especially the
mazurkas in his mind when, in 1833, [FOOTNOTE: At this time the published
compositions of Chopin were, of course, not numerous, but they included
the first two books of Mazurkas, Op. 6 and 7.] he said of the Polish
master’s compositions that he found “much charm in their originality and
national colouring,” and that “his thoughts and through them the fingers
stumbled over certain hard, inartistic modulations.” Startling
progressions, unreconciled contrasts, and abrupt changes of mood are
characteristic of Slavonic music and expressive of the Slavonic character.
Whether they ought to be called inartistic or not, we will leave time to
decide, if it has not done so already; the Russian and other Slavonic
composers, who are now coming more and more to the front, seem to be
little in doubt as to their legitimacy. I neither regard Chopin’s mazurkas
as his most artistic achievements nor recommend their capriciousness and
fragmentariness for general imitation. But if we view them from the right
stand-point, which is not that of classicism, we cannot help admiring
them. The musical idiom which the composer uses in these, notwithstanding
their capriciousness and fragmentariness, exquisitely-finished miniatures,
has a truly delightful piquancy. Yet delightful as their language is, the
mazurkas have a far higher claim to our admiration. They are poems—social
poems, poems of private life, in distinction from the polonaises, which
are political poems. Although Chopin’s mazurkas and polonaises are no less
individual than the other compositions of this most subjective of
subjective poets, they incorporate, nevertheless, a good deal of the
poetry of which the national dances of those names are the expression or
vehicle. And let it be noted, in Poland so-called civilisation did not do
its work so fast and effectually as in Western Europe; there dancing had
not yet become in Chopin’s days a merely formal and conventional affair, a
matter of sinew and muscle.
It is, therefore, advisable that we should make ourselves acquainted with
the principal Polish dances; such an acquaintance, moreover, will not only
help us to interpret aright Chopin’s mazurkas and polonaises, but also to
gain a deeper insight into his ways of feeling and seeing generally. Now
the reader will become aware that the long disquisitions on Poland and the
Poles at the commencement of this biography were not superfluous
accessories. For completeness’ sake I shall preface the description of the
mazurka by a short one of the krakowiak, the third of the triad of
principal Polish dances. The informants on whom I shall chiefly rely when
I am not guided by my own observations are the musician Sowinski and the
poet Brodzinski, both Poles:
Casimir Brodzinski describes the dance as follows:—
As a technical supplement to the above, I may say that this lively dance
is in 2/4 time, and like other Polish dances has the rhythmical
peculiarity of having frequently the accent on a usually unaccented part
of the bar, especially at the end of a section or a phrase, for instance,
on the second quaver of the second and the fourth bar, thus:—
[Here, the author illustrates with a rhythm diagram consisting of a line
of notes divided in measures: 1/8 1/16 1/16 1/8 1/8 | 1/8 1/4 1/8 | 1/8
1/16 1/16 1/8 1/8 | 1/8 1/4 dot]
Chopin has only once been inspired by the krakowiak—namely, in his
Op. 14, entitled Krakowiak, Grand Rondeau de Concert, a composition which
was discussed in Chapter VIII. Thus much of the krakowiak; now to the more
interesting second of the triad.
Now the mazurka is generally written in 3/4-time; Chopin’s are all written
thus. The dotted rhythmical motive alluded to by Sowinski is this, or
similar to this—
[Another rhythm diagram: 1/8 dot 1/16 1/4 1/4 | 1/8 dot 1/16 1/2]
But the dotted notes are by no means de rigueur. As motives like the
following—
[Another rhythm diagram: 1/4 1/2 | 1/8 1/8 1/4 1/4 | triplet 1/4 1/4 |
triple 1/8 1/8 1/8 1/8]
are of frequent occurrence, I would propose a more comprehensive
definition—namely, that the first part of the bar consists mostly of
quicker notes than the latter part. But even this more comprehensive
definition does not comprehend all; it is a rule which has many
exceptions. [FOOTNOTE: See the musical illustrations on pp. 217-218.] Le
Sowinski mentions only one classification of mazurkas. Several others,
however, exist. First, according to the district from which they derive—mazurkas
of Kujavia, of Podlachia, of Lublin, &c.; or, secondly, according to
their character, or to the purpose or occasion for which they were
composed: wedding, village, historical, martial, and political mazurkas.
And now let us hear what the poet Brodzinski has to say about the nature
of this dance:— The mazurek in its primitive form and as the common
people dance is only a kind of krakowiak, only less lively and less
sautillant. The agile Cracovians and the mountaineers of the Carpathians
call the mazurek danced by the inhabitants of the plain but a dwarfed
krakowiak. The proximity of the Germans, or rather the sojourn of the
German troops, has caused the true character of the mazurek among the
people to be lost; this dance hap become a kind of awkward waltz.
Chopin himself published forty-one mazurkas of his composition in eleven
sets of four, five, or three numbers—Op. 6, Quatre Mazurkas, and Op.
7, Cinq Mazurkas, in December, 1832; Op. 17, Quatre Mazurkas, in May,
1834; Op. 24, Quatre Mazurkas, in November, 1835; Op. 30, Quatre
Maazurkas, in December, 1837; Op. 33, Quatre Mazurkas, in October, 1838;
Op. 41, Quatre Mazurkas, in December, 1840; Op. 50, Trois Mazurkas, in
November, 1841; Op, 56, Trois Mazurkas, in August, 1844; Op. 59, Trois
Mazurkas, in April, 1846; and Op. 63, Trois Mazurkas, in September, 1847.
In the posthumous works published by Fontana there are two more sets, each
of four numbers, and respectively marked as Op. 67 and 68. Lastly, several
other mazurkas composed by or attributed to Chopin have been published
without any opus number. Two mazurkas, both in A minor, although very
feeble compositions, are included in the editions by Klindworth and
Mikuli. The Breitkopf and Hartel edition, which includes only one of these
two mazurkas, comprises further a mazurka in G major and one in B flat
major of 1825, one in D major of 1829-30, a remodelling of the same of
1832—these have already been discussed—and a somewhat more
interesting one in C major of 1833. Of one of the two mazurkas in A minor,
a poor thing and for the most part little Chopinesque, only the dedication
(a son ami Rmile Gaillard) is known, but not the date of composition. The
other (the one not included in Breitkopf and Hartel’s, No. 50 of Mikuli’s
and Klindworth’s edition) appeared first as No. 2 of Noire Temps, a
publication by Schott’s Sohne. On inquiry I learned that Notre Temps was
the general title of a series of 12 pieces by Czerny, Chopin, Kalliwoda,
Rosenhain, Thalberg, Kalkbrenner, Mendelssohn, Bertini, Wolff, Kontski,
Osborne, and Herz, which appeared in 1842 or 1843 as a Christmas Album.
[FOONOTE: I find, however, that Chopin’s Mazurka was already separately
announced as “Notre Temps, No. 2,” in the Monatsberichte of February,
1842.] Whether a Mazurka elegante by Fr, Chopin, advertised in La France
Musicale of April 6, 1845, as en vente au Bureau de musique, 29, Place de
la Bourse, is identical with one of the above-enumerated mazurkas I have
not been able to discover. In the Klindworth edition [FOOTNOTE: That is to
say, in the original Russian, not in the English (Augener and Co.’s)
edition; and there only by the desire of the publishers and against the
better judgment of the editor.] is also to be found a very un-Chopinesque
Mazurka in F sharp major, previously published by J. P. Gotthard, in
Vienna, the authorship of which Mr. E. Pauer has shown to belong to
Charles Mayer.
[FOOTNOTE: In an article, entitled Musical Plagiarism in the Monthly
Musical Record of July 1, 1882 (where also the mazurka in question is
reprinted), we read as follows:—”In 1877 Mr. E. Pauer, whilst
preparing a comprehensive guide through the entire literature of the
piano, looked through many thousand pieces for that instrument published
by German firms, and came across a mazurka by Charles Mayer, published by
Pietro Mechetti (afterwards C. A. Spinal, and entitled Souvenirs de la
Pologne. A few weeks later a mazurka, a posthumous work of F. Chopin,
published by J. Gotthard, came into his hands. At first, although the
piece ‘struck him as being an old acquaintance,’ he could not fix the time
when and the place where he had heard it; but at last the Mayer mazurka
mentioned above returned to his remembrance, and on comparing the two, he
found that they were one and the same piece. From the appearance of the
title-page and the size of the notes, Mr. Pauer, who has had considerable
experience in these matters, concluded that the Mayer copy must have been
published between the years 1840 and 1845, and wrote to Mr. Gotthard
pointing out the similarity of Chopin’s posthumous work, and asking how he
came into possession of the Chopin manuscript. Mr. Gotthard replied,’that
he had bought the mazurka as Chopin’s autograph from a Polish countess,
who, being in sad distress, parted, though with the greatest sorrow, with
the composition of her illustrious compatriot.’ Mr. Pauer naturally
concludes that Mr. Gotthard had been deceived, that the manuscript was not
a genuine autograph, and ‘that the honour of having composed the mazurka
in question belongs to Charles Mayer.’ Mr. Pauer further adds: ‘It is not
likely that C. Mayer, even if Chopin had made him a present of this
mazurka, would have published it during Chopin’s lifetime as a work of his
own, or have sold or given it to the Polish countess. It is much more
likely that Mayer’s mazurka was copied in the style of Chopin’s
handwriting, and after Mayer’s death in 1862 sold as Chopin’s autograph to
Mr. Gotthard.'”]
Surveying the mazurkas in their totality, we cannot but notice that there
is a marked difference between those up to and those above Op. 41. In the
later ones we look in vain for the beautes sauvages which charm us in the
earlier ones—they strike us rather by their propriety of manner and
scholarly elaboration; in short, they have more of reflective composition
and less of spontaneous effusion about them. This, however, must not be
taken too literally. There are exceptions, partial and total. The “native
wood-notes wild” make themselves often heard, only they are almost as
often stifled in the close air of the study. Strange to say, the last opus
(63) of mazurkas published by Chopin has again something of the early
freshness and poetry. Schumann spoke truly when he said that some poetical
trait, something new, was to be found in every one of Chopin’s mazurkas.
They are indeed teeming with interesting matter. Looked at from the
musician’s point of view, how much do we not see that is novel and
strange, and beautiful and fascinating withal? Sharp dissonances,
chromatic passing notes, suspensions and anticipations, displacements of
accent, progressions of perfect fifths (the horror of schoolmen),
[FOOTNOTE: See especially the passage near the close of Op. 30, No. 4,
where there are four bars of simultaneous consecutive fifths and
sevenths.] sudden turns and unexpected digressions that are so
unaccountable, so out of the line of logical sequence, that one’s
following the composer is beset with difficulties, marked rhythm picture
to us the graceful motions of the dancers, and suggest the clashing of the
spurs and the striking of heels against the ground. The second mazurka
might be called “the request.” All the arts of persuasion are tried, from
the pathetic to the playful, and a vein of longing, not unmixed with
sadness, runs through the whole, or rather forms the basis of it. The
tender commencement of the second part is followed, as it were, by the
several times repeated questions—Yes? No? (Bright sunshine? Dark
clouds?) But there comes no answer, and the poor wretch has to begin anew.
A helpless, questioning uncertainty and indecision characterise the third
mazurka. For a while the composer gives way (at the beginning of the
second part) to anger, and speaks in a defiant tone; but, as if perceiving
the unprofitableness of it, returns soon to his first strain.
Syncopations, suspensions, and chromatic passing notes form here the
composer’s chief stock in trade, displacement of everything in melody,
harmony, and rhythm is the rule. Nobody did anything like this before
Chopin, and, as far as I know, nobody has given to the world an equally
minute and distinct representation of the same intimate emotional
experiences. My last remarks hold good with the fourth mazurka, which is
bleak and joyless till, with the entrance of A major, a fairer prospect
opens. But those jarring tones that strike in wake the dreamer pitilessly.
The commencement of the mazurka, as well as the close on the chord of the
sixth, the chromatic glidings of the harmonies, the strange twirls and
skips, give a weird character to this piece.
The origin of the polonaise (Taniec Polski, Polish dance), like that of
the, no doubt, older mazurka, is lost in the dim past. For much credit can
hardly be given to the popular belief that it developed out of the
measured procession, to the sound of music, of the nobles and their
ladies, which is said to have first taken place in 1574, the year after
his election to the Polish throne, when Henry of Anjou received the
grandees of his realm. The ancient polonaises were without words, and thus
they were still in the time of King Sobieski (1674-96). Under the
subsequent kings of the house of Saxony, however, they were often adapted
to words or words were adapted to them. Celebrated polonaises of political
significance are: the Polonaise of the 3rd of May, adapted to words
relative to the promulgation of the famous constitution of the 3rd of May,
1791; the Kosciuszko Polonaise, with words adapted to already existing
music, dedicated to the great patriot and general when, in 1792, the
nation rose in defence of the constitution; the Oginski Polonaise, also
called the Swan’s song and the Partition of Poland, a composition without
words, of the year 1793 (at the time of the second partition), by Prince
Michael Cleophas Oginski. Among the Polish composers of the second half of
the last century and the beginning of the present whose polonaises enjoyed
in their day, and partly enjoy still, a high reputation, are especially
notable Kozlowski, Kamienski, Elsner, Deszczynski, Bracicki, Wanski,
Prince Oginski, Kurpinski, and Dobrzynski. Outside Poland the polonaise,
both as an instrumental and vocal composition, both as an independent
piece and part of larger works, had during the same period quite an
extraordinary popularity. Whether we examine the productions of the
classics or those of the inferior virtuosic and drawing-room composers,
[FOOTNOTE: I should have added “operatic composers.”] everywhere we find
specimens of the polonaise. Pre-eminence among the most successful foreign
cultivators of this Polish dance has, however, been accorded to Spohr and
Weber. I said just now “this dance,” but, strictly speaking, the
polonaise, which has been called a marche dansante, is not so much a dance
as a figured walk, or procession, full of gravity and a certain courtly
etiquette. As to the music of the polonaise, it is in 3/4 time, and of a
moderate movement (rather slow than quick). The flowing and more or less
florid melody has rhythmically a tendency to lean on the second crotchet
and even on the second quaver of the bar (see illustration No. 1, a and
b), and generally concludes each of its parts with one of certain
stereotyped formulas of a similar rhythmical cast (see illustration No. 2,
a, b, c, and d). The usual accompaniment consists of a bass note at the
beginning of the bar followed, except at the cadences, by five quavers, of
which the first may be divided into semiquavers. Chopin, however,
emancipated himself more and more from these conventionalities in his
later poetic polonaises.
[Two music score excerpts here, labeled No. 1 and No. 2]
After this Brodzinski goes on to describe the way in which the polonaise
used to be danced. But instead of his description I shall quote a not less
true and more picturesque one from the last canto of Mickiewicz’s “Pan
Tadeusz”:—
Among those of Chopin’s compositions which he himself published are,
exclusive of the “Introduction et Polonaise brillante” for piano and
violoncello, Op. 3, eight polonaises—namely: “Grande Polonaise
brillante” (in E flat major), “precedee d’un Andante spianato” (in G
major), “pour le piano avec orchestre,” Op. 22; “Deux Polonaises” (in C
sharp minor and E flat minor), Op. 26; “Deux Polonaises” (in A major and C
minor), Op. 40; “Polonaise” (F sharp minor), Op. 44; “Polonaise” (in A
flat major), Op. 53; [FOOTNOTE: This polonaise is called the “eighth” on
the title-page, which, of course, it is only by including the “Polonaise,”
Op. 3, for piano and violoncello.] and “Polonaise-Fantaisie” (in A flat
major), Op. 61. The three early polonaises posthumously-published by
Fontana as Op. 71 have already been discussed in Chapter VIII. Other
posthumously-published polonaises—such as the Polonaise in G sharp
minor, to be found in Mikuli’s edition, and one in B flat minor of the
year 1826, first published in the supplement of the journal “Echo
Muzyczne”—need not be considered by us. [FOOTNOTE: Both polonaises
are included in the Breitkopf and Hartel edition, where the one in G sharp
minor bears the unlikely date 1822. The internal evidence speaks against
this statement.]
Chopin’s Polonaises Op. 26, 40, 53, and 61 are pre-eminently political,
they are the composer’s expression of his patriotic feelings. It is not
difficult to recognise in them proud memories of past splendours, sad
broodings over present humiliations, bright visions of a future
resurrection. They are full of martial chivalry, of wailing dejection, of
conspiracy and sedition, of glorious victories. The poetically-inferior
Polonaise, Op. 22, on the other hand, while unquestionably Polish in
spirit, is not political. Chopin played this work, which was probably
composed, or at least sketched, in 1830, [FOOTNOTE: See Vol. I., Chapter
xiii., pp. 201, 202.] and certainly published in July, 1836, for the first
time in public at a Paris Conservatoire concert for the benefit of
Habeneck on April 26, 1835; and this was the only occasion on which he
played it with orchestral accompaniments. The introductory Andante (in G
major, and 6/8 time), as the accompanying adjective indicates, is smooth
and even. It makes one think of a lake on a calm, bright summer day. A
boat glides over the pellucid, unruffled surface of the water, by-and-by
halts at a shady spot by the shore, or by the side of some island (3/4
time), then continues its course (f time), and finally returns to its
moorings (3/4). I can perceive no connection between the Andante and the
following Polonaise (in E flat major) except the factitious one of a
formal and forced transition, with which the orchestra enters on the scene
of action (Allegro molto, 3/4). After sixteen bars of tutti, the
pianoforte commences, unaccompanied, the polonaise. Barring the short and
in no way attractive and remarkable test’s, the orchestra plays a very
subordinate and often silent role, being, indeed, hardly missed when the
pianoforte part is played alone. The pronounced bravura character of the
piece would warrant the supposition that it was written expressly for the
concert-room, even if the orchestral accompaniments were not there to
prove the fact. A proud bearing, healthful vigour, and sprightly vivacity
distinguish Chopin on this occasion. But notwithstanding the brave
appearance, one misses his best qualities. This polonaise illustrates not
only the most brilliant, but also the least lovable features of the Polish
character—ostentatiousness and exaggerated rhetoric. In it Chopin is
discovered posturing, dealing in phrases, and coquetting with sentimental
affectations. In short, the composer comes before us as a man of the
world, intent on pleasing, and sure of himself and success. The general
airiness of the style is a particularly-noticeable feature of this piece
of Chopin’s virtuosic period.
The first bars of the first (in C sharp minor) of the two Polonaises, Op.
26 (published in July, 1836), fall upon one’s ear like a decision of
irresistible, inexorable fate. Indignation flares up for a moment, and
then dies away, leaving behind sufficient strength only for a dull stupor
(beginning of the second part), deprecation, melting tenderness (the E
major in the second part, and the closing bars of the first and second
parts), and declarations of devotion (meno mosso). While the first
polonaise expresses weak timidity, sweet plaintiveness, and a looking for
help from above, the second one (in E flat minor) speaks of physical force
and self-reliance—it is full of conspiracy and sedition. The
ill-suppressed murmurs of discontent, which may be compared to the ominous
growls of a volcano, grow in loudness and intensity, till at last, with a
rush and a wild shriek, there follows an explosion. The thoughts flutter
hither and thither, in anxious, helpless agitation. Then martial sounds
are heard—a secret gathering of a few, which soon grows in number
and in boldness. Now they draw nearer; you distinguish the clatter of
spurs and weapons, the clang of trumpets (D flat major). Revenge and death
are their watchwords, and with sullen determination they stare desolation
in the face (the pedal F with the trebled part above). After an
interesting transition the first section returns. In the meno mosso (B
major) again a martial rhythm is heard; this time, however, the gathering
is not one for revenge and death, but for battle and victory. From the
far-off distance the winds carry the message that tells of freedom and
glory. But what is this (the four bars before the tempo I.)? Alas! the
awakening from a dream. Once more we hear those sombre sounds, the shriek
and explosion, and so on. Of the two Polonaises, Op. 26, the second is the
grander, and the definiteness which distinguishes it from the vague first
shows itself also in the form.
A greater contrast than the two Polonaises, Op. 40 (published in November,
1840), can hardly be imagined. In the first (in A major) the mind of the
composer is fixed on one elating thought—he sees the
gallantly-advancing chivalry of Poland, determination in every look and
gesture; he hears rising above the noise of stamping horses and the clash
of arms their bold challenge scornfully hurled at the enemy. In the second
(in C minor), on the other hand, the mind of the composer turns from one
depressing or exasperating thought to another—he seems to review the
different aspects of his country’s unhappy state, its sullen discontent,
fretful agitation, and uncertain hopes. The manly Polonaise in A major,
one of the simplest (not easiest) compositions of Chopin, is the most
popular of his polonaises. The second polonaise, however, although not so
often heard, is the more interesting one, the emotional contents being
more varied, and engaging more our sympathy. Further, the pianoforte,
however fully and effectively employed, cannot do justice to the martial
music of the one, while its capacities are well suited for the rendering
of the less material effect of the other. In conclusion, let me point out
in the C minor Polonaise the chafing agitation of the second part, the
fitful play between light and shade of the trio-like part in A flat major,
and the added wailing voice in the recurring first portion at the end of
the piece. [FOOTNOTE: In connection with the A major Polonaise, see last
paragraph on next page.]
