The Project Gutenberg Etext of Frederick Chopin as a Man and Musician, Volume 1
by Frederick Niecks
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Title: Frederick Chopin as a Man and Musician, Volume 1
Author: Frederick Niecks
Edition: 10
Language: English
Release Date: November, 2003 [Etext #4681]
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by Frederick Niecks
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Frederick Chopin as a Man and Musician, Volume 1 (of 2)
Frederick Niecks
Third Edition (1902)
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION (1888)
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION (1890)
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION (1902)
PROEM: POLAND AND THE POLES
CHAPTERS I-XIX
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--
the country people hardly knew such a thing as bread, many
had never in their life tasted such a delicacy; few villages
had an oven. A weaving-loom was rare; the spinning-wheel
unknown. The main article of furniture, in this bare scene of
squalor, was the crucifix and vessel of holy-water under
it....It was a desolate land without discipline, without law,
without a master. On 9,000 English square miles lived 500,000
souls: not 55 to the square mile. [Footnote: Carlyle.
Frederick the Great, vol. x., p. 40.]
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--
a road so barren of interesting scenes as that from Cracow to
Warsaw--for the most part level, with little variation of
surface; chiefly overspread with tracts of thick forest;
where open, the distant horizon was always skirted with wood
(chiefly pines and firs, intermixed with beech, birch, and
small oaks). The occasional breaks presented some pasture-
ground, with here and there a few meagre crops of corn. The
natives were poorer, humbler, and more miserable than any
people we had yet observed in the course of our travels:
whenever we stopped they flocked around us in crowds; and,
asking for charity, used the most abject gestures....The
Polish peasants are cringing and servile in their expressions
of respect; they bowed down to the ground; took off their
hats or caps and held them in their hands till we were out of
sight; stopped their carts on the first glimpse of our
carriage; in short, their whole behaviour gave evident
symptoms of the abject servitude under which they groaned.
[FOOTNOTE: William Coxe, Travels in Poland, Russia, Sweden,
and Denmark (1784--90).]
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.]
They monopolise [says Mr. Coxe] the commerce and trade of the
country, keep inns and taverns, are stewards to the nobility,
and seem to have so much influence that nothing can be bought
or sold without the intervention of a Jew.
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--
If you ask for an interpreter, they bring you a Jew; if you
want post-horses, a Jew procures them and a Jew drives them;
if you wish to purchase, a Jew is your agent; and this
perhaps is the only country in Europe where Jews cultivate
the ground; in passing through Lithuania, we frequently saw
them engaged in sowing, reaping, mowing, and other works of
husbandry.
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:--
He was clad in the uniform of the palatinate: a doublet
embroidered with gold, an overcoat of Tours silk ornamented
with fringes, a belt of brocade from which hung a sword with
a hilt of morocco. At his neck glittered a clasp with
diamonds. His square white cap was surmounted by a
magnificent plume, composed of tufts of herons' feathers. It
is only on festive occasions that such a rich bouquet, of
which each feather costs a ducat, is put on.
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:--
On one side it is of gold with purple flowers; on the other
it is of black silk with silver checks. Such a belt can be
worn on either side: the part woven with gold for festive
days; the reverse for days of mourning.
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:--
The streets are spacious, but ill-paved; the churches and
public buildings large and magnificent, the palaces of the
nobility are numerous and splendid; but the greatest part of
the houses, especially the suburbs, are mean and ill-
constructed wooden hovels.
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.
The streets of stately breadth, formed of palaces in the
finest Italian taste and wooden huts which at every moment
threatened to tumble down on the heads of the inmates; in
these buildings Asiatic pomp and Greenland dirtin strange
union, an ever-bustling population, forming, like a
masked procession, the most striking contrasts. Long-bearded
Jews, and monks in all kinds of habits; nuns of the strictest
discipline, entirely veiled and wrapped in meditation; and in
the large squares troops of young Polesses in light-coloured
silk mantles engaged in conversation; venerable old Polish
gentlemen with moustaches, caftan, girdle, sword, and yellow
and red boots; and the new generation in the most incroyable
Parisian fashion. Turks, Greeks, Russians, Italians, and
French in an ever-changing throng; moreover, an exceedingly
tolerant police that interfered nowise with the popular
amusements, so that in squares and streets there moved about
incessantly Pulchinella theatres, dancing bears, camels, and
monkeys, before which the most elegant carriages as well as
porters stopped and stood gaping.
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:--
Nothing could exceed the misery of all classes. The army was
not paid, the officers were in rags, the best houses were in
ruins, the greatest lords were compelled to leave Warsaw from
want of money to provide for their tables. No pleasures, no
society, no invitations as in Paris and in London. I even saw
princesses quit Warsaw from the most extreme distress. The
Princess Radziwill had brought two women from England and
France, she wished to send them back, but had to keep them
because she was unable to pay their salaries and travelling
expenses. I saw in Warsaw two French physicians who informed
me that they could not procure their fees even from the
greatest lords.
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:--
DEAREST MR. F. CHOPIN,--Wishing you perfect health I have the
honour to write to you through Mr. Eduard Wolf. [FOOTNOTE:
The language of the first sentence is neither logical nor
otherwise precise. I shall keep throughout as close as
possible to the original, and also retain the peculiar
spelling of proper names.] I recommend him to your esteemed
friendship. Your whole family and I had also the pleasure of
hearing at his concert the Adagio and Rondo from your
Concerto, which called up in our minds the most agreeable
remembrance of you. May God give you every prosperity! We are
all well, and wish so much to see you again. Meanwhile I send
you through Mr. Wolf my heartiest kiss, and recommending
myself to your esteemed friendship, I remain your faithful
friend,
ADALBERT ZIWNY.
Warsaw, the 12th of June, 1835.
N.B.--Mr. Kirkow, the merchant, and his son George, who was
at Mr. Reinschmid's at your farewell party, recommend
themselves to you, and wish you good health. Adieu.
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:--
In these salons [he writes] the rigorously observed
proprieties were not a kind of ingeniously-constructed
corsets that served to hide deformed hearts; they only
necessitated the spiritualisation of all contacts, the
elevation of all rapports, the aristocratisation of all
impressions.
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:--
One forgives him readily [in consideration of the general
excellence of his style] THE OFFENCES AGAINST THE LAW OF
HARMONIC CONNECTION THAT OCCUR HERE AND THERE, AND THE
FACILITY WITH WHICH HE SOMETIMES DISREGARDS THE FIXED RULES
OF STRICT PART-WRITING, especially in the dramatic works,
where he makes effect apparently the ultimate aim of his
indefatigable endeavours.
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:--
The first musical person of the town [Warsaw] is still the
old, youthful Joseph Elsner, a veteran master of our art, who
is as amiable as he is truly estimable. In our day one hardly
meets with a notable Polish musician who has not studied
composition under Pan [i.e., Mr.] Elsner; and he loves all
his pupils, and all speak of him with enthusiasm, and,
according to the Polish fashion, kiss the old master's
shoulder, whereupon he never forgets to kiss them heartily on
both cheeks. Even Charles Kurpinski, the pensioned
Capelhneister of the Polish National Theatre, whose hair is
already grey, is, if I am not very much misinformed, also a
pupil of Joseph Elsner's. One is often mistaken with regard
to the outward appearance of a celebrated man; I mean, one
forms often a false idea of him before one has seen him and
knows a portrait of him. I found Elsner almost exactly as I
had imagined him. Wisocki, the pianist, also a pupil of his,
took me to him. Pan Elsner lives in the Dom Pyarow [House of
Piarists]. One has to start early if one wishes to find him
at home; for soon after breakfast he goes out, and rarely
returns to his cell before evening. He inhabits, like a
genuine church composer, two cells of the old Piarist
Monastery in Jesuit Street, and in the dark passages which
lead to his rooms one sees here and there faded laid-aside
pictures of saints lying about, and old church banners
hanging down. The old gentleman was still in bed when we
arrived, and sent his servant to ask us to wait a little in
the anteroom, promising to be with us immediately. All the
walls of this room, or rather cell, were hung to the ceiling
with portraits of musicians, among them some very rare names
and faces. Mr. Elsner has continued this collection down to
the present time; also the portraits of Liszt, Thalberg,
Chopin, and Clara Wieck shine down from the old monastic
walls. I had scarcely looked about me in this large company
for a few minutes, when the door of the adjoining room
opened, and a man of medium height (not to say little),
somewhat stout, with a round, friendly countenance, grey
hair, but very lively eyes, enveloped in a warm fur dressing-
gown, stepped up to us, comfortably but quickly, and bade us
welcome. Wisocki kissed him, according to the Polish fashion,
as a token of respect, on the right shoulder, and introduced
me to him, whereupon the old friendly gentleman shook hands
with me and said some kindly words.
This, then, was Pan Joseph Elsner, the ancestor of modern
Polish music, the teacher of Chopin, the fine connoisseur and
cautious guide of original talents. For he does not do as is
done only too often by other teachers in the arts, who insist
on screwing all pupils to the same turning-lathe on which
they themselves were formed, who always do their utmost to
ingraft their own I on the pupil, so that he may become as
excellent a man as they imagine themselves to be. Joseph
Elsner did not proceed thus. When all the people of Warsaw
thought Frederick Chopin was entering on a wrong path, that
his was not music at all, that he must keep to Himmel and
Hummel, otherwise he would never do anything decent--the
clever Pan Elsner had already very clearly perceived what a
poetic kernel there was in the pale young dreamer, had long
before felt very clearly that he had before him the founder
of a new epoch of pianoforte-playing, and was far from laying
upon him a cavesson, knowing well that such a noble
thoroughbred may indeed be cautiously led, but must not be
trained and fettered in the usual way if he is to conquer.
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:--
Joseph Elsner taught Chopin those things that are most
difficult to learn and most rarely known: to he exacting to
one's self, and to value the advantages that are only
obtained by dint of patience and labour.
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:--
That with which the artist (who learns continually from his
surroundings) astonishes his contemporaries, he can only
attain by himself and through himself.
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:--
Leave him in peace [he said], his is an uncommon way because
his gifts are uncommon. He does not strictly adhere to the
customary method, but he has one of his own, and he will
reveal in his works an originality which in such a degree has
not been found in anyone.
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:--
The Prince bestowed upon him the inappreciable gift of a good
education, no part of which remained neglected. His elevated
mind enabling him to understand the exigencies of an artist's
career, he, from the time of his protege's entering the
college to the entire completion of his studies, paid the
pension through the agency of a friend, M. Antoine
Korzuchowski, [FOOTNOTE: Liszt should have called this
gentleman Adam Kozuchowski.] who always maintained cordial
relations and a constant friendship with Chopin.
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. Arid 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:--
Very often [he writes] the flies sit on my prominent nose--
this, however, is of no consequence, it is the habit of these
little animals. The mosquitoes bite me--this too, however, is
of no consequence, for they don't bite me in the nose.
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:--
Robbers set out to plunder a house. They come nearer and
nearer. Then they halt, and put up the ladders they have
brought with them. But just when they are about to enter
through the windows, they hear a noise within. This gives
them a fright. They run away to the woods. There, amidst the
stillness and darkness of the night, they lie down and
before long fall fast asleep.
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:--
The Academist Chopin performed the first Allegro of
Moscheles' Pianoforte Concerto in F [G ?] minor, and an
improvisation on the aeolopantaleon. This instrument,
invented by the cabinet-maker Dlugosz, of this town, combines
the aeolomelodicon [FOOTNOTE: An instrument of the organ
species, invented by Professor Hoffmann, and constructed by
the mechanician Brunner, of Warsaw.] with the piano-
forte....Young Chopin distinguished himself in his
improvisation by wealth of musical ideas, and under his hands
this instrument, of which he is a thorough master, made a
great impression.
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 school of that time [remarks Fontana] could no longer
suffice him, he aimed higher, and felt himself impelled
towards an ideal which, at first vague, before long grew into
greater distinctness. It was then that, in trying his
strength, he acquired that touch and style, so different from
those of his predecessors, and that he succeeded in creating
at last that execution which since then has been the
admiration of the artistic world.
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 weaiy 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.
At first I was astonished that in Silesia the women work
generally more than the men, but as I am doing nothing myself
just now I have no difficulty in falling in with this
arrangement.
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:--
I heard yesterday Radziwill's Faust for the first time, and,
I may add, with much satisfaction; for the old-fashioned
things to be found in it (for instance, the utilisation of
Mozart's C minor Quartet fugue as overture, the strictly
polyphonous treatment of the choruses, &c.) are abundantly
compensated for by numerous traits of genius, and by the
thorough knowledge and the earnest intention with which the
work is conceived and executed. He dares incredible things in
the way of combining speech and song. That this combination
is an inartistic one, on that point we are no doubt at one,
but what he has effected by this means is nevertheless in the
highest degree remarkable....
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:--
It cannot be denied [he writes] that the Polish peasant has
often more head and heart than the German peasant in some
districts. Not infrequently did I find in the meanest Pole
that original wit (not Gemuthswitz, humour) which on every
occasion bubbles forth with wonderful iridescence, and that
dreamy sentimental trait, that brilliant flashing of an
Ossianic feeling for nature whose sudden outbreaks on
passionate occasions are as involuntary as the rising of the
blood into the face.
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.
We intend to play it some day at the Ressource. As to my new
compositions, I have nothing to show except the as yet
unfinished Trio (G minor), which I began after your
departure. The first Allegro I have already tried with
accompaniment. It appears to me that this trio will have the
same fate as my sonata and the variations. Both works are now
in Vienna; the first I have, as a pupil of Elsner's,
dedicated to him, and on the second I have placed (perhaps
too boldly) your name. I followed in this the impulse of my
heart and you will not take it unkindly.
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--
there is in it a warmth, a dramatic life, and a strength in
all its effects, which are decidedly not in the style of
Mozart. But Soliva, who is a young man and full of the
warmest admiration for Mozart, has imbibed certain tints of
his colouring.
The rest is too outrageously ridiculous to be quoted. Whatever
Beyle's purely literary merits and his achievements in fiction
may be, I quite agree with Berlioz, who remarks, a propos of this
gentleman's Vie de Rossini, that he writes "les plus irritantes
stupidites sur la musique, dont il croyait avoir le secret." To
which cutting dictum may be added a no less cutting one of M.
Lavoix fils, who, although calling Beyle an "ecrivain d'esprit,"
applies to him the appellation of "fanfaron d'ignorance en
musique." I would go a step farther than either of these writers.
Beyle is an ignorant braggart, not only in music, but in art
generally, and such esprit as his art criticisms exhibit would be
even more common than it unfortunately now is, if he were oftener
equalled in conceit and arrogance. The pillorying of a humbug is
so laudable an object that the reader will excuse the digression,
which, moreover, may show what miserable instruments a poor
biographer has sometimes to make use of. Another informant,
unknown to fame, but apparently more trustworthy, furnishes us
with an account of Soliva in Warsaw. The writer in question
disapproves of the Italian master's drill-method in teaching
singing, and says that as a composer his power of invention was
inferior to his power of construction; and, further, that he was
acquainted with the scores of the best musicians of all times,
and an expert in accompanying on the pianoforte. As Elsner,
Zywny, and the pianist and composer Javurek have already been
introduced to the reader, I shall advert only to one other of the
older Warsaw musicians--namely, Charles Kurpinski, the most
talented and influential native composer then living in Poland.
To him and Elsner is chiefly due the progress which Polish music
made in the first thirty years of this century. Kurpinski came to
Warsaw in 1810, was appointed second conductor at the National
Opera-house, afterwards rose to the position of first conductor,
was nominated maitre de chapelle de la cour de Varsovie, was made
a Knight of the St. Stanislas Order, &c. He is said to have
learnt composition by diligently studying Mozart's scores, and in
1811 began to supply the theatre with dramatic works. Besides
masses, symphonies, &c., he composed twenty-four operas, and
published also some theoretical works and a sketch of the history
of the Polish opera. Kurpinski was by nature endowed with fine
musical qualities, uniting sensibility and energy with easy
productivity. Chopin did homage to his distinguished countryman
in introducing into his Grande Fantaisie sur des airs polonais,
Op. 13, a theme of Kurpinski's. Two younger men, both born in
1800, must yet be mentioned to compete the picture. One of them,
Moritz Ernemann, a pupil of Mendelssohn's pianoforte-master, L.
Berger, played with success in Poland and Germany, and has been
described by contemporaries as a finished and expressive, but not
brilliant, pianist. His pleasing compositions are of an
instructive and mildly-entertaining character. The other of the
two was Joseph Christoph Kessler, a musician of very different
mettle. After studying philosophy in Vienna, and composing at the
house of Count Potocki in Lemberg his celebrated Etudes, Op. 20
(published at Vienna, reprinted at Paris, recommended by
Kalkbrenner in his Methode, quoted by Fetis and Moscheles in
their Methode des Methodes, and played in part by Liszt at his
concerts), he tried in 1829 his luck in Warsaw. Schumann thought
(in 1835) that Kessler had the stuff in him to do something
great, and always looked forward with expectation to what he
would yet accomplish. Kessler's studies might be dry, but he was
assuredly a "Mann von Geist und sogar poetischem Geist." He
dedicated his twenty-four Preludes, Op. 31, to Chopin, and Chopin
his twenty-four Preludes, Op. 28, to him--that is to say, the
German edition.
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:--
Spontini, Zelter, and Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy were also
there; but I spoke to none of these gentlemen, as I did not
think it becoming to introduce myself.
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:--
To-morrow the "Freischutz" will be performed; this is the
fulfilment of my most ardent wish. When I hear it I shall be
able to make a comparison between the singers here and our
own.
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:--
I should gain little or nothing for my mind from these
discussions, because I am too little of a savant; and,
moreover, the professional gentlemen might perhaps look at
me, the layman, and think: "How comes Saul among the
prophets?"
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:--
I have come to Berlin for my musical education, and the
library of Schlesinger, consisting of the most interesting
works of the composers of all countries and times, must
interest me more than any other collections.
The words, he adds, add nothing to the strength of his argument.
It is a comfort to think that I, too, shall yet come to
Schlesinger's, and that it is always good for a young man to
see much, as from everything something may be learnt.
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.
All these are things with which I have no intention to
meddle. I shall write to him from Berlin that this affair is
not in my line, and that, moreover, I cannot yet form a
judgment such as would be worthy of a Parisian journal, which
must contain only mature and competent opinions, &c.