If Schiller is right in saying “Ernst ist das Leben, heiter ist die
Kunst,” then what we find in the Polonaise (in F sharp minor), Op. 44
(published in November, 1841), cannot be art. We look in vain for beauty
of melody and harmony; dreary unisons, querulous melodic phrases,
hollow-eyed chords, hard progressions and modulations throughout every
part of the polonaise proper. We receive a pathological rather than
aesthetical impression. Nevertheless, no one can deny the grandeur and
originality that shine through this gloom. The intervening Doppio
movimento, tempo di Mazurka, sends forth soft beneficent rays—reminiscences
of long ago, vague and vanishing, sweet and melancholy. But there is an
end to this as to all such dreams. Those harassing, exasperating gloomy
thoughts (Tempo di Polacca) return. The sharp corners which we round so
pleasantly and beautifully in our reconstructions of the past make
themselves only too soon felt in the things of the present, and cruelly
waken us to reality and its miseries.
The Polonaise, Op. 53 (in A flat major; published in December, 1843), is
one of the most stirring compositions of Chopin, manifesting an
overmastering power and consuming fire. But is it really the same Chopin,
is it the composer of the dreamy nocturnes, the elegant waltzes, who here
fumes and frets, struggling with a fierce, suffocating rage (mark the
rushing succession of chords of the sixth, the growling semiquaver
figures, and the crashing dissonances of the sixteen introductory bars),
and then shouts forth, sure of victory, his bold and scornful challenge?
And farther on, in the part of the polonaise where the ostinato semiquaver
figure in octaves for the left hand begins, do we not hear the trampling
of horses, the clatter of arms and spurs, and the sound of trumpets? Do we
not hear—yea, and see too—a high-spirited chivalry approaching
and passing? Only pianoforte giants can do justice to this martial
tone-picture, the physical strength of the composer certainly did not
suffice.
The story goes that when Chopin played one of his polonaises in the
night-time, just after finishing its composition, he saw the door open,
and a long train of Polish knights and ladies, dressed in antique
costumes, enter through it and defile past him. This vision filled the
composer with such terror that he fled through the opposite door, and
dared not return to the room the whole night. Karasowski says that the
polonaise in question is the last-mentioned one, in A flat major; but from
M. Kwiatkowski, who depicted the scene three times, [FOOTNOTE: “Le Reve de
Chopin,” a water-colour, and two sketches in oils representing, according
to Chopin’s indication (d’apres l’avis de Chopin), the polonaise.] learned
that it is the one in A major, No. 1 of Op. 40, dedicated to Fontana.
I know of no more affecting composition among all the productions of
Chopin than the “Polonaise-Fantaisie” (in A flat major), Op. 61 (published
in September, 1846). What an unspeakable, unfathomable wretchedness
reveals itself in these sounds! We gaze on a boundless desolation. These
lamentations and cries of despair rend our heart, these strange, troubled
wanderings from thought to thought fill us with intensest pity. There are
thoughts of sweet resignation, but the absence of hope makes them perhaps
the saddest of all. The martial strains, the bold challenges, the shouts
of triumph, which we heard so often in the composer’s polonaises, are
silenced.
Thus, although comprising thoughts that in beauty and grandeur equal—I
would almost say surpass-anything Chopin has written, the work stands, on
account of its pathological contents, outside the sphere of art.
Chopin’s waltzes, the most popular of his compositions, are not poesie
intime like the greater number of his works. [FOOTNOTE: Op. 34, No. 2, and
Op. 64, No. 2, however, have to be excepted, to some extent at least.] In
them the composer mixes with the world-looks without him rather than
within—and as a man of the world conceals his sorrows and
discontents under smiles and graceful manners. The bright brilliancy and
light pleasantness of the earlier years of his artistic career, which are
almost entirely lost in the later years, rise to the surface in the
waltzes. These waltzes are salon music of the most aristocratic kind.
Schumann makes Florestan say of one of them, and he might have said it of
all, that he would not play it unless one half of the female dancers were
countesses. But the aristocraticalness of Chopin’s waltzes is real, not
conventional; their exquisite gracefulness and distinction are natural,
not affected. They are, indeed, dance-poems whose content is the poetry of
waltz-rhythm and movement, and the feelings these indicate and call forth.
In one of his most extravagantly-romantic critical productions Schumann
speaks, in connection with Chopin’s Op. 18, “Grande Valse brillante,” the
first-published (in June, 1834) of his waltzes, of “Chopin’s body and mind
elevating waltz,” and its “enveloping the dancer deeper and deeper in its
floods.” This language is altogether out of proportion with the thing
spoken of; for Op. 18 differs from the master’s best waltzes in being, not
a dance-poem, but simply a dance, although it must be admitted that it is
an exceedingly spirited one, both as regards piquancy and dash. When,
however, we come to Op. 34, “Trois Valses brillantes” (published in
December, 1838), Op. 42, “Valse” (published in July, 1840), and Op. 64,
“Trois Valses” (published in September, 1847), the only other waltzes
published by him, we find ourselves face to face with true dance-poems.
Let us tarry for a moment over Op. 34. How brisk the introductory bars of
the first (in A flat major) of these three waltzes! And what a striking
manifestation of the spirit of that dance all that follows! We feel the
wheeling motions; and where, at the seventeenth bar of the second part,
the quaver figure enters, we think we see the flowing dresses sweeping
round. Again what vigour in the third part, and how coaxingly tender the
fourth! And, lastly, the brilliant conclusion—the quavers
intertwined with triplets! The second waltz (in A minor; Lento) is of
quite another, of a more retired and private, nature, an exception to the
rule. The composer evidently found pleasure in giving way to this
delicious languor, in indulging in these melancholy thoughts full of
sweetest, tenderest loving and longing. But here words will not avail. One
day when Stephen Heller—my informant—was at Schlesinger’s
music-shop in Paris, Chopin entered. The latter, hearing Heller ask for
one of his waltzes, inquired of him which of them he liked best. “It is
difficult to say which I like best,” replied Heller, “for I like them all;
but if I were pressed for an answer I would probably say the one in A
minor.” This gave Chopin much pleasure. “I am glad you do,” he said; “it
is also my favourite.” And in an exuberance of amiability he invited
Heller to lunch with him, an invitation which was accepted, the two
artists taking the meal together at the Cafe Riche. The third waltz (in F
major; Vivace) shows a character very different from the preceding one.
What a stretching of muscles! What a whirling! Mark the giddy motions of
the melody beginning at bar seventeen! Of this waltz of Chopin’s and the
first it is more especially true what Schumann said of all three: “Such
flooding life moves within these waltzes that they seem to have been
improvised in the ball-room.” And the words which the same critic applies
to Op. 34 may be applied to all the waltzes Chopin published himself—”They
must please; they are of another stamp than the usual waltzes, and in the
style in which they can only be conceived by Chopin when he looks in a
grandly-artistic way into the dancing crowd, which he elevates by his
playing, thinking of other things than of what is being danced.” In the A
flat major waltz which bears the opus number 42, the duple rhythm of the
melody along with the triple one of the accompaniment seems to me
indicative of the loving nestling and tender embracing of the dancing
couples. Then, after the smooth gyrations of the first period, come those
sweeping motions, free and graceful like those of birds, that intervene
again and again between the different portions of the waltz. The D flat
major part bubbles over with joyousness. In the sostenuto, on the other
hand, the composer becomes sentimental, protests, and heaves sighs. But at
the very height of his rising ardour he suddenly plunges back into that
wild, self-surrendering, heaven and earth-forgetting joyousness—a
stroke of genius as delightful as it is clever. If we do not understand by
the name of scherzo a fixed form, but rather a state of mind, we may say
that Chopin’s waltzes are his scherzos and not the pieces to which he has
given that name. None of Chopin’s waltzes is more popular than the first
of Op. 64 (in D flat major). And no wonder! The life, flow, and oneness
are unique; the charm of the multiform motions is indescribable. That it
has been and why it has been called valse au petit chien need here only be
recalled to the reader’s recollection (see Chapter XXVI., p. 142). No. 2
(in C sharp minor); different as it is, is in its own way nearly as
perfect as No. 1. Tender, love-sick longing cannot be depicted more
truthfully, sweetly, and entrancingly. The excellent No. 3 (in A flat
major), with the exquisite serpentining melodic lines, which play so
important a part in Chopin’s waltzes, and other beautiful details, is in a
somewhat trying position beside the other two waltzes. The non-publication
by the composer of the waltzes which have got into print, thanks to the
zeal of his admirers and the avidity of publishers, proves to me that he
was a good judge of his own works. Fontana included in his collection of
posthumous compositions five waltzes—”Deux Valses,” Op. 69 (in F
minor, of 1836; in B minor, of 1829);. and “Trois Valses,” Op. 70 (in G
flat major, of 1835; in F minor, of 1843; in D flat major, of 1830). There
are further a waltz in E minor and one in E major (of 1829). [FOOTNOTE:
The “Deux Valses melancoliques” (in F minor and B minor), ecrits sur
l’album de Madame la Comtesse P., 1844 (Cracow: J. Wildt), the English
edition of which (London: Edwin Ashdown) is entitled “Une soiree en 1844,”
“Deux Valses melancoliques,” are Op. 70. No. 2, and Op. 69, No. 2, of the
works of Chopin posthumously published by Fontana.] Some of these waltzes
I discussed already when speaking of the master’s early compositions, to
which they belong. The last-mentioned waltz, which the reader will find in
Mikuli’s edition (No. 15 of the waltzes), and also in Breitkopf and
Hartel’s (No. 22 of the Posthumous works), is a very weak composition; and
of all the waltzes not published by the composer himself it may be said
that what is good in them has been expressed better in others.
We have of Chopin 27 studies: Op. 10, “Douze Etudes,” published in July,
1833; Op. 25, “Douze Etudes,” published in October, 1837; and “Trois
nouvelles Etudes,” which, before being separately published, appeared in
1840 in the “Methode des Methodes pour le piano” by F. J. Fetis and I.
Moscheles. The dates of their publication, as in the case of many other
works, do not indicate the approximate dates of their composition.
Sowinski tells us, for instance, that Chopin brought the first book of his
studies with him to Paris in 1831. A Polish musician who visited the
French capital in 1834 heard Chopin play the studies contained in Op. 25.
And about the last-mentioned opus we read in a critical notice by
Schumann, who had, no doubt, his information directly from Chopin: “The
studies which have now appeared [that is, those of Op. 25] were almost all
composed at the same time as the others [that is, those of Op. 10] and
only some of them, the greater masterliness of which is noticeable, such
as the first, in A flat major, and the splendid one in C minor [that is,
the twelfth] but lately.” Regarding the Trois nouvelles Etudes without
OPUS number we have no similar testimony. But internal evidence seems to
show that these weakest of the master’s studies—which, however, are
by no means uninteresting, and certainly very characteristic—may be
regarded more than Op. 25 as the outcome of a gleaning. In two of Chopin’s
letters of the year 1829, we meet with announcements of his having
composed studies. On the 20th of October he writes: “I have composed a
study in my own manner”; and on the 14th of November: “I have written some
studies.” From Karasowski learn that the master composed the twelfth study
of Op. 10 during his stay in Stuttgart, being inspired by the capture of
Warsaw by the Russians, which took place on September 8, 1831. Whether
looked at from the aesthetical or technical point of view, Chopin’s
studies will be seen to be second to those of no composer. Were it not
wrong to speak of anything as absolutely best, their excellences would
induce one to call them unequalled. A striking feature in them compared
with Chopin’s other works is their healthy freshness and vigour. Even the
slow, dreamy, and elegiac ones have none of the faintness and sickliness
to be found in not a few of the composer’s pieces, especially in several
of the nocturnes. The diversity of character exhibited by these studies is
very great. In some of them the aesthetical, in others the technical
purpose predominates; in a few the two are evenly balanced: in none is
either of them absent. They give a summary of Chopin’s ways and means, of
his pianoforte language: chords in extended positions, wide-spread
arpeggios, chromatic progressions (simple, in thirds, and in octaves),
simultaneous combinations of contrasting rhythms, &c—nothing is
wanting. In playing them or hearing them played Chopin’s words cannot fail
to recur to one’s mind: “I have composed a study in my own manner.”
Indeed, the composer’s demands on the technique of the executant were so
novel at the time when the studies made their first public appearance that
one does not wonder at poor blind Rellstab being staggered, and venting
his feelings in the following uncouthly-jocular manner: “Those who have
distorted fingers may put them right by practising these studies; but
those who have not, should not play them, at least not without having a
surgeon at hand.” In Op. 10 there are three studies especially noteworthy
for their musical beauty. The third (Lento ma non troppo, in E major) and
the sixth (Andante, in E flat minor) may be reckoned among Chopin’s
loveliest compositions. They combine classical chasteness of contour with
the fragrance of romanticism. And the twelfth study (Allegro con fuoco, in
C minor), the one composed at Stuttgart after the fall of Warsaw, how
superbly grand! The composer seems to be fuming with rage: the left hand
rushes impetuously along and the right hand strikes in with passionate
ejaculations. With regard to the above-named Lento ma non troppo (Op. 10,
No. 3), Chopin said to Gutmann that he had never in his life written
another such beautiful melody (CHANT); and on one occasion when Gutmann
was studying it the master lifted up his arms with his hands clasped and
exclaimed: “O, my fatherland!” (“O, me patrie!”) I share with Schumann the
opinion that the total weight of Op. 10 amounts to more than that of Op.
25. Like him I regard also Nos. 1 and 12 as the most important items of
the latter collection of studies: No. 1 (Allegro sostenuto, in A flat
major)—a tremulous mist below, a beautiful breezy melody floating
above, and once or twice a more opaque body becoming discernible within
the vaporous element—of which Schumann says that “after listening to
the study one feels as one does after a blissful vision, seen in a dream,
which, already half-awake, one would fain bring back”: [FOOTNOTE: See the
whole quotation, Vol. I., p. 310.] and No. 12 (in C minor, Allegro molto
con fuoco), in which the emotions rise not less than the waves of
arpeggios (in both hands) which symbolise them. Stephen Heller’s likings
differ from Schumann’s. Discussing Chopin’s Op. 25 in the Gazette musicale
of February 24, 1839, he says:—
In connection with the fourth, Heller points out that it reminds him of
the first bar of the Kyrie (rather the Requiem aeternam) of Mozart’s
Requiem. And of the seventh study he remarks:—
This No. 7 (in C sharp minor, lento), a duet between a HE and a SHE, of
whom the former shows himself more talkative and emphatic than the latter,
is, indeed, very sweet, but perhaps, also somewhat tiresomely monotonous,
as such tete-a-tete naturally are to third parties. As a contrast to No.
7, and in conclusion—leaving several aerial flights and other
charming conceptions undiscussed—I will yet mention the octave
study, No. 10, which is a real pandemonium; for a while holier sounds
intervene, but finally hell prevails.
The genesis of the Vingt-quatre Preludes, Op. 28, published in September,
1839, I have tried to elucidate in the twenty-first chapter. I need,
therefore, not discuss the question here. The indefinite character and
form of the prelude, no doubt, determined the choice of the title which,
however, does not describe the contents of this OPUS. Indeed, no ONE name
could do so. This heterogeneous collection of pieces reminds me of nothing
so much as of an artist’s portfolio filled with drawings in all stages of
advancement—finished and unfinished, complete and incomplete
compositions, sketches and mere memoranda, all mixed indiscriminately
together. The finished works were either too small or too slight to be
sent into the world separately, and the right mood for developing,
completing, and giving the last touch to the rest was gone, and could not
be found again. Schumann, after expressing his admiration for these
preludes, as well he might, adds: “This book contains morbid, feverish,
and repellent matter.” I do not think that there is much that could justly
be called repellent; but the morbidity and feverishness of a considerable
portion must be admitted.
The almost infinite and infinitely-varied beauties collected in this
treasure-trove denominated Vingt-quatre Preludes could only be done
justice to by a minute analysis, for which, however, there is no room
here. I must content myself with a word or two about a few of them, picked
out at random. No. 4 is a little poem the exquisitely-sweet languid
pensiveness of which defies description. The composer seems to be absorbed
in the narrow sphere of his ego, from which the wide, noisy world is for
the time being shut out. In No. 6 we have, no doubt, the one of which
George Sand said that it occurred to Chopin one evening while rain was
falling, and that it “precipitates the soul into a frightful depression.”
[FOOTNOTE: See George Sand’s account and description in Chapter XXI., p.
43.] How wonderfully the contending rhythms of the accompaniment, and the
fitful, jerky course of the melody, depict in No. 8 a state of anxiety and
agitation! The premature conclusion of that bright vivacious thing No. 11
fills one with regret. Of the beautifully-melodious No. 13, the piu lento
and the peculiar closing bars are especially noteworthy. No. 14 invites a
comparison with the finale of the B flat minor Sonata. In the middle
section (in C sharp minor) of the following number (in D flat major), one
of the larger pieces, rises before one’s mind the cloistered court of the
monastery of Valdemosa, and a procession of monks chanting lugubrious
prayers, and carrying in the dark hours of night their departed brother to
his last resting-place. It reminds one of the words of George Sand, that
the monastery was to Chopin full of terrors and phantoms. This C sharp
minor portion of No. 15 affects one like an oppressive dream; the
re-entrance of the opening D flat major, which dispels the dreadful
nightmare, comes upon one with the smiling freshness of dear, familiar
nature—only after these horrors of the imagination can its serene
beauty be fully appreciated. No. 17, another developed piece, strikes one
as akin to Mendelssohn’s Songs without Words. I must not omit to mention
No. 21, one of the finest of the collection, with its calming cantilena
and palpitating quaver figure. Besides the set of twenty-four preludes,
Op. 28, Chopin published a single one, Op. 45, which appeared in December,
1841. This composition deserves its name better than almost anyone of the
twenty-four; still, I would rather call it an improvisata. It seems
unpremeditated, a heedless outpouring when sitting at the piano in a
lonely, dreary hour, perhaps in the twilight. The quaver figure rises
aspiringly, and the sustained parts swell out proudly. The piquant cadenza
forestalls in the progression of diminished chords favourite effects of
some of our more modern composers. The modulation from C sharp minor to D
major and back again (after the cadenza) is very striking and equally
beautiful.
It can hardly be said, although Liszt seemed to be of a different opinion,
that Chopin created a new type by his preludes—they are too unlike
each other in form and character. On the other hand, he has done so by his
four scherzos—Op. 20 (in B minor), published in February, 1835; Op.
31 (B flat minor), published in December, 1837; Op. 39 (C sharp minor),
published in October, 1840; and Op. 54 (in E major), published in
December, 1843. “How is ‘gravity’ to clothe itself, if ‘jest’ goes about
in dark veils?” exclaims Schumann. No doubt, scherzo, if we consider the
original meaning of the word, is a misnomer. But are not Beethoven’s
scherzos, too, misnamed? To a certain extent they are. But if Beethoven’s
scherzos often lack frolicsomeness, they are endowed with humour, whereas
Chopin’s have neither the one nor the other. Were it not that we attach,
especially since Mendelssohn’s time, the idea of lightness and
light-heartedness to the word capriccio, this would certainly be the more
descriptive name for the things Chopin entitled SCHERZO. But what is the
use of carping at a name? Let us rather look at the things, and thus
employ our time better. Did ever composer begin like Chopin in his Premier
Scherzo, Op. 20? Is this not like a shriek of despair? and what follows,
bewildered efforts of a soul shut in by a wall of circumstances through
which it strives in vain to break? at last sinking down with fatigue,
dreaming a dream of idyllic beauty? but beginning the struggle again as
soon as its strength is recruited? Schumann compared the second SCHERZO,
Op. 31, to a poem of Byron’s, “so tender, so bold, as full of love as of
scorn.” Indeed, scorn—an element which does not belong to what is
generally understood by either frolicsomeness or humour—plays an
important part in Chopin’s scherzos. The very beginning of Op. 31 offers
an example.
[FOOTNOTE: “It must be a question [the doubled triplet figure A, B flat, d
flat, in the first bar], taught Chopin, and for him it was never question
enough, never piano enough, never vaulted (tombe) enough, as he said,
never important enough. It must be a charnel-house, he said on one
occasion.” (W. von Lenz, in Vol. XXVI. of the Berliner Musikzeitung.)]
And then, we do not meet with a phrase of a more cheerful nature which is
not clouded by sadness. Weber—I mention his name intentionally—would,
for instance, in the D flat major portion have concluded the melodic
phrase in diatonic progression and left the harmony pure. Now see what
Chopin does. The con anima has this mark of melancholy still more
distinctly impressed upon it. After the repetition of the capricious,
impulsively-passionate first section (in B flat minor and D flat major)
follows the delicious second, the expression of which is as indescribable
as that of Leonardo da Vinci’s “La Gioconda.” It is a pondering and
wondering full of longing. In the deep, tender yearning, with the urging
undercurrent of feeling, of the C sharp minor portion, the vague dreaming
of the preceding portion of the section grows into wakefulness, and the
fitful imagination is concentrated on one object. Without continuing the
emotional or entering on a formal analysis of this scherzo, I venture to
say that it is a very important composition, richer and more varied in
emotional incidents than the other works of Chopin which bear the same
name. More than to any one of the master’s scherzos, the name capriccio
would be suitable to his third “Scherzo,” Op. 39, with its capricious
starts and changes, its rudderless drifting. Peevishness, a fierce
scornfulness, and a fretful agitation, may be heard in these sounds, of
jest and humour there is nothing perceptible. At any rate, the curled lip,
as it were, contradicts the jesting words, and the careless exterior does
not altogether conceal the seething rage within. But with the meno mosso
(D flat major) come pleasanter thoughts. The hymn-like snatches of
sustained melody with the intervening airy interludes are very lovely.
These are the principal features, to describe all the whims is of course
impossible. You may call this work an extravaganza, and point out its
grotesqueness; but you must admit that only by this erratic character of
the form and these spasmodic movements, could be expressed the peculiar
restiveness, fitfulness, and waywardness of thought and feeling that
characterise Chopin’s individuality. To these unclassical qualities—for
classical art is above all plastic and self-possessed—combined as
they are with a high degree of refinement and delicacy, his compositions
owe much of their peculiar charm. The absence of scorn distinguishes the
fourth “Scherzo,” Op. 54, from the other three; but, like them, although
less closely wrapped, it wears dark veils. The tripping fairy steps which
we find in bars 17-20 and in other places are a new feature in Chopin. As
to the comparative value of the work, it seems to me inferior to its
brothers. The first section is too fragmentary to give altogether
satisfaction. One is hustled from one phrase to another, and they are as
unlike each other as can well be imagined. The beauty of many of the
details, however, must be acknowledged; indeed, the harmonic finesses, the
melodic cunning, and rhythmical piquancy, are too potent to be ignored.
The resting-place and redeeming part of this scherzo is the
sweetly-melodious second section, with its long, smooth, gently and
beautifully-curved lines. Also the return to the repetition of the first
section is very interesting. This scherzo has the appearance of being
laboured, painfully hammered and welded together. But as the poet is born,
not made-which “being born” is not brought about without travail, nor
makes the less desirable a careful bringing-up—so also does a work
of art owe what is best in it to a propitious concurrence of circumstances
in the natal hour.
The contents of Chopin’s impromptus are of a more pleasing nature than
those of the scherzos. Like the latter they are wayward, but theirs is a
charming, lovable waywardness. The composer’s three first impromptus were
published during his lifetime: Op. 29 in December, 1837; Op. 36 in May,
1840; and Op. 51 in February, 1843. The fourth impromptu
(“Fantaisie-Impromptu”), Op. 66, is a posthumous publication. What name
has been more misapplied than that of impromptu? Again and again we meet
with works thus christened which bear upon them the distinct marks of
painful effort and anxious filing, which maybe said to smell of the
mid-night lamp, and to be dripping with the hard-working artificer’s
sweat. How Chopin produced the “Impromptu,” Op. 29 (in A flat major), I do
not know. Although an admired improviser, the process of composition was
to him neither easy nor quick. But be this as it may, this impromptu has
quite the air of a spontaneous, unconstrained outpouring. The first
section with its triplets bubbles forth and sparkles like a fountain on
which the sunbeams that steal through the interstices of the overhanging
foliage are playing. The F minor section is sung out clearly and heartily,
with graces beautiful as nature’s. The song over, our attention is again
attracted by the harmonious murmuring and the changing lights of the
water. The “Deuxieme Impromptu,” Op. 36 (in F sharp major), is, like the
first, a true impromptu, but while the first is a fresh and lusty welling
forth of joy amidst the pleasures of a present reality, this is a dreamy
lingering over thoughts and scenes of the imagination that appear and
vanish like dissolving views. One would wish to have a programme of this
piece. Without such assistance the D major section of the impromptu is
insignificant. We want to see, or at least to know, who the persons that
walk in the procession which the music accompanies are. Some bars in the
second half of this section remind one of Schumann’s “Fantasia” in C.
After this section a curious transition leads in again the theme, which
first appeared in F sharp major, in F major, and with a triplet
accompaniment. When F sharp major is once more reached, the theme is still
further varied (melodically), till at last the wondrous, fairy-like phrase
from the first section brings the piece to a conclusion. This impromptu is
inferior to the first, having less pith in it; but its tender sweetness
and euphony cannot be denied. The idle forgetfulness of the more serious
duties and the deep miseries of life in the enjoyment of a dolce far
niente recalls Schubert and the “Fantasia,” Op. 78, and other works of
his. In the “Troisieme Impromptu” (in G flat major), Op. 51, the
rhythmical motion and the melodical form of the two parts that serpentine
their lines in opposite directions remind one of the first impromptu (in A
flat), but the characters of these pieces are otherwise very unlike. The
earlier work is distinguished by a brisk freshness; the later one by a
feverish restlessness and faint plaintiveness. After the irresolute
flutter of the relaxing and enervating chromatic progressions and
successions of thirds and sixths, the greater steadiness of the middle
section, more especially the subdued strength and passionate eloquence at
the D flat major, has a good effect. But here, too, the languid, lamenting
chromatic passing and auxiliary notes are not wanting, and the anxious,
breathless accompaniment does not make things more cheerful. In short, the
piece is very fine in its way, but the unrelieved, or at least very
insufficiently relieved, morbidezza is anything but healthy. We may take
note of the plain chord progressions which intervene in the first and last
sections of the impromptu; such progressions are of frequent occurrence in
Chopin’s works. Is there not something pleonastic in the title
“Fantaisie-Impromptu?” Whether the reader may think so or not, he will
agree with me that the fourth impromptu (in C sharp minor), Op. 66, is the
most valuable of the compositions published by Fontana; indeed, it has
become one of the favourites of the pianoforte-playing world. Spontaneity
of emotional expression and effective treatment of the pianoforte
distinguish the Fantaisie-Impromptu. In the first section we have the
restless, surging, gushing semiquavers, carrying along with them a
passionate, urging melody, and the simultaneous waving triplet
accompaniment; in the second section, where the motion of the
accompaniment is on the whole preserved, the sonorous, expressive
cantilena in D flat major; the third section repeats the first, which it
supplements with a coda containing a reminiscence of the cantilena of the
second section, which calms the agitation of the semiquavers. According to
Fontana, Chopin composed this piece about 1834. Why did he keep it in his
portfolio? I suspect he missed in it, more especially in the middle
section, that degree of distinction and perfection of detail which alone
satisfied his fastidious taste.
Among Chopin’s nocturnes some of his most popular works are to be found.
Nay, the most widely-prevailing idea of his character as a man and
musician seems to have been derived from them. But the idea thus formed is
an erroneous one; these dulcet, effeminate compositions illustrate only
one side of the master’s character, and by no means the best or most
interesting. Notwithstanding such precious pearls as the two Nocturnes,
Op. 37, and a few others, Chopin shows himself greater both as a man and a
musician in every other class of pieces he has originated and cultivated,
more especially in his polonaises, ballades, and studies. That, however,
there is much to be admired in the class now under consideration will be
seen from the following brief comments on the eighteen nocturnes (leaving
out of account the one of the year 1828 published by Fontana as Op. 72,
No. 1, and already discussed in an earlier chapter) which Chopin gave to
the world—Op. 9, Trois Nocturnes, in January, 1833; Op. 15, Trois
Nocturnes, in January, 1834; Op. 27, Deux Nocturnes, in May, 1836; Op. 32,
Deux Nocturnes, December, 1837; Op. 37, Deux Nocturnes, in May, 1840; Op.
48, Deux Nocturnes, in November, 1841; Op. 55, Deux Nocturnes, in August,
1844; and Op. 62, Deux Nocturnes, in September, 1846. Rellstab remarked in
1833 of the Trois Nocturnes, Op. 9, that Chopin, without borrowing
directly from Field, copied the latter’s melody and manner of
accompaniment. There is some truth in this; only the word “copy” is not
the correct one. The younger received from the elder artist the first
impulse to write in this form, and naturally adopted also something of his
manner. On the whole, the similitude is rather generic than specific. Even
the contents of Op. 9 give Chopin a just claim to originality; and the
Field reminiscences which are noticeable in Nos. 1 and 2 (most strikingly
in the commencement of No. 2) of the first set of nocturnes will be looked
for in vain in the subsequent ones.
Now, what remains of this statement after subtracting prejudices and
narrow-mindedness? Nothing but that Chopin is more varied and passionate
than Field, and has developed to the utmost some of the means of
expression used by the latter. No. 1 (in B flat minor) of Op. 9 is
pervaded by a voluptuous dreaminess and cloying sweetness: it suggests
twilight, the stillness of night, and thoughts engendered thereby. The
tone of sentiment and the phraseology of No. 2 (in E fiat major) have been
made so common by fashionable salon composers that one cannot help
suspecting that it is not quite a natural tone—not a tone of true
feeling, but of sentimentality. The vulgar do not imitate the true and
noble, but the false and ostentatious. In this piece one breathes
drawing-room air, and ostentation of sentiment and affectation of speech
are native to that place. What, however, the imitations often lack is
present in every tone and motion of the original: eloquence, grace, and
genuine refinement.
[FOOTNOTE: Gutmann played the return of the principal subject in a way
very different from that in which it is printed, with a great deal of
ornamentation, and said that Chopin played it always in that way. Also the
cadence at the end of the nocturne (Op. 9, No. 2) had a different form.
But the composer very frequently altered the ornamentions of his pieces or
excogitated alternative readings.]
The third is, like the preceding nocturne, exquisite salon music. Little
is said, but that little very prettily. Although the atmosphere is close,
impregnated with musk and other perfumes, there is here no affectation.
The concluding cadenza, that twirling line, reads plainly “Frederic
Chopin.” Op. 15 shows a higher degree of independence and poetic power
than Op. 9. The third (in G minor) of these nocturnes is the finest of the
three. The words languido e rubato describe well the wavering pensiveness
of the first portion of the nocturne, which finds its expression in the
indecision of the melodic progressions, harmonies, and modulations. The
second section is marked religiose, and may be characterised as a trustful
prayer, conducive to calm and comfort. The Nocturnes in F major and F
sharp major, Op. 15, are more passionate than the one we just now
considered, at least in the middle sections. The serene, tender Andante in
F major, always sweet, and here and there with touches of delicate
playfulness, is interrupted by thoughts of impetuous defiance, which give
way to sobs and sighs, start up again with equal violence, and at last die
away into the first sweet, tender serenity. The contrast between the
languid dreaming and the fiery upstarting is striking and effective, and
the practical musician, as well as the student of aesthetics, will do well
to examine by what means these various effects are produced. In the second
nocturne, F sharp major, the brightness and warmth of the world without
have penetrated into the world within. The fioriture flit about as lightly
as gossamer threads. The sweetly-sad longing of the first section becomes
more disquieting in the doppio movimento, but the beneficial influence of
the sun never quite loses its power, and after a little there is a relapse
into the calmer mood, with a close like a hazy distance on a summer day.
The second (in D flat major) of Op. 27 was, no doubt, conceived in a more
auspicious moment than the first (in C sharp minor), of which the
extravagantly wide-meshed netting of the accompaniment is the most
noteworthy feature. [FOOTNOTE: In most of the pieces where, as in this
one, the left-hand accompaniment consists of an undulating figure, Chopin
wished it to be played very soft and subdued. This is what Gutmann said.]
As to the one in D flat, nothing can equal the finish and delicacy of
execution, the flow of gentle feeling, lightly rippled by melancholy, and
spreading out here and there in smooth expansiveness. But all this
sweetness enervates; there is poison in it. We should not drink in these
thirds, sixths, &c., without taking an antidote of Bach or Beethoven.
Both the nocturnes of Op. 32 are pretty specimens of Chopin’s style of
writing in the tender, calm, and dreamy moods. Of the two (in B major and
A flat major) I prefer the quiet, pellucid first one. It is very simple,
ornaments being very sparingly introduced. The quietness and simplicity
are, however, at last disturbed by an interrupted cadence, sombre sounds
as of a kettle-drum, and a passionate recitative with intervening abrupt
chords. The second nocturne has less originality and pith. Deux Nocturnes
(in G minor and G major), Op. 37, are two of the finest, I am inclined to
say, the two finest, of this class of Chopin’s pieces; but they are of
contrasting natures. The first and last sections of the one in G minor are
plaintive and longing, and have a wailing accompaniment; the chord
progressions of the middle section glide along hymn-like. [FOOTNOTE:
Gutmann played this section quicker than the rest, and said that Chopin
forgot to mark the change of movement.] Were it possible to praise one
part more emphatically than another without committing an injustice, I
would speak of the melodic exquisiteness of the first motive. But already
I see other parts rise reproachfully before my repentant conscience. A
beautiful sensuousness distinguishes the nocturne in G major: it is
luscious, soft, rounded, and not without a certain degree of languor. The
successions of thirds and, sixths, the semitone progressions, the rocking
motion, the modulations (note especially those of the first section and
the transition from that to the second), all tend to express the essential
character. The second section in C major reappears in E major, after a
repetition of part of the first section; a few bars of the latter and a
reminiscence of the former conclude the nocturne. But let us not tarry too
long in the treacherous atmosphere of this Capua—it bewitches and
unmans. The two nocturnes (in C minor and F sharp minor) which form Op. 48
are not of the number of those that occupy foremost places among their
companions. Still, they need not be despised. The melody of the C minor
portion of the first is very expressive, and the second has in the C sharp
minor portion the peculiar Chopinesque flebile dolcezza. In playing these
nocturnes there occurred to me a remark of Schumann’s, made when he
reviewed some nocturnes by Count Wielhorski. He said, on that occasion,
that the quicker middle movements which Chopin frequently introduces into
his nocturnes are often weaker than his first conceptions, meaning the
first portions of the nocturnes. Now, although the middle parts in the
present instances are, on the contrary, slower movements, yet the judgment
holds good; at least, with respect to the first nocturne, the middle part
of which has nothing to recommend it but the effective use of a full and
sonorous instrumentation, if I may use this word in speaking of one
instrument. The middle part of the second (f, D flat, Molto piu lento),
however, is much finer; in it we meet again, as we did in some other
nocturnes, with soothing, simple chord progressions. When Gutmann studied
the C sharp minor nocturne with Chopin, the master told him that the
middle section (the Molto piu lento, in D flat major) should be played as
a recitative: “A tyrant commands” (the first two chords), he said, “and
the other asks for mercy.” Regarding the first nocturne (in F minor) of
Op. 55, we will note only the flebile dolcezza of the first and the last
section, and the inferiority of the more impassioned middle section. The
second nocturne (in E flat major) differs in form from the other nocturnes
in this, that it has no contrasting second section, the melody flowing
onward from begining to end in a uniform manner. The monotony of the
unrelieved sentimentality does not fail to make itself felt. One is seized
by an ever-increasing longing to get out of this oppressive atmosphere, to
feel the fresh breezes and warm sunshine, to see smiling faces and the
many-coloured dress of Nature, to hear the rustling of leaves, the
murmuring of streams, and voices which have not yet lost the clear,
sonorous ring that joy in the present and hope in the future impart. The
two nocturnes, Op. 62, seem to owe their existence rather to the sweet
habit of activity than to inspiration. At any rate, the tender flutings,
trills, roulades, syncopations, &c., of the first nocturne (in B
major), and the sentimental declarations and confused, monotonous
agitation of the second (in E major), do not interest me sufficiently to
induce me to discuss their merits and demerits.
One day Tausig, the great pianoforte-virtuoso, promised W. von Lenz to
play him Chopin’s “Barcarolle,” Op. 60 (published in September, 1846),
adding, “That is a performance which must not be undertaken before more
than two persons. I shall play you my own self (meinen Menschen). I love
the piece, but take it up only rarely.” Lenz, who did not know the
barcarolle, thereupon went to a music-shop and read it through
attentively. The piece, however, did not please him at all; it seemed to
him a long movement in the nocturne-style, a Babel of figuration on a
lightly-laid foundation. But he found that he had made a mistake, and,
after hearing it played by Tausig, confessed that the virtuoso had infused
into the “nine pages of enervating music, of one and the same
long-breathed rhythm (12/8), so much interest, so much motion, and so much
action,” that he regretted the long piece was not longer. And now let us
hear what remarks Tausig made with regard to the barcarolle:—
Both Lenz’s first and last impressions were correct. The form of the
barcarolle is that of most of Chopin’s nocturnes—consisting of three
sections, of which the third is a modified repetition of the first—only
everything is on a larger scale, and more worked out. Unfortunately, the
contrast of the middle section is not great enough to prevent the length,
in spite of the excellence of the contents, from being felt. Thus we must
also subscribe to the “nine pages of enervating music.” Still, the
barcarolle is one of the most important of Chopin’s compositions in the
nocturne-style. It has distinctive features which decidedly justify and
make valuable its existence. Local colouring is not wanting. The first
section reminded me of Schumann’s saying that Chopin in his melodies leans
sometimes over Germany towards Italy. If properly told, this love-laden
romance cannot fail to produce effect.
Of the pieces that bear the name “Berceuse,” Chopin’s Op. 57 (published in
June, 1845) is the finest, or at least one of the finest and happiest
conceptions. It rests on the harmonic basis of tonic and dominant. The
triad of the tonic and the chord of the dominant seventh divide every bar
between them in a brotherly manner. Only in the twelfth and thirteenth
bars from the end (the whole piece contains seventy) the triad of the
subdominant comes forward, and gives a little breathing time to the triad
of the tonic, the chord of the dominant having already dropped off. Well,
on this basis Chopin builds, or let us rather say, on this rocking
harmonic fluid he sets afloat a charming melody, which is soon joined by a
self-willed second part. Afterwards, this melody is dissolved into all
kinds of fioriture, colorature, and other trickeries, and they are of such
fineness, subtlety, loveliness, and gracefulness, that one is reminded of
Queen Mab, who comes—
[FOOTNOTE: Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, I., iv., 59-68]
But who does not know the delightful description of the fairy in her
hazel-nut coach, and the amusing story of her frolics and pranks?
By-and-by the nimble motions of the colorature become slower, and finally
glide into the original form of the melody, which, however, already after
the third bar comes to a stand-still, is resumed for a short phrase, then
expires, after a long-drawn chord of the dominant seventh, on the chord of
the tonic, and all is rest and silence. Alexandre Dumas fils speaks in the
“Affaire Clemenceau” of the “Berceuse” as—
None of Chopin’s compositions surpass in masterliness of form and beauty
and poetry of contents his ballades. In them he attains, I think, the acme
of his power as an artist. It is much to be regretted that they are only
four in number—Op. 23, published in June, 1836; Op. 38, in
September, 1840; Op. 47, in November, 1841; and Op 52, in December, 1843.
When Schumann reviewed the second ballade he wrote: “Chopin has already
written a piece under the same title, one of his wildest and most
individual compositions.” Schumann relates also that the poems of
Mickiewicz incited Chopin to write his ballades, which information he got
from the Polish composer himself. He adds significantly: “A poet, again,
might easily write words to them [Chopin’s ballades]. They move the
innermost depth of the soul.” Indeed, the “Ballade” (in G minor), Op. 23,
is all over quivering with intensest feeling, full of sighs, sobs, groans,
and passionate ebullitions. The seven introductory bars (Lento) begin
firm, ponderous, and loud, but gradually become looser, lighter, and
softer, terminating with a dissonant chord, which some editors have
thought fit to correct. [FOOTNOTE: For the correctness of the suspected
note we have the testimony of pupils—Gutmann, Mikuli, &c.] Yet
this dissonant E flat may be said to be the emotional key-note of the
whole poem. It is a questioning thought that, like a sudden pain, shoots
through mind and body. And now the story-teller begins his simple but
pathetic tale, heaving every now and then a sigh. After the ritenuto the
matter becomes more affecting; the sighs and groans, yet for a while kept
under restraint, grow louder with the increasing agitation, till at last
the whole being is moved to its very depths. On the uproar of the passions
follows a delicious calm that descends like a heavenly vision (meno mosso,
E flat major). But this does not last, and before long there comes, in the
train of the first theme, an outburst of passion with mighty upheavings
and fearful lulls that presage new eruptions. Thus the ballade rises and
falls on the sea of passion till a mad, reckless rush (presto con fuoco)
brings it to a conclusion. Schumann tells us a rather interesting fact in
his notice of the “Deuxieme Ballade” (in F major), Op. 38. He heard Chopin
play it in Leipzig before its publication, and at that time the passionate
middle parts did not exist, and the piece closed in F major, now it closes
in A minor. Schumann’s opinion of this ballade is, that as a work of art
it stands below the first, yet is not less fantastic and geistreich. If
two such wholly dissimilar things can be compared and weighed in this
fashion, Schumann is very likely right; but I rather think they cannot.
The second ballade possesses beauties in no way inferior to those of the
first. What can be finer than the simple strains of the opening section!
They sound as if they had been drawn from the people’s storehouse of song.
The entrance of the presto surprises, and seems out of keeping with what
precedes; but what we hear after the return of the tempo primo—the
development of those simple strains, or rather the cogitations on them—justifies
the presence of the presto. The second appearance of the latter leads to
an urging, restless coda in A minor, which closes in the same key and
pianissimo with a few bars of the simple, serene, now veiled, first
strain. The “Troisieme Ballade” (in A flat major), Op. 47, does not equal
its sisters in emotional intensity, at any rate, not in emotional
tumultuousness. On this occasion the composer shows himself in a
fundamentally caressing mood. But the fine gradations, the iridescence of
feeling, mocks at verbal definition. Insinuation and persuasion cannot be
more irresistible, grace and affection more seductive. Over everything in
melody, harmony, and rhythm, there is suffused a most exquisite elegance.
A quiver of excitement runs through the whole piece. The syncopations,
reversions of accent, silences on accented parts of the bar (sighs and
suspended respiration, felicitously expressed), which occur very
frequently in this ballade, give much charm and piquancy to it. As an
example, I may mention the bewitching subject in F major of the second
section. The appearances of this subject in different keys and in a new
guise are also very effective. Indeed, one cannot but be struck with
wonder at the ease, refinement, and success with which Chopin handles here
the form, while in almost every work in the larger forms we find him
floundering lamentably. It would be foolish and presumptuous to pronounce
this or that one of the ballades the finest; but one may safely say that
the fourth (in F minor), Op. 52, is fully worthy of her sisters. The
emotional key-note of the piece is longing sadness, and this key-note is
well preserved throughout; there are no long or distant excursions from
it. The variations of the principal subject are more emphatic restatements
of it: the first is more impressive than the original, the second more
eloquently beseeching than either of them. I resist, though with
difficulty, the temptation to point out in detail the interesting course
of the composer’s thoughts, and proceed at once to the coda which,
palpitating and swelling with passion, concludes the fourth and, alas!
last ballade.