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:--
He is not above middle height, and his countenance cannot be
called beautiful; but the somewhat protruding, broad, and
well-moulded forehead, and the deep inquiring eye, announce
the all-embracing mind which animates this humane as well as
much-travelled savant. Humboldt spoke French, and as well as
his mother-tongue.
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:--
Marylski [one of his Warsaw friends] has not the faintest
shadow of taste if he asserts that the ladies of Berlin dress
prettily. They deck themselves out, it is true; but it is a
pity for the fine stuffs which are cut up for such puppets!
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:--
During the last week I have composed nothing worthy either of
God or of man. I run from Ananias to Caiaphas; to-night I
shall be at Madame Wizegerod's, from there I shall drive to a
musical soiree at Miss Kicka's. You know how pleasant it is
to be forced to improvise when one is tired! I have not often
such happy thoughts as come sometimes under my fingers when I
am with you. And then the miserable instruments!
In the same letter he relates that his parents are preparing a
small room for him:--
A staircase leads from the entrance directly into it; there I
shall have an old writing-desk, and this nook will be my
retreat.
This remark calls up a passage in a letter written two years
later from Vienna to his friend John Matuszynski:--
When your former colleagues, for instance, Rostkowski,
Schuch, Freyer, Kyjewski, Hube, &c., are holding merry
converse in my room, then think that I am laughing and
enjoying myself with you.
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:--
The joy was general, for Titus also had letters from home. I
thank Celinski lor the enclosed note; it brought vividly back
to me the time when I was still amongst you: it seemed to me
as if I were sitting at the piano and Celinski standing
opposite me looking at Mr. Zywny, who just then treated
Linowski to a pinch of snuff. Only Matuszynski was wanting to
make the group complete.
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:--
The Rondo for two pianos, this orphan child, has found a step-
father in Fontana (you may perhaps have seen him at our
house, he attends the university); he studied it for more
than a month, but then he did learn it, and not long ago we
tried how it would sound at Buchholtz's.
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.
Working together under the same master, having the same
manner of seeing and feeling, Frederick Chopin and I.F.
Dobrzynski became united in a close friendship. The same
aims, the same artistic tendency to seek the UNKNOWN,
characterised their efforts. They communicated to each other
their ideas and impressions, followed different routes to
arrive at the same goal.
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:--
Yesterday--i.e., Tuesday, at 7 p.m., I made my debut in the
Imperial Opera-house before the public of Vienna. These
evening concerts in the theatre are called here "musical
academies." As I claimed no honorarium, Count Gallenberg
hastened on my appearance.
In a letter to Titus Woyciechowski, dated September 12, 1829, he
says:--
The sight of the Viennese public did not at all excite me,
and I sat down, pale as I was, at a wonderful instrument of
Graff's, at the time perhaps the best in Vienna. Beside me I
had a painted young man, who turned the leaves for me in the
Variations, and who prided himself on having rendered the
same service to Moscheles, Hummel, and Herz. Believe me when
I say that I played in a desperate mood; nevertheless, the
Variations produced so much effect that I was called back
several times. Mdlle. Veltheim sang very beautifully. Of my
improvisation I know only that it was followed by stormy
applause and many recalls.
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:--
The members of the orchestra [Chopin writes to his friend
Titus Woyciechowski] showed me sour faces at the rehearsal;
what vexed them most was that I wished to make my debut with
a new composition. I began with the Variations which are
dedicated to you; they were to be followed by the Rondo
Krakowiak. We got through the Variations well, the Rondo, on
the other hand, went so badly that we had to begin twice from
the beginning; the cause of this was said to be the bad
writing. I ought to have placed the figures above and not
below the rests (that being the way to which the Viennese
musicians are accustomed). Enough, these gentlemen made such
faces that I already felt inclined to send word in the
evening that I was ill. Demar, the manager, noticed the bad
disposition of the members of the orchestra, who also don't
like Wurfel. The latter wished to conduct himself, but the
orchestra refused (I don't know for what reason) to play
under his direction. Mr. Demar advised me to improvise, at
which proposal the orchestra looked surprised. I was so
irritated by what had happened that in my desperation I
agreed to it; and who knows if my bad humour and strange mood
were not the causes of the great success which my playing
obtained.
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:--
The orchestra cursed my badly-written music, and was not at
all favourably inclined towards me until I began the
improvisation; but then it joined in the applause of the
public. From this I saw that it had a good opinion of me.
Whether the other artists had so too I did not know as yet;
but why should they be against me? They must see that I do
not play for the sake of material advantages.
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.
The rendering of the Rondo especially [Chopin writes] gave me
pleasure, because Gyrowetz, Lachner, and other masters, nay,
even the orchestra, were so charmed--excuse the expression--
that they called me back twice.
In another letter he is more loquacious on the subject:--
If the public received me kindly on my first appearance, it
was yesterday still more hearty. When I appeared on the stage
I was greeted with a twice-repeated, long-sustained "Bravo!"
The public had gathered in greater numbers than at the first
concert. The financier of the theatre, Baron--I do not
remember his name--thanked me for the recette and said that
if the attendance was great, it was not on account of the
ballet, which had already been often performed. With my Rondo
I have won the good opinion of all professional musicians--
from Capellmeister Lachner to the pianoforte-tuner, all
praise my composition.
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:--
[Chopin] surprised people, because they discovered in him not
only a fine, but a really very eminent talent; on account of
the originality of his playing and compositions one might
almost attribute to him already some genius, at least, in so
far as unconventional forms and pronounced individuality are
concerned. His playing, like his compositions--of which we
heard on this occasion only variations--has a certain
character of modesty which seems to indicate that to shine is
not the aim of this young man, although his execution
conquered difficulties the overcoming of which even here, in
the home of pianoforte virtuosos, could not fail to cause
astonishment; nay, with almost ironical naivete he takes it
into his head to entertain a large audience with music as
music. And lo, he succeeded in this. The unprejudiced public
rewarded him with lavish applause. His touch, although neat
and sure, has little of that brilliance by which our
virtuosos announce themselves as such in the first bars; he
emphasised but little, like one conversing in a company of
clever people, not with that rhetorical aplomb which is
considered by virtuosos as indispensable. He plays very
quietly, without the daring elan which generally at once
distinguishes the artist from the amateur. Nevertheless, our
fine-feeling and acute-judging public recognised at once in
this youth, who is a stranger and as yet unknown to fame, a
true artist; and this evening afforded the unprejudiced
observer the pleasing spectacle of a public which, considered
as a moral person, showed itself a true connoisseur and a
virtuoso in the comprehension and appreciation of an artistic
performance which, in no wise grandiose, was nevertheless
gratifying.
There were defects noticeable in the young man's playing,
among which are perhaps especially to be mentioned the non-
observance of the indication by accent of the commencement of
musical phrases. Nevertheless, he was recognised as an artist
of whom the best may be expected as soon as he has heard
more....As in his playing he was like a beautiful young tree
that stands free and full of fragrant blossoms and ripening
fruits, so he manifested as much estimable individuality in
his compositions, where new figures, new passages, new forms
unfolded themselves in the introduction, in the first,
second, and fourth Variations, and in the concluding
metamorphosis of Mozart's theme into a polacca.
Such is the ingenuousness of the young virtuoso that he
undertook to come forward at the close of the concert with a
free fantasia before a public in whose eyes few improvisers,
with the exception of Beethoven and Hummel, have as yet found
favour. If the young man by a manifold change of his themes
aimed especially at amusement, the calm flow of his thoughts
and their firm connection and chaste development were
nevertheless a sufficient proof of his capability as regards
this rare gift. Mr. Chopin gave to-day so much pleasure to a
small audience that one cannot help wishing he may at another
performance play before a larger one....
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.
He is a young man who goes his own way, and knows how to
please in this way, although his style of playing and writing
differs greatly from that of other virtuosos; and, indeed
chiefly in this, that the desire to make good music
predominates noticeably in his case over the desire to
please. Also to-day Mr. Chopin gave general satisfaction.
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.
He executes the greatest difficulties with accuracy and
precision, and renders all passages with neatness. The
tribute of applause which the public paid to this clever
artist was very great; the concert-piece with orchestra (the
Variations) especially pleased.
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:--
Chopin performed a new Rondo for pianoforte and orchestra of
his own composition. This piece is written throughout in the
chromatic style, rarely rises to geniality, but has passages
which are distinguished by depth and thoughtful working-out.
On the whole, however, he seems to be somewhat lacking in
variety. The master showed in it his dexterity as a pianist
to perfection, and conquered the greatest difficulties with
felicity. A longer stay in Vienna might be to the advantage
of his touch as well as of his ensemble playing with the
orchestra. He received much applause, and was repeatedly
called back....At the close Mr. Chopin played to-day the
Variations on a theme of Mozart's, which he had already
performed with so much bravura and felicity at his first
concert. The pleasing and yet substantial variety of this
composition as well as the fine, successful playing obtained
also to-day loud applause for the pianist. Connoisseurs and
amateurs manifested joyously and loudly their recognition of
his clever playing. This young man...shows in his
compositions a serious striving to interweave by interesting
combinations the orchestra with the pianoforte.
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:--
Mr. Chopin, a pianist from Warsaw, according to report a
pupil of Wurfel's [which report was of course baseless], came
before us a master of the first rank. The exquisite delicacy
of his touch, his indescribable mechanical dexterity, his
finished shading and portamento, which reflect the deepest
feeling; the lucidity of his interpretation, and his
compositions, which bear the stamp of great genius--
variazioni di bravura, rondo, free fantasia--reveal a
virtuoso most liberally endowed by nature, who, without
previous blasts of trumpets, appears on the horizon like one
of the most brilliant meteors.
Still, the sweets of success were not altogether without some
admixture of bitterness, as we may perceive from the following
remarks of Chopin's:--
I know that I have pleased the ladies and the musicians.
Gyrowetz, who sat beside Celinski, made a terrible noise, and
shouted "Bravo." Only the out-and-out Germans seem not to
have been quite satisfied.
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:--
They are accustomed to the drumming of the native pianoforte
virtuosos. I fear that the newspapers will reproach me with
the same thing, especially as the daughter of an editor is
said to drum frightfully. However, it does not matter; as
this cannot be helped, I would rather that people say I play
too delicately than too roughly.
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.
Everybody says that I have pleased the nobility here
exceedingly The Schwarzenbergs, Wrbnas, &c., were quite
enraptured by the delicacy and elegance of my playing. As a
further proof I may mention the visit which Count
Dietrichstein paid me on the stage.
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:--
After a touching parting--it was really a touching parting
when Miss Blahetka gave me as a souvenir her compositions
bearing her own signature, and her father sent his
compliments to you [Chopin's father] and dear mother,
congratulating you on having such a son; when young Stein
[one of the well-known family of pianoforte-manufacturers and
musicians] wept, and Schuppanzigh, Gyrowetz, in one word, all
the other artists, were much moved--well then, after this
touching parting and having promised to return soon, I
stepped into the stage-coach.
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.
I heard him play his fugues for two hours; I did not play, as
they did not ask me to do so. Klengel's rendering pleased me,
but I must confess I had expected something better (but I beg
of you not to mention this remark of mine to others).
Elsewhere he writes:--
Of all the artists whose acquaintance I have made, Klengel
pleased me most. He played me his fugues (one may say that
they are a continuation of those of Bach. There are forty-
eight of them, and the same number of canons). What a
difference between him and Czerny!
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.
Hereupon [he relates] I heard the ladies, who had taken seats
near a table, whisper to each other: "Un theme, un theme."
Three young princesses consulted together and at last turned
to Mr. Fritsche, the tutor of Prince Clary's only son, who,
with the approbation of all present, said to me: "The
principal theme of Rossini's 'Moses'." I improvised, and, it
appears, very successfully, for General Leiser [this was the
Saxon general] afterwards conversed with me for a long time,
and when he heard that I intended to go to Dresden he wrote
at once to Baron von Friesen as follows: "Monsieur Frederic
Chopin est recommande de la part du General Leiser a Monsieur
le Baron de Friesen, Maitre de Ceremonie de S.M. le Roi de
Saxe, pour lui etre utile pendant son sejour a Dresde et de
lui procurer la connaissance de plusieurs de nos artistes."
And he added, in German: "Herr Chopin is himself one of the
most excellent pianists whom I know."
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:--
I tried the Trio last Sunday and was satisfied with it,
perhaps because I had not heard it for a long time. I suppose
you will say, "What a happy man!" Something occurred to me on
hearing it--namely, that it would be better to employ a viola
instead of the violin, for with the violin the E string
dominates most, whilst in my Trio it is hardly ever used. The
viola would stand in a more proper relation to the
violoncello. Then the Trio will be ready for the press.
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:--
In the Trio everything is new: the school, which is the neo-
romantic; the art of pianoforte-playing, the individuality,
the originality, or rather the genius--which, in the
expression of a passion, unites, mingles, and alternates so
strangely with that amiable tenderness [Innigkeit] that the
shifting image of the passion hardly leaves the draughtsman
time to seize it firmly and securely, as he would fain do;
even the position of the phrases is unusual. All this,
however, would be ambiguous praise did not the spirit, which
is both old and new, breathe through the new form and give it
a soul.
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:--
Do not imagine that [when I speak of the advantages and
desirability of a stay in Vienua] I am thinking of Miss
Blahetka, of whom I have written to you; I have--perhaps to
my misfortune--already found my ideal, which I worship
faithfully and sincerely. Six months have elapsed, and I have
not yet exchanged a syllable with her of whom I dream every
night. Whilst my thoughts were with her I composed the Adagio
of my Concerto, and early this morning she inspired the Waltz
which I send along with this letter.
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.
December 27th, 1828.--If I scribble to-day again so much
nonsense, I do so only in order to remind you that you are as
much locked in my heart as ever, and that I am the same Fred
I was. You do not like to be kissed; but to-day you must
permit me to do so.
The question of kissing is frequently brought up.
September 12th, 1829.--I embrace you heartily, and kiss you
on your lips if you will permit me.
October 20th, 1829.--I embrace you heartily--many a one
writes this at the end ol his letter, but most people do so
with little thought of what they are writing. But you may
believe me, my dearest friend, that I do so sincerely, as
truly as my name is Fred.
September 4th, 1830.--Time passes, I must wash myself...do
not kiss me now...but you would not kiss me in any case--even
if I anointed myself with Byzantine oils--unless I forced you
to do so by magnetic means.
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.
November 14th, 1829.--You, my dearest one, do not require my
portrait. Believe me I am always with you, and shall not
forget you till the end of my life.
May 15th, 1830.--You have no idea how much I love you! If I
only could prove it to you! What would I not give if I could
once again right heartily embrace you!
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:--
September 18th, 1830.--I should not like to travel with you,
for I look forward with the greatest delight to the moment
when we shall meet abroad and embrace each other; it will be
worth more than a thousand monotonous days passed with you on
the journey.
From another passage in one of these letters we get a good idea
of the influence Titus Woyciechowski exercised on his friend.
April 10, 1830.--Your advice is good. I have already refused
some invitations for the evening, as if I had had a
presentiment of it--for I think of you in almost everything I
undertake. I do not know whether it comes from my having
learned from you how to feel and perceive; but when I compose
anything I should much like to know whether it pleases you;
and I believe that my second Concerto (E minor) will have no
value for me until you have heard it and approved of it.
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.
April 17, 1830.--If you are in Warsaw during the sitting of
the Diet, you will come to my concert--I have something like
a presentiment, and when I also dream it, I shall firmly
believe it.
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:--
You cannot imagine how sad Warsaw is to me; if I did not feel
happy in my home circle I should not like to live here. Oh,
how bitter it is to have no one with whom one can share joy
and sorrow; oh, how dreadful to feel one's heart oppressed
and to be unable to express one's complaints to any human
soul! You know full well what I mean. How often do I tell my
piano all that I should like to impart to you!
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:--
But what is the good of it all? Seeing that I have begun so
many new works, perhaps the wisest thing I can do is to stay
here.
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.
I have written [reports Chopin to his friend Titus on
November 14, 1829] during my visit at Prince Radziwill's an
Alla Polacca with violoncello. It is nothing more than a
brilliant salon piece, such as pleases ladies. I would like
Princess Wanda to practise it, so that it might be said that
I had taught her. She is only seventeen years old and
beautiful; it would be delightful to have the privilege of
placing her pretty fingers on the keys. But, joking apart,
her soul is endowed with true musical feeling, and one does
not need to tell her whether she is to play crescendo, piano,
or pianissimo.
According to Liszt, Chopin fondly remembered his visits to
Antonin, and told many an anecdote in connection with them.
The Princess Elisa, one of the daughters of Prince Radziwill,
who died in the first bloom of her life, left him [Chopin]
the sweet image of an angel exiled for a short period here
below.
A passage in the letter of Chopin from which I last quoted throws
also a little light on his relation to her.
You wished one of my portraits; if I could only have pilfered
one of Princess Elisa's, I should certainly have sent it; for
she has two portraits of me in her album, and I am told that
these drawings are very good likenesses.
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.
You know how the Prince loves music; he showed me his "Faust"
and I found in it some things tnat are really beautiful,
indeed, in part even grandly conceived. In confidence, I
should not at all have credited the Namiestnik [governor,
lord-lieutenant] with such music! Among other things I was
struck by a scene in which Mephistopheles allures Margaret to
the window by his singing and guitar-playing, while at the
same time a chorale is heard from the neighbouring church.
This is sure to produce a great effect at a performance. I
mention this only that you may form an idea of his musical
conceptions. He is a great admirer of Gluck. Theatrical music
has, in his opinion, significance only in so far as it
illustrates the situation and emotion; the overture,
therefore, has no close, and leads at once into the
introduction. The orchestra is placed behind the stage and is
always invisible, in order that the attention of the audience
may not be diverted by external, such as the movements of the
conductor and executants.
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
1. Overture to the Opera "Leszek Bialy," by Elsner.
2. Allegro from the Concerto in F minor, composed and played
by F. Chopin.
3. Divertissement for the French horn, composed and played by
Gorner.
4. Adagio and Rondo from the Concerto in F minor, composed
and played by Chopin.
PART II
1. Overture to the Opera "Cecylja Piaseczynska," by
Kurpinski.
2. Variations by Paer, sung by Madame Meier.
3. Pot-pourri on national airs, composed and played by
Chopin.
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.
The first Allegro of the F minor Concerto (not intelligible
to all) received indeed the reward of a "Bravo," but I
believe this was given because the public wished to show that
it understands and knows how to appreciate serious music.