We have now passed in review not only all the compositions published by
Chopin himself, but also a number of those published without his
authorisation. The publications not brought about by the master himself
were without exception indiscretions; most of them, no doubt, well meant,
but nevertheless regrettable. Whatever Fontana says to the contrary in the
preface to his collection of Chopin’s posthumous works, [FOOTNOTE: The
Chopin compositions published by Fontana (in 1855) comprise the Op. 66-74;
the reader will see them enumerated in detail in the list of cur
composer’s works at the end of this volume.] the composer unequivocally
expressed the wish that his manuscripts should not be published. Indeed,
no one acquainted with the artistic character of the master, and the
nature of the works published by himself, could for a moment imagine that
the latter would at any time or in any circumstances have given his
consent to the publication of insignificant and imperfect compositions
such as most of those presented to the world by his ill-advised friend
are. Still, besides the “Fantaisie-Impromptu,” which one would not like to
have lost, and one or two mazurkas, which cannot but be prized, though
perhaps less for their artistic than their human interest, Fontana’s
collection contains an item which, if it adds little value to Chopin’s
musical legacy, attracts at least the attention of the lover and student
of his music-namely, Op. 74, Seventeen Polish Songs, composed in the years
1824-1844, the only vocal compositions of this pianist-composer that have
got into print. The words of most of these songs are by his friend Stephen
Witwicki; others are by Adam Mickiewicz, Bogdan Zaleski, and Sigismond
Krasinski, poets with all of whom he was personally acquainted. As to the
musical settings, they are very unequal: a considerable number of them
decidedly commonplace—Nos. 1, 5, 8, and also 4 and 12 may be
instanced; several, and these belong to the better ones, exceedingly
simple and in the style of folk-songs—No. 2 consists of a phrase of
four bars (accompanied by a pedal bass and the tonic and dominant
harmonies) repeated alternately in G minor and B flat major; and a few
more developed in form and of a more artistic character. In the symphonies
(the preludes, interludes, &c.) of the songs, we meet now and then
with reminiscences from his instrumental pieces. In one or two cases one
notices also pretty tone-painting—for instance, No. 10, “Horseman
before the Battle,” and No. 15, “The return Home” (storm). Among the most
noteworthy are: the already-described No. 2; the sweetly-melancholy No. 3;
the artistically more dignified No. 9; the popular No. 13; the weird No.
15; and the impressive, but, by its terrible monotony, also oppressive No.
17 (“Poland’s Dirge”). The mazurka movement and the augmented fourth
degree of the scale (Nos. 2 and 4) present themselves, apart from the
emotional contents, as the most strikingly-national features of these
songs. Karasowski states that many songs sung by the people in Poland are
attributed to Chopin, chief among them one entitled “The third of May.”
I must not conclude this chapter without saying something about the
editions of Chopin’s works. The original French, German, and English
editions all leave much to be desired in the way of correctness. To begin
with, the composer’s manuscripts were very negligently prepared, and of
the German and the English, and even of the French edition, he did not
always see the proofs; and, whether he did or not, he was not likely to be
a good proof-reader, which presupposes a special talent, or rather
disposition. Indeed, that much in the preparation of the manuscripts for
the press and the correction of the proofs was left to his friends and
pupils may be gathered both from his letters and from other sources. “The
first comprehension of the piece,” says Schumann, in speaking of the
German edition of the Tarantella, “is, unfortunately, rendered very
difficult by the misprints with which it is really swarming.” Those who
assisted Chopin in the work incident to publication—more especially
by copying his autographs—were Fontana, Wolff, Gutmann, and in later
years Mikuli and Tellefsen.
Here I may fitly insert a letter written by Chopin to Maurice Schlesinger
on July 22, 1843 (not 1836, as La Mara supposes), which has some bearing
on the subject under discussion. The Impromptu spoken of is the third, Op.
51, in G flat major:—
The first complete edition of Chopin’s works was, according to Karasowski,
[FOOTNOTE: More recently the same firm brought out the works of Chopin
edited by Jean Kleczynski.] that published in 1864, with the authorisation
of the composer’s family, by Gebethner and Wolff, of Warsaw. But the most
important editions—namely, critical editions—are Tellefsen’s
(I mention them in chronological order), Klindworth’s, Scholtz’s, and
Breitkopf and Hartel’s. Simon Richault, of Paris, the publisher of the
first-named edition, which appeared in 1860, says in the preface to it
that Tellefsen had in his possession a collection of the works of Chopin
corrected by the composer’s own hand. As to the violoncello part of the
Polonaise, it was printed as Franchomme always played it with the
composer. The edition was also to be free from all marks of expression
that were not Chopin’s own. Notwithstanding all this, Tellefsen’s edition
left much to be desired.
Klindworth’s edition, the first volume of which appeared in October, 1873,
and the last in March, 1876, at Moscow (P. Jurgenson), in six volumes, is
described on the title-page as “Complete works of Fr. Chopin critically
revised after the original French, German, and Polish editions, carefully
corrected and minutely fingered for pupils.” [FOOTNOTE: This edition has
been reprinted by Augener & Co., of London.] The work done by
Klindworth is one of the greatest merit, and has received the highest
commendations of such men as Liszt and Hans von Bulow. Objections that can
be made to it are, that the fingering, although excellent, is not always
Chopinesque; and that the alteration of the rhythmically-indefinite small
notes of the original into rhythmically-definite ones, although
facilitating the execution for learners, counteracts the composer’s
intention. Mikuli holds that an appeal to Chopin’s manuscripts is of no
use as they are full of slips of the pen—wrong notes and values,
wrong accidentals and clefs, wrong slurs and 8va markings, and omissions
of dots and chord-intervals. The original French, German, and English
editions he regards likewise as unreliable. But of them he gives the
preference to the French editions, as the composer oftener saw proofs of
them. On the other hand, the German editions, which, he thinks, came out
later than the Paris ones, contain subsequently-made changes and
improvements. [FOOTNOTE: Take note, however, in connection with this
remark, of Chopin’s letter of August 30, 1845, on pp. 119-120 of this
volume.] Sometimes, no doubt, the Paris edition preceded the German one,
but not as a rule. The reader will remember from the letters that Chopin
was always anxious that his works should appear simultaneously in all
countries, which, of course, was not always practicable. Mikuli based his
edition (Leipzig: Fr. Kistner), the preface to which is dated “Lemberg,
September, 1879,” on his own copies, mostly of Parisian editions, copies
which Chopin corrected in the course of his lessons; and on other copies,
with numerous corrections from the hand of the master, which were given
him by the Countess Delphine Potocka. He had also the assistance of
Chopin’s pupils the Princess Marcelline Czartoryska and Madame Friederike
Streicher (nee Muller), and also of Madame Dubois and Madame Rubio, and of
the composer’s friend Ferdinand Hiller. Mikuli’s edition, like
Klindworth’s, is fingered, and, as the title-page informs us, “for the
most part according to the author’s markings.” Hermann Scholtz, who edited
Chopin’s works for Peters, of Leipzig, says in the preface (dated
“Dresden, December, 1879”) that his critical apparatus consisted of the
original French, German, and English editions, various autographs (the
Preludes, Op. 28; the Scherzo, Op. 54; the Impromptu, Op. 51; the
Nocturnes, Op. 48; the Mazurka, Op. 7, No. 3, and a sketch of the Mazurka,
Op. 30, No. 4), and three volumes of Chopin’s compositions with
corrections, additions, and marks of expression by his own hand, belonging
to the master’s pupil Madame von Heygendorf (nee von Konneritz). In
addition to these advantages he enjoyed the advice of M. Mathias, another
pupil of Chopin. The critically-revised edition published (March, 1878—January,
1880) by Breitkopf and Hartel was edited by Woldemar Bargiel, Johannes
Brahms, Auguste Franchomme, Franz Liszt (the Preludes), Carl Reinecke, and
Ernst Rudorff. The prospectus sets forth that the revision was based on
manuscript material (autographs and proofs with the composer’s corrections
and additions) and the original French and German editions; and that
Madame Schumann, M. Franchomme, and friends and pupils of the composer had
been helpful with their counsel. Breitkopf and Hartel’s edition is the
most complete, containing besides all the pianoforte solo and ensemble
works published by the composer himself, a greater number of posthumous
works (including the songs) than is to be found in any other edition.
Klindworth’s is a purely pianoforte edition, and excludes the trio, the
pieces with violoncello, and the songs. The above enumeration, however,
does not exhaust the existing Chopin editions, which, indeed, are almost
innumerable, as in the last decade almost every publisher, at least,
almost every German publisher, has issued one—among others there are
Schuberth’s, edited by Alfred Richter, Kahnt’s, edited by S. Jadassohn,
and Steingraber’s, edited by Ed. Mertke. [FOOTNOTE: Among earlier editions
I may mention the incomplete OEuvres completes, forming Vols. 21-24 of the
Bibliotheque des Pianistes, published by Schonenberger (Paris, 1860).]
Voluminous as the material for a critical edition of Chopin’s works is,
its inconclusiveness, which constantly necessitates appeals to the
individual taste and judgment of the editor, precludes the possibility of
an edition that will satisfy all in all cases. Chopin’s pupils, who reject
the editing of their master’s works by outsiders, do not accept even the
labours of those from among their midst. These reasons have determined me
not to criticise, but simply to describe, the most notable editions. In
speaking of the disputes about the correctness of the various editions, I
cannot help remembering a remark of Mendelssohn’s, of which Wenzel told
me. “Mendelssohn said on one occasion in his naive manner: ‘In Chopin’s
music one really does not know sometimes whether a thing is right or
wrong.'”
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHOPIN’S ARRIVAL IN LONDON.—MUSICAL ASPECT OF THE BRITISH METROPOLIS
IN 1848.—CULTIVATION OF CHOPIN’S MUSIC IN ENGLAND.—CHOPIN AT
EVENING PARTIES, &C.—LETTERS GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF HIS DOINGS AND
FEELINGS.—TWO MATINEES MUSICALES GIVEN BY CHOPIN; CRITICISMS ON
THEM.—ANOTHER LETTER.—KINDNESS SHOWN HIM.—CHOPIN STARTS
FOR SCOTLAND.—A LETTER WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH AND CALDER HOUSE.—HIS
SCOTCH FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCES.—HIS STAY AT DR. LYSCHINSKl’S.—PLAYS
AT A CONCERT IN MANCHESTER.—RETURNS TO SCOTLAND, AND GIVES A MATINEE
MUSICALE IN GLASGOW AND IN EDINBURGH.—MORE LETTERS FROM SCOTLAND.—BACK
TO LONDON.—OTHER LETTERS.—PLAYS AT A “GRAND POLISH BALL AND
CONCERT” IN THE GUILDHALL.—LAST LETTER FROM LONDON, AND JOURNEY AND
RETURN TO PARIS.
CHOPIN arrived in London, according to Mr. A. J. Hipkins, on April 21,
1848.
[FOOTNOTE: The indebtedness of two writers on Chopin to Mr. Hipkins has
already been adverted to in the Preface. But his vivid recollection of
Chopin’s visit to London in this year, and of the qualities of his
playing, has been found of great value also in other published notices
dealing with this period. The present writer has to thank Mr. Hipkins,
apart from second-hand obligations, for various suggestions, answers to
inquiries, and reading the proof-sheets of this chapter.]
He took up his quarters first at 10, Bentinck Street, but soon removed to
the house indicated in the following letter, written by him to Franchomme
on May 1, 1848:—
Were Chopin now to make his appearance in London, what a stir there would
be in musical society! In 1848 Billet, Osborne, Kalkbrenner, Halle, and
especially Thalberg, who came about the same time across the channel,
caused more curiosity. By the way, England was just then heroically
enduring an artistic invasion such as had never been seen before; not only
from France, but also from Germany and other musical countries arrived day
after day musicians who had found that their occupation was gone on the
Continent, where people could think of nothing but politics and
revolutions. To enumerate all the celebrities then congregated in the
British Metropolis would be beyond my power and the scope of this
publication, but I must at least mention that among them was no less
eminent a creative genius than Berlioz, no less brilliant a vocal star
than Pauline Viardot-Garcia. Of other high-priests and high-priestesses of
the art we shall hear in the sequel. But although Chopin did not set the
Thames on fire, his visit was not altogether ignored by the press.
Especially the Athenaeum (H. F. Chorley) and the Musical World (J. W.
Davison) honoured themselves by the notice they took of the artist. The
former journal not only announced (on April 29) his arrival, but also some
weeks previously (on April 8) his prospective advent, saying: “M. Chopin’s
visit is an event for which we most heartily thank the French Republic.”
In those days, and for a long time after, the appreciation and cultivation
of Chopin’s music was in England confined to a select few. Mr. Hipkins
told me that he “had to struggle for years to gain adherents to Chopin’s
music, while enduring the good-humoured banter of Sterndale Bennett and J.
W. Davison.” The latter—the author of An Essay on the Works of
Frederic Chopin (London, 1843), the first publication of some length on
the subject, and a Preface to, or, to be more precise, a Memoir prefixed
to Boosey & Co.’s The Mazurkas and Valses of F. Chopin—seems to
have in later years changed his early good opinion of the Polish master.
[FOOTNOTE: Two suggestions have been made to me in explanation of this
change of opinion: it may have been due to the fear that the rising glory
of Chopin might dim that of Mendelssohn; or Davison may have taken umbrage
at Chopin’s conduct in an affair relative to Mendelssohn. I shall not
discuss the probability of these suggestions, but will say a few words
with regard to the last-mentioned matter. My source of information is a
Paris letter in the Musical World of December 4, 1847. After the death of
Mendelssohn some foreign musicians living in Paris proposed to send a
letter of condolence to Mrs. Mendelssohn. One part of the letter ran thus:
“May it be permitted to us, German artists, far from our country, to
offer,” &c. The signatures to it were: Rosenhain, Kalkbrenner,
Panofka, Heller, Halle, Pixis, and Wolff. Chopin when applied to for his
signature wrote: “La lettre venant des Allemands, comment voulez-vous que
je m’arroge le droit de la signer?” One would think that no reasonable
being could take exception to Chopin’s conduct in this affair, and yet the
writer in the Musical World comments most venomously on it.]
The battle fought in the pages of the Musical World in 1841 illustrates
the then state of matters in England. Hostilities commenced on October 28
with a criticism of the Mazurkas, Op. 41. Of its unparalleled nature the
reader shall judge himself:—
Wessel and Stapleton, the publishers, protested against this shameful
criticism, defending Chopin and adducing the opinions of numerous
musicians in support of their own. But the valorous editor “ventures to
assure the distinguished critics and the publishers that there will be no
difficulty in pointing out a hundred palpable faults, and an infinitude of
meretricious uglinesses, such as, to real taste and judgment, are
intolerable.” Three more letters appeared in the following numbers—two
for (Amateur and Professor) and one against (Inquirer) Chopin; the editor
continuing to insist with as much violence as stupidity that he was right.
It is pleasant to turn from this senseless opposition to the friends and
admirers of the master. Of them we learn something in Davison’s Essay on
the Works of F. Chopin, from which I must quote a few passages:—
After this historical excursus let us take up again the record of our
hero’s doings and sufferings in London.
Chopin seems to have gone to a great many parties of various kinds, but he
could not always be prevailed upon to give the company a taste of his
artistic quality. Brinley Richards saw him at an evening party at the
house of the politician Milner Gibson, where he did not play, although he
was asked to do so. According to Mr. Hueffer, [FOOTNOTE: Chopin in
Fortnightly Review of September, 1877, reprinted in Musical Studies
(Edinburgh: A. & C. Black, 1880).] he attended, likewise without
playing, an evening party (May 6) at the house of the historian Grote.
Sometimes ill-health prevented him from fulfilling his engagements; this,
for instance, was the case on the occasion of a dinner which Macready is
said to have given in his honour, and to which Thackeray, Mrs. Procter,
Berlioz, and Julius Benedict were invited. On the other hand, Chopin was
heard at the Countess of Blessington’s (Gore House, Kensington) and the
Duchess of Sutherland’s (Stafford House). On the latter occasion Benedict
played with him a duet of Mozart’s. More than thirty years after, Sir
Julius had still a clear recollection of “the great pains Chopin insisted
should be taken in rehearsing it, to make the rendering of it at the
concert as perfect as possible.” John Ella heard Chopin play at
Benedict’s. Of another of Chopin’s private performances in the spring of
1848 we read in the Supplement du Dictionnaire de la Conversation, where
Fiorentino writes:
The sequel will show that the concluding sentence is no more than a
flourish of the pen. Whether Chopin played at Court, as he says in a
letter to Gutmann he expected to do, I have not ascertained. Nor have I
been able to get any information about a dinner which, Karasowski relates,
some forty countrymen of Chopin’s got up in his honour when they heard of
his arrival in London. According to this authority the pianist-composer
rose when the proceedings were drawing to an end, and many speeches
extolling him as a musician and patriot had been made, and spoke, if not
these words, to this effect: “My dear countrymen! The proofs of your
attachment and love which you have just given me have truly moved me. I
wish to thank you, but lack the talent of expressing my feelings in words;
I invite you therefore to accompany me to my lodgings and to receive there
my thanks at the piano.” The proposal was received with enthusiasm, and
Chopin played to his delighted and insatiable auditors till two o’clock in
the morning. What a crush, these forty or more people in Chopin’s
lodgings! However, that is no business of mine.
[FOOTNOTE: After reading the above, Mr. Hipkins remarked: “I fancy this
dinner resembled the dinner which will go down to posterity as given by
the Hungarians of London to Liszt in 1886, which was really a private
dinner given by Mrs. Bretherton to fifteen people, of whom her children
and mine were four. NO Hungarians.”]
The documents—letters and newspaper advertisements and notices—bearing
on this period of Chopin’s life are so plentiful that they tell the story
without the help of many additions and explanatory notes. This is
satisfactory, for one grain of fact is more precious than a bushel of
guesses and hearsays.
Of Chopin’s visit Jenny Lind-Goldschmidt had to the last years of her life
a most pleasing and vivid recollection. She sang to him Polskas,
[FOOTNOTE: Polskas are dances of Polish origin, popular in Sweden, whose
introduction dates from the time of the union of the crowns of Sweden and
Poland in 1587.] which delighted him greatly. The way Madame Goldschmidt
spoke of Chopin showed unmistakably that he made the best possible
impression upon her, not only as an artist, but also as a man—she
was sure of his goodness, and that he could not but have been right in the
Sand affair, I mean as regards the rupture. She visited him when she went
in the following year (1849) to Paris.
In his letter to Gutmann, Chopin speaks of his intention to give a matinee
at a private house. And he more than realised it; for he not only gave
one, but two—the first at the house of Mrs. Sartoris (nee Adelaide
Kemble) and the second at the house of Lord Falmouth. Here are two
advertisements which appeared in the Times.
From an account of the first matinee in the Athenaeum we learn that Chopin
played nocturnes, etudes, mazurkas, two waltzes, and the Berceuse, but
none of his more developed works, such as sonatas, concertos, scherzos,
and ballades. The critic tries to analyse the master’s style of execution—a
“mode” in which “delicacy, picturesqueness, elegance, and humour are
blended so as to produce that rare thing, a new delight”—pointing
out his peculiar fingering, treatment of scale and shake, tempo rubato,
&c. But although the critic speaks no less appreciatively of the
playing than of the compositions, the tenor of the notice of the second
matinee (July 15, 1848) shows that the former left nevertheless something
to be desired. “Monsieur Chopin played better at his second than at his
first matinee—not with more delicacy (that could hardly be), but
with more force and brio.” Along with other compositions of his, Chopin
played on this occasion his Scherzo in B flat and his Etude in C sharp
minor. Another attraction of the matinee was the singing of Madame
Viardot-Garcia, “who, besides her inimitable airs with Mdlle. de Mendi,
and her queerly-piquant Mazurkas, gave the Cenerentola rondo, graced with
great brilliancy; and a song by Beethoven, ‘Ich denke dein.'”
[FOOTNOTE: No doubt, those Mazurkas by Chopin which, adapting to them
Spanish words, she had arranged for voice and piano. Hiller wrote
mostenthusiastically of these arrangements and her performance of them.]
Mr. Salaman said, at a meeting of the London Musical Association (April 5,
1880), in the course of a discussion on the subject of Chopin, that he was
present at the matinee at the house of Mrs. Sartoris, and would never
forget the concert-giver’s playing, especially of the waltz in D flat. “I
remember every bar, how he played it, and the appearance of his long,
attenuated fingers during the time he was playing. [FOOTNOTE: Their
thinness may have made them appear long, but they were not really so. See
Appendix III.] He seemed quite exhausted.” Mr. Salaman was particularly
struck by the delicacy and refinement of Chopin’s touch, and the utmost
exquisiteness of expression.
To Chopin, as the reader will see in the letter addressed to Franchomme,
and dated August 6th and 11th, these semi-public performances had only the
one redeeming point—that they procured him much-needed money,
otherwise he regarded them as a great annoyance. And this is not to be
wondered at, if we consider the physical weakness under which he was then
labouring. When Chopin went before these matinees to Broadwood’s to try
the pianoforte on which he was to play, he had each time to be carried up
the flight of stairs which led to the piano-room. Chopin had also to be
carried upstairs when he came to a concert which his pupil Lindsay Sloper
gave in this year in the Hanover Square Rooms. But nothing brings his
miserable condition so vividly before us as his own letters.
Had Chopin, when he left Paris, really in view the possibility of settling
in London? There was at the time a rumour of this being the case. The
Athenaeum (April 8, 1848), in the note already adverted to, said:—”M.
Chopin is expected, if not already here—it is even added to remain
in England.” But if he embraced the idea at first, he soon began to loosen
his grasp of it, and, before long, abandoned it altogether. In his then
state of health existence would have been a burden anywhere, but it was a
greater one away from his accustomed surroundings. Moreover, English life
to be enjoyable requires a robustness of constitution, sentimental and
intellectual as well as physical, which the delicately-organised artist,
even in his best time, could not boast of. If London and the rest of
Britain was not to the mind of Chopin, it was not for want of good-will
among the people. Chopin’s letters show distinctly that kindness was
showered upon him from all sides. And these letters do not by any means
contain a complete roll of those who were serviceable to him. The name of
Frederick Beale, the publisher, for instance, is not to be found there,
and yet he is said, with what truth I do not know, to have attached
himself to the tone-poet.
[FOOTNOTE: Mr. Hipkins heard Chopin play at Broadwood’s to Beale the
Waltzes in D flat major and C sharp minor (Nos. 1 and 2 of Op. 64),
subsequently published by Cramer, Beale and Co. But why did the publisher
not bring out the whole opus (three waltzes, not two), which had already
been in print in France and Germany for nine or ten months? Was his
attachment to the composer weaker than his attachment to his cash-box?]
The attentions of the piano-makers, on the other hand, are duly
remembered. In connection with them I must not forget to record the fact
that Mr. Henry Fowler Broadwood had a concert grand, the first in a
complete iron frame, expressly made for Chopin, who, unfortunately, did
not live to play upon it.
[FOOTNOTE: For particulars about the Broadwood pianos used by Chopin in
England and Scotland (and he used there no others at his public concerts
and principal private entertainments), see the List of John Broadwood
& Sons’ Exhibits at the International Inventions Exhibition (1885), a
pamphlet full of interesting information concerning the history and
construction of the pianoforte. It is from the pen of A. J. Hipkins.]
A name one misses with surprise in Chopin’s letters is that of his
Norwegian pupil Tellefsen, who came over from Paris to London, and seems
to have devoted himself to his master. [FOOTNOTE: Tellefsen, says Mr.
Hipkins, was nearly always with Chopin.] Of his ever-watchful ministering
friend Miss Stirling and her relations we shall hear more in the following
letters.
Chopin started for Scotland early in August, 1848, for on the 6th August
he writes to Franchomme that he had left London a few days before.
To save the reader from becoming confused by allusions in Chopin’s letters
to names of unknown persons and places, I will now say a few words about
the composer’s Scotch friends. The Stirlings of Keir, generally regarded
as the principal family of the name, are said to be descended from Walter
de Striveline, Strivelyn, or Strivelyng, Lucas of Strivelyng (1370-1449)
being the first possessor of Keyr. The family was for about two centuries
engaged in the East India and West India trade. Archibald Stirling, the
father of the late baronet, went, as William Fraser relates in The
Stirlings of Keir, like former younger sons, to Jamaica, where he was a
planter for nearly twenty-five years. He succeeded his brother James in
1831, greatly improved the mansion, and died in 1847. When Chopin visited
Keir it was in the possession of William Stirling, who, in 1865, became
Sir William Stirling-Maxwell (his mother was a daughter of Sir John
Maxwell), and is well-known by his literary works—Annals of the
Artists of Spain (1848), The Cloister Life of the Emperor Charles V.
(1852), Velasquez (1855), &c. He was the uncle of Jane Stirling and
Mrs. Erskine, daughters (the former the youngest daughter) of John
Stirling, of Kippendavie and Kippenross, and friends of Chopin. W. Hanna,
the editor of the Letters of Thomas Erskine of Linlathen, says that Jane
Stirling was a cousin and particular friend of Thomas Erskine. The latter
used in later life to regard her and the Duchess de Broglie as the most
remarkable women he had ever met:—
In a letter addressed to Mrs. Schwabe, and dated February 14, 1859, we
read about her:—
Lindsay Sloper, who lived in Paris from 1841 to 1846, told me that Miss
Stirling, who was likewise staying there, took for some time lessons from
him. As she wished to become a pupil of Chopin, he spoke to his master
about her. Chopin, Lindsay Sloper said, was pleased with her playing, and
soon began to like her.
[FOOTNOTE: To the above I must append a cautionary foot-note. In his
account to me Lindsay Sloper made two mistakes which prove that his memory
was not one of the most trustworthy, and suggest even the possibility that
his Miss Stirling was a different person from Chopin’s friend. His
mistakes were these: he called Mrs. Erskine, who was with Miss Stirling in
Paris, her aunt instead of her sister; and thought that Miss Stirling was
about eighteen years old when he taught her. The information I shall give
farther on seems to show that she was older rather than younger than
Chopin; indeed, Mr Hipkins is of opinion that she was in 1848 nearer fifty
than forty.]
To her the composer dedicated his Deux Nocturnes, Op. 55, which he
published in August, 1844. It was thought that she was in love with
Chopin, and there were rumours of their going to be married. Gutmann
informed me that Chopin said to him one day when he was ill: “They have
married me to Miss Stirling; she might as well marry death.” Of Miss Jane
Stirling’s elder sister Katherine, who, in 1811, married her cousin James
Erskine, and lost her husband already in 1816, Thomas Erskine says: “She
was an admirable woman, faithful and diligent in all duties, and unwearied
in her efforts to help those who needed her help.” Lord Torphichen, at
whose residence (Calder House, twelve miles from Edinburgh) Chopin passed
much of his time in Scotland, was, as we learn from the composer’s
letters, a brother-in-law of Miss Stirling and Mrs. Erskine. Johnstone
Castle (twelve miles from Glasgow), where Chopin was also received as a
guest, belonged to the Houston family, friends of the Erskines and
Stirlings, but, I think, no relations. The death of Ludovic Houston, Esq.,
in 1862, is alluded to in one of Thomas Erskine’s letters.
But Chopin, while in Scotland, was not always staying in manors and
castles, now and then he was housed less aristocratically, though perhaps
not less, nay, probably more, comfortably. Such humbler quarters he found
at the house (10, Warriston Crescent) of Dr. Lyschinski, a Pole by birth,
and a refugee, who after studying medicine in Edinburgh practised it there
until a few years ago when he removed to London. For the information which
I am now going to give I am indebted to Mrs. Lyschinski. Among those who
received Chopin at the Edinburgh railway station was Dr. Lyschinski who
addressed him in Polish. The composer put up at an hotel (perhaps the
London Hotel, in St. Andrew’s Square). Next day—Miss Paterson, a
neighbour, having placed her carriage at Chopin’s disposal—Mrs.
Lyschinski took him out for a drive. He soon got tired of the hotel, in
fact, felt it quite unbearable, and told the doctor, to whom he had at
once taken a fancy, that he could not do without him. Whereupon the latter
said: “Well, then you must come to my house; and as it is rather small,
you must be satisfied with the nursery.” So the children were sent to a
friend’s house, and the nursery was made into a bedroom for the
illustrious guest, an adjoining bedroom being prepared for his servant
Daniel, an Irish-Frenchman. Unless the above refers to Chopin’s return to
Scotland in September, after his visit to Manchester, Mrs. Lyschinski
confuses her reminiscences a little, for, as the last-quoted letter
proves, he tarried, on his first arrival, only one day in Edinburgh. But
the facts, even if not exactly grouped, are, no doubt, otherwise correctly
remembered. Chopin rose very late in the day, and in the morning had soup
in his room. His hair was curled daily by the servant, and his shirts,
boots, and other things were of the neatest—in fact, he was a
petit-maitre, more vain in dress than any woman. The maid-servants found
themselves strictly excluded from his room, however indispensable their
presence might seem to them in the interests of neatness and cleanliness.
Chopin was so weak that Dr. Lyschinski had always to carry him upstairs.
After dinner he sat before the fire, often shivering with cold. Then all
on a sudden he would cross the room, seat himself at the piano, and play
himself warm. He could bear neither dictation nor contradiction: if you
told him to go to the fire, he would go to the other end of the room where
the piano stood. Indeed, he was imperious. He once asked Mrs. Lyschinski
to sing. She declined. At this he was astonished and quite angry. “Doctor,
would you take it amiss if I were to force your wife to do it?” The idea
of a woman refusing him anything seemed to him preposterous. Mrs.
Lyschinski says that Chopin was gallant to all ladies alike, but thinks
that he had no heart. She used to tease him about women, saying, for
instance, that Miss Stirling was a particular friend of his. He replied
that he had no particular friends among the ladies, that he gave to all an
equal share of his attention. “Not even George Sand then,” she asked, “is
a particular friend?” “Not even George Sand,” was the reply. Had Mrs.
Lyschinski known the real state of matters between Chopin and George Sand,
she certainly would not have asked that question. He, however, by no means
always avoided the mention of his faithless love. Speaking one day of his
thinness he remarked that she used to call him mon cher cadavre. Miss
Stirling was much about Chopin. I may mention by the way that Mrs.
Lyschinski told me that Miss Stirling was much older than Chopin, and her
love for him, although passionate, purely Platonic. Princess Czartoryska
arrived some time after Chopin, and accompanied him, my informant says,
wherever he went. But, as we see from one of his letters, her stay in
Scotland was short. The composer was always on the move. Indeed, Dr.
Lyschinski’s was hardly more than a pied-a-terre for him: he never stayed
long, and generally came unexpectedly. A number of places where Chopin was
a guest are mentioned in his letters. Mrs. Lyschinski thinks that he also
visited the Duke of Hamilton.
At the end of August and at the end of September and beginning of October,
this idling was interrupted by serious work, and a kind of work which, at
no time to his liking, was particularly irksome in the then state of his
health.
The Manchester Guardian of August 19, 1848, contained the following
advertisement:—
From an account of the concert in the same paper (August 30), the writer
of which declares the concert to have been the most brilliant of the
season, we learn that the orchestra, led by Mr. Seymour, played three
overtures—Weber’s Ruler of the Spirits, Beethoven’s Prometheus, and
Rossini’s Barbiere di Siviglia; and that Chopin performed an Andante and
Scherzo, and a Nocturne, Etudes, and the Berceuse of his own composition.
With regard to Chopin we read in this critique:—
From the criticism of the Manchester Courier and Lancashire General
Advertiser (August 30, 1848), I cull the following remarks:—
Mr. Osborne, in a paper on Chopin read before the London Musical
Association, says:—
Mr. Osborne told his audience further that notwithstanding this appeal he
was present in a remote corner of the room. I may add that although he
could absent himself from the hall for the time Chopin was playing, he
could not absent himself from the concert, for, as the papers tell us, he
acted as accompanist. The impression which Chopin’s performance on this
occasion left upon his friend’s mind is described in the following few sad
words: “His playing was too delicate to create enthusiasm, and I felt
truly sorry for him.”
Soon after the concert Chopin returned to Scotland. How many days (between
August 23 and September 7?) he remained in Manchester, I do not know, but
it is well known that while staying there he was the guest of Mr. and Mrs.
Salis Schwabe. To Mrs. Salis Schwabe, a lady noted for her benevolence,
Thomas Erskine addressed the letter concerning Miss Jane Stirling a part
of which I quoted on one of the foregoing pages of this chapter. The
reader remembers, of course, Chopin’s prospective allusions to the
Manchester concert in his letters to Franchomme (August 6, 1848) and
Grzymala (July 18, 1848).
About a month after the concert at which he played in Manchester, Chopin
gave one of his own in Glasgow. Here is what may be read in the Courier of
September 28 and previous days:—
The net profits of this concert are said to have been 60 pounds. Mr. Muir
Wood relates:—
No doubt Chopin’s playing and compositions must have been to the good
Glasgow citizens of that day what caviare is to the general. In fact,
Scotland, as regards music, had at that period not yet emerged from its
state of primitive savagery. But if we may believe the learned critic in
the Glasgow Courier, Chopin’s matinee was numerously attended, and the
audience, which consisted of “the beauty and fashion, indeed of the very
elite of the West-end,” thoroughly enjoyed the playing of the
concert-giver and the singing of Madame Adelasio de Margueritte who
assisted him. I think the reader will be interested by the following
specimen of criticism for more than one reason:—
Clearly this critic was not without judgment, although his literary taste
and skill leave much to be desired. That there were real Chopin
enthusiasts in Glasgow is proved by an effusion, full of praise and
admiration, which the editor received from a correspondent and inserted on
September 30, two days after the above criticism. But, without indulging
our curiosity further, we will now take our leave of Glasgow and Glasgow
critics.
On October 4, Chopin gave an evening concert in Edinburgh. Here is the
programme:—
Mrs. Lyschinski told me that this concert was chiefly attended by the
nobility. Half-a-guinea had never been charged for admission to a concert
(which is probably overstating the case), and Chopin was little known.
Miss Stirling, who was afraid the hall might not be filled, bought fifty
pounds’ worth of tickets. The piano on which Chopin played (one sent by
Broadwood, and used in Glasgow as well as in Edinburgh) was afterwards
sold for 30 pounds above the price. Thus, at any rate, runs the legend.
In the Edinburgh Courant, which contained on September 30 and on other
days an advertisement similar to the Glasgow one (with the addition of a
programme, consisting, however, only of the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 6th items
of the one above given), there appeared on October 7, 1848, a notice of
the concert, a part of which may find a place here:—
An Edinburgh correspondent of the Musical World, who signs himself “M.,”
confirms (October 14, 1848) the statements of the critic of the Courant.
From this communication we learn that one of the etudes played was in F
minor (probably No. 2 of Op. 25, although there are two others in the same
key—No. 9 of Op. 10 and No. 1 of Trois Etudes without opus number).
The problematical Andante precede d’un Largo was, no doubt, a
juxtaposition of two of his shorter compositions, this title being chosen
to vary the programme. From Mr. Hipkins I learned that at this Chopin
played frequently the slow movement from his Op. 22, Grande Polonaise
preceded d’un Andante Spianato.
And now we will let Chopin again speak for himself.
Chopin to Grzymala; Keir, Perthshire, Sunday, October 1, 1848:—
Chopin to Gutmann; Calder House, October 16, 1848 (twelve miles from
Edinburgh):—
From Chopin’s letters may be gathered that he arrived once more in London
at the end of October or beginning of November.
Chopin to Dr. Lyschinski; London, November 3, 1848:—
The following letter shows in what state of mind and body Chopin was at
the time.
Chopin to Grzymala; London, October [should be November] 17-18, 1848:—
FREDERICK.
The Polish Ball and Concert alluded to in the above letter deserves our
attention, for on that occasion Chopin was heard for the last time in
public, indeed, his performance there may be truly called the swan’s song.
The following is an advertisement which appeared in the DAILY NEWS of
November 1, 1848:—
The information given in this advertisement is supplemented in one of
November 15:—
On the 17th of November the TIMES had, of course, an account of the
festivity of the preceding night:—
Then the dancing, Mr. Adams’ excellent band, the refreshment rooms, a few
noble Lords, the Lord Mayor, and some of the civic authorities (who
“diversified the plain misters and mistresses who formed the majority”),
the gay costumes of some Highlanders and Spaniards, and Lord Dudley (the
great lion of the evening)—all these are mentioned, but there is not
a word about Chopin. Of the concert we read only that it “was much the
same as on former anniversaries, and at its conclusion many of the company
departed.” We learn, moreover, that the net profit was estimated at less
than on former occasions.
The concert for which Chopin, prompted by his patriotism and persuaded by
his friends, lent his assistance, was evidently a subordinate part of the
proceedings in which few took any interest. The newspapers either do not
notice it at all or but very briefly; in any case the great
pianist-composer is ignored. Consequently, very little information is now
to be obtained about this matter. Mr. Lindsay Sloper remembered that
Chopin played among other things the “Etudes” in A flat and F minor (Op.
25, Nos. 1 & 2). But the best account we have of the concert are some
remarks of one present at it which Mr. Hueffer quotes in his essay on
Chopin in “Musical Studies”:—
What a sad conclusion to a noble artistic career!
Although Chopin was longing for Paris in November, he was still in London
in the following January.
Chopin to Grzymaia; London, Tuesday, January, 1849:—
Mr. Niedzwiecki told me that he travelled with Chopin, who was accompanied
by his servant, from London to Paris.
[FOOTNOTE: Leonard Niedzwiecki, born in the Kingdom of Poland in 1807,
joined the National Army in 1830, distinguished himself on several
battlefields, came in 1832 as a refugee to England, made there a
livelihood by literary work and acted as honorary librarian of the
Literary Association of the friends of Poland, left about 1845 London for
Paris and became Private Secretary, first to General Count Ladislas
Zamoyski, and after the Count’s death to the widowed Countess. M.
Niedzwiecki, who is also librarian of the Polish Library at Paris, now
devotes all his time to historical and philological research.]
The three had a compartment to themselves. During the journey the invalid
suffered greatly from frequent attacks of breathlessness. Chopin was
delighted when he saw Boulogne. How hateful England and the English were
to him is shown by the following anecdote. When they had left Boulogne and
Chopin had been for some time looking at the landscape through which they
were passing, he said to Mr. Niedzwiecki: “Do you see the cattle in this
meadow? Ca a plus d’intelligence que les Anglais.” Let us not be wroth at
poor Chopin: he was then irritated by his troubles, and always anything
but a cosmopolitan.
CHAPTER XXXII.
DETERIORATION OF CHOPIN’S STATE OF HEALTH.—TWO LETTERS.—REMOVES
FROM THE SQUARE D’ORLEANS TO THE RUE CHAILLOT.—PECUNIARY
CIRCUMSTANCES.—A CURIOUS STORY.—REMINISCENCES AND LETTERS
CONNECTED WITH CHOPIN’S STAY IN THE RUE CHAILLOT.—REMOVES TO NO. 12,
PLACE VENDOME.—LAST DAYS, AND DEATH.—FUNERAL.—LAST
RESTING-PLACE.—MONUMENT AND COMMEMORATION IN 1850.
The physical condition in which we saw Chopin in the preceding chapter was
not the outcome of a newly-contracted disease, but only an acuter phase of
that old disease from which he had been suffering more or less for at
least twelve years, and which in all probability he inherited from his
father, who like himself died of a chest and heart complaint. [FOOTNOTE:
My authority for this statement is Dr. Lyschinski, who must have got his
information either from Chopin himself or his mother. That Chopin’s
youngest sister, Emilia, died of consumption in early life cannot but be
regarded as a significant fact.] Long before Chopin went in search of
health to Majorca, ominous symptoms showed themselves; and when he
returned from the south, he was only partly restored, not cured.
But a far more terrible blow than the deaths of his friend and his father
was his desertion by George Sand, and we may be sure that it aggravated
his disease a hundredfold. To be convinced of this we have only to
remember his curse on Lucrezia (see the letter to Grzymala of November
17-18, 1848).
Jules Janin, in an obituary notice, says of Chopin that “he lived ten
years, ten miraculous years, with a breath ready to fly away” (il a vecu
dix ans, dix ans de miracle, d’un souffle pret a s’envoler). Another
writer remarks: “In seeing him [Chopin] so puny, thin, and pale, one
thought for a. long time that he was dying, and then one got accustomed to
the idea that he could live always so.” Stephen Heller in chatting to me
about Chopin expressed the same idea in different words: “Chopin was often
reported to have died, so often, indeed, that people would not believe the
news when he was really dead.” There was in Chopin for many years,
especially since 1837, a constant flux and reflux of life. To repeat
another remark of Heller’s: “Now he was ill, and then again one saw him
walking on the boulevards in a thin coat.” A married sister of Gutmann’s
remembers that Chopin had already, in 1843-4, to be carried upstairs, when
he visited her mother, who in that year was staying with her children in
Paris; to walk upstairs, even with assistance, would have been impossible
to him.
Edouard Wolff told me that, in the latter part of Chopin’s life, he did
not leave the carriage when he had any business at Schlesinger’s
music-shop; a shopman came out to the composer, who kept himself closely
wrapped in his blue mantle. The following reminiscence is, like some of
the preceding ones, somewhat vague with regard to time. Stephen Heller met
Chopin shortly before the latter fell ill. On being asked where he was
going, Chopin replied that he was on his way to buy a new carpet, his old
one having got worn, and then he complained of his legs beginning to
swell. And Stephen Heller saw indeed that there were lumps of swelling. M.
Mathias, describing to me his master as he saw him in 1847, wrote: “It was
a painful spectacle to see Chopin at that time; he was the picture of
exhaustion—the back bent, the head bowed forward—but always
amiable and full of distinction.” That Chopin was no longer in a condition
to compose (he published nothing after October, 1847), and that playing in
public was torture to him and an effort beyond his strength, we have
already seen. But this was not all the misery; he was also unable to
teach. Thus all his sources of income were cut off. From Chopin’s pupil
Madame Rubio (nee Vera de Kologrivof) I learned that latterly when her
master was ill and could not give many lessons, he sent to her several of
his pupils, among whom was also Miss Stirling, who then came to him only
once a week instead of oftener. But after his return from England Chopin
was no longer able to teach at all. [FOOTNOTE: “When languor [son mal de
langueur] took hold of him,” relates Henri Blaze de Bury in “Etudes et
Souvenirs,” “Chopin gave his lessons, stretched on a sofa, having within
reach a piano of which he made use for demonstration.”] This is what
Franchomme told me, and he, in the last years especially, was intimately
acquainted with Chopin, and knew all about his financial affairs, of which
we shall hear more presently.