There are people enough in all countries who like to assume
the air of connoisseurs! The Adagio and Rondo produced a very
great effect. After these the applause and the "Bravos" came
really from the heart; but the Pot-pourri on Polish airs
missed its object entirely. There was indeed some applause,
but evidently only to show the player that the audience had
not been bored.
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.
After my concerts there appeared many criticisms; if in them
(especially in the "Kuryer Polski") abundant praise was
awarded to me, it was nevertheless not too extravagant. The
"Official Journal" has also devoted some columns to my
praise; one of its numbers contained, among other things,
such stupidities--well meant, no doubt--that I was quite
desperate till I had read the answer in the "Gazeta Polska,"
which justly takes away what the other papers had in their
exaggeration attributed to me. In this article it is said
that the Poles will one day be as proud of me as the Germans
are of Mozart, which is palpable nonsense. But that is not
all, the critic says further: "That if I had fallen into the
hands of a pedant or a Rossinist (what a stupid expression!)
I could not have become what I am." Now, although I am as yet
nothing, he is right in so far that my performance would be
still less than it actually is if I had not studied under
Elsner.
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:--
Wonderfully beautiful, but not quite suitable for the piano.
Everything Spohr has written for the piano is very difficult,
indeed, sometimes it is impossible to find any fingering for
his passages.
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:--
It seems to me that he will become a better player than
Krogulski; but I have not yet dared to express this opinion,
although I have been often asked to do so.
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.
Now [says Chopin, the cautious, to his friend] he [Blahetka]
cannot say that I have not sufficiently informed him of the
state of things here! It is not unlikely that he will come. I
should be glad to see them, and would do what I could to
procure a full house for his daughter. I should most
willingly play with her on two pianos, for you cannot imagine
how kindly an interest this German [Mr. Blahetka] took in me
at Vienna.
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.
They should not be compared. They are different mistresses of
different schools. The playing of the Belleville is
technically the finer of the two; Clara's is more
impassioned. The tone of the Belleville caresses, but does
not penetrate beyond the ear; that of Clara reaches the
heart. The one is a poetess; the other is poetry itself.
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):--
...It is impossible for me to describe to you how great a
pleasure the acquaintance with this "God-sent one" (as some
enthusiasts justly call her) has given me. Prince Radziwitt
introduced me to her, for which I feel greatly obliged to
him. Unfortunately, I profited little by her eight days' stay
with us, and I saw how she was bored by dull visits from
senators, woyewods, castellans, ministers, generals, and
adjutants, who only sat and stared at her while they were
talking about quite indifferent things. She receives them all
very kindly, for she is so very good-natured that she cannot
be unamiable to anyone. Yesterday, when she was going to put
on her bonnet previously to going to the rehearsal, she was
obliged to lock the door of her room, because the servant in
the ante-room could not keep back the large number of
callers. I should not have one to her if she had not sent for
me, Radziwill having asked me to write out a song which he
has arranged for her. This is an Ukraine popular song
("Dumka") with variations. The theme and finale are
beautiful, but the middle section does not please me (and it
pleases Mdlle. Sontag even less than me). I have indeed made
some alterations, but it is still good for nothing. I am glad
she leaves after to-day's concert, because I shall pet rid of
this business, and when Radziwill comes at the close of the
Diet he may perhaps relinquish his variations.
Mdlle. Sontag is not beautiful, but in the highest degree
captivating; she enchants all with her voice, which indeed is
not very powerful, but magnificently cultivated. Her
diminuendo is the non plus ultra that can be heard; her
portamento wonderfully fine; her chromatic scales, especially
toward the upper part of her voice, unrivalled. She sang us
an aria by Mercadante, very, very beautifully; the variations
by Rode, especially the last roulades, more than excellently.
The variations on the Swiss theme pleased so much that, after
having several times bowed her acknowledgments for the
applause, she had to sing them da capo. The same thing
happened to her yesterday with the last of Rode's variations.
She has, moreover, performed the cavatina from "Il Barbiere",
as well as several arias from "La Gazza ladra" and from "Der
Freischutz". Well, you will hear for yourself what a
difference there is between her erformances and those we have
hitherto heard here. On one occasion was with her when Soliva
came with the Misses Gladkowska [the idea!] and Wolkaw, who
had to sing to her his duet which concludes with the words
"barbara sorte"--you may perhaps remember it. Miss Sontag
remarked to me, in confidence, that both voices were really
beautiful, but already somewhat worn, and that these ladies
must change their method of singing entirely if they did not
wish to run the risk of losing their voices within two years.
She said, in my presence, to Miss Wolkow that she possessed
much facility and taste, but had une voix trop aigue. She
invited both ladies in the most friendly manner to visit her
more frequently, promising to do all in her power to show and
teach them her own manner of singing. Is this not a quite
unusual politeness? Nay, I even believe it is coquetry so
great that it made upon me the impression of naturalness and
a certain naivete; for it is hardly to be believed that a
human being can be so natural unless it knows all the
resources of coquetry. In her neglige Miss Sontag is a
hundred times more beautiful and pleasing than in full
evening-dress. Nevertheless, those who have not seen her in
the morning are charmed with her appearance at the concert.
On her return she will give concerts up to the 22nd of the
month; then, as she herself told me, she intends to go to St.
Petersburg. Therefore, be quick, dear friend, and come at
once, so that you may not miss more than the five concerts
she has already given.
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:--
But I have not yet told you all about Miss Sontag. She has in
her rendering some entirely new broderies, with which she
produces great effect, but not in the same way as Paganini.
Perhaps the cause lies in this, that hers is a smaller genre.
She seems to exhale the perfume of a fresh bouquet of flowers
over the parterre, and, now caresses, now plays with her
voice; but she rarely moves to tears. Radziwill, on the other
hand, thinks that she sings and acts the last scene of
Desdemona in Othello in such a manner that nobody can refrain
from weeping. To-day I asked her if she would sing us
sometime this scene in costume (she is said to be an
excellent actress); she answered me that it was true that she
had often seen tears in the eyes of the audience, but that
acting excited her too much, and she had resolved to appear
as rarely as possible on the stage. You have but to come here
if you wish to rest from your rustic cares. Miss Sontag will
sing you something, and you will awake to life again and will
gather new strength for your labours.
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:--
I must confess that I look back to it with great pleasure; I
feel always a certain longing for your beautiful country-
seat. The weeping-willow is always present to my mind; that
arbaleta! oh, I remember it so fondly! Well, you have teased
me so much about it that I am punished thereby for all my
sins.
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.
March 27, 1830.--At no time have I missed you so much as now.
I have nobody to whom I can open my heart.
April 17, 1830.--In my unbearable longing I feel better as
soon as I receive a letter from you. To-day this comfort was
more necessary than ever. I should like to chase away the
thoughts that poison my joyousness; but, in spite of all, it
is pleasant to play with them. I don't know myself what I
want; perhaps I shall be calmer after writing this letter.
Farther on in the same letter he says:--
How often do I take the night for the day, and the day for
the night! How often do I live in a dream and sleep during
the day, worse than if I slept, for I feel always the same;
and instead of finding refreshment in this stupor, as in
sleep, I vex and torment myself so that I cannot gain
strength.
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:--
Ernemann is of our opinion [writes Chopin] that no singer can
easily be compared to Miss Gladkowska, especially as regards
just intonation and genuine warmth of feeling, which
manifests itself fully only on the stage, and carries away
the audience. Miss Wolkow made several times slight mistakes,
whereas Miss Gladkowska, although she has only been heard
twice in Agnese, did not allow the least doubtful note to
pass her lips.
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):--
I am still here; indeed, I do not feel inclined to go abroad.
Next month, however, I shall certainly go. Of course, only to
follow my vocation and reason, which latter would be in a
sorry plight if it were not strong enough to master every
other thing in my head.
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.
I tell you my ideas become madder and madder every day. I am
still sitting here, and cannot make up my mind to fix
definitively the day of my departure. I have always a
presentiment that I shall leave Warsaw never to return to it;
I am convinced that I shall say farewell to my home for ever.
Oh, how sad it must be to die in any other place but where
one was born! What a great trial it would be to me to see
beside my death-bed an unconcerned physician and paid servant
instead of the dear faces of my relatives! Believe me, Titus,
I many a time should like to go to you and seek rest for my
oppressed heart; but as this is not possible, I often hurry,
without knowing why, into the street. But there also nothing
allays or diverts my longing. I return home to... long again
indescribably... I have not yet rehearsed my Concerto; in any
case I shall leave all my treasures behind me by Michaelmas.
In Vienna I shall be condemned to sigh and groan! This is the
consequence of having no longer a free heart! You who know
this indescribable power so well, explain to me the strange
feeling which makes men always expect from the following day
something better than the preceding day has bestowed upon
them? "Do not be so foolish!" That is all the answer I can
give myself; if you know a better, tell me, pray, pray....
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.
Since my return I have not yet visited her, and must tell you
openly that I often attribute the cause of my distress to
her; it seems to me as if people shared this view, and that
affords me a certain satisfaction. My father smiles at it;
but if he knew all, he would perhaps weep. Indeed, I am
seemingly quite contented, whilst my heart....
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.
Only wait, the day will come when you will not fare any
better. Man is not always happy; sometimes only a few moments
of happiness are granted to him in this life; therefore why
should we shun this rapture which cannot last long?
After this the darkness of sadness shades gradually into brighter
hues:--
As on the one hand I consider intercourse with the outer
world a sacred duty, so, on the other hand, I regard it as a
devilish invention, and it would be better if men... but I
have said enough!...
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.
To-morrow I shall hold a rehearsal [of the E minor Concerto]
with quartet, and then drive to--whither? Indeed, I do not
feel inclined to go anywhere; but I shall on no account stay
in Warsaw. If you have, perhaps, a suspicion that something
dear to me retains me here, you are mistaken, like many
others. I assure you I should be ready to make any sacrifice
if only my own self were concerned, and I--although I am in
love--had yet to keep my unfortunate feelings concealed in my
bosom for some years to come.
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.
I was to start with the Cracow post for Vienna as early as
this day week, but finally I have given up that idea--you
will understand why. You may be quite sure that I am no
egoist, but, as I love you, am also willing to sacrifice
anything for the sake of others. For the sake of others, I
say, but not for the sake of outward appearance. For public
opinion, which is in high esteem among us, but which, you may
be sure, does not influence me, goes even so far as to call
it a misfortune if one wears a torn coat, a shabby hat, and
the like. If I should fail in my career, and have some day
nothing to eat, you must appoint me as clerk at Poturzyn.
There, in a room above the stables, I shall be as happy as I
was last summer in your castle. As long as I am in vigour and
health I shall willingly continue to work all my life. I have
often considered the question, whether I am really lazy or
whether I could work more without overexerting my strength.
Joking apart, I have convinced myself that I am not the worst
idler, and that I am able to work twice as much if necessity
demands it.
It often happens that he who wishes to better the opinion
which others have formed of him makes it worse; but, I think,
as regards you, I can make it neither better nor worse, even
if I occasionally praise myself. The sympathy which I have
for you forces your heart to have the same sympathetic
feelings for me. You are not master of your thoughts, but I
command mine; when I have once taken one into my head I do
not let it be taken from me, just as the trees do not let
themselves be robbed of their green garment which gives them
the charm of youth. With me it will be green in winter also,
that is, only in the head, but--God help me--in the heart the
greatest ardour, therefore, no one need wonder that the
vegetation is so luxuriant. Enough...yours for ever...Only
now I notice that I have talked too much nonsense. You see
yesterday's impression [he refers to the name-day festivity
already mentioned] has not yet quite passed away, I am still
sleepy and tired, because I danced too many mazurkas.
Around your letters I twine a little ribbon which my ideal
once gave me. I am glad the two lifeless things, the letters
and the ribbon, agree so well together, probably because,
although they do not know each other, they yet feel that they
both come from a hand dear to me.
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.
I regret very much [he writes on September 22, 1830] that I
must write to you when, as to-day, I am unable to collect my
thoughts. When I reflect on myself I get into a sad mood, and
am in danger of losing my reason. When I am lost in my
thoughts--which is often the case with me--horses could
trample upon me, and yesterday this nearly happened in the
street without my noticing it. Struck in the church by a
glance of my ideal, I ran in a moment of pleasant stupor into
the street, and it was not till about a quarter of an hour
afterwards that I regained my full consciousness; I am
sometimes so mad that I am frightened at myself.
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:--
Those who were present at the rehearsal say that the Finale
is the most successful movement (probably because it is
easily intelligible). How it will sound with the orchestra I
cannot tell you till next Wednesday, when I shall play the
Concerto for the first time in this guise. To-morrow I shall
have another rehearsal with quartet.
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 Capellmeister [Kurpinski] will look at the Italian
[Soliva], Czapek at Kessler, Filipeus at Dobrzynski, Molsdorf
at Kaczynski, Ledoux at Count Sohyk, and Mr. P. at us all. It
has never before occurred that all these gentlemen have been
assembled in one place; I alone shall succeed in this, and I
do it only out of curiosity!
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:--
I heartily beg your pardon for my hasty letter of to-day; I
have still to run quickly to Elsner in order to make sure
that he will come to the rehearsal. Then I have also to
provide the desks and mutes, which I had yesterday totally
forgotten; without the latter the Adagio would be wholly
insignificant, and its success doubtful. The Rondo is
effective, the first Allegro vigorous. Cursed self-love! And
if it is anyone's fault that I am conceited it is yours,
egoist; he who associates with such a person becomes like
him. But in one point I am as yet unlike you. I can never
make up my mind quickly. But I have the firm will and the
secret intention actually to depart on Saturday week, without
pardon, and in spite of lamentations, tears, and complaints.
My music in the trunk, a certain ribbon on my heart, my soul
full of anxiety: thus into the post-chaise. To be sure,
everywhere in the town tears will flow in streams: from
Copernicus to the fountain, from the bank to the column of
King Sigismund; but I shall be cold and unfeeling as a stone,
and laugh at all those who wish to take such a heart-rending
farewell of me!
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.
You can hardly imagine [he writes] how everything here makes
me impatient, and bores me, in consequence of the commotion
within me against which I cannot struggle.
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
1. Symphony by Gorner.
2. First Allegro from the Concerto in E minor, composed and
played by Chopin.
3. Aria with Chorus by Soliva, sung by Miss Wolkow.
4. Adagio and Rondo from the Concerto in E minor, composed
and played by Chopin.
PART II
1. Overture to "Guillaume Tell" by Rossini.
2. Cavatina from "La Donna del lago" by Rossini, sung by Miss
Gladkowska.
3. Fantasia on Polish airs, composed and played by Chopin.
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:
she never sang so well as on that evening (except the aria in
"Agnese"). You know "O! quante lagrime per te versai." The
tutto detesto down to the lower b came out so magnificently
that Zielinski declared this b alone was worth a thousand
ducats.
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.
May you never forget your country [said the speaker,
according to Karasowski], wherever you may wander or sojourn,
may you never cease to love it with a warm, faithful heart!
Remember Poland, remember your friends, who call you with
pride their fellow-countryman, who expect great things of
you, whose wishes and prayers accompany you!
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:--
No sparkling of diamonds met my eye, but the more modest
glitter of a host of steel knitting-needles, which moved
ceaselessly in the busy hands of these ladies. The number of
ladies and knitting-needles was so large that if the ladies
had planned an attack upon the gentlemen that were present,
the latter would have been in a sorry plight. Nothing would
have been left to them but to make use of their spectacles as
weapons, for there was as little lack of eye-glasses as of
bald heads.
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:-
-
The Green Vault I saw last time I was here, and once is
enough for me; but I revisited with great interest the
picture gallery. If I lived here I would go to it every week,
for there are pictures in it at the sight of which I imagine
I hear music.
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:--
Will the time come [he writes] when Lafont will accompany me?
Does this question sound arrogant? But, God willing, this may
come to pass some day.
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.
He (Duport) [writes Chopin on December 21 to his parents] was
formerly a celebrated dancer, and is said to be very
niggardly; however, he received me in an extremely polite
manner, for perhaps he thinks I shall play for him gratis. He
is mistaken there! We entered into a kind of negotiation, but
nothing definite was settled. If Mr. Duport offers me too
little, I shall give my concert in the large Redoutensaal.
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:--
I meet now with obstacles on all sides. Not only does a
series of the most miserable pianoforte concerts totally ruin
all true music and make the public suspicious, but the
occurrences in Poland have also acted unfavourably upon my
position. Nevertheless, I intend to have during the carnival
a performance of my first Concerto, which has met with
Wurfel's full approval.
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:--
But from the day that I heard of the dreadful occurrences in
our fatherland, my thoughts have been occupied only with
anxiety and longing for it and my dear ones. Malfatti gives
himself useless trouble in trying to convince me that the
artist is, or ought to be, a cosmopolitan. And, supposing
this were really the case, as an artist I am still in the
cradle, but as a Pole already a man. I hope, therefore, that
you will not be offended with me for not yet having seriously
thought of making arrangements for a concert.
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:--
I do not know whether I ought to go soon to Italy or wait a
little longer? Please, dearest papa, let me know your and the
best mother's will in this matter.
And four days afterwards he writes to Matuszynski:--
You know, of course, that 1 have letters from the Royal Court
of Saxony to the Vice-Queen in Milan, but what shall I do? My
parents leave me to choose; I wish they would give me
instructions. Shall I go to Paris? My acquaintances here
advise me to wait a little longer. Shall I return home? Shall
I stay here? Shall I kill myself? Shall I not write to you
any more?
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.
I would not like to be a burden to my father; were it not for
this fear I should return home at once. I am often in such a
mood that I curse the moment of my departure from my sweet
home! You will understand my situation, and that since the
departure of Titus too much has fallen upon me all at once.
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:--
In the eagerness of conversation the first emotions of the
mind burst out before they are considered. In the tumult of
business, interest and passion have their genuine effect; but
a friendly letter is a calm and deliberate performance in the
cool of leisure, in the stillness of solitude, and surely no
man sits down by design to depreciate his own character.
Friendship has no tendency to secure veracity; for by whom
can a man so much wish to be thought better than he is, as by
him whose kindness he desires to gain or keep?
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.
Dec. 25, 1830.--I longed indescribably for your letter; you
know why. How happy news of my angel of peace always makes
me! How I should like to touch all the strings which not only
call up stormy feelings, but also awaken again the songs
whose half-dying echo is still flitting on the banks of the
Danube-songs which the warriors of King John Sobieski sang!
You advised me to choose a poet. But you know I am an
undecided being, and succeeded only once in my life in making
a good choice.