As we saw from the letter quoted at the end of the last chapter, Chopin
took up his quarters in the Square d’Orleans, No. 9. He, however, did not
find there the recovery of his health, of which he spoke in the concluding
sentences. Indeed, Chopin knew perfectly by that time that the game was
lost. Hope showed herself to him now and then, but very dimly and
doubtfully. Nothing proves the gravity of his illness and his utter
prostration so much as the following letters in which he informs his
Titus, the dearest friend of his youth, that he cannot go and meet him in
Belgium.
Chopin to Titus Woyciechowski; Paris, August 20, 1849:—
When Chopin wrote the second of the above letters he was staying in a part
of Paris more suitable for summer quarters than the Square d’Orleans—namely,
in the Rue Chaillot, whither he had removed in the end of August.
The friends who found these apartments for the invalid composer made him
believe that the rent was only 200 francs. But in reality it was 400
francs, and a Russian lady, Countess Obreskoff, [FOOTNOTE: Madame Rubio,
differing in this one particular from Franchomme, said that Chopin paid
100 francs and Countess Obreskoff 200.] paid one half of it. When Chopin
expressed surprise at the lowness of the rent, he was told that lodgings
were cheap in summer.
This last story prompts me to say a few words about Chopin’s pecuniary
circumstances, and naturally leads me to another story, one more like
romance than reality. Chopin was a bad manager, or rather he was no
manager at all. He spent inconsiderately, and neglecting to adapt his
expenditure to his income, he was again and again under the necessity of
adapting his income to his expenditure. Hence those borrowings of money
from friends, those higglings with and dunnings of publishers, in short,
all those meannesses which were unworthy of so distinguished an artist,
and irreconcilable with his character of grand seigneur. Chopin’s income
was more than sufficient to provide him with all reasonable comforts; but
he spent money like a giddy-headed, capricious woman, and unfortunately
for him had not a fond father or husband to pay the debts thus incurred.
Knowing in what an unsatisfactory state his financial affairs were when he
was earning money by teaching and publishing, we can have no difficulty in
imagining into what straits he must have been driven by the absolute
cessation of work and the consequent cessation of income. The little he
had saved in England and Scotland was soon gone, gone unawares; indeed,
the discovery of the fact came to him as a surprise. What was to be done?
Franchomme, his right hand, and his head too, in business and money
matters—and now, of course, more than ever—was at his wits’
end. He discussed the disquieting, threatening problem with some friends
of Chopin, and through one of them the composer’s destitution came to the
knowledge of Miss Stirling. She cut the Gordian knot by sending her master
25,000 francs. [FOOTNOTE: M. Charles Gavard says 20,000 francs.] This
noble gift, however; did not at once reach the hands of Chopin. When
Franchomme, who knew what had been done, visited Chopin a few days
afterwards, the invalid lamented as on previous occasions his
impecuniosity, and in answer to the questions of his astonished friend
stated that he had received nothing. The enquiries which were forthwith
set on foot led to the envelope with the precious enclosure being found
untouched in the clock of the portiere, who intentionally or
unintentionally had omitted to deliver it. The story is told in various
ways, the above is the skeleton of apparently solid facts. I will now make
the reader acquainted with the hitherto unpublished account of Madame
Rubio, who declared solemnly that her version was correct in every detail.
Franchomme’s version, as given in Madame Audley’s book on Chopin, differs
in several points from that of Madame Rubio; I shall, therefore, reproduce
it for comparison in a foot-note.
One day in 1849 Franchomme came to Madame Rubio, and said that something
must be done to get money for Chopin. Madame Rubio thereupon went to Miss
Stirling to acquaint her with the state of matters. When Miss Stirling
heard of Chopin’s want of money, she was amazed, and told her visitor that
some time before she had, without the knowledge of anyone, sent Chopin
25,000 francs in a packet which, in order to conceal the sender, she got
addressed and sealed in a shop. The ladies made enquiries as to the
whereabouts of the money, but without result. A Scotch gentleman, a
novelist (Madame Rubio had forgotten the name at the time she told the
story, but was sure she would recall it, and no doubt would have done so,
had not her sudden death soon after [FOOTNOTE: In the summer of 1880]
intervened), proposed to consult the clairvoyant Alexandre. [FOOTNOTE:
Madame Rubio always called the clairvoyant thus. See another name farther
on.] The latter on being applied to told them that the packet along with a
letter had been delivered to the portiere who had it then in her
possession, but that he could not say more until he got some of her hair.
One evening when the portiere was bathing Chopin’s feet, he—who had
in the meantime been communicated with—talked to her about her hair
and asked her to let him cut off one lock. She allowed him to do so, and
thus Alexandre was enabled to say that the money was in the clock in the
portiere’s room. Having got this information, they went to the woman and
asked her for the packet. She turned pale, and, drawing it out of the
clock, said that at the time she forgot to give it to Chopin, and when she
remembered it afterwards was afraid to do so. The packet of notes was
unopened. Madame Rubio supposed that the portiere thought Chopin would
soon die and that then she might keep the contents of the parcel.
[FOOTNOTE: After relating that an intimate friend of Chopin’s told Miss
Stirling of the latter’s straitened circumstances, received from her
bank-notes to the amount of 25,000 francs, and handed them enclosed in an
envelope to the master’s portiere with the request to deliver the packet
immediately to its address, Madame Audley proceeds with her story (which
Franchomme’s death prevented me from verifying) thus: “Here, then, was a
gleam of light in this darkened sky, and the reassured friends breathed
more freely.” “But what was my surprise,” said M. Franchomme, from whom I
have the story, “when some time after I heard Chopin renew his complaints
and speak of his distress in the most poignant terms. Becoming impatient,
and being quite at a loss as to what was going on,” I said at last to him:
“But, my dear friend, you have no cause to torment yourself, you can wait
for the return of your health, you have money now!”—”I, money!”
exclaimed Chopin; “I have nothing.”—”How! and these 25,000 francs
which were sent you lately?”—”25,000 francs? Where are they? Who
sent them to me? I have not received a sou!”—”Ah! really, that is
too bad!” Great commotion among the friends. It was evident that the money
given to the portiere had not arrived at its destination; but how to be
assured of this? and what had become of it? Here was a curious enough
fact, as if a little of the marvellous must always be mingled with
Chopin’s affairs. Paris at that time possessed a much run-after
clairvoyant, the celebrated Alexis; they thought of going to consult him.
But to get some information it was necessary to put him en rapport,
directly or indirectly, with the person suspected. Now this person was,
naturally, the portiere. By ruse or by address they got hold of a little
scarf that she wore round her neck and placed it in the hands of the
clairvoyant. The latter unhesitatingly declared that the 25,000 francs
were behind the looking-glass in the loge. The friend who had brought them
immediately presented himself to claim them; and our careful portiere,
fearing, no doubt, the consequences of a too prolonged sequestration, drew
the packet from behind the clock and held it out to him, saying: ‘Eh bien,
la v’la, vot’ lettre!'”]
Chopin, however, refused to accept the whole of the 25,000 francs.
According to Madame Rubio, he kept only 1,000 francs, returning the rest
to Miss Stirling, whilst Franchomme, on the other hand, said that his
friend kept 12,000 francs.
During Chopin’s short stay in the Rue Chaillot, M. Charles Gavard, then a
very young man, in fact, a youth, spent much of his time with the
suffering composer:—
What M. Gavard says of how slowly, in pain, and often in loneliness, the
hours passed for Chopin in the spacious, rooms of his lodgings in the Rue
Chaillot, reminds me of a passage in Hector Berlioz’s admirable article on
his friend in the Journal des Debats (October 27, 1849):—
During his stay in the Rue Chaillot Chopin wrote the following note and
letter to Franchomme:—
After a stay of less than six weeks Chopin removed from the Rue Chaillot
to the apartments in No. 12, Place Vendome, which M. Albrecht and Dr.
O’Meara had succeeded in finding for him. About this time Moscheles came
to Paris. Of course he did not fail to inquire after his brother-artist
and call at his house. What Moscheles heard and thought may be gathered
from the following entry in his diary:-“Unfortunately, we heard of
Chopin’s critical condition, made ourselves inquiries, and found all the
sad news confirmed. Since he has been laid up thus, his sister has been
with him. Now the days of the poor fellow are numbered, his sufferings
great. Sad lot!” Yes, Chopin’s condition had become so hopeless that his
relations had been communicated with, and his sister, Louisa Jedrzejewicz,
[FOOTNOTE: The same sister who visited him in 1844, passed on that
occasion also some time at Nohant, and subsequently is mentioned in a
letter of Chopin’s to Franchomme.] accompanied by her husband and
daughter, had lost no time in coming from Poland to Paris. For the comfort
of her presence he was, no doubt, thankful. But he missed and deplored
very much during his last illness the absence of his old, trusted
physician, Dr. Molin, who had died shortly after the composer’s return
from England.
The accounts of Chopin’s last days—even if we confine ourselves to
those given by eye-witnesses—are a mesh of contradictions which it
is impossible to wholly disentangle. I shall do my best, but perhaps the
most I can hope for is to avoid making confusion worse confounded.
In the first days of October Chopin was already in such a condition that
unsupported he could not sit upright. His sister and Gutmann did not leave
him for a minute, Chopin holding a hand of the latter almost constantly in
one of his. By the 15th of October the voice of the patient had lost its
sonority. It was on this day that took place the episode which has so
often and variously been described. The Countess Delphine Potocka, between
whom and Chopin existed a warm friendship, and who then happened to be at
Nice, was no sooner informed of her friend’s fatal illness than she
hastened to Paris.
However, the end was not yet come, indeed, was not to come till two days
after. M. Gavard, in saying that he did not hear what the Countess Potocka
sang, acts wisely, for those who pretended to have heard it contradict
each other outright. Liszt and Karasowski, who follows him, say that the
Countess sang the Hymn to the Virgin by Stradella, and a Psalm by
Marcello; on the other hand, Gutmann most positively asserted that she
sang a Psalm by Marcello and an air by Pergolesi; whereas Franchomme
insisted on her having sung an air from Bellini’s Beatrice di Tenda, and
that only once, and nothing else. As Liszt was not himself present, and
does not give the authority for his statement, we may set it, and with it
Karasowski’s, aside; but the two other statements, made as they were by
two musicians who were ear witnesses, leave us in distressing perplexity
with regard to what really took place, for between them we cannot choose.
Chopin, says M. Gavard, looked forward to his death with serenity.
M. Gavard relates also that on the 16th October Chopin twice called his
friends that were gathered in his apartments around him. “For everyone he
had a touching word; I, for my part, shall never forget the tender words
he spoke to me.” Calling to his side the Princess Czartoryska and Mdlle.
Gavard, [FOOTNOTE: A sister of M. Charles Gavard, the pupil to whom Chopin
dedicated his Berceuse.] he said to them: “You will play together, you
will think of me, and I shall listen to you.” And calling to his side
Franchomme, he said to the Princess: “I recommend Franchomme to you, you
will play Mozart together, and I shall listen to you.” [FOOTNOTE: The
words are usually reported to have been “Vous jouerez du Mozart en memoire
de moi.”] “And,” added Franchomme when he told me this, “the Princess has
always been a good friend to me.”
And George Sand? Chopin, as I have already mentioned, said two days before
his death to Franchomme: “She had said to me that I would die in no arms
but hers” [Elle n’avait dit que je ne mourrais que dans ses bras]. Well,
did she not come and fulfil her promise, or, at least, take leave of her
friend of many years? Here, again, all is contradiction. M. Gavard writes:—
Gutmann, on the other hand, related that George Sand came to the landing
of the staircase and asked him if she might see Chopin; but that he
advised her strongly against it, as it was likely to excite the patient
too much. Gutmann, however, seems to have been by no means sure about this
part of his recollections, for on two occasions he told me that it was
Madame Clesinger (George Sand’s daughter, Solange) who asked if it was
advisable for her mother to come. Madame Clesinger, I may say in passing,
was one of those in loving attendance on Chopin, and, as Franchomme told
me, present, like himself, when the pianist-composer breathed his last.
From the above we gather, at least, that it is very uncertain whether
Chopin’s desire to see George Sand was frustrated by her heartlessness or
the well-meaning interference of his friends.
During this illness of Chopin a great many of his friends and
acquaintances, in fact, too many, pressed forward, ready to be of use,
anxious to learn what was passing. Happily for the dying man’s comfort,
most of them were not allowed to enter the room in which he lay.
M. Gavard probably exaggerates the services of the Princess Czartoryska,
but certainly forgets those of the composer’s sister. Liszt, no doubt,
comes nearer the truth when he says that among those who assembled in the
salon adjoining Chopin’s bedroom, and in turn came to him and watched his
gestures and looks when he had lost his speech, the Princess Marcelline
Czartoryska was the most assiduous.
After a bad night Chopin felt somewhat better on the morning of the 16th.
By several authorities we are informed that on this day, the day after the
Potocka episode, the artist received the sacrament which a Polish priest
gave him in the presence of many friends. Chopin got worse again in the
evening. While the priest was reading the prayers for the dying, he rested
silently and with his eyes closed upon Gutmann’s shoulder; but at the end
of the prayers he opened his eyes wide and said with a loud voice: “Amen.”
The Polish priest above mentioned was the Abbe Alexander Jelowicki. Liszt
relates that in the absence of the Polish priest who was formerly Chopin’s
confessor, the Abbe called on his countryman when he heard of his
condition, although they had not been on good terms for years. Three times
he was sent away by those about Chopin without seeing him. But when he had
succeeded in informing Chopin of his wish to see him, the artist received
him without delay. After that the Abbe became a daily visitor. One day
Chopin told him that he had not confessed for many years, he would do so
now. When the confession was over and the last word of the absolution
spoken, Chopin embraced his confessor with both arms a la polonaise, and
exclaimed: “Thanks! Thanks! Thanks to you I shall not die like a pig.”
That is what Liszt tells us he had from Abbe Jelowicki’s own lips. In the
account which the latter has himself given of how Chopin was induced by
him to receive the sacrament, induced only after much hesitation, he
writes:—
When Chopin’s last moments approached he took “nervous cramps” (this was
Gutmann’s expression in speaking of the matter), and the only thing which
seemed to soothe him was Gutmann’s clasping his wrists and ankles firmly.
Quite near the end Chopin was induced to drink some wine or water by
Gutmann, who supported him in his arms while holding the glass to his
lips. Chopin drank, and, sinking back, said “Cher ami!” and died. Gutmann
preserved the glass with the marks of Chopin’s lips on it till the end of
his life.
[FOOTNOTE: In B. Stavenow’s sketch already more than once alluded to by
me, we read that Chopin, after having wetted his lips with the water
brought him by Gutmann, raised the latter’s hand, kissed it, and with the
words “Cher ami!” breathed his last in the arms of his pupil, whose sorrow
was so great that Count Gryzmala was obliged to lead him out of the room.
Liszt’s account is slightly different. “Who is near me?” asked Chopin,
with a scarcely audible voice. He bent his head to kiss the hand of
Gutmann who supported him, giving up his soul in this last proof of
friendship and gratitude. He died as he had lived, loving.]
M. Gavard describes the closing hours of Chopin’s life as follows:—
Liszt, too, reports that Chopin’s face resumed an unwonted youth, purity,
and calm; that his youthful beauty so long eclipsed by suffering
reappeared. Common as the phenomenon is, there can be nothing more
significant, more impressive, more awful, than this throwing-off in death
of the marks of care, hardship, vice, and disease—the corruption of
earthly life; than this return to the innocence, serenity, and loveliness
of a first and better nature; than this foreshadowing of a higher and more
perfect existence. Chopin’s love of flowers was not forgotten by those who
had cherished and admired him now when his soul and body were parted. “The
bed on which he lay,” relates Liszt, “the whole room, disappeared under
their varied colours; he seemed to repose in a garden.” It was a Polish
custom, which is not quite obsolete even now, for the dying to choose for
themselves the garments in which they wished to be dressed before being
laid in the coffin (indeed, some people had their last habiliments
prepared long before the approach of their end); and the pious, more
especially of the female sex, affected conventual vestments, men generally
preferring their official attire. That Chopin chose for his grave-clothes
his dress-suit, his official attire, in which he presented himself to his
audiences in concert-hall and salon, cannot but be regarded as
characteristic of the man, and is perhaps more significant than appears at
first sight. But I ought to have said, it would be if it were true that
Chopin really expressed the wish. M. Kwiatkowski informed me that this was
not so.
For some weeks after, from the 18th October onwards, the French press
occupied itself a good deal with the deceased musician. There was not, I
think, a single Paris paper of note which did not bring one or more long
articles or short notes regretting the loss, describing the end, and
estimating the man and artist. But the phenomenal ignorance, exuberance of
imagination, and audacity of statement, manifested by almost every one of
the writers of these articles and notes are sufficient to destroy one’s
faith in journalism completely and for ever. Among the offenders were men
of great celebrity, chief among them Theophile Gautier (Feuilleton de la
Presse, November 5, 1849) and Jules Janin (Feuilleton du Journal des
Debuts, October 22, 1849), the latter’s performance being absolutely
appalling. Indeed, if we must adjudge to French journalists the palm for
gracefulness and sprightliness, we cannot withhold it from them for
unconscientiousness. Some of the inventions of journalism, I suspect, were
subsequently accepted as facts, in some cases perhaps even assimilated as
items of their experience, by the friends of the deceased, and finally
found their way into AUTHENTIC biography. One of these myths is that
Chopin expressed the wish that Mozart’s Requiem should be performed at his
funeral. Berlioz, one of the many journalists who wrote at the time to
this effect, adds (Feuilleton du Journal des Debuts, October 27, 1849)
that “His [Chopin’s] worthy pupil received this wish with his last sigh.”
Unfortunately for Berlioz and this pretty story, Gutmann told me that
Chopin did not express such a wish; and Franchomme made to me the same
statement. I must, [I must, however, not omit to mention here that M.
Charles Gavard says that Chopin drew up the programme of his funeral, and
asked that on that occasion Mozart’s Requiem should be performed.] Also
the story about Chopin’s wish to be buried beside Bellini is, according to
the latter authority, a baseless invention. This is also the place to
dispose of the question: What was done with Chopin’s MSS.? The reader may
know that the composer is said to have caused all his MSS. to be burnt.
Now, this is not true. From Franchomme I learned that what actually took
place was this. Pleyel asked Chopin what was to be done with the MSS.
Chopin replied that they were to be distributed among his friends, that
none were to be published, and that fragments were to be destroyed. Of the
pianoforte school which Chopin is said to have had the intention to write,
nothing but scraps, if anything, can have been found.
M. Gavard pere made the arrangements for the funeral, which, owing to the
extensiveness of the preparations, did not take place till the 30th of
October. Ready assistance was given by M. Daguerry, the curate of the
Madeleine, where the funeral service was to be held; and thanks to him
permission was received for the introduction of female singers into the
church, without whom the performance of Mozart’s Requiem would have been
an impossibility.
Many writers complain of the exclusiveness which seems to have presided at
the sending out of invitations. M. Guinot remarks in reference to this
point:
In continuation of my account of the funeral service I shall quote from a
report in the Daily News of November 2, 1849:—
A trustworthy account of the whole ceremony, and especially a clear and
full report of the musical part of the service, we find in a letter from
the Paris correspondent of The Musical World (November 10, 1849). I shall
quote some portions of this letter, accompanying them with elucidatory and
supplementary notes:—
One affecting circumstance escaped the attention of our otherwise so acute
observer—namely, the sprinkling on the coffin, when the latter had
been lowered into the grave, of the Polish earth which, enclosed in a
finely-wrought silver cup, loving friends had nearly nineteen years
before, in the village of Wola, near Warsaw, given to the departing young
and hopeful musician who was never to see his country again.
Chopin’s surroundings at Pere-Lachaise are most congenial. Indeed, the
neighbourhood forms quite a galaxy of musical talent—close by lie
Cherubini, Bellini, Gretry, Boieldieu, Bocquillon-Wilhem, Louis Duport,
and several of the Erard family; farther away, Ignace Pleyel, Rodolphe
Kreutzer, Pierre Galin, Auguste Panseron, Mehul, and Paer. Some of these,
however, had not yet at that time taken possession of their resting-places
there, and Bellini has since then (September 15, 1876) been removed by his
compatriots, to his birthplace, Catania, in Sicily.
Not the whole of Chopin’s body, however, was buried at Pere-Lachaise; his
heart was conveyed to his native country and is preserved in the Holy
Cross Church at Warsaw, where at the end of 1879 or beginning of 1880 a
monument was erected, consisting of a marble bust of the composer in a
marble niche. Soon after Chopin’s death voluntary contributions were
collected, and a committee under Delacroix’s presidence was formed, for
the erection of a monument, the execution of which was entrusted to
Clesinger, the husband of Madame Sand’s daughter, Solange. Although the
sculptor’s general idea is good—a pedestal bearing on its front a
medallion, and surmounted by a mourning muse with a neglected lyre in her
hand—the realisation leaves much to be desired. This monument was
unveiled in October, 1850, on the anniversary of Chopin’s death.
[FOOTNOTE: On the pedestal of the monument are to be read besides the
words “A. Frederic Chopin” above the medallion, “Ses amis” under the
medallion, and the name of the sculptor and the year of its production (J.
Clesinger, 1850), the following incorrect biographical data: “Frederic
Chopin, ne en Pologne a Zelazowa Wola pres de Varsovie: Fils d’un emigre
francais, marie a Mile. Krzyzanowska, fille d’un gentilhomme Polonais.”]
The friends of the composer, as we learn from an account in John Bull
(October 26, 1850), assembled in the little chapel of Pere-Lachaise, and
after a religious service proceeded with the officiating priest at their
head to Chopin’s grave. The monument was then unveiled, flowers and
garlands were scattered over and around it, prayers were said, and M.
Wolowski, the deputy, [FOOTNOTE: Louis Francois Michel Raymond Wolowski,
political economist, member of the Academie des Sciences Morales, and
member of the Constituante. A Pole by birth, he became a naturalised
French subject in 1834.] endeavoured to make a speech, but was so much
moved that he could only say a few words.
[FOOTNOTE: In the Gazette muticale of October 20, 1850, we read: “Une
messe commemorative a ete dite jeudi dernier [i.e., on the 17th] dans la
chapelle du cimetiere du Pere-Lachaise a la memoire de Frederic Chopin et
pour l’inauguration de son monument funebre.”]
The Menestrel of November 3, 1850, informed its readers that in the course
of the week (it was on the 30th October at eleven o’clock) an anniversary
mass had been celebrated at the Madeleine in honour of Chopin, at which
from two to three hundred of his friends were present, and that Franchomme
on the violoncello and Lefebure-Wely on the organ had played some of the
departed master’s preludes, or, to quote our authority literally, “ont
redit aux assistants emus les preludes si pleins de melancolie de
I’illustre defunt.”
EPILOGUE.
We have followed Chopin from his birthplace, Zelazowa Wola, to Warsaw,
where he passed his childhood and youth, and received his musical as well
as his general education; we have followed him in his holiday sojourns in
the country, and on his more distant journeys to Reinerz, Berlin, and
Vienna; we have followed him when he left his native country and, for
further improvement, settled for a time in the Austrian capital; we have
followed him subsequently to Paris, which thenceforth became his home; and
we have followed him to his various lodgings there and on the journeys and
in the sojourns elsewhere—to 27, Boulevard Poissonniere, to 5 and
38, Chaussee d’Antin, to Aix-la-Chapelle, Carlsbad, Leipzig, Heidelberg,
Marienbad, and London, to Majorca, to Nohant, to 5, Rue Tronchet, 16, Rue
Pigalle, and 9, Square d’Orleans, to England and Scotland, to 9, Square
d’Orleans once more, Rue Chaillot, and 12, Place Vendome; and, lastly, to
the Pere-Lachaise cemetery. We have considered him as a pupil at the
Warsaw Lyceum and as a student of music under the tuition of Zywny and
Elsner; we have considered him as a son and as a brother, as a lover and
as a friend, as a man of the world and as a man of business; and we have
considered him as a virtuoso, as a teacher, and as a composer. Having done
all this, there remains only one thing for me to do—namely, to
summarise the thousands of details of the foregoing account, and to point
out what this artist was to his and is to our time. But before doing this
I ought perhaps to answer a question which the reader may have asked
himself. Why have I not expressed an opinion on the moral aspect of
Chopin’s connection with George Sand? My explanation shall be brief. I
abstained from pronouncing judgment because the incomplete evidence did
not seem to me to warrant my doing so. A full knowledge of all the
conditions and circumstances. I hold to be indispensable if justice is to
be done; the rash and ruthless application of precepts drawn from the
social conventions of the day are not likely to attain that end. Having
done my duty in placing before the reader the ascertainable evidence, I
leave him at liberty to decide on it according to his wisdom and charity.
Henri Blaze de Bury describes (in Etudes et Souvenirs) the portrait which
Ary Scheffer painted of Chopin in these words:—
M. Marmontel, with, “his [Chopin’s] admirable portrait” by Delacroix
before him, penned the following description:—
Poetic distinction, exquisite refinement, and a noble bearing are the
characteristics which strike one in all portraits of Chopin, [FOOTNOTE:
See Appendix IV.] and which struck the beholder still more strongly in the
real Chopin, where they were reinforced by the gracefulness of his
movements, and by manners that made people involuntarily treat him as a
prince…[FOOTNOTE: See my description of Chopin, based on the most
reliable information, in Chapter XX.] And pervading and tincturing every
part of the harmonious whole of Chopin’s presence there was delicacy,
which was indeed the cardinal factor in the shaping not only of his
outward conformation, but also of his character, life, and art-practice.
Physical delicacy brought with it psychical delicacy, inducing a delicacy
of tastes, habits, and manners, which early and continued intercourse with
the highest aristocracy confirmed and developed. Many of the charming
qualities of the man and artist derive from this delicacy. But it is
likewise the source of some of the deficiencies and weaknesses in the man
and artist. His exclusiveness, for instance, is, no doubt, chargeable to
the superlative sensitiveness which shrank from everything that failed to
satisfy his fastidious, exacting nature, and became more and more morbid
as delicacy, of which it was a concomitant, degenerated into disease. Yet,
notwithstanding the lack of robustness and all it entails, Chopin might
have been moderately happy, perhaps even have continued to enjoy
moderately good health, if body and soul had been well matched. This,
however, was not the case. His thoughts were too big, his passions too
violent, for the frail frame that held them; and the former grew bigger
and more violent as the latter grew frailer and frailer. He could not
realise his aspirations, could not compass his desires, in short, could
not fully assert himself. Here, indeed, we have lit upon the tragic motive
of Chopin’s life-drama, and the key to much that otherwise would be
enigmatical, certainly not explicable by delicacy and disease alone. His
salon acquaintances, who saw only the polished outside of the man, knew
nothing of this disparity and discrepancy; and even the select few of his
most intimate friends, from whom he was not always able to conceal the
irritation that gnawed at his heart, hardly more than guessed the true
state of matters. In fact, had not Chopin been an artist, the tale of his
life would have for ever remained a tale untold. But in his art, as an
executant and a composer, he revealed all his strength and weakness, all
his excellences and insufficiencies, all his aspirations and failures, all
his successes and disappointments, all his dreams and realities.
Chopin was not a virtuoso in the ordinary sense of the word. His sphere
was the reunion intime, not the mixed crowd of concert audiences. If,
however, human testimony is worth anything, we may take it as proven that
there never was a pianist whose playing exercised a charm equal to that of
Chopin. But, as Liszt has said, it is impossible to make those who have
not heard him understand this subtle, penetrating charm of an ineffable
poesy. If words could give an idea of Chopin’s playing, it would be given
by such expressions as “legerete impalpable,” “palais aeriens de la Fata
Morgana,” “wundersam und marchenhaft,” and other similar ones used with
regard to it by men who may safely be accepted as authorities.
As a pianist Chopin was sorely restricted by lack of physical vigour,
which obliged him often to merely suggest, and even to leave not a little
wholly unexpressed. His range as a composer was much wider, as its limits
were those of his spirit. Still, Chopin does not number among those
masterminds who gather up and grasp with a strong hand all the
acquisitions of the past and present, and mould them into a new and
glorious synthesis-the highest achievement possible in art, and not to be
accomplished without a liberal share of originality in addition to the
comprehensive power. Chopin, then, is not a compeer of Bach, Handel,
Mozart, and Beethoven. But if he does not stand on their level, he stands
on a level not far below them. And if the inferiority of his intellectual
stamina prevented him from achieving what they achieved, his delicate
sensibility and romantic imagination enabled him to achieve what they were
disqualified from achieving. Of universality there was not a trace in him,
but his individuality is one of the most interesting. The
artistico-historical importance of Chopin lies in his having added new
elements to music, originated means of expression for the communication
and discrimination of moods and emotions, and shades of moods and
emotions, that up to his time had belonged to the realm of the unuttered
and unutterable. Notwithstanding the high estimation in which Chopin is
held, it seems to me that his importance for the development of the art is
not rated at its full value. His influence on composers for the
pianoforte, both as regards style and subject-matter, is generally
understood; but the same cannot be said of his less obvious wider
influence. Indeed, nothing is more common than to overlook his connection
with the main current of musical history altogether, to regard him as a
mere hors d’oeuvre in the musical MENU of the universe. My opinion, on the
contrary, is that among the notable composers who have lived since the
days of Chopin there is not to be found one who has not profited more or
less, consciously or unconsciously, directly or indirectly, by this truly
creative genius. To trace his influence we must transport ourselves back
fifty or sixty years, and see what the state of music then was, what
composers expressed and what means of expression they had at their
disposal. Much that is now familiar, nay, even commonplace, was then a
startling novelty. The appearance of Chopin was so wonderful a phenomenon
that it produced quite an electrical effect upon Schumann. “Come,” said
Berlioz to Legouve in the first years of the fourth decade of this
century, “I am going to let you see something which you have never seen,
and someone whom you will never forget.” This something and someone was
Chopin. Mendelssohn being questioned about his enthusiasm for one of this
master’s preludes replied: “I love it, I cannot tell you how much, or why;
except, perhaps, that it is something which I could never have written at
all.” Of course, Chopin’s originality was not universally welcomed and
appreciated. Mendelssohn, for instance, was rather repelled than attracted
by it; at any rate, in his letters there are to be found frequent
expressions of antipathy to Chopin’s music, which seemed to him” mannered
“(see letter to Moscheles of February 7, 1835). But even the heartless and
brainless critic of the Musical World whose nonsense I quoted in Chapter
XXXI. admits that Chopin was generally esteemed by the “professed
classical musicians,” and that the name of the admirers of the master’s
compositions was legion. To the early popularity of Chopin’s music testify
also the many arrangements for other instruments (the guitar not excepted)
and even for voices (for instance, OEuvres celebres de Chopin, transcrites
a une ou deux voix egales par Luigi Bordese) to which his compositions
were subjected. This popularity was, however, necessarily limited, limited
in extent or intensity. Indeed, popular, in the comprehensive sense of the
word, Chopin’s compositions can never become. To understand them fully we
must have something of the author’s nature, something of his delicate
sensibility and romantic imagination. To understand him we must, moreover,
know something of his life and country. For, as Balzac truly remarked,
Chopin was less a musician than une ame qui se rend sensible. In short,
his compositions are the “celestial echo of what he had felt, loved, and
suffered”; they are his memoirs, his autobiography, which, like that of
every poet, assumes the form of “Truth and Poetry.”
APPENDICES.
APPENDIX I.
THE GOLDEN AGE OP POLISH MUSIC.
(VOL. I., p. 66.)
As yet it is difficult to speak with any degree of certainty of the early
musical history of Poland. Our general histories of music have little or
nothing to say on the matter, and a special history exists neither in the
Polish nor in any other language. The Abbe Joseph Surzynski, who by his
labours is endeavouring to remove the reproach of indifference and
ignorance now lying on his countrymen in this respect, says: [FOOTNOTE: In
the preface to the Monumenta Musices sacra, selected works of the best
composers of classical religious music in Poland, published by him. The
first two parts of this publication, respectively issued in 1885 and 1887,
contain compositions by Thomas Szadek, Nicolas Zielenski, G. G. Gorczycki,
Venceslas, Szamotulski, and Sebastian of Felsztyn.] “The compositions of
our old masters are buried in the archives and libraries—no one
cares to make them known to the public; many Polish musicians, not even
supposing that these compositions exist, are very far from believing that
the authors of these pieces deserve to be ranked with the best composers
of the Roman Catholic Church. Now, in studying these works, we find in the
century of Palestrina and Vittoria among our artists: Marcin ze Lwowa
(Martin Leopolita), Christopher Borek, Thomas Szadek, Venceslas
Szamotulski, and especially Zielenski and Gomolka—distinguished
masters who deserve to be known by the friends of the musical art, either
on account of their altogether national genius, or on account of their
inspiration and the perfection of the forms which manifest themselves in
their compositions.” One of the first illustrious names in the history of
music in Poland is the German Henry Finck, the chapel-master of the Polish
Kings, John Albert (1492-1501) and Alexander (1501-1506). From the fact
that this excellent master got his musical education in Poland we may
safely conclude—and it is not the only fact which justifies our
doing so—that in that country already in the fifteenth century good
contrapuntists were to be found. The Abbe Surzynski regards Zielenski as
the best of the early composers, having been impressed both by the
profound religious inspiration and the classical form of his works. Of
Gomolka, who has been called the Polish Palestrina as Sebastian of
Felsztyn the Polish Goudimel, the Abbe remarks: “Among the magnificent
musical works of Martin Leopolita, Szadek, and Zielenski, the compositions
of Gomolka present themselves like miniature water-colours, in which,
nevertheless, every line, every colour, betrays the painter of genius. His
was a talent thoroughly indigenous—his compositions are of great
simplicity; no too complicated combinations of parts, one might even say
that they are homophonous; nevertheless what wealth of thought, what
beauty of harmony, what profoundness of sentiment do we find there! These
simple melodies clothed in pure and truly holy harmonies, written, as
Gomolka said himself, not for the Italians, but for the Poles, who are
happy in their own country, are the best specimens of the national style.
“In speaking of the early Polish church music I must not forget to mention
the famous College of the Roratists, [FOOTNOTE: The duties of these
singers were to sing Rorate masses and Requiem masses for the royal
family. Their name was derived from the opening word of the Introit,
“Rorate coeli.”] the Polish Sistine Chapel, attached to the Cracow
Cathedral. It was founded in 1543 and subsisted till 1760. With the
fifteenth of seventeen conductors of the college, Gregor Gorczycki, who
died in 1734, passed away the last of the classical school of Polish
church music. Music was diligently cultivated in the seventeenth century,
especially under the reigns of Sigismund III. (1587-1632), and Wladislaw
IV. (1632-1648); but no purpose would be served by crowding these pages
with unknown names of musicians about whom only scanty information is
available; I may, however, mention the familiar names of three of many
Italian composers who, in the seventeenth century, like many more of their
countrymen, passed a great part of their lives in Poland—namely,
Luca Marenzio, Asprilio Pacelii, and Marco Scacchi.
APPENDIX II.
EARLY PERFORMANCES OF CHOPIN’S WORKS IN GERMANY.
(VOL. I., p. 268.)
The first performance of a composition by Chopin at the Leipzig Gewandhaus
took place on October 27, 1831. It was his Op. 1, the variations on La ci
darem la mano, which Julius Knorr played at a concert for the benefit of
the Pension-fund of the orchestra, but not so as to give the audience
pleasure—at least, this was the opinion of Schumann, as may be seen
from his letter to Frederick Wieck of January 4, 1832. Chopin relates
already on June 5, 1830, that Emilie Belleville knew his variations by
heart and had played them in Vienna. Clara Wieck was one of the first who
performed Chopin’s compositions in public. On September 29, 1833, she
played at a Leipzig Gewandhaus concert the last movement of the E minor
Concerto, and on May 5, 1834, in the same hall at an extra concert, the
whole work and two Etudes. Further information about the introduction and
repetitions of Chopin’s compositions at the Leipzig Gewandhaus, is to be
found in the statistical part (p. 13) of Alfred Dorffel’s Die
Gewandhausconcerte.
APPENDIX III.
MADAME SCHUMANN ON CHOPIN’S VISIT TO LEIPZIG.
(VOL. I., p. 290.)
Through a kind communication from Madame Schumann I have learned that
Wenzel’s account does not quite agree with her diary. There she finds
written that her father, Friedrich Wieck, felt offended because Chopin,
for whose recognition in Germany he had done so much, had not called upon
him immediately after his arrival. Chopin made his appearance only two
hours before his departure, but then did not find Wieck at home, for he,
to avoid Chopin, had gone out and had also taken his daughter Clara with
him. When Wieck returned an hour later, he found unexpectedly Chopin still
there. Clara had now to play to the visitor. She let him hear Schumann’s F
sharp minor Sonata, two Etudes by Chopin, and a movement of a Concerto by
herself. After this Chopin played his E flat major Nocturne. By degrees
Wieck’s wrath subsided, and finally he accompanied Chopin to the
post-house, and parted from him in the most friendly mood.
APPENDIX IV.
REBECCA DIRICHLET ON CHOPIN AT MARIENBAD.
(VOL. I., p. 309.)
When Rebecca Dirichlet came with her husband to Marienbad, she learnt that
Chopin did not show himself, and that his physician and a Polish countess,
who completely monopolised him, did not allow him to play. Having,
however, heard so much of his playing from her brothers, she was, in order
to satisfy her curiosity, even ready to commit the bassesse of presenting
herself as the soeur de Messieurs Paul et Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy. As
she humorously wrote a few days later: “The bassesse towards Chopin has
been committed and has completely failed. Dirichlet went to him, and said
that a soeur, &c.—only a mazurka—impossible, mal aux
nerfs, mauvais piano—et comment se porte cette chere Madame Hensel,
el Paul est marie? heureux couple, &c.—allez vous promener—the
first and the last time that we do such a thing.”
APPENDIX V.
PALMA AND VALDEMOSA.
(VOL. II., pp. 22-48.)
The Argosy of 1888 contains a series of Letters from Majorca by Charles W.
Wood, illustrated by views of Palma, Valdemosa, and other parts of the
island. The illustrations in the April number comprise a general view of
the monastery of Valdemosa, and views of one of its courts and of the
cloister in which is situated the cell occupied by George Sand and Chopin
in the winter of 1838-1839. The cloister has a groined vault, on one side
the cell doors, and on the other side, opening on the court, doors and
rectangular windows with separate circular windows above them. The letters
have been republished in book form (London: Bentley and Sons).
APPENDIX VI.
On Tempo Rubato.
(VOL. II., p. 101.)
An earlier practiser of the tempo rubato than the lady mentioned by Quanz
(see Vol. II., p. 101 of this work) was Girolamo Frescobaldi, who speaks
of this manner of musical rendering in the preface to Il primo libra di
Capricci fatti sopra diversi sogetti et Arie in partitura (1624). An
extract from this preface is to be found in A. G. Ritter’s Zur Geschichte
des Orgelspiels, Vol. I., p. 34. F. X. Haberl remarks in the preface to
his collection of pieces by Frescobaldi (Leipzig: Breitkopf and Hartel):
“A chief trait of Frescobaldi’s genius is the so-called tempo rubato, an
absolute freedom in the employment of a quicker and slower tempo.”
APPENDIX VII.
CAROLINE HARTMANN.
(VOL. II., p. 171.)
On page 175 of this volume I made an allusion to Spohr in connection with
Chopin’s pupil Caroline Hartmann. To save the curious reader trouble, I
had better point out that the information is to be found in Spohr’s
autobiography under date Munster, near Colmar, March 26, 1816 (German
edition, pp. 245-250; English edition, pp. 229-232). Jacques Hartmann, the
father of Caroline, was a cotton manufacturer and an enthusiastic lover of
music. He had an orchestra consisting of his family and employes. Spohr
calls the father a bassoon-virtuoso; what he says of the daughter will be
seen in the following sentences: “His sister and his daughter play the
pianoforte. The latter, a child eight years old, is the star of the
amateur orchestra. She plays with a dexterity and exactness that are
worthy of admiration. I was still more astonished at her fine ear, with
which (away from the piano) she recognises the intervals of the most
intricate and full dissonant chords which one strikes, and names the notes
of which they consist in their sequence. If the child is well guided, she
is sure to become one day an excellent artist.”
APPENDIX VIII.
MADAME PERUZZI.
(VOL. II., p. 177.)
The reader will be as grateful as I am for the following interesting
communications of Madame Peruzzi (nee Elise Eustaphieve, whose father was
Russian Consul-General to the United States of America) about her
intercourse with Chopin.
“I first met Chopin at the house of the American banker, Samuel Welles, in
Paris, where I, like every one present, was enchanted listening to his
mazurkas, waltzes, nocturnes, &c., which he played on a wretched
square piano. I lived as dame en chambre (a very convenient custom for
ladies alone), at a pension, or rather a regular boarding-school, with
rooms to let for ladies. The lady of the house was acquainted with many of
the musical people, and I had a splendid American grand piano which was
placed in the large drawing-room of the establishment, so that I felt
quite at home, and there received Chopin, Liszt, and Herz (Miss Herz, his
sister, gave lessons in the school), and often played four-hand pieces
with them.
“My intimacy with Chopin began after my marriage. He often dined with us,
was very fond of my husband, and after dinner we were not at home if any
one else came, but remained at our two pianos (Erard had sent me one),
playing together, and I used to amuse him by picking out of his music
little bits that seemed like questions for him to answer on the other
piano. He lived very near us, so we very often passed mornings at his
house, where he asked me to play with him all Weber’s duets. This was
delightful to me, the more so, as he complimented me on my reading and
entering at first sight into the spirit of the music. He made me
acquainted with the beautiful duet of Moscheles, and was the first with
whom I played Hummel’s splendid duet. He was a great admirer of Weber. We
frequently had morning concerts with double quartet, and Chopin would very
kindly turn the leaves for me. He was particularly fond of doing so when I
played Hummel’s Septet, and was so encouraging. Even when playing to him
his own music, he would approve some little thing not indicated and say,
‘What a good idea of yours that is!’ My husband begged him to give me
lessons; but he always refused, and did give them; for I studied so many
things with him, among others his two concertos. The one in E minor I once
played accompanied by himself on a second piano. We passed many pleasant
evenings at Mr. and Madame Leo’s house, a very musical one. Madame
Moscheles was a niece of theirs. Chopin was fond of going there, where he
was quite a pet. He always appeared to best advantage among his most
intimate friends. I was one who helped to christen the Berceuse. You ask
me in what years I knew Chopin, 1838 is the date of the manuscript in my
collection which he gave me after I was married, and the last notes of
that little jewel he wrote on the desk of the piano in our presence. He
said it would not be published because they would play it….Then he would
show how they would play it, which was very funny. It came out after his
death, it is a kind of waltz-mazurka [the Valse, Op. 69, No. I], Chopin’s
intimate friend, Camille Pleyel, called it the story of a D flat, because
that note comes in constantly. One morning we took Paganini to hear
Chopin, and he was enchanted; they seemed to understand each other so
well. When I knew him he was a sufferer and would only occasionally play
in public, and then place his piano in the middle of Pleyel’s room whilst
his admirers were around the piano. His speciality was extreme delicacy,
and his pianissimo extraordinary. Every little note was like a bell, so
clear. His fingers seemed to be without any bones; but he would bring out
certain effects by great elasticity. He got very angry at being accused of
not keeping time; calling his left hand his maitre de chapelle and
allowing his right to wander about ad libitum.”