The many dinners, soirees, concerts, and balls which I have
to go to only bore me. I am sad, and feel so lonely and
forsaken here. But I cannot live as I would! I must dress,
appear with a cheerful countenance in the salons; but when I
am again in my room I give vent to my feelings on the piano,
to which, as my best friend in Vienna, I disclose all my
sufferings. I have not a soul to whom I can fully unbosom
myself, and yet I must meet everyone like a friend. There
are, indeed, people here who seem to love me, take my
portrait, seek my society; but they do not make up for the
want of you [his friends and relations]. I lack inward peace,
I am at rest only when I read your [his friends' and
relations'] letters, and picture to myself the statue of King
Sigismund, or gaze at the ring [Constantia's], that dear
jewel. Forgive me, dear Johnnie, for complaining so much to
you; but my heart grows lighter when I speak to you thus. To
you I have indeed always told all that affected me. Did you
receive my little note the day before yesterday? Perhaps you
don't care much for my scribbling, for you are at home; but I
read and read your letters again and again.
Dr. Freyer has called on me several times; he had learned
from Schuch that I was in Vienna. He told me a great deal of
interesting news, and enjoyed your letter, which I read to
him up to a certain passage. This passage has made me very
sad. Is she really so much changed in appearance? Perhaps she
was ill? One could easily fancy her being so, as she has a
very sensitive disposition. Perhaps she only appeared so to
you, or was she afraid of anything? God forbid that she
should suffer in any way on my account. Set her mind at rest,
and tell her that as long as my heart beats I shall not cease
to adore her. Tell her that even after my death my ashes
shall be strewn under her feet. Still, all this is yet too
little, and you might tell her a great deal more.
I shall write to her myself; indeed, I would have done so
long ago to free myself from my torments; but if my letter
should fall into strange hands, might this not hurt her
reputation ? Therefore, dear friend, be you the interpreter
of my feelings; speak for me, "et j'en conviendrai." These
French words of yours flashed through me like lightning. A
Viennese gentleman who walked beside me in the street when I
was reading your letter, seized me by the arm, and was hardly
able to hold me. He did not know what had happened to me. I
should have liked to embrace and kiss all the passers-by, and
I felt happier than I had done for a long time, for I had
received the first letter from you. Perhaps I weary you,
Johnnie, with my passionateness; but it is difficult for me
to conceal from you anything that moves my heart.
The day before yesterday I dined at Madame Beyer's, her name
is likewise Constantia. I like her society, her having that
indescribably dear Christian name is sufficient to account
for my partiality; it gives me even pleasure when one of her
pocket-handkerchiefs or napkins marked "Constantia" comes
into my hands.
I walked alone, and slowly, into St. Stephen's. The church
was as yet empty. To view the noble, magnificent edifice in a
truly devout spirit I leant against a pillar in the darkest
corner of this house of God. The grandeur of the arched roof
cannot be described, one must see St. Stephen's with one's
own eyes. Around me reigned the profoundest silence, which
was interrupted only by the echoing footsteps of the
sacristan who came to light the candles. Behind me was a
grave, before me a grave, only above me I saw none. At that
moment I felt my loneliness and isolation. When the lights
were burning and the Cathedral began to fill with people, I
wrapped myself up more closely in my cloak (you know the way
in which I used to walk through the suburb of Cracow), and
hastened to be present at the Mass in the Imperial Court
Chapel. Now, however, I walked no longer alone, but passed
through the beautiful streets of Vienna in merry company to
the Hofburg, where I heard three movements of a mass
performed by sleepy musicians. At one o'clock in the morning
I reached my lodgings. I dreamt of you, of her, and of my
dear children [his sisters].
The first thing I did to-day was to indulge myself in
melancholy fantasias on my piano.
Advise me what to do. Please ask the person who has always
exercised so powerful an influence over me in Warsaw, and let
me know her opinion; according to that I shall act.
Let me hear once more from you before you take the field.
Vienna, poste restante. Go and see my parents and Constantia.
Visit my sisters often, as long as you are still in Warsaw,
so that they may think that you are coming to me, and that I
am in the other room. Sit down beside them that they may
imagine I am there too; in one word, be my substitute in the
house of my parents.
I shall conclude, dear Johnnie, for now it is really time.
Embrace all my dear colleagues for me, and believe that I
shall not cease to love you until I cease to love those that
are dearest to me, my parents and her.
My dearest friend, do write me soon a few lines. You may even
show her this letter, if you think fit to do so.
My parents don't know that I write to you. You may tell them
of it, but must by no means show them the letter. I cannot
yet take leave of my Johnnie; but I shall be off presently,
you naughty one! If W...loves you as heartily as I love you,
then would Con...No, I cannot complete the name, my hand is
too unworthy. Ah! I could tear out my hair when I think that
I could be forgotten by her!
My portrait, of which only you and I are to know, is a very
good likeness; if you think it would give her pleasure, I
would send it to her through Schuch.
January 1, 1831.--There you have what you wanted! Have you
received the letter? Have you delivered any of the messages
it contained? To-day I still regret what I have done. I was
full of sweet hopes, and now am tormented by anxiety and
doubts. Perhaps she mocks at me--laughs at me? Perhaps--ah!
does she love me? This is what my passionate heart asks. You
wicked AEsculapius, you were at the theatre, you eyed her
incessantly with your opera-glass; if this is the case a
thunderbolt shall...Do not forfeit my confidence; oh, you! if
I write to you I do so only for my own sake, for you do not
deserve it.
Just now when I am writing I am in a strange state; I feel as
if I were with you [with his dear ones], and were only
dreaming what I see and hear here. The voices which I hear
around me, and to which my ear is not accustomed, make upon
me for the most part only an impression like the rattling of
carriages or any other indifferent noise. Only your voice or
that of Titus could to-day wake me out of my torpor. Life and
death are perfectly alike to me. Tell, however, my parents
that I am very happy, that I am in want of nothing, that I
amuse myself famously, and never feel lonely.
If she mocks at me, tell her the same; but if she inquires
kindly for me, shows some concern about me, whisper to her
that she may make her mind easy; but add also that away from
her I feel everywhere lonely and unhappy. I am unwell, but
this I do not write to my parents. Everybody asks what is the
matter with me. I should like to answer that I have lost my
good spirits. However, you know best what troubles me!
Although there is no lack of entertainment and diversion
here, I rarely feel inclined for amusement.
To-day is the first of January. Oh, how sadly this year
begins for me! I love you [his friends] above all things.
Write as soon as possible. Is she at Radom? Have you thrown
up redoubts? My poor parents! How are my friends faring?
I could die for you, for you all! Why am I doomed to be here
so lonely and forsaken? You can at least open your hearts to
each other and comfort each other. Your flute will have
enough to lament! How much more will my piano have to weep!
You write that you and your regiment are going to take the
field; how will you forward the note? Be sure you do not send
it by a messenger; be cautious! The parents might perhaps--
they might perhaps view the matter in a false light.
I embrace you once more. You are going to the war; return as
a colonel. May all pass off well! Why may I not at least be
your drummer?
Forgive the disorder in my letter, I write as if I were
intoxicated.
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:--
I live on the fourth story, in a fine street, but I have to
strain my eyes in looking out of the window when I wish to
see what is going on beneath. You will find my room in my new
album when I am at home again. Young Hummel [a son of the
composer] is so kind as to draw it for me. It is large and
has five windows; the bed is opposite to them. My wonderful
piano stands on the right, the sofa on the left; between the
windows there is a mirror, in the middle of the room a fine,
large, round mahogany table; the floor is polished. Hush!
"The gentleman does not receive visitors in the afternoon"--
hence I can be amongst you in my thoughts. Early in the
morning the unbearably-stupid servant wakes me; I rise, get
my coffee, and often drink it cold because I forget my
breakfast over my playing. Punctually at nine o'clock appears
my German master; then I generally write; and after that,
Hummel comes to work at my portrait, while Nidecki studies my
concerto. And all this time I remain in my comfortable
dressing-gown, which I do not take off till twelve o'clock.
At that hour a very worthy German makes his appearance, Herr
Leibenfrost, who works in the law-courts here. If the weather
is fine I take a walk with him on the Glacis, then we dine
together at a restaurant, Zur bohmischen Kochin, which is
frequented by all the university students; and finally we go
(as is the custom here) to one of the best coffee-houses.
After this I make calls, return home in the twilight, throw
myself into evening-dress, and must be off to some soiree: to-
day here, to-morrow there. About eleven or twelve (but never
later) I return home, play, laugh, read, lie down, put out
the light, sleep, and dream of you, my dear ones.
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.
December 1, 1830.--On the whole things are going well with
me, and I hope with God's help, who sent Malfatti to my
assistance--oh, excellent Malfatti!--that they will go better
still.
December 25, 1830.--I went to dine at Malfatti's. This
excellent man thinks of everything; he is even so kind as to
set before us dishes prepared in the Polish fashion.
May 14, 1831.--I am very brisk, and feel that good health is
the best comfort in misfortune. Perhaps Malfatti's soups have
strengthened me so much that I feel better than I ever did.
If this is really the case, I must doubly regret that
Malfatti has gone with his family into the country. You have
no idea how beautiful the villa is in which he lives; this
day week I was there with Hummel. After this amiable
physician had taken us over his house he showed us also his
garden. When we stood at the top of the hill, from which we
had a splendid view, we did not wish to go down again. The
Court honours Malfatti every year with a visit. He has the
Duchess of Anhalt-Cothen as a neighbour; I should not wonder
if she envied him his garden. On one side one sees Vienna
lying at one's feet, and in such a way that one might believe
it was joined to Schoenbrunn; on the other side one sees high
mountains picturesquely dotted with convents and villages.
Gazing on this romantic panorama one entirely forgets the
noisy bustle and proximity of the capital.
This is one of the few descriptive passages to be found in
Chopin's letters--men and their ways interested him more than
natural scenery. But to return from the villa to its owner,
Chopin characterises his relation to the doctor unequivocally in
the following statement:--"Malfatti really loves me, and I am not
a little proud of it." Indeed, the doctor seems to have been a
true friend, ready with act and counsel. He aided him with his
influence in various ways; thus, for instance, we read that he
promised to introduce him to Madame Tatyszczew, the wife of the
Russian Ambassador, and to Baron Dunoi, the president of the
musical society, whom Chopin thought a very useful personage to
know. At Malfatti's he made also the acquaintance of some artists
whom he would, perhaps, have had no opportunity of meeting
elsewhere. One of these was the celebrated tenor Wild. He came to
Malfatti's in the afternoon of Christmas-day, and Chopin, who had
been dining there, says: "I accompanied by heart the aria from
Othello, which he sang in a masterly style. Wild and Miss
Heinefetter are the ornaments of the Court Opera." Of a
celebration of Malfatti's name-day Chopin gives the following
graphic account in a letter to his parents, dated June 25, 1831:-
-
Mechetti, who wished to surprise him [Malfatti], persuaded
the Misses Emmering and Lutzer, and the Messrs. Wild,
Cicimara, and your Frederick to perform some music at the
honoured man's house; almost from beginning to end the
performance was deserving of the predicate "parfait." I never
heard the quartet from Moses better sung; but Miss Gladkowska
sang "O quante lagrime" at my farewell concert at Warsaw with
much more expression. Wild was in excellent voice, and I
acted in a way as Capellmeister.
To this he adds the note:--
Cicimara said there was nobody in Vienna who accompanied so
well as I. And I thought, "Of that I have been long
convinced." A considerable number of people stood on the
terrace of the house and listened to our concert. The moon
shone with wondrous beauty, the fountains rose like columns
of pearls, the air was filled with the fragrance of the
orangery; in short, it was an enchanting night, and the
surroundings were magnificent! And now I will describe to you
the drawing-room in which we were. High windows, open from
top to bottom, look out upon the terrace, from which one has
a splendid view of the whole of Vienna. The walls are hung
with large mirrors; the lights were faint: but so much the
greater was the effect of the moonlight which streamed
through the windows. The cabinet to the left of the drawing-
room and adjoining it gives, on account of its large
dimensions, an imposing aspect to the whole apartment. The
ingenuousness and courtesy of the host, the elegant and
genial society, the generally-prevailing joviality, and the
excellent supper, kept us long together.
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.
January 26, 1831.--If I had not made [he writes] the
exceedingly interesting acquaintance of the most talented
artists of this place, such as Slavik, Merk, Bocklet, and so
forth [this "so forth" is tantalising], I should be very
little satisfied with my stay here. The Opera indeed is good:
Wild and Miss Heinefetter fascinate the Viennese; only it is
a pity that Duport brings forward so few new operas, and
thinks more of his pocket than of art.
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:--
Rossini's "Siege of Corinth" was lately very well performed
here, and I am glad that I had the opportunity of hearing
this opera. Miss Heinefetter and Messrs. Wild, Binder, and
Forti, in short, all the good singers in Vienna, appeared in
this opera and did their best.
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.
Miss Heinefetter has a voice such as one seldom hears; she
sings always in tune; her coloratura is like so many pearls;
in short, everything is faultless. She looks particularly
well when dressed as a man. But she is cold: I got my nose
almost frozen in the stalls. In "Othello" she delighted me
more than in the "Barber of Seville," where she represents a
finished coquette instead of a lively, witty girl. As Sextus
in "Titus" she looks really quite splendid. In a few days she
is to appear in the "Thieving Magpie" ["La Gazza ladra"]. I
am anxious to hear it. Miss Woikow pleased me better as
Rosina in the "Barber"; but, to be sure, she has not such a
delicious voice as the Heinefetter. I wish I had heard Pasta!
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
gladdening sight [we are told] to see counts and tradesmen,
superiors and subalterns, professors and students, noble
ladies and simple burghers' daughters side by side
harmoniously exerting themselves for the love of art.
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:--
Thalberg plays famously, but he is not my man. He is younger
than I, pleases the ladies very much, makes pot-pourris on
"La Muette" ["Masaniello"], plays the forte and piano with
the pedal, but not with the hand, takes tenths as easily as I
do octaves, and wears studs with diamonds. Moscheles does not
at all astonish him; therefore it is no wonder that only the
tuttis of my concerto have pleased him. He, too, writes
concertos.
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. It is rumoured that
the last compositions of Hummel do not sell well, and yet he
is said to have paid a high price for them. Therefore he now
lays all MSS. aside, and prints only Strauss's waltzes.
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:--
The pianist Aloys Schmitt of Frankfort-on-the-Main, famous
for his excellent studies, is at present here; he is a man
above forty. I have made his acquaintance; he promised to
visit me. He intends to give a concert here, and one must
admit that he is a clever musician. I think we shall
understand each other with regard to music.
Having looked at this picture, let the reader look also at this
other, dashed off a month later in a letter to Elsner:--
The pianist Aloys Schmitt has been flipped on the nose by the
critics, although he is already over forty years old, and
composes eighty-years-old music.
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
was, as he is always (and to everybody), very polite, and
asked, "Hat fleissig studirt?" [Have you studied diligently?]
He has again arranged an overture for eight pianos and
sixteen performers, and seems to be very happy over it.
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:--
At the close of the concert Herz will play his own Variations
on Polish airs. Poor Polish airs! You do not in the least
suspect how you will be interlarded with "majufes" [see page
49, foot-note], and that the title of "Polish music" is only
given you to entice the public. If one is so outspoken as to
discuss the respective merits of genuine Polish music and
this imitation of it, and to place the former above the
latter, people declare one to be mad, and do this so much the
more readily because Czerny, the oracle of Vienna, has
hitherto in the fabrication of his musical dainties never
produced Variations on a Polish air.
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:--
I have just come from the excellent violinist Slavik. With
the exception of Paganini, I never heard a violin-player like
him. Ninety-six staccato notes in one bow! It is almost
incredible! When I heard him I felt inclined to return to my
lodgings and sketch variations on an Adagio [which they had
previously agreed to take for their theme] of Beethoven's.
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:--
He is one of the Viennese artists with whom I keep up a
really friendly and intimate intercourse. He plays like a
second Paganini, but a rejuvenated one, who will perhaps in
time surpass the first. I should not believe it myself if I
had not heard him so often....Slavik fascinates the listener
and brings tears into his eyes.
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:--
Limmer, one of the better artists here in Vienna, produced
some of his compositions for four violoncelli. Merk, by his
expressive playing, made them, as usual, more beautiful than
they really are. People stayed again till midnight, for Merk
took a fancy to play with me his variations. He told me that
he liked to play with me, and it is always a great treat to
me to play with him. I think we look well together. He is the
first violoncellist whom I really admire.
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.
Therefore [writes Chopin to his master] I fear your MS. will
have to wait. Czerny, I have found out now, is not one of the
richest publishers here, and consequently cannot easily risk
the publication of a work which is not performed at the Sped
or at the Romische Kaiser. Waltzes are here called works; and
Lanner and Strauss, who lead the performances, Capellmeister.
In saying this, however, I do not mean that all people here
are of this opinion; on the contrary, there are many who
laugh at it. Still, it is almost only waltzes that are
published.
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:--
The Sperl and Volksgarten [says Hanslick] were on the Strauss
and Lanner days the favourite and most frequented "concert
localities." In the year 1839 Strauss and Lanner had already
each of them published more than too works. The journals were
thrown into ecstasy by every new set of waltzes; innumerable
articles appeared on Strauss, and Lanner, enthusiastic,
humorous, pathetic, and certainly longer than those that were
devoted to Beethoven and Mozart.
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:--
Louisa [his sister] informs me that Mr. Elsner was very much
pleased with the criticism; I wonder what he will say of the
others, he who was my teacher of composition?
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:--
The execution of his newest Concerto in E minor, a serious
composition, gave no cause to revoke our former judgment. One
who is so upright in his dealings with genuine art is
deserving our genuine esteem.
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:--
I wished to enclose my latest waltz, but the post is about to
depart, and I have no longer time to copy it, therefore I
shall send it another time. The mazurkas, too, I have first
to get copied, but they are not intended for dancing.
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):--
If I succeed in writing a concerto for two pianos so as to
satisfy myself, we intend to appear at once with it in
public; first, however, I wish to play once alone.
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.
What is going on at home? [he writes, on May 28, 1831.] I am
always dreaming of you. Is there still no end to the
bloodshed? I know your answer: "Patience!" I, too, always
comfort myself with that.
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.
Zacharkiewicz of Warsaw called on me; and when his wife saw
me at Szaszek's, she did not know how to sufficiently express
her astonishment at my having become such a sturdy fellow. I
have let my whiskers grow only on the right side, and they
are growing very well; on the left side they are not needed
at all, for one sits always with the right side turned to the
public.
Although his "ideal" is not there to retain him, yet he cannot
make up his mind to leave Vienna. On May 28, he writes:--
How quickly this dear time passes! It is already the end of
May, and I am still in Vienna. June will come, and I shall
probably be still here, for Kumelski fell ill and was obliged
to take to bed again.
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.
I am in good health, that is the only thing that cheers me,
for it seems as if my departure would never take place. You
all know how irresolute I am, and in addition to this I meet
with obstacles at every step. Day after day I am promised my
passport, and I run from Herod to Pontius Pilate, only to get
back what I deposited at the police office. To-day I heard
even more agreeable news--namely, that my passport has been
mislaid, and that they cannot find it; I have even to send in
an application for a new one. It is curious how now every
imaginable misfortune befalls us poor Poles. Although I am
ready to depart, I am unable to set out.
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:--
I live as economically as possible, and take as much care of
every kreuzer as of that ring in Warsaw [the one given him by
the Emperor Alexander]. You may sell it, I have already cost
you so much.
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.
July, 1831.--But I must not forget to mention that I shall
probably be obliged to draw more money from the banker Peter
than my dear father has allowed me. I am very economical;
but, God knows, I cannot help it, for otherwise I should have
to leave with an almost empty purse. God preserve me from
sickness; were, however, anything to happen to me, you might
perhaps reproach me for not having taken more. Pardon me, but
consider that I have already lived on this money during May,
June, and July, and that I have now to pay more for my dinner
than I did in winter. I do not do this only because I myself
feel I ought to do so, but also in consequence of the good
advice of others. I am very sorry that I have to ask you for
it; my papa has already spent more than three groschen for
me; I know also very well how difficult it is to earn money.
Believe me, my dearest ones, it is harder for me to ask than
for you to give. God will not fail to assist us also in the
future, punctum!
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."
I lack nothing [he writes in July, 1831] except more life,
more spirit! I often feel unstrung, but sometimes as merry as
I used to be at home. When I am sad I go to Madame Szaszek's;
there I generally meet several amiable Polish ladies who with
their hearty, hopeful words always cheer me up, so that I
begin at once to imitate the generals here. This is a fresh
joke of mine; but those who saw it almost died with laughing.
But alas, there are days when not two words can be got out of
me, nor can anyone find out what is the matter with me; then,
to divert myself, I generally take a thirty-kreuzer drive to
Hietzing, or somewhere else in the neighbourhood of Vienna.
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.
June 25, 1831.--The day before yesterday we were with
Kumelski and Czapek...on the Kahlenberg and Leopoldsberg. It
was a magnificent day; I have never had a finer walk. From
the Leopoldsberg one sees all Vienna, Wagram, Aspern,
Pressburg, even Kloster-Neuburg, the castle in which Richard
the Lion-hearted lived for a long time as a prisoner. Also
the whole of the upper part of the Danube lay before our
eyes. After breakfast we ascended the Kahlenberg, where King
John Sobieski pitched his camp and caused the rockets to be
fired which announced to Count Starhemberg, the commandant of
Vienna, the approach of the Polish army. There is the
Camaldolese Monastery in which the King knighted his son
James before the attack on the Turks and himself served as
acolyte at the Mass. I enclose for Isabella a little leaf
from that spot, which is now covered with plants. From there
we went in the evening to the Krapfenwald, a beautiful
valley, where we saw a comical boys' trick. The little
fellows had enveloped themselves from head to foot in leaves
and looked like walking bushes. In this costume they crept
from one visitor to another. Such a boy covered with leaves
and his head adorned with twigs is called a "Pfingstkonig"
[Whitsuntide-King]. This drollery is customary here at
Whitsuntide.
The second excursion is thus described:--
July, 1831.--The day before yesterday honest Wurfel called on
me; Czapek, Kumelski. and many others also came, and we drove
together to St. Veil--a beautiful place; I could not say the
same of Tivoli, where they have constructed a kind ol
caroitsscl, or rather a track with a sledge, which is called
Rutsch. It is a childish amusement, but a great number of
grown-up people have themselves rolled down the hill in this
carriage just for pastime. At first I did not feel inclined
to try it, but as there were eight of us, all good friends,
we began to vie with each other in sliding down. It was
folly, and yet we all laughed heartily. I myself joined in
the sport with much satisfaction until it struck me that
healthy and strong men could do something better--now, when
humanity calls to them for protection and defence. May the
devil take this frivolity!
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
the audience, carried away by the beauty of the composition
and his excellent, poetic rendering, overwhelmed the young
virtuoso with loud applause and sincere admiration.
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:--
The people here [in Munich] have an extraordinary receptivity
for music, which is much cultivated. But it appears to me
that everything makes an impression and that the impressions
do not last.
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:--
On the 28th August, Mr. F. Chopin, of Warsaw, gave a morning
concert [Mittags Concert] in the hall of the Philharmonic
Society, which was attended by a very select audience. Mr.
Chopin performed on the pianoforte a Concerto in E minor of
his own composition, and showed an excellent virtuosity in
the treatment of his instrument; besides a developed
technique, one noticed especially a charming delicacy of
execution, and a beautiful and characteristic rendering of
the motives. The composition was, on the whole, brilliantly
and well written, without surprising, however, by
extraordinary novelty or a particular profundity, with the
exception of the Rondo, whose principal thought as well as
the florid middle sections, through an original combination
of a melancholy trait with a capriccio, evolved a peculiar
charm, on which account it particularly pleased. The concert-
giver performed in conclusion a fantasia on Polish national
songs. There is a something in the Slavonic songs which
almost never fails in its effect, the cause of which,
however, is difficult to trace and explain; for it is not
only the rhythm and the quick change from minor to major
which produce this charm. No one has probably understood
better how to combine the national character of such folk-
songs with a brilliant concert style than Bernhard Romberg
[Footnote: The famous violoncellist], who by his compositions
of this kind, put in a favourable light by his masterly
playing, knew how to exercise a peculiar fascination. Quite
of this style was the fantasia of Mr. Chopin, who gained
unanimous applause.
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:--
Pay attention to the passage marked with a +; nobody, except
you, knows of this. How happy would I be if I could play my
newest compositions to you! In the fifth bar of the trio the
bass melody up to E flat dominates, which, however, I need
not tell you, as you are sure to feel it without being told.
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:--
I shall play [at a soiree at the house of Lewicki] Hummel's
"La Sentinelle," and at the close my Polonaise with
violoncello, for which I have composed an Adagio as an
introduction. I have already rehearsed it, and it does not
sound badly.
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.
October 3, 1829.--I have--perhaps to my misfortune--already
found my ideal, whom I worship faithfully and sincerely. Six
months have elapsed and I have not yet exchanged a syllable
with her of whom I dream every night. Whilst my thoughts were
with her I composed the Adagio of my Concerto.
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).
October 20, 1829.--Elsner has praised the Adagio of the
Concerto. He says that there is something new in it. As to
the Rondo I do not wish yet to hear a judgment, for I am not
yet satisfied with it myself. I am curious whether I shall
finish this work when I return [from a visit to Prince
Radziwill].
November 14, 1829.--I received your last letter at Antonin at
Radziwill's. I was there a week; you cannot imagine how
quickly and pleasantly the time passed to me. I left by the
last coach, and had much trouble in getting away. As for me I
should have stayed till they had turned me out; but my
occupations and, above all things, my Concerto, which is
impatiently waiting for its Finale, have compelled me to take
leave of this Paradise.
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).
March 27, 1830.--I hope yet to finish before the holidays the
first Allegro of my second Concerto [i.e., the one in E
minor], and therefore I should in any case wait till after
the holidays [to give a third concert], although I am
convinced that I should have this time a still larger
audience than formerly; for the haute volee has not yet heard
me.
On April 10, 1830, Chopin writes that his Concerto is not yet
finished; and on May 15, 1830:--
The Rondo for my Concerto is not yet finished, because the
right inspired mood has always beep wanting. If I have only
the Allegro and the Adagio completely finished I shall be
without anxiety about the Finale. The Adagio is in E major,
and of a romantic, calm, and partly melancholy character. It
is intended to convey the impression which one receives when
the eye rests on a beloved landscape that calls up in one's
soul beautiful memories--for instance, on a fine, moonlit
spring night. I have written violins with mutes as an
accompaniment to it. I wonder if that will have a good
effect? Well, time will show.
August 21, 1830.--Next month I leave here; first, however, I
must rehearse my Concerto, for the Rondo is now finished.
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--
did violence to his genius every time he sought to fetter it
by rules, classifications, and an arrangement that was not
his own, and could not accord with the exigencies of his
spirit, which was one of those whose grace displays itself
when they seem to drift along [alter a la derive]....The
classical attempts of Chopin nevertheless shine by a rare
refinement of style. They contain passages of great interest,
parts of surprising grandeur.
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:--
The principal pianoforte part has, notwithstanding the entire
remodelling of the score, been retained almost unchanged.
Only in some passages, which the orchestra, in consequence of
a richer instrumentation, accompanies with greater fulness,
the pianoforte part had, on that account, to be made more
effective by an increase of brilliance. By these divergences
from the original, from the so perfect and beautifully
effectuating [effectuirenden] pianoforte style of Chopin,
either the unnecessary doubling of the melody already
pregnantly represented by the orchestra was avoided, or--in
keeping with the now fuller harmonic support of the
accompaniment--some figurations of the solo instrument
received a more brilliant form.
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?
Paris offers anything you may wish [writes Chopin]. You can
amuse yourself, mope, laugh, weep, in short, do whatever you
like; no one notices it, because thousands do the same.
Everybody goes his own way....The Parisians are a peculiar
people. When evening sets in one hears nothing but the crying
of titles of little new books, which consist of from three to
four sheets of nonsense. The boys know so well how to
recommend their wares that in the end--willing or not--one
buys one for a sou. They bear titles such as these:--"L'art
de faire, des amours, et de les conserver ensuite"; "Les
amours des pretres"; "L'Archeveque de Paris avec Madame la
duchesse de Berry"; and a thousand similar absurdities which,
however, are often very wittily written. One cannot but be
astonished at the means people here make use of to earn a few
pence.
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:--
There is now in Paris great want and little money in
circulation. One meets many shabby individuals with wild
physiognomies, and sometimes one hears an excited, menacing
discussion on Louis Philippe, who, as well as his ministers,
hangs only by a single hair. The populace is disgusted with
the Government, and would like to overthrow it, in order to
make an end of the misery; but the Government is too well on
its guard, and the least concourse of people is at once
dispersed by the mounted police.
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 enthusiasm of the populace for our general is of course
known to you [writes Chopin to his friend Woyciechowski].
Paris would not be behind in this respect. [Footnote: The
Poles and everything Polish were at that time the rage in
Paris; thus, for instance, at one of the theatres where
dramas were generally played, they represented now the whole
history of the last Polish insurrection, and the house was
every night crammed with people who wished to see the combats
and national costumes.] The Ecole de Medecine and the jeune
France, who wear their beards and cravats according to a
certain pattern, intend to honour him with a great
demonstration. Every political party--I speak of course only
of the ultras--has its peculiar badge: the Carlists have
green waistcoats, the Republicans and Napoleonists (and these
form the jeune France) [red], [Footnote: Chopin has omitted
this word, which seems to be necessary to complete the
sentence; at least, it is neither in the Polish nor German
edition of Karasowski's book.] the Saint-Simonians who
profess a new religion, wear blue, and so forth. Nearly a
thousand of these young people marched with a tricolour
through the town in order to give Ramorino an ovation.
Although he was at home, and notwithstanding the shouting of
"Vive les Polonais!" he did not show himself, not wishing to
expose himself to any unpleasantness on the part of the
Government. His adjutant came out and said that the general
was sorry he could not receive them and begged them to return
some other day. But the next day he took other lodgings. When
some days afterwards an immense mass of people--not only young
men, but also rabble that had congregated near the
Pantheon--proceeded to the other side of the Seine to
Ramorino's house, the crowd increased like an avalanche till
it was dispersed by several charges of the mounted police who
had stationed themselves at the Pont Neuf. Although many were
wounded, new masses of people gathered on the Boulevards
under my windows in order to join those who were expected
from the other side of the Seine. The police was now
helpless, the crowd increased more and more, till at last a
body of infantry and a squadron of hussars advanced; the
commandant ordered the municipal guard and the troops to
clear the footpaths and street of the curious and riotous mob
and to arrest the ringleaders. (This is the free nation!) The
panic spread with the swiftness of lightning: the shops were
closed, the populace flocked together at all the corners of
the streets, and the orderlies who galloped through the
streets were hissed. All windows were crowded by spectators,
as on festive occasions with us at home, and the excitement
lasted from eleven o'clock in the morning till eleven o'clock
at night. I thought that the affair would have a bad end; but
towards midnight they sang "Allons enfants de la patrie!" and
went home. I am unable to describe to you the impression
which the horrid voices of this riotous, discontented mob
made upon me! Everyone was afraid that the riot would be
continued next morning, but that was not the case. Only
Grenoble has followed the example of Lyons; however, one
cannot tell what may yet come to pass in the world!
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.
There are neither rules nor models [says V. Hugo, the leader
of the school, in the preface to his Cromwell (1827)], or
rather there are no other rules than the general laws of
nature which encompass the whole art, and the special laws
which for every composition result from the conditions of
existence peculiar to each subject. The former are eternal,
internal, and remain; the latter variable, external, and
serve only once.
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:--
Reicha I know only by sight. You can imagine how curious I am
to make his personal acquaintance. I have already seen some
of his pupils, but from them I have not obtained a favourable
opinion of their teacher. He does not love music, never
frequents the concerts of the Conservatoire, will not speak
with anyone about music, and, when he gives lessons, looks
only at his watch. Cherubini behaves in a similar manner; he
is always speaking of cholera and the revolution. These
gentlemen are mummies; one must content one's self with
respectfully lookingat them from afar, and studying their
works for instruction.
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:--
Even Meyerbeer, who for ten years had been favourably known
in the musical world, waited, worked, and paid in Paris for
three years in vain before he succeeded in bringing about the
performance of his opera "Robert le Diable," which now causes
such a furore. Auber had got the start of Meyerbeer with his
works, which are very pleasing to the taste of the people,
and he did not readily make room for the foreigner at the
Grand Opera.
And again:--
If there was ever a brilliant mise en scene at the Opera-
Italien, I cannot believe that it equalled that of Robert le
Diable, the new five-act opera of Meyerbeer, who has also
written "Il Crociato." "Robert" is a masterpiece of the new
school, where the devils sing through speaking-trumpets and
the dead rise from their graves, but not as in "Szarlatan"
[an opera of Kurpinski's], only from fifty to sixty persons
all at once! The stage represents the interior of a convent
ruin illuminated by the clear light of the full moon whose
rays fall on the graves of the nuns. In the last act appear
in brilliant candle-light monks with ancense, and from behind
the scene are heard the solemn tones of the organ. Meyerbeer
has made himself immortal by this work; but he had to wait
more than three years before he could get it performed.
People say that he has spent more than 20,000 francs for the
organ and other things made use of in the opera.
[Footnote: This was the current belief at the time, which
Meyerbeer, however, declares to be false in a letter
addressed to Veron, the director of the Opera:--"L'orgue a
ete paye par vous, fourni par vous, comme toutes les choses
que reclamait la mise en scene de Robert, et je dois declarer
que loin de vous tenir au strict neccessaire, vous avez
depasse de bcaucoup les obligations ordinaires d'un directeur
envers les auteurs et le public."]
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:--
It is only here that one can learn what singing is. I believe
that not Pasta, but Malibran-Garcia is now the greatest
singer in Europe. Prince Valentin Radziwill is quite
enraptured by her, and we often wish you were here, for you
would be charmed with her singing.
The following extracts from a letter to his friend Woyciechowski
contain some more of Chopin's criticism:--
As regards the opera, I must tell you that I never heard so
fine a performance as I did last week, when the "Barber of
Seville" was given at the Italian Opera, with Lablache,
Rubini, and Malibran-Garcia in the principal parts. Of
"Othello" there is likewise an excellent rendering in
prospect, further also of "L'Italiana in Algeri." Paris has
in this respect never offered so much as now. You can have no
idea of Lablache. People say that Pasta's voice has somewhat
failed, but I never heard in all my life such heavenly
singing as hers. Malibran embraces with her wonderful voice a
compass of three octaves; her singing is quite unique in its
way, enchanting! Rubini, an excellent tenor, makes endless
roulades, often too many colorature, vibrates and trills
continually, for which he is rewarded with the greatest
applause. His mezza voce is incomparable. A Schroder-Devrient
is now making her appearance, but she does not produce such a
furore here as in Germany. Signora Malibran personated
Othello, Schroder-Devrient Desdemona. Malibran is little, the
German lady taller. One thought sometimes that Desdemona was
going to strangle Othello. It was a very expensive
performance; I paid twenty-four francs for my seat, and did
so because I wished to see Malibran play the part of the
Moor, which she did not do particularly well. The orchestra
was excellent, but the mise en scene in the Italian Opera is
nothing compared with that of the French Academie
Royale...Madame Damoreau-Cinti sings also very beautifully; I
prefer her singing to that of Malibran. The latter astonishes
one, but Cinti charms. She sings the chromatic scales and
colorature almost more perfectly than the famous flute-player
Tulou plays them. It is hardly possible to find a more
finished execution. In Nourrit, the first tenor of the Grand
Opera, [Footnote: It may perhaps not be superfluous to point
out that Academie Royale (Imperial, or Nationale, as the case
may be) de Musique, or simply Academie de Musique, and Grand
Opera, or simply Opera, are different names for one and the
same thing--namely, the principal opera-house in France, the
institution whose specialties are grand opera and ballet.]
one admires the warmth of feeling which speaks out of his
singing. Chollet, the first tenor of the Opera-Comique, the
best performer of Fra Diavolo, and excellent in the operas
"Zampa" and "Fiancee," has a manner of his own in conceiving
the parts. He captivates all with his beautiful voice, and is
the favourite of the public.
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.
The house of Cherubini [writes Veron in his "Memoires d'un
Bourgeois de Paris"] was open to artists, amateurs, and
people of good society; and every Monday a numerous assembly
thronged his salons. All foreign artists wished to be
presented to Cherubini. During these last years one met often
at his house Hummel, Liszt, Chopin, Moscheles, Madame
Grassini, and Mademoiselle Falcon, then young and brilliant
in talent and beauty; Auber and Halevy, the favourite pupils
of the master; and Meyerbeer and Rossini.