APPENDIX IX.
MADAME STREICHER’S (nee FRIEDERIKE MULLER) RECOLLECTIONS OF CHOPIN, BASED
ON EXTRACTS FROM HER CAREFULLY-KEPT DIARY OF THE YEARS 1839, 1840, AND
1841. (VOL. II., p. 177.)
In March, 1839, I went to Paris, accompanied by a kind aunt, who was a
highly-cultured musical connoisseur, animated by the wish to get if
possible lessons from Chopin, whose compositions inspired me with
enthusiasm. But he was from home and very ill; indeed, it was feared he
would not return to Paris even in the winter. However, at last, at last,
in October, 1839, he came. I had employed this long time in making myself
acquainted with the musical world in Paris, but the more I heard, nay,
even admired, the more was my intention to wait till Chopin’s return
confirmed. And I was quite right.
On the 30th of October, 1839, we, my kind aunt and I, went to him. At that
time he lived in Rue Tronchet, No. 5. Anxiously I handed him my letters of
introduction from Vienna, and begged him to take me as a pupil. He said
very politely, but very formally: “You have played with applause at a
matinee at the house of Countess Appony, the wife of the Austrian
ambassador, and will hardly require my instruction.” I became afraid, for
I was wise enough to understand he had not the least inclination to accept
me as a pupil. I quickly protested that I knew very well I had still very,
very much to learn. And, I added timidly, I should like to be able to play
his wondrously-beautiful compositions well. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “it would
be sad if people were not in a position to play them well without my
instruction.” “I certainly am not able to do so,” I replied anxiously.
“Well, play me something,” he said. And in a moment his reserve had
vanished. Kindly and indulgently he helped me to overcome my timidity,
moved the piano, inquired whether I were comfortably seated, let me play
till I had become calm, then gently found fault with my stiff wrist,
praised my correct comprehension, and accepted me as a pupil. He arranged
for two lessons a week, then turned in the most amiable way to my aunt,
excusing himself beforehand if he should often be obliged to change the
day and hour of the lesson on account of his delicate health. His servant
would always inform us of this.
Alas! he suffered greatly. Feeble, pale, coughing much, he often took
opium drops on sugar and gum-water, rubbed his forehead with eau de
Cologne, and nevertheless he taught with a patience, perseverance, and
zeal which were admirable. His lessons always lasted a full hour,
generally he was so kind as to make them longer. Mikuli says: “A holy
artistic zeal burnt in him then, every word from his lips was incentive
and inspiring. Single lessons often lasted literally for hours at a
stretch, till exhaustion overcame master and pupil.” There were for me
also such blessed lessons. Many a Sunday I began at one o’clock to play at
Chopin’s, and only at four or five o’clock in the afternoon did he dismiss
us. Then he also played, and how splendidly but not only his own
compositions, also those of other masters, in order to teach the pupil how
they should be performed. One morning he played from memory fourteen
Preludes and Fugues of Bach’s, and when I expressed my joyful admiration
at this unparalleled performance, he replied: “Cela ne s’oublie jamais,”
and smiling sadly he continued: “Depuis un an je n’ai pas etudie un quart
d’heure de sante, je n’ai pas de force, pas d’energie, j’attends toujours
un peu de sante pour reprendre tout cela, mais… j’attends encore.” We
always spoke French together, in spite of his great fondness for the
German language and poetry. It is for this reason that I give his sayings
in the French language, as I heard them from him. In Paris people had made
me afraid, and told me how Chopin caused Clementi, Hummel, Cramer,
Moscheles, Beethoven, and Bach to be studied, but not his own
compositions. This was not the case. To be sure, I had to study with him
the works of the above-mentioned masters, but he also required me to play
to him the new and newest compositions of Hiller, Thalberg, and Liszt,
&c. And already in the first lesson he placed before me his wondrously—beautiful
Preludes and Studies. Indeed, he made me acquainted with many a
composition before it had appeared in print.
I heard him often preluding in a wonderfully-beautiful manner. On one
occasion when he was entirely absorbed in his playing, completely detached
from the world, his servant entered softly and laid a letter on the
music-desk. With a cry Chopin left off playing, his hair stood on end—what
I had hitherto regarded as impossible I now saw with my own eyes. But this
lasted only for a moment.
His playing was always noble and beautiful, his tones always sang, whether
in full forte, or in the softest piano. He took infinite pains to teach
the pupil this legato, cantabile way of playing. “Il [ou elle] ne sait pas
lier deux notes” was his severest censure. He also required adherence to
the strictest rhythm, hated all lingering and dragging, misplaced rubatos,
as well as exaggerated ritardandos. “Je vous prie de vous asseoir,” he
said on such an occasion with gentle mockery. And it is just in this
respect that people make such terrible mistakes in the execution of his
works. In the use of the pedal he had likewise attained the greatest
mastery, was uncommonly strict regarding the misuse of it, and said
repeatedly to the pupil: “The correct employment of it remains a study for
life.”
When I played with him the study in C major, the first of those he
dedicated to Liszt, he bade me practise it in the mornings very slowly.
“Cette etude vous fera du bien,” he said. “Si vous l’etudiez comme je
l’entends, cela elargit la main, et cela vous donne des gammes d’accords,
comme les coups d’archet. Mais souvent malheureusement au lieu d’apprendre
tout cela, elle fait desapprendre.” I am quite aware that it is a
generally-prevalent error, even in our day, that one can only play this
study well when one possesses a very large hand. But this is not the case,
only a supple hand is required.
Chopin related that in May, 1834, he had taken a trip to Aix-la-Chapelle
with Hiller and Mendelssohn. “Welcomed there in a very friendly manner,
people asked me when I was introduced: ‘You are, I suppose, a brother of
the pianist?’ I answered in the affirmative, for it amused me, and
described my brother the pianist. ‘He is tall, strong, has black hair, a
black moustache, and a very large hand.'” To those who have seen the
slightly-built Chopin and his delicate hand, the joke must have been
exceedingly amusing.
On the 20th of April, 1840, Liszt, who had come back to Paris after
extended artistic tours, gave a matinee to an invited audience in Erard’s
saloon. He played, as he did always, very brilliantly, and the next
morning I had to give a minute account to Chopin of what and how he had
played. He himself was too unwell to be present. When I spoke of Liszt’s
artistic self-control and calmness in overcoming the greatest technical
difficulties, he exclaimed: “Ainsi il parait que mon avis est juste. La
derniere chose c’est la simplicite. Apres avoir epuise toutes les
difficultes, apres avoir joue une immense quantite de notes, et de notes,
c’est la simplicite qui sort avec tout son charme, comme le dernier sceau
de l’art. Quiconque veut arriver de suite a cela n’y parviendra jamais, on
ne peut commencer par la fin. II faut avoir etudie beaucoup, meme
immensement pour atteindre ce but, ce n’est pas une chose facile. II
m’etait impossible,” he continued, “d’assister a sa matinee. Avec ma sante
ou ne peut rien faire. Je suis toujours embrouille avec mes affaires, de
maniere que je n’ai pas un moment libre. Que j’envie les gens forts qui
sont d’une sante robuste et qui n’ont rien a faire! Je suis bien fache, je
n’ai pas le temps d’etre malade.”
When I studied his Trio he drew my attention to some passages which now
displeased him, he would now write them differently. At the end of the
Trio he said: “How vividly do the days when I composed it rise up in my
memory! It was at Posen, in the castle surrounded by vast forests of
Prince Radziwill. A small but very select company was gathered together
there. In the mornings there was hunting, in the evenings music. Ah! and
now,” he added sadly, “the Prince, his wife, his son, all, all are dead.”
At a soiree (Dec. 20, 1840) he made me play the Sonata with the Funeral
March before a large assemblage. On the morning of the same day I had once
more to play over to him the Sonata, but was very nervous. “Why do you
play less well to-day?” he asked. I replied that I was afraid. “Why? I
consider you play it well,” he rejoined very gravely, indeed, severely.
“But if you wish to play this evening as nobody played before you, and
nobody will play after you, well then!”…These words restored my
composure. The thought that I played to his satisfaction possessed me also
in the evening; I had the happiness of gaining Chopin’s approval and the
applause of the audience. Then he played with me the Andante of his F
minor Concerto, which he accompanied magnificently on the second piano.
The entire assemblage assailed him with the request to perform some more
of his compositions, which he then did to the delight of all.
For eighteen months (he did not leave Paris this summer) I was allowed to
enjoy his instruction. How willingly would I have continued my studies
with him longer! But he himself was of opinion that I should now return to
my fatherland, pursue my studies unaided, and play much in public. On
parting he presented me with the two manuscripts of his C sharp major and
E major studies (dedicated to Liszt), and promised to write during his
stay in the country a concert-piece and dedicate it to me.
In the end of the year 1844 I went again to Paris, and found Chopin
looking somewhat stronger. At that time his friends hoped for the
restoration of, or at least for a considerable improvement in, his health.
The promised concert-piece, Op. 46, had to my inexpressible delight been
published. I played it to him, and he was satisfied with my playing of it;
rejoiced at my successes in Vienna, of which he had been told, exerted
himself with the amiability peculiar to him to make me still better known
to the musical world of Paris. Thus I learned to know Auber, Halevy,
Franchomme, Alkan, and others. But in February, 1845,1 was obliged to
return to Vienna; I had pupils there who were waiting for me. On parting
he spoke of the possibility of coming there for a short time, and I had
quite made up my mind to return for another visit to Paris in eighteen
months, in order again to enjoy his valuable instruction and advice. But
this, to my deepest regret, was not to be.
I saw Madame Sand in the year 1841 and again in the year 1845 in a box in
a theatre, and had an opportunity of admiring her beauty. I never spoke to
her.
APPENDIX X.
PORTRAITS OF CHOPIN.
A biography is incomplete without some account of the portraits of the
hero or heroine who is the subject of it. M. Mathias regards as the best
portrait of Chopin a lithograph by Engelmann after a drawing by Vigneron,
of 1833, published by Maurice Schlesinger, of Paris. In a letter to me he
writes: “This portrait is marvellous for the absolutely exact idea it
gives of Chopin: the graceful fall of the shoulders, the Polish look, the
charm of the mouth.” Continuing, he says: “Another good likeness of
Chopin, but of a later date, between the youthful period and that of his
decay, is Bovy’s medallion, which gives a very exact idea of the outlines
of his hair and nose. Beyond these there exists nothing, all is frightful;
for instance, the portrait in Karasowski’s book, which has a stupid look.”
The portrait here alluded to is a lithographic reproduction of a drawing
by A. Duval. As a rule, the portraits of Chopin most highly prized by his
pupils and acquaintances are those by A. Bovy and T. Kwiatkowski. Madame
Dubois, who likes Bovy’s medallion best, and next to it the portraits by
Kwiatkowski, does not care much for Ary Scheffer’s portrait of her master,
in whose apartments she had of course frequent opportunities to examine
it. “It had the appearance of a ghost [d’un ombre], and was more pale and
worn than Chopin himself.” Of a bust by Clesinger Madame Dubois remarks
that it does not satisfy those who knew Chopin. M. Marmontel writes in a
letter to me that the portrait of Chopin by Delacroix in his possession is
a powerful sketch painted in oil, “reproducing the great artist in the
last period of his life, when he was about to succumb to his chest
disease. My dear friend Felix Barrias has been inspired, or, to be more
exact, has reproduced this beautiful and poetic face in his picture of the
dying Chopin asking the Countess Potocka to sing to him.” Gutmann had in
his possession two portraits of his master, both pencil drawings; the one
by Franz Winterhalter, dated May 2, 1847, the other by Albert Graefle,
dated October 19, 1849. The former of these valuable portraits shows
Chopin in his decline, the latter on his death-bed. Both seem good
likenesses, Graefle’s drawing having a strong resemblance with Bovy’s
medallion.
[FOOTNOTE: The authorship alone is sufficient to make a drawing by George
Sand interesting. Madame Dubois says (in a letter written to me) that the
portrait, after a drawing of George Sand, contained in the French edition
of Chopin’s posthumous works, published by Fontana, is not at all a good
likeness. Herr Herrmann Scholtz in Dresden has in his possession a
faithful copy of a drawing by George Sand made by a nephew of the
composer, a painter living at Warsaw. Madame Barcinska, the sister of
Chopin, in whose possession the original is, spoke of it as a very good
likeness. This picture, however, is not identical with that mentioned by
Madame Dubois.]
The portrait by A. Regulski in Szulc’s book can only be regarded as a
libel on Chopin, and ought perhaps also to be regarded as a libel on the
artist. Various portraits in circulation are curiosities rather than helps
to a realisation of the outward appearance of Chopin. Schlesinger, of
Berlin, published a lithograph after a drawing by Maurir; and Schuberth,
of Hamburg, an engraving on steel, and Hofmeister, of Leipzig, a
lithograph, after I don’t know what original. Several other portraits need
not be mentioned, as they are not from life, but more or less fancy
portraits based on one or more of the authentic delineations. Bovy’s
medallion graces Breitkopf and Hartel’s Gesammtausgabe and Thematic
Catalogue of the master’s published works. The portrait by Ary Scheffer
may be seen lithographically reproduced by Waldow in the German edition of
Chopin’s posthumous works, published by Fontana. A wood-cut after the
drawing by Graefle appeared in 1879 in the German journal Die Gartenlaube.
Prefixed to the first volume of the present biography the reader will find
one of the portraits by Kwiatkowski, an etching after a charming pencil
drawing in my possession, the reproduction of which the artist has kindly
permitted. M. Kwiatkowski has portrayed Chopin frequently, and in many
ways and under various circumstances, alive and dead. Messrs. Novello,
Ewer & Co. have in their possession a clever water-colour drawing by
Kwiatkowski of Chopin on his death-bed. A more elaborate picture by the
same artist represents Chopin on his death-bed surrounded by his sister,
the Princess Marcellince Czartoryska, Grzymala, the Abbe Jelowicki, and
the portrayer. On page 321 of this volume will be found M. Charles
Gavard’s opinion of two portrayals of Chopin, respectively by Clesinger
and Kwiatkowski. In conclusion, I recall to the reader’s attention what
has been said of the master’s appearance and its pictorial and literary
reproductions on pp. 65 and 246 of Vol. I. and pp. 100, 135, and 329 of
Vol. II.
REMARKS PRELIMINARY TO THE LIST OF CHOPIN’S WORKS.
The original editions were three in number: the German, the French, and
the English (see p. 272). To avoid overcrowding, only the names of the
original German and French publishers will be given in the following list,
with two exceptions, however,—Op. 1 and 5, which were published in
Poland (by Brzezina & Co., of Warsaw) long before they made their
appearance elsewhere. [FOOTNOTE: What is here said, however, does not
apply to Section IV.] Some notes on the publication of the works in
England are included in these preliminary remarks.
In the list the publishers will be always placed in the same order—the
German first, and the French second (in the two exceptional cases, Op. 1
and 5, they will be second and third). The dates with an asterisk and in
parentheses (*) are those at which a copy of the respective works was
deposited at the Paris Bibliotheque du Conservatoire de Musique, the dates
without an asterisk in parentheses are derived from advertisements in
French musical journals; the square brackets [ ] enclose conjectural and
approximate dates and additional information; and lastly, the dates
without parentheses and without brackets were obtained by me direct from
the successors of the original German publishers, and consequently are
more exact and trustworthy than the others. In a few cases where the
copyright changed hands during the composer’s lifetime, and where
unacquaintance with this change might give rise to doubts and
difficulties, I have indicated the fact.
The publishing firms mentioned in the list are the following:—Maurice
Schlesinger, Brandus &Cie. (the successors of M. Schlesinger), Eugene
Troupenas & Cie., Joseph Meissonnier, Joseph Meissonnier fils H.
Lemoine, Ad. Catelin & Cie. (Editeurs des Compositeurs reunis, Rue
Grange Bateliere, No. 26), Pacini (Antonio Francesco Gaetano), Prilipp
& Cie. (Aquereurs d’une partie du Fond d’lgn. Pleyel & Cie.), S.
Richault (i.e., Charles Simon Richault, to whom succeeded his son
Guillaume Simon, who in his turn was succeeded by his son Leon.—Present
style: Richault et Cie., Successeurs), and Schonenberger, all of
Pans;-Breitkopf & Hartel, Probst-Kistner (since 1836 Friedrich
Kistner), Friedrich Hofmeister, and C. F. Peters, of Leipzig;—Ad. M.
Schlesinger, Stern & Co.( from 1852 J. Friedlander; later on annexed
to Peters, of Leipzig), and Bote and Bock, of Berlin;—Tobias
Haslinger, Carl Haslinger quondam Tobias, and Pietro Mechetti (whose widow
was succeeded by C. A. Spina), of Vienna;—Schuberth & Co., of
Hamburg (now Julius Schuberth, of Leipzig);—B. Schott’s Sohne, of
Mainz;—Andr. Brzezina & Co. and Gebethner & Wolff, of
Warsaw;—J. Wildt and W. Chaberski, of Cracow;—and J.
Leitgeber, of Posen.
From 1836 onward the course of the publication of Chopin’s works in
England can be followed in the advertisement columns of the Musical World.
Almost all the master’s works were published in England by Wessel. On
March 8, 1838, Messrs. Wessel advertised Op. 1-32 with the exception of
Op. 4, 11, and 29. This last figure has, no doubt, to be read as 28, as
the Preludes could hardly be in print at that time, and the Impromptu, Op.
29, was advertised on October 20, 1837, as OP. 28. With regard to Op. 12
it has to be noted that it represents not the Variations brillantes sur le
Rondo favori “Je vends des Scapulaires,” but the Grand Duo concertant for
piano and violoncello, everywhere else published without opus number. The
Studies, Op. 10, were offered to the public “revised with additional
fingering by his pupil I. [sic] Fontana.” On November 18, 1841, Wessel and
Stapleton (the latter having come in as a partner in 1839) advertised Op.
33-43, and subsequently Op. 44-48. On February 22, 1844, they announced
that they had “the sole copyright of the COMPLETE and entire works” of
Chopin. On May 15, 1845, were advertised Op. 57 and 58; on January 17,
1846, Op. 59; on September 26, 1846, Op. 60, 61, and 62. The partnership
with Stapleton having in 1845 been dissolved, the style of the firm was
now Wessel & Co. Thenceforth other English publishers came forward
with Chopin compositions. On June 3, 1848, Cramer, Beale & Co.
advertised Chopin’s “New Valses and Mazurkas for the pianoforte”; and on
the title-pages of the French edition of Op. 63, 64, and 65 I found the
words: “London, Jullien et Cie.” But also before this time Wessel seems to
have had competitors; for on the title-page of the French edition of Op.
22 may be read: “London, Mori et Lavenu,” and on September 20, 1838,
Robert Cocks advertised “Five Mazurkas and Three Nocturnes.” On September
23, 1848, however, Wessel & Co. call themselves sole proprietors of
Chopin’s works; and on November 24, 1849, they call themselves Publishers
of the Complete Works of Chopin. Information received from Mr. Ashdown,
the present proprietor of the business, one of the two successors (Mr.
Parry retired in 1882) of Christian Rudolph Wessel, who retired in 1860
and died in 1885, throws some further light on the publication of Chopin’s
works in England. We have already seen in a former part of this book (p.
117) that Wessel discontinued to deal with Chopin after Op. 62. “Cramer,
Beale & Co.,” writes Mr. Ashdown, “published the Mazurkas, Op. 63, and
two only of the Waltzes, Op. 64; these, being non-copyright in England,
Mr. Wessel added to his edition, together with the third waltz of Op. 64.
The name of Jullien on the French edition was probably put on in
consequence of negotiations for the sale of English copyright having been
entered upon, but without result.” With the exception of Op. 12 and 65,
Wessel published all the works with opus numbers of Chopin that were
printed during the composer’s lifetime. Cramer, Addison & Beale
published the Variations, Op. 12; Chappell, the Trois Nouvelles Etudes; R.
Cocks, the posthumous Sonata, Op. 4, and the Variations stir un air
allemand without opus number; and Stanley Lucas, Weber & Co., the
Seventeen Polish Songs, Op. 74. The present editions issued by the
successor of Wessel are either printed from the original plates or
re-engraved (which is the case in about half of the number) from the old
Wessel copies, with here and there a correction.
Simultaneous publication was aimed at, as we see from Chopin’s letters,
but the dates of the list show that it was rarely attained. The appearance
of the works in France seems to have in most cases preceded that in
Germany; in the case of the Tarantelle, Op. 43, I found the English
edition first advertised (October 28, 1841). Generally there was
approximation if not simultaneity.
I.—WORKS PUBLISHED WITH OPUS NUMBERS DURING THE COMPOSER’S LIFETIME.
II.—WORKS PUBLISHED WITHOUT OPUS NUMBERS DURING THE COMPOSER’S
LIFETIME.