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:--
You may easily imagine how curious I was to hear Herz and
Hiller play; they are ciphers compared with Kalkbrenner.
Honestly speaking, I play as well as Herz, but I wish I could
play as well as Kalkbrenner. If Paganini is perfect, so also
is he, but in quite another way. His repose, his enchanting
touch, the smoothness of his playing, I cannot describe to
you, one recognises the master in every note--he is a giant
who throws all other artists into the shade. When I visited
him, he begged me to play him something. What was I to do? As
I had heard Herz, I took courage, seated myself at the
instrument, and played my E minor Concerto, which charmed the
people of the Bavarian capital so much. Kalkbrenner was
astonished, and asked me if I were a pupil of Field's. He
remarked that I had the style of Cramer, but the touch of
Field. It amused me that Kalkbrenner, when he played to me,
made a mistake and did not know how to go on; but it was
wonderful to hear how he found his way again. Since this
meeting we see each other daily, either he calls on me or I
on him. He proposed to teach me for three years and make a
great artist of me. I told him that I knew very well what I
still lacked; but I will not imitate him, and three years are
too much for me. He has convinced me that I play well only
when I am in the right mood for it, but less well when this
is not the case. This cannot be said of Kalkbrenner, his
playing is always the same. When he had watched me for a long
time, he came to the conclusion that I had no method; that I
was indeed on a very good path, but might easily go astray;
and that when he ceased to play, there would no longer be a
representative of the grand pianoforte school left. I cannot
create a new school, however much I may wish to do so,
because I do not even know the old one; but I know that my
tone-poems have some individuality in them, and that I always
strive to advance.
If you were here, you would say "Learn, young man, as long as
you have an opportunity to do so!" But many dissuade me from
taking lessons, are of opinion that I play as well as
Kalkbrenner, and that it is only vanity that makes him wish
to have me for his pupil. That is nonsense. Whoever knows
anything of music must think highly of Kalkbrenner's talent,
although he is disliked as a man because he will not
associate with everybody. But I assure you there is in him
something higher than in all the virtuosos whom I have as yet
heard. I have said this in a letter to my parents, who quite
understand it. Elsner, however, does not comprehend it, and
regards it as jealousy on Kalkbrenner's part that he not only
praises me, but also wishes that my playing were in some
respects different from what it is. In spite of all this I
may tell you confidentially that I have already a
distinguished name among the artists here.
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:--
In the beginning of last year, although I knew what I yet
lacked, and how very far I still was from equalling the model
I have in you, I nevertheless ventured to think, "I will
approach him, and if I cannot produce, a Lokietek ["the
short," surname of a king of Poland; Elsner had composed an
opera of that name], I may perhaps give to the world a
Laskonogi ["the thin-legged," surname of another king of
Poland]." To-day all such hopes are annihilated; I am forced
to think of making my way in the world as a pianist. For some
time I must keep in the background the higher artistic aim of
which you wrote to me. In order to be a great composer one
must possess, in addition to creative power, experience and
the faculty of self-criticism, which, as you have taught me,
one obtains not only by listening to the works of others, but
still more by means of a careful critical examination of
one's own.
After describing the difficulties which lie in the way of the
opera composer, he proceeds:--
It is my conviction that he is the happier man who is able to
execute his compositions himself. I am known here and there
in Germany as a pianist; several musical journals have spoken
highly of my concerts, and expressed the hope of seeing me
soon take a prominent position among the first pianoforte-
virtuosos. I had to-day anopportunity or fulfilling the
promise I had made to myself. Why should I not embrace it?...
I should not like to learn pianoforte-playing in Germany, for
there no one could tell me precisely what it was that I
lacked. I, too, have not seen the beam in my eye. Three
years' study is far too much. Kalkbrenner, when he had heard
me repeatedly, came to see that himself. From this you may
see that a true meritorious virtuoso does not know the
feeling of envy. I would certainly make up my mind to study
for three years longer if I were certain that I should then
reach the aim which I have kept in view. So much is clear to
me, I shall never become a copy of Kalkbrenner; he will not
be able to break my perhaps bold but noble resolve--TO CREATE
A NEW ART-ERA. If I now continue my studies, I do so only in
order to stand at some future time on my own feet. It was not
difficult for Ries, who was then already recognised as a
celebrated pianist, to win laurels at Berlin, Frankfort-on-
the-Main, Dresden, &c., by his opera Die Rauberbraut. And how
long was Spohr known as an excellent violinist before he had
written Faust, Jessonda, and other works? I hope you will not
deny me your blessing when you see on what grounds and with
what intentions I struggle onwards.
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
for his elegant manners, for his polish and sweetishness, and
for his whole marchpane-like appearance, in which, however,
ihe calm observer discovers a shabby admixture of involuntary
Berlinisms of the lowest class, so that Koreff could say of
the man as wittily as correctly: "He looks like a bon-bon
that has been in the mud."
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:--
The pianoforte assumed under his fingers a marvellous and
never harsh sonorousness, for he did not seek forced effects.
His playing, smooth, sustained, harmonious, and of a perfect
evenness, charmed even more than it astonished; moreover, a
faultless neatness in the most difficult passages, and a left
hand of unparalleled bravura, made Kalkbrenner an
extraordinary virtuoso. Let us add that the perfect
independence of the fingers, the absence of the in our day so
frequent movements of the arms, the tranquillity of the hands
and body, a perfect bearing--all these qualities combined,
and many others which we forget, left the auditor free to
enjoy the pleasure of listening without having his attention
diverted by fatiguing gymnastics. Kalkbrenner's manner of
phrasing was somewhat lacking in expression and communicative
warmth, but the style was always noble, true, and of the
grand school.
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:--
Baillot, the rival of Paganini, and Brod, the celebrated oboe-
player, will assist me with their talent. I intend to play my
F minor Concerto and the Variations in B flat...I shall play
not only the concerto and the variations, but also with
Kalkbrenner his duet "Marche suivie d'une Polonaise" for two
pianos, with the accompaniment of four others. Is this not an
altogether mad idea? One of the grand pianos is very large,
and is for Kalkbrenner; the other is small (a so-called mono-
chord), and is for me. On the other large ones, which are as
loud as an orchestra, Hiller, Osborne, Stamati, and Sowinski
are to play. Besides these performers, Norblin, Vidal, and
the celebrated viola-player Urban will take part in 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:--
Here is a young man who, abandoning himself to his natural
impressions and without taking a model, has found, if not a
complete renewal of pianoforte music, at least a part of what
has been sought in vain for a long time--namely, an abundance
of original ideas of which the type is to be found nowhere.
We do not mean by this that M. Chopin is endowed with a
powerful organisation like that of Beethoven, nor that there
are in his music such powerful conceptions as one remarks in
that of this great man. Beethoven has composed pianoforte
music, but I speak here of pianists' music, and it is by
comparison with the latter that I find in M. Chopin's
inspirations the indication of a renewal of forms which may
exercise in time much influence over this department of the
art.
Of Chopin's concerto Fetis remarks that it:--
equally astonished and surprised his audience, as much by the
novelty of the melodic ideas as by the figures, modulations,
and general disposition of the movements. There is soul in
these melodies, fancy in these figures, and originality in
everything. Too much luxuriance in the modulations, disorder
in the linking of the phrases, so that one seems sometimes to
hear an improvisation rather than written music, these are
the defects which are mixed with the qualities I have just
now pointed out. But these defects belong to the age of the
artist; they will disappear when experience comes. If the
subsequent works of M. Chopin correspond to his debut, there
can be no doubt but that he will acquire a brilliant and
merited reputation.
As an executant also the young artist deserves praise. His
playing is elegant, easy, graceful, and possesses brilliance
and neatness. He brings little tone out of the instrument,
and resembles in this respect the majority of German
pianists. But the study which he is making of this part of
his art, under the direction of M. Kalkbrenner, cannot fail
to give him an important quality on which the nerf of
execution depends, and without which the accents of the
instrument cannot be modified.
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 most vigorous applause seemed not to suffice to our
enthusiasm in the presence of this talented musician, who
revealed a new phase of poetic sentiment combined with such
happy innovations in the form of his art.
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:--
Fetis [Chopin writes on December 14, 1831], whom I know, and
from whom one can learn much, lives outside the town, and
comes to Paris only to give his lessons. They say he is
obliged to do this because his debts are greater than the
profits from his "Revue musicale." He is sometimes in danger
of making intimate acquaintance with the debtors' prison. You
must know that according to the law of the country a debtor
can only be arrested in his dwelling. Fetis has, therefore,
left the town and lives in the neighbourhood of Paris, nobody
knows where.
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 concerto, which had already been heard at Pleyel's rooms,
and had there obtained a brilliant success. On this occasion
it was not so well received, a fact which, no doubt, must be
attributed to the instrumentation, which is lacking in
lightness, and to the small volume of tone which M. Chopin
draws from the piano. However, it appears to us that the
music of this artist will gain in the public opinion when it
becomes better known. [FOOTNOTE: From the "Revue musicale."]
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.
Madame Zimmermann and her daughters did the honours to a
great number of artists. Charades were acted; the forfeits
that were given, and the rebuses that were not guessed, had
to be redeemed by penances varying according to the nature of
the guilty ones. Gautier, Dumas, and Musset were condemned to
recite their last poem. Liszt or Chopin had to improvise on a
given theme, Mesdames Viardot, Falcon, and Euggnie Garcia had
also to discharge their melodic debts, and I myself remember
having paid many a forfeit.
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:--
Ah, how I should like to have you beside me!...You cannot
imagine how sad it is to have nobody to whom I can open my
troubled heart. You know how easily I make acquaintances, how
I love human society--such acquaintances I make in great
numbers--but with no one, no one can I sigh. My heart beats
as it were always "in syncopes," therefore I torment myself
and seek for a rest--for solitude, so that the whole day
nobody may look at me and speak to me. It is too annoying to
me when there is a pull at the bell, and a tedious visit is
announced while I am writing to you. At the moment when I was
going to describe to you the ball, at which a divine being
with a rose in her black hair enchanted me, arrives your
letter. All the romances of my brain disappear? my thoughts
carry me to you, I take your hand and weep...When shall we
see each other again?...Perhaps never, because, seriously, my
health is very bad. I appear indeed merry, especially when I
am among my fellow-countrymen; but inwardly something
torments me--a gloomy presentiment, unrest, bad dreams,
sleeplessness, yearning, indifference to everything, to the
desire to live and the desire to die. It seems to me often as
if my mind were benumbed, I feel a heavenly repose in my
heart, in my thoughts I see images from which I cannot tear
myself away, and this tortures me beyond all measure. In
short, it is a combination of feelings that are difficult to
describe...Pardon me, dear Titus, for telling you of all
this; but now I have said enough...I will dress now and go,
or rather drive, to the dinner which our countrymen give to-
day to Ramorino and Langermann...Your letter contained much
that was news to me; you have written me four pages and
thirty-seven lines--in all my life you have never been so
liberal to me, and I stood in need of something of the kind,
I stood indeed very much in need of it.
What you write about my artistic career is very true, and I
myself am convinced of it.
I drive in my own equipage, only the coachman is hired.
I shall close, because otherwise I should be too late for the
post, for I am everything in one person, master and servant.
Take pity on me and write as often as possible!--Yours unto
death,
FREDERICK.
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:--
Eight days after the second invitation I went to his house,
and accidentally met his pet on the stairs. She invited me to
come in, assuring me it did not matter that Mr. Pixis was not
at home; meanwhile I was to sit down, he would return soon,
and so on. A strange embarrassment seized both of us. I made
my excuses--for I knew the old man was very jealous--and said
I would rather return another time. While we were talking
familiarly and innocently on the staircase, Pixis came up,
looking over his spectacles in order to see who was speaking
above to his bella. He may not have recognised us at once,
quickened his steps, stopped before us, and said to her
harshly: "Qu'est-ce que vous faites ici?" and gave her a
severe lecture for receiving young men in his absence, and so
on. I addressed Pixis smilingly, and said to her that it was
somewhat imprudent to leave the room in so thin a silk dress.
At last the old man became calm--he took me by the arm and
led me into the drawing-room. He was in such a state of
excitement that he did not know what seat to offer me; for he
was afraid that, if he had offended me, I would make better
use of his absence another time. When I left he accompanied
me down stairs, and seeing me smile (for I could not help
doing so when I found I was thought capable of such a thing),
he went to the concierge and asked how long it was since I
had come. The concierge must have calmed his fears, for since
that time Pixis does not know how to praise my talent
sufficiently to all his acquaintances. What do you think of
this? I, a dangerous seducteur!
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:--
The concert of the good Hiller, who is a pupil of Hummel and
a youth of great talent, came off very successfully the day
before yesterday. A symphony of his was received with much
applause. He has taken Beethoven for his model, and his work
is full of poesy and inspiration.
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:--
Your trios, my dear friend, have been finished for a long
time, and, true to my character of a glutton, I have gulped
down your manuscripts into my repertoire. Your concerto will
be performed this month by Adam's pupils at the examination
of the Conservatoire. Mdlle. Lyon plays it very well. La
Tentation, an opera-ballet by Halevy and Gide, has not
tempted any one of good taste, because it has just as little
interest as your German Diet harmony with the spirit of the
age. Maurice, who has returned from London, whither he had
gone for the mise en scene of Robert (which has not had a
very great success), has assured us that Moscheles and Field
will come to Paris for the winter. This is all the news I
have to give you. Osborne has been in London for the last two
months. Pixis is at Boulogne. Kalkbrenner is at Meudon,
Rossini at Bordeaux. All who know you await you with open
arms. Liszt will add a few words below. Farewell, dear
friend.
Yours most truly,
F. CHOPIN.
Paris, 2/8/32
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:--
I move in the highest society--among ambassadors, princes,
and ministers; and I don't know how I got there, for I did
not thrust myself forward at all. But for me this is at
present an absolute necessity, for thence comes, as it were,
good taste. You are at once credited with more talent if you
are heard at a soiree of the English or Austrian
Ambassador's. Your playing is finer if the Princess Vaudemont
patronises you. "Patronises" I cannot properly say, for the
good old woman died a week ago. She was a lady who reminded
me of the late Kasztelanowa Polaniecka, received at her house
the whole Court, was very charitable, and gave refuge to many
aristocrats in the days of terror of the first revolution.
She was the first who presented herself after the days of
July at the Court of Louis Philippe, although she belonged to
the Montmorency family (the elder branch), whose last
descendant she was. She had always a number of black and
white pet dogs, canaries, and parrots about her; and
possessed also a very droll little monkey, which was
permitted even to...bite countesses and princesses.
Among the Paris artists I enjoy general esteem and
friendship, although I have been here only a year. A proof of
this is that men of great reputation dedicate their
compositions to me, and do so even before I have paid them
the same compliment--for instance, Pixis his last Variations
for orchestra. He is now even composing variations on a theme
of mine. Kalkbrenner improvises frequently on my mazurkas.
Pupils of the Conservatoire, nay, even private pupils of
Moscheles, Herz, and Kalkbrenner (consequently clever
artists), still take lessons from me, and regard me as the
equal of Field. Really, if I were somewhat more silly than I
am, I might imagine myself already a finished artist;
nevertheless, I feel daily how much I have still to learn,
and become the more conscious of it through my intercourse
with the first artists here, and my perception of what every
one, even of them, is lacking in. But I am quite ashamed of
myself for what I have written just now, having praised
myself like a child. I would erase it, but I have no time to
write another letter. Moreover, you will remember my
character as it formerly was; indeed, I have remained quite
the same, only with this one difference, that I have now
whiskers on one side--unfortunately they won't grow at all on
the other side. To-day I have to give five lessons; you will
imagine that I must soon have made a fortune, but the
cabriolet and the white gloves eat the earnings almost up,
and without these things people would deny my bon ton. I love
the Carlists, hate the Philippists, and am myself a
revolutionist; therefore I don't care for money, but only for
friendship, for the preservation of which I earnestly entreat
you.
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:--
{This is at least the twentieth time that we have made
arrangements to meet, sometimes at my house, sometimes here,
[Footnote: At Chopin's lodgings mentioned farther on.] with
the intention of writing to you, and some visit, or other
unexpected hindrance, has always prevented us from doing
so!...I don't know whether Chopin will be able to make any
excuses to you; as regards myself it seems to me that we have
been so excessively rude and impertinent that excuses are no
longer either admissible or possible.
We have sympathised deeply with you in your sorrow, and
longed to be with you in order to alleviate as much as
possible the pangs of your heart.}
He has expressed himself so well that I have nothing to add
in excuse of my negligence or idleness, influenza or
distraction, or, or, or--you know I explain myself better in
person; and when I escort you home to your mother's house
this autumn, late at night along the boulevards, I shall try
to obtain your pardon. I write to you without knowing what my
pen is scribbling, because Liszt is at this moment playing my
studies and transports me out of my proper senses. I should
like to rob him of his way of rendering my own studies. As to
your friends who are in Paris, I have seen the Leo family and
their set [Footnote: Chopin's words are et qui s'en suit.' He
refers, no doubt, to the Valentin family, relations of the
Leos, who lived in the same house with them.] frequently this
winter and spring. There have been some soirees at the houses
of certain ambassadresses, and there was not one in which
mention was not made of some one who is at Frankfort. Madame
Eichthal sends you a thousand compliments. The whole Plater
family were much grieved at your departure, and asked me to
express to you their sympathy. (Madame d'Appony has quite a
grudge against me for not having taken you to her house
before your departure; she hopes that when you return you
will remember the promise you made me. I may say as much from
a certain lady who is not an ambassadress. [Footnote: This
certain lady was the Countess d'Agoult.]
Do you know Chopin's wonderful studies?) They are admirable--
and yet they will only last till the moment yours appear (a
little bit of authorial modesty!!!). A little bit of rudeness
on the part of the tutor--for, to explain the matter better
to you, he corrects my orthographical mistakes (after the
fashion of M. Marlet.
You will come back to us in the month of September, will you
not? Try to let us know the day as we have resolved to give
you a serenade (or charivari). The most distinguished artists
of the capital--M. Franchomme (present), Madame Petzold, and
the Abbe Bardin, the coryphees of the Rue d'Amboise (and my
neighbours), Maurice Schlesinger, uncles, aunts, nephews,
nieces, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, &c., &c.) en plan du
troisieme, &c. [Footnote: I give the last words in the
original French, because I am not sure of their meaning.
Hiller, to whom I applied for an explanation, was unable to
help me. Perhaps Chopin uses here the word plan in the
pictorial sense (premier plan, foreground; second plan,
middle distance).]
The responsible editors,
(F. LISZT.) F. CHOPIN. (Aug. FRANCHOMME.)
A Propos, I met Heine yesterday, who asked me to grussen you
herzlich und herzlich. [Footnote: To greet you heartily and
heartily.] A propos again, pardon me for all the "you's"--I
beg you to forgive me them. If you have a moment to spare let
us have news of you, which is very precious to us.
Paris: Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin, No. 5.
At present I occupy Franck's lodgings--he has set out for
London and Berlin; I feel quite at home in the rooms which
were so often our place of meeting. Berlioz embraces you. As
to pere Baillot, he is in Switzerland, at Geneva, and so you
will understand why I cannot send you Bach's Concerto.
June 20, 1833.
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
in turn fairy, nurse, godmother, guardian angel, delicate
benefactress, knowing all that threatens, divining all that
saves, she was to each of us an amiable protectress, equally
beloved and respected, who enlightened, warmed, and elevated
his [Chopin's] inspiration, and left a blank in his life when
she was no more.
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:--
Begun on Saturday, the 14th, and finished on Wednesday, the
18th.
DEAR FRIEND,--It would be useless to excuse myself for my
silence. If my thoughts could but go without paper to the
post-office! However, you know me too well not to know that
I, unfortunately, never do what I ought to do. I got here
very comfortably (except for a little disagreeable episode,
caused by an excessively odoriferous gentleman who went as
far as Chartres--he surprised me in the night-time). I have
found more occupation in Paris than I left behind me, which
will, without doubt, hinder me from visiting you at Coteau.
Coteau! oh Coteau! Say, my child, to the whole family at
Coteau that I shall never forget my stay in Touraine--that so
much kindness has made me for ever grateful. People think I
am stouter and look very well, and I feel wonderfully well,
thanks to the ladies that sat beside me at dinner, who
bestowed truly maternal attentions upon me. When I think of
all this the whole appears to me such an agreeable dream that
I should like to sleep again. And the peasant-girls of
Pormic! [FOOTNOTE: A village near the place where Chopin had
been staying.] and the flour! or rather your graceful nose
which you were obliged to plunge into it.
[FOOTNOTE: The remark about the "flour" and Franchomme's "nez
en forme gracieuse" is an allusion to some childish game in
which Chopin, thanks to his aquiline nose, got the better of
his friend, who as regards this feature was less liberally
endowed.]
A very interesting visit has interrupted my letter, which was
begun three days ago, and which I have not been able to
finish till to-day.
Hiller embraces you, Maurice, and everybody. I have delivered
your note to his brother, whom I did not find at home.
Paer, whom I saw a few days ago, spoke to me of your return.
Come back to us stout and in good health like me. Again a
thousand messages to the estimable Forest family. I have
neither words nor powers to express all I feel for them.
Excuse me. Shake hands with me--I pat you on the shoulder--I
hug you--I embrace you. My friend--au revoir.
Hoffmann, the stout Hoffmann, and the slim Smitkowski also,
embrace you.
[FOOTNOTE: The orthography of the French original is very
careless. Thus one finds frequent omissions and misplacements
of accents and numerous misspellings, such as trouvais
instead of trouve, engresse instead of engraisse, plonge
instead of plonger. Of course, these mistakes have to be
ascribed to negligence not to ignorance. I must mention yet
another point which the English translation does not bring
out--namely, that in addressing Franchomme Chopin makes use
of the familiar form of the second person singular.]
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--
his most intimate acquaintances did not penetrate into the
sacred recess where, apart from the rest of his life, dwelt
the secret spring of his soul: a recess so well concealed
that one hardly suspected its existence.
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.
The Slavonians [says Enault pithily] lend themselves, they do
not give themselves; and, as if Chopin had wished to make his
country-men pardon him the French origin of his family, he
showed himself more Polish than Poland.
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:--
With the Slavonians, the loyalty and frankness, the
familiarity and captivating desinvoltura of their manners, do
not in the least imply trust and effusiveness. Their feelings
reveal and conceal themselves like the coils of a serpent
convoluted upon itself; it is only by a very attentive
examination that one discovers the connection of the rings.
It would be naive to take their complimentary politeness,
their pretended modesty literally. The forms of this
politeness and this modesty belong to their manners, which
bear distinct traces of their ancient relations with the
East. Without being in the least infected by Mussulmanic
taciturnity, the Slavonians have learned from it a defiant
reserve on all subjects which touch the intimate chords of
the heart. One may be almost certain that, in speaking of
themselves, they maintain with regard to their interlocutor
some reticence which assures them over him an advantage of
intelligence or of feeling, leaving him in ignorance of some
circumstance or some secret motive by which they would be the
most admired or the least esteemed; they delight in hiding
themselves behind a cunning interrogatory smile of
imperceptible mockery. Having on every occasion a taste for
the pleasure of mystification, from the most witty and droll
to the most bitter and lugubrious kinds, one would say that
they see in this mocking deceit a form of disdain for the
superiority which they inwardly adjudge to themselves, but
which they veil with the care and cunning of the oppressed.
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--
in a room filled with tobacco smoke, sitting in an easy
chair, an enormous pipe in his mouth, surrounded by large and
small bottles of all sorts [entoure de chopes et bouteilles
de toutes provenances]. His rather large head, his highly-
coloured cheeks, his heavy features gave a Falstaff-like
appearance to his physiognomy.
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:--
Take the most hideous, repulsive, and complete physical
deformity; place it where it stands out most prominently, in
the lowest, most subterraneous and despised story of the
social edifice; illuminate this miserable creature on all
sides by the sinister light of contrasts; and then give it a
soul, and place in that soul the purest feeling which is
bestowed on man, the paternal feeling. What will be the
result? This sublime feeling, intensified according to
certain conditions, will transform under your eyes the
degraded creature; the little being will become great; the
deformed being will become beautiful.--Take the most hideous,
repulsive, and complete moral deformity; place it where it
stands out most prominently, in the heart of a woman, with
all the conditions of physical beauty and royal grandeur
which give prominence to crime; and now mix with all this
moral deformity a pure feeling, the purest which woman can
feel, the maternal feeling; place a mother in your monster
and the monster will interest you, and the monster will make
you weep, and this creature which caused fear will cause
pity, and this deformed soul will become almost beautiful in
your eyes. Thus we have in Le Roi s'amuse paternity
sanctifying physical deformity; and in Lucrece Borgia
maternity purifying moral deformity. [FOOTNOTE: from Victor
Hugo's preface to "Lucrece Borgia."]
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:--
In the dances before us the author satisfies the passion [of
writing affectedly and unnaturally] to a loathsome excess. He
is indefatigable, and I might say inexhaustible [sic], in his
search for ear-splitting discords, forced transitions, harsh
modulations, ugly distortions of melody and rhythm.
Everything it is possible to think of is raked up to produce
the effect of odd originality, but especially strange keys,
the most unnatural positions of chords, the most perverse
combinations with regard to fingering.
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:--
Where Field smiles, Chopin makes a grinning grimace: where
Field sighs, Chopin groans; where Field shrugs his shoulders,
Chopin twists his whole body; where Field puts some seasoning
into the food, Chopin empties a handful of Cayenne
pepper...In short, if one holds Field's charming romances
before a distorting concave mirror, so that every delicate
expression becomes coarse, one gets Chopin's work...We
implore Mr. Chopin to return to nature.
I shall quote one more sentence; it is from a notice of the
"Douze Etudes," Op. 10:--
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.
[FOOTNOTE: In the number of the Iris in which this criticism
appeared (No. 5 of Vol. V., 1834 Rellstab inserts the
following letter, which he says he received from Leipzig:--
"P. P.
"You are really a very bad man, and not worthy that God's
earth either knows (sic) or bears you. The King of Prussia
should have imprisoned you in a fortress; in that case he
would have removed from the world a rebel, a disturber of the
peace, and an infamous enemy of humanity, who probably will
yet be choked in his own blood. I have noticed a great number
of enemies, not only in Berlin, but in all towns which I
visited last summer on my artistic tour, especially very many
here in Leipzig, where I inform you of this, in order--that
you may in future change your disposition, and not act so
uncharitably towards others. Another bad, bad trick, and you
are done for! Do you understand me, you little man, you
loveless and partial dog of a critic, you musical snarler
[Schnurrbart], you Berlin wit-cracker [Witzenmacher], &c.
"Your most obedient Servant,
"CHOPIN."
To this Rellstab adds: "Whether Mr. Chopin has written this
letter himself, I do not know, and will not assert it, but
print the document that he may recognise or repudiate it."
The letter was not repudiated, but I do not think that it was
written by Chopin. Had he written a letter, he surely would
have written a less childish one, although the German might
not have been much better than that of the above. But my
chief reasons for doubting its genuineness are that Chopin
made no artistic tour in Germany after 1831, and is not known
to have visited Leipzig either in 1833 or 1834.]
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:--
I like to employ some free hours in the evening in making
myself acquainted with Chopin's studies and his other
compositions, and find much charm in the originality and
national colouring of their motivi; but my fingers always
stumble over certain hard, inartistic, and to me
incomprehensible modulations, and the whole is often too
sweetish for my taste, and appears too little worthy of a man
and a trained musician.
And again--
I am a sincere admirer of Chopin's originality; he has
furnished pianists with matter of the greatest novelty and
attractiveness. But personally I dislike the artificial,
often forced modulations; my fingers stumble and fall over
such passages; however much I may practise them, I cannot
execute them without tripping.
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:--
Chopin [he says] has opened up for himself a new route, and
from the first moment of his appearance on the scene he has
taken so high a stand, both by his pianoforte-playing and by
his compositions for this instrument, that he is to the
multitude an inexplicable phenomenon which it looks on in
passing with astonishment, and which stupid egoism regards
with a smile of pity, while the small number of connoisseurs,
led by a sure judgment, rather by an instinct of progress
than by a reasoned sentiment of enjoyment, follow this artist
in his efforts and in his creations, if not closely, at least
at a distance, admiring him, learning from him, and trying to
imitate him. For this reason Chopin has not found a critic,
although his works are already known everywhere. They have
either excited equivocal smiles and have been disparaged, or
have provoked astonishment and an overflow of unlimited
praise; but nobody has as yet come forward to say in what
their peculiar character and merit consists, by what they are
distinguished from so many other compositions, what assigns
to them a superior rank, &c.
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:--
Chopin [he says] is well and strong; he turns the heads of
all the Frenchwomen, and makes the men jealous of him. He is
now the fashion, and the elegant world will soon wear gloves
a la Chopin, Only the yearning after his country consumes
him.
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):--
On the first tier sat a man with a moustache reading the
score, and as he was coming downstairs after the rehearsal,
and I was going up, we met in the side-scenes, and Ferdinand
Hiller stumbled right into my arms, almost crushing me in his
joyful embrace. He had come from Paris to hear the oratorio,
and Chopin had left his pupils in the lurch and come with
him, and thus we met again. Now I had my full share of
pleasure in the musical festival, for we three now remained
together, got a box in the theatre (where the performances
are given) to ourselves, and as a matter of course betook
ourselves next morning to a piano, where I enjoyed myself
greatly. They have both still further developed their
execution, and Chopin is now one of the very first pianoforte-
players; he produces as novel effects as Paganini does on the
violin, and performs wonders which one would never have
imagined possible. Hiller, too, is an excellent player,
powerful and coquettish enough. Both are a little infected by
the Parisian mania for despondency and straining after
emotional vehemence [Verzweif-lungssucht und
Leidenschaftssucherei], and often lose sight of time and
repose and the really musical too much. I, on the other hand,
do so perhaps too little. Thus we made up for each other's
deficiencies, and all three, I think, learned something,
while I felt rather like a schoolmaster, and they like
mirliflores or incroyables.
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.
Chopin [writes Hiller], who was not known to any of them, and
extremely reserved, kept close to me during the walk,
observing everything and making remarks to me in a low, low
tone. For the later part of the evening we were invited to
the Schadows', who were never wanting in hospitality. We
found there some of the most eminent young painters. The
conversation soon became very animated, and all would have
been right if poor Chopin had not sat there so reserved--not
to say unnoticed. However, Mendelssohn and I knew that he
would have his revenge, and were secretly rejoicing at the
thought. At last the piano was opened; I began, Mendelssohn
followed; then we asked Chopin to play, and rather doubtful
looks were cast at him and us. But he had hardly played a few
bars when all present, especially Schadow, looked at him with
altogether different eyes. Nothing like it had ever been
heard. They were all in the greatest delight, and begged for
more and more. Count Almaviva had dropped his disguise, and
all were speechless.
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:--
The first thing I did in Paris was to call on Chopin. I
cannot tell you how great our mutual happiness was on meeting
again after a separation of five years. He has grown strong
and tall; I hardly recognised him. Chopin is now the first
pianist here; he gives a great many lessons, but none under
twenty francs. He has composed much, and his works are in
great request. I live with him: Rue Chaussee d'Antin, No. 5.
This street is indeed rather far from the Ecole de Medecine
and the hospitals; but I have weighty reasons for staying
with him--he is my all! We spend the evenings at the theatre
or pay visits; if we do not do one or the other, we enjoy
ourselves quietly at home.
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--
Chopin has gained a quite special reputation by the clever
spirituelle and profoundly artistic manner in which he knows
how to treat the national music of Poland, a genre of music
which was to us as yet little known...here again he appears
poetical, tender, fantastic, always graceful, and always
charming, even in the moments when he abandons himself to the
most passionate inspiration.
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, how is it that you, who have such admirable ideas,
do not compose an opera?" [Chopin, avec vos idees admirables,
pourquoi ne nous faites-vous pas un opera?] "Ah, Count, let
me compose nothing but music for the pianoforte; I am not
learned enough to compose operas!" [Ah, Monsieur le Comte,
laissez-moi ne faire que de la musique de piano; pour faire
des operas je ne suis pas assez savant.]
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:--
What a pity it is [are the concluding words of Elsner's
letter of September 14, 1834] that we can no longer see each
other and exchange our opinions! I have got so much to tell
you. I should like also to thank you for the present, which
is doubly precious to me. I wish I were a bird, so that I
might visit you in your Olympian dwelling, which the
Parisians take for a swallow's nest. Farewell, love me, as I
do you, for I shall always remain your sincere friend and
well-wisher.
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:--
We consider it superfluous to say that this piece, one of the
masterworks of the composer, was executed with a rare
perfection of talent by the two greatest pianoforte-virtuosos
of our epoch. Brilliancy of execution combined with perfect
delicacy, sustained elevation, and the contrast of the most
spirited vivacity and calmest serenity, of the most graceful
lightness and gravest seriousness--the clever blending of all
the nuances can only be expected from two artists of the same
eminence and equally endowed with deep artistic feeling. The
most enthusiastic applause showed MM. Liszt and Chopin better
than we can do by our words how much they charmed the
audience, which they electrified a second time by a Duo for
two pianos composed by Liszt.
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:--
The last concert at Pleyel's rooms was very brilliant. Men of
fashion, litterateurs, and artists had given each other
rendez-vous there to hear our musical celebrities--MM. Herz,
Chopin, Osborne, Hiller, Reicha, Mesdames Camille Lambert and
Leroy, and M. Hamati [read Stamati], a young pianist who had
not yet made a public appearance in our salons. These artists
performed various pieces which won the approval of all.
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:--
The concert for the benefit of the indigent Poles [i.e.,
indigent Polish refugees] will take place to-morrow,
Saturday, at the Theatre-Italien, at eight o'clock in the
evening. Mdlle. Falcon and Nourrit, MM. Ernst, Dorus, Schopin
[sic], Litz [sic], and Pantaleoni, will do the honours of
this soiree, which will be brilliant. Among other things
there will be heard the overtures to "Oberon" and "Guillaume
Tell," the duet from the latter opera, sung by Mdlle. Falcon
and Nourrit, and romances by M. Schubert, sung by Nourrit and
accompanied by Litz, &c.
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.
As you may suppose [says a writer of a notice in the "Gazette
musicale"] M. Chopin was not a stranger to the composition of
the programme of this soiree in behalf of his unhappy
countrymen. Accordingly the fete was brilliant.
In the same notice may also be read the following:--
Chopin's Concerto, so original, of so brilliant a style, so
full of ingenious details, so fresh in its melodies, obtained
a very great success. It is very difficult not to be
monotonous in a pianoforte concerto; and the amateurs could
not but thank Chopin for the pleasure he had procured them,
while the artists admired the talent which enabled him to do
so [i.e., to avoid monotony], and at the same time to
rejuvenate so antiquated a form.
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:--
Liszt, in 1835 [he wrote], represented a merveilleux the
prototype of the virtuoso; while in my opinion Chopin
personified the poet. The first aimed at effect and posed as
the Paganini of the piano; Chopin, on the other hand, seemed
never to concern himself [se preuccuper] about the public,
and to listen only to the inner voices. He was unequal; but
when inspiration took hold of him [s'emparait de hit] he made
the keyboard sing in an ineffable manner. I owe him some
poetic hours which I shall never forget.
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:--
I am not at all fit for giving concerts, the crowd
intimidates me, its breath suffocates me, I feel paralysed by
its curious look, and the unknown faces make me dumb. But you
are destined for it, for when you do not win your public, you
have the power to overwhelm it.
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:--
If Chopin suffered on account of his not being able to take
part in those public and solemn jousts where popular
acclamation salutes the victor; if he felt depressed at
seeing himself excluded from them, it was because he did not
esteem highly enough what he had, to do gaily without what he
had not.
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:--
It is known that Bellini and Chopin were friends, and that
they, who often made each other acquainted with their
compositions, may perhaps have had some artistic influence on
each other. But, as has been said, there is [on the part of
Chopin] only a slight leaning to the southern manner; as soon
as the cantilena is at an end the Sarmatian flashes out
again.
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:--
I can never forget some evenings which I spent with him
[Bellini] and Chopin and a few other guests at Madame
Freppa's. Madame Freppa, an accomplished and exceedingly
musical woman, born at Naples, but of French extraction, had,
in order to escape from painful family circumstances, settled
in Paris, where she taught singing in the most distinguished
circles. She had an exceedingly sonorous though not powerful
voice, and an excellent method, and by her rendering of
Italian folk-songs and other simple vocal compositions of the
older masters charmed even the spoiled frequenters of the
Italian Opera. We cordially esteemed her, and sometimes went
together to visit her at the extreme end of the Faubourg St.
Germain, where she lived with her mother on a troisieme au
dessus de l'entresol, high above all the noise and tumult of
the ever-bustling city. There music was discussed, sung, and
played, and then again discussed, played, and sung. Chopin
and Madame Freppa seated themselves by turns at the
pianoforte; I, too, did my best; Bellini made remarks, and
accompanied himself in one or other of his cantilene, rather
in illustration of what he had been saying than for the
purpose of giving a performance of them. He knew how to sing
better than any German composer whom I have met, and had a
voice less full of sound than of feeling. His pianoforte-
playing sufficed for the reproduction of his orchestra,
which, indeed, is not saying much. But he knew very well what
he wanted, and was far from being a kind of natural poet, as
some may imagine him to have been.
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 first subscription concert will take place under the
direction of Mendelssohn on October 4, the second on October
4. To-morrow or the day after to-morrow Chopin will arrive
here from Dresden, but will probably not give a concert, for
he is very lazy. He could stay here for some time, if false
friends (especially a dog of a Pole) did not prevent him from
making himself acquainted with the musical side of Leipzig.
But Mendelssohn, who is a good friend of mine and Schumann's,
will oppose this. Chopin does not believe, judging from a
remark he made to a colleague in Dresden, that there is any
lady in Germany who can play his compositions--we will see
what Clara can do.
The Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik, Schumann's paper, of September
29, 1835, contained the following announcement:--
Leipzig will soon be able to show a Kalisz [Footnote: An
allusion to the encampment of Russian and Prussian troops and
friendly meeting of princes which took place there in 1835.]
as regards musical crowned heads. Herr Mendelssohn has
already arrived. Herr Moscheles comes this week; and besides
him there will be Chopin, and later, Pixis and Franzilla.
[Footnote: Franzilla (or Francilla) Pixis, the adopted
daughter of Peter Pixis, whose acquaintance the reader made
in one of the preceding chapters (p. 245).]
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:--
The day after I accompanied the Hensels to Delitzsch, Chopin
was here; he intended to remain only one day, so we spent
this entirely together and had a great deal of music. I
cannot deny, dear Fanny, that I have lately found that you do
not do him justice in your judgment [of his talents]; perhaps
he was not in a right humour for playing when you heard him,
which may not unfrequently be the case with him. But his
playing has enchanted me anew, and I am persuaded that if you
and my father had heard some of his better pieces played as
he played them to me, you would say the same. There is
something thoroughly original and at the same time so very
masterly in his piano-forte-playing that he may be called a
really perfect virtuoso; and as every kind of perfection is
welcome and gratifying to me, that day was a most pleasant
one, although so entirely different from the previous ones
spent with you Hensels.
I was glad to be once more with a thorough musician, not with
those half-virtuosos and half-classics who would gladly
combine in music les honneurs de la vertu et les plaisirs du
vice, but with one who has his perfect and well-defined genre
[Richtung]. To whatever extent it may differ from mine, I can
get on with it famously; but not with those half-men. The
Sunday evening was really curious when Chopin made me play
over my oratorio to him, while curious Leipzigers stole into
the room to see him, and how between the first and second
parts he dashed off his new Etudes and a new Concerto, to the
astonishment of the Leipzigers, and I afterwards resumed my
St. Paul, just as if a Cherokee and a Kaffir had met and
conversed. He has such a pretty new notturno, several parts
of which I have retained in my memory for the purpose of
playing it for Paul's amusement. Thus we passed the time
pleasantly together, and he promised seriously to return in
the course of the winter if I would compose a new symphony
and perform it in honour of him. We vowed these things in the
presence of three witnesses, and we shall see whether we both
keep our word. My works of Handel [Footnote: A present from
the Committee of the Cologne Musical Festival of 1835.]
arrived before Chopin's departure, and were a source of quite
childish delight to him; but they are really so beautiful
that I cannot sufficiently rejoice in their possession.
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:--
October 6, 1835. Chopin was here, but only for a few hours,
which he passed in private circles. He played just as he
composes, that is, uniquely.
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):--
October 20, 1835. Chopin was here. Florestan [the
personification of the strong, passionate side of Schumann's
character] rushed to him. I saw them arm in arm glide rather
than walk. I did not speak with him, was quite startled at
the thought.
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:--
One of the most eminent pianists of our epoch, M. Chopin, has
returned to Paris, after having made a tour in Germany which
has been for him a real ovation. Everywhere his admirable
talent obtained the most flattering reception and excited
enthusiasm. It was, indeed, as if he had not left our capital
at all.
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--
Thalberg's compositions and playing had soul, a salon soul to
be sure, somewhat like that of a very elegant woman of the
world, who, nevertheless, has really a beautiful disposition
[Gemueth], which, however, is prevented from fully showing
itself by the superexquisiteness of her manners.
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 in life so also in art, Thalberg manifests innate tact;
his execution is so gentlemanlike, so opulent, so decorous,
so entirely without grimace, so entirely without forced
affectation of genius [forcirtes Genialthun], so entirely
without that boastful boorishness which badly conceals the
inner pusillanimity...He enchants by balsamic euphony, by
sobriety and gentleness....There is only one I prefer. That
is Chopin.
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:--
I have heard Thalberg in Paris. He made on me the impression
of a good little child, very nice and very well-behaved.
There are hours when Franz [Liszt], while amusing himself,
trifles [badine], like him, on some notes in order to let the
furious elements afterwards loose on this gentle breeze.
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:--
I saw Chopin with George Sand at the house of Louis Viardot,
before the marriage of the latter with Pauline Garcia. I was
very young, being only twelve years old, but I remember it as
though it had been yesterday. Thalberg was there, and had
played his second fantasia on Don Giovanni (Op. 42), and upon
my word Chopin complimented him most highly and with great
gravity; nevertheless, God knows what Chopin thought of it in
his heart, for he had a horror of Thalberg's arrangements,
which I have seen and heard him parody in the most droll and
amusing manner, for Chopin had the sense of parody and
ridicule in a high degree.
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:--
He had taken a great fancy to the granddaughter of a
celebrated master. He thought of asking her in marriage at
the same time that he entertained the idea of another
marriage in Poland--his loyalty being engaged nowhere, and
his fickle heart floating from one passion to the other. The
young Parisian received him very kindly, and all went as well
as could be till on going to visit her one day in company
with another musician, who was of more note in Paris than he
at that time, she offered a chair to this gentleman before
thinking of inviting Chopin to be seated. He never called on
her again, and forgot her immediately.
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:-
-
My dear Felix,--Very likely you thought "Fred must be moping
that he does not answer my letter!" But you will remember
that it was always my habit to do everything too late. Thus I
went also too late to Miss Fanche, and consequently was
obliged to wait till honest Wolf had departed. Were it not
that I have only recently come back from the banks of the
Rhine and have an engagement from which I cannot free myself
just now, I would immediately set out for Geneva to thank
your esteemed mamma and at the same time accept her kind
invitation. But cruel fate--in one word, it cannot be done.
Your sister was so good as to send me her composition. It
gives me the greatest pleasure, and happening to improvise
the veryevening of its arrival in one of our salons, I took
for my subject the pretty theme by a certain Maria with whom
in times gone by I played at hide and seek in the house of
Mr. Pszenny...To-day! Je prends la liberte d'envoyer a mon
estimable collegue Mile Marie une petite valse que je viens
de publier. May it afford her a hundredth part of the
pleasure which I felt on receiving her variations. In
conclusion, I once more thank your mamma most sincerely for
kindly remembering her old and faithful servant in whose
veins also there run some drops of Cujavian blood.
[Footnote: Cujavia is the name of a Polish district.]
F. CHOPIN.
P.S.--Embrace Anthony, stifle Casimir with caresses if you
can. as for Miss Maria make her a graceful and respectful
bow. Be surprised and say in a whisper, "Dear me, how tall
she has grown!"
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:--
I take advantage of Madame Nakwaska's permission and enclose
a few words. I expect news from Anthony's own hand, and shall
send you a letter even more full of details than the one
which contained Vincent's enclosure. I beg of you to keep
your mind easy about him. As yet all are in the town. I am
not in possession of any details, because the correspondents
only give accounts of themselves. My letter of the same date
must certainly be in Sluzewo; and, as far as is possible, it
will set your mind at rest with regard to this Spaniard who
must, must write me a few words. I am not going to use many
words in expressing the sorrow I felt on learning the news of
your mother's death--not for her sake whom I did not know,
but for your sake whom I do know. {This is a matter of
course!) I have to confess, Madam, that I have had an attack
like the one I had in Marienbad; I sit before Miss Maria's
book, and were I to sit a hundred years I should be unable to
write anything in it. For there are days when I am out of
sorts. To-day I would prefer being in Sluzewo to writing to
Sluzewo. Then would I tell you more than I have now written.
My respects to Mr. Wodzinski and my kind regards to Miss
Maria, Casimir, Theresa, and Felix.
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:--
Mendelssohn sends you his hearty greetings. He has finished
his oratorio, and will conduct it himself at the Dusseldorf
Musical Festival. Perhaps I shall go there too, perhaps also
Chopin, to whom we shall write about it.
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:--
I have just written to Chopin, who is said to be in
Marienbad, in order to learn whether he is really there. In
any case, I should visit you again in autumn. But if Chopin
answers my letter at once, I shall start sooner, and go to
Marienbad by way of Carlsbad. Theresa, what do you think! you
must come with me! Read first Chopin's answer, and then we
will fully discuss the rest.
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:--
The day before yesterday, just after I had received your
letter and was going to answer it, who should enter?--Chopin.
This was a great pleasure. We passed a very happy day
together, in honour of which I made yesterday a holiday...I
have a new ballade by Chopin. It appears to me his
genialischstes (not genialstes) work; and I told him that I
liked it best of all.
[FOOTNOTE: "Sein genialischstes (nicht genialstes) Werk." I
take Schumann to mean that the ballade in question (the one
in G minor) is Chopin's most spirited, most daring work, but
not his most genial--i.e., the one fullest of genius.
Schumann's remark, in a criticism of Op. 37, 38, and 42, that
this ballade is the "wildest and most original" of Chopin's
compositions, confirms my conjecture.]
After a long meditative pause he said with great emphasis: "I
am glad of that, it is the one which I too like best." He
played besides a number of new etudes, nocturnes, and
mazurkas--everything incomparable. You would like him very
much. But Clara [Wieck] is greater as a virtuoso, and gives
almost more meaning to his compositions than he himself.
Imagine the perfection, a mastery which seems to be quite
unconscious of itself!
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:--
I turned the conversation adroitly on Chopin. Scarcely had
she heard the name than she for the first time fully looked
at me with her large, kindly eyes. "And you know him?" I
answered in the affirmative. "And you have heard him?" Her
form became more and more sublime. "And have heard him
speak?" And when I told her that it was a never-to-be-
forgotten picture to see him sitting at the piano like a
dreaming seer, and how in listening to his playing one seemed
to one's self like the dream he created, and how he had the
dreadful habit of passing, at the end of each piece, one
finger quickly over the whizzing keyboard, as if to get rid
of his dream by force, and how he had to take care of his
delicate health--she clung to me with ever-increasing
timorous delight, and wished to know more and more about him.
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):--
As regards these etudes, I have the advantage of having heard
most of them played by Chopin himself, and, as Florestan
whispered in my ear at the time, "He plays them very much a
la Chopin." Imagine an AEolian harp that had all the scales,
and that these were jumbled together by the hand of an artist
into all sorts of fantastic ornaments, but in such a manner
that a deeper fundamental tone and a softly-singing higher
part were always audible, and you have an approximate idea of
his playing. No wonder that we have become fondest of those
pieces which we heard him play himself, and therefore we
shall mention first of all the first one in A flat, which is
rather a poem than an etude. It would be a mistake, however,
to suppose that he brought out every one of the little notes
with distinctness; it was more like a billowing of the A flat
major chord, swelled anew here and there by means of the
pedal; but through the harmonies were heard the sustained
tones of a wondrous melody, and only in the middle of it did
a tenor part once come into greater prominence amid the
chords along with that principal cantilena. 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. He soon came to the one in F minor, the second in
the book, likewise one which impresses one indelibly with his
originality; it is so charming, dreamy, and soft, somewhat
like the singing of a child in its sleep. Beautiful also,
although less new in character than in the figure, was the
following one in F major; here the object was more to exhibit
bravura, the most charming bravura, and we could not but
praise the master highly for it....But of what use are
descriptive words?
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:--
Yesterday Chopin was here and played an hour on my piano--a
fantasia and new etude of his--interesting man and still more
interesting playing; he moved me strangely. The over-
excitement of his fantastic manner is imparted to the keen-
eared; it made me hold my breath. Wonderful is the ease with
which his velvet fingers glide, I might almost say fly, over
the keys. He has enraptured me--I cannot deny it--in a way
which hitherto had been unknown to me. What delighted me was
the childlike, natural manner which he showed in his
demeanour and in his playing.
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 is said to have suddenly turned up here a fortnight
ago; but he visited nobody and made no acquaintances. He
played one evening most beautifully at Broadwood's, and then
hurried away again. I hear he is still suffering very much.
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:--
Chopin, who passed a few days in London, was the only one of
the foreign artists who visited nobody and also did not wish
to be visited, as every conversation aggravates his chest-
complaint. He went to some concerts and disappeared.
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:--
Were he [Chopin] not the most retiring and unambitious of all
living musicians, he would before this time have been
celebrated as the inventor of a new style, or school, of
pianoforte composition. During his short visit to the
metropolis last season, but few had the high gratification of
hearing his extemporaneous performance. Those who experienced
this will not readily lose its remembrance. He is, perhaps,
par eminence, the most delightful of pianists in the drawing-
room. The animation of his style is so subdued, its
tenderness so refined, its melancholy so gentle, its niceties
so studied and systematic, the tout-ensemble so perfect, and
evidently the result of an accurate judgment and most
finished taste, that when exhibited in the large concert-
room, or the thronged saloon, it fails to impress itself on
the mass. The "Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik" of September 8,
1837, brought the piece of news that Chopin was then at a
Bohemian watering-place. I doubt the correctness of this
statement; at any rate, no other information to that effect
has come to my knowledge, and the ascertained facts do not
favour the assumption of its truth.
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:--
My dearest life! Wounded! Far from us--and I can send you
nothing....Your friends are thinking only of you. For mercy's
sake recover as soon as possible and return. The newspaper
accounts say that your legion is completely annihilated.
Don't enter the Spanish army....Remember that your blood may
serve a better purpose....Titus [Woyciechowski] wrote to ask
me if I could not meet him somewhere in Germany. During the
winter I was again ill with influenza. They wanted to send me
to Ems. Up to the present, however, I have no thought of
going, as I am unable to move. I write and prepare
manuscript. I think far more of you than you imagine, and
love you as much as ever.
F. C.
Believe me, you and Titus are enshrined in my memory.
On the margin, Chopin writes--
I may perhaps go for a few days to George Sand's, but keep
your mind easy, this will not interfere with the forwarding
of your money, for I shall leave instructions with Johnnie
[Matuszynski].
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.
I owe my first socialistic and democratic instincts to the
singularity of my position, to my birth a cheval so to speak
on two classes--to my love for my mother thwarted and broken
by prejudices which made me suffer before I could comprehend
them. I owe them also to my education, which was by turns
philosophical and religious, and to all the contrasts which
my own life has presented to me from my earliest years.
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.
He did not speak to me of love [writes George Sand], and
owned that he was little inclined to sudden passion, to
enthusiasm, and in any case no adept in expressing it in an
attractive manner. He spoke of a friendship that would stand
any test, and compared the tranquil happiness of our hosts
[she was then staying with some friends] to that which he
believed he could swear to procure me.
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:--
Marriage is beautiful for lovers and useful for saints.
Besides saints and lovers there are a great many ordinary
minds and placid hearts that do not know love and cannot
attain to sanctity.
Marriage is the supreme aim of love. When love has left it,
or never entered it, sacrifice remains. This is very well for
those who understand sacrifice. The latter presupposes a
measure of heart and a degree of intelligence which are not
frequently to be met with.
For sacrifice there are compensations which the vulgar mind
can appreciate. The approbation of the world, the routine
sweetness of custom, a feeble, tranquil, and sensible
devotion that is not bent on rapturous exaltation, or money,
that is to say baubles, dress, luxury--in short, a thousand
little things which make one forget that one is deprived of
happiness.
The following extracts give us some glimpses which enable us to
realise the situation:--
I left rather sad. * said hard things to me, having been told
by a Madame *** that I was wrong in making excursions without
my husband. I do not think that this is the case, seeing that
my husband goes first, and I go where he intends to go.
My husband is one of the most intrepid of men. He goes
everywhere, and I follow him. He turns round and rebukes me.
He says that I affect singularity. I'll be hanged if I think
of it. I turn round, and I see Zoe following me. I tell her
that she affects singularity. My husband is angry because Zoe
laughs.
...We quickly leave the guides and the caravan behind us. We
ride over the most fantastic roads at a gallop. Zoe is mad
with courage. This intoxicates me, and I at once am her
equal.
In addition to the above, we must read a remark suggested by
certain entries in the diary:--
Aimee was an accomplished person of an exquisite distinction.
She loved everything that in any way is elegant and ornate in
society: names, manners, talents, titles. Madcap as I
assuredly was, I looked upon all this as vanity, and went in
quest of intimacy and simplicity combined with poesy. Thanks
to God, I found them in Zoe, who was really a person of
merit, and, moreover, a woman with a heart as eager for
affection as my own.
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.
Without waiting a day longer, still feeble and ill, I
declared my will and mentioned my motives with an aplomb and
coolness which petrified him. He hardly expected to see a
being like me rise to its full height in order to face him.
He growled, disputed, beseeched. I remained immovable. I want
an allowance, I shall go to Paris, my children will remain at
Nohant.
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:--
I shall go to Paris; I shall not put up at your lodgings, for
I do not wish to inconvenience you any more than I wish you
to inconvenience me (parceque je ne veux pas vous gener, pas
plus que je ne veux que vous me geniez).
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:--
Therese had no weakness for Laurent in the mocking and
libertine sense that one gives to this word in love. It was
by an act of her will, after nights of sorrowful meditation,
that she said to him--"I wish what thou wishest, because we
have come to that point where the fault to be committed is
the inevitable reparation of a series of committed faults. I
have been guilty towards thee in not having the egotistical
prudence to shun thee; it is better that I should be guilty
towards myself in remaining thy companion and consolation at
the expense of my peace and of my pride."..."Listen," she
added, holding his hand in both of hers with all the strength
she possessed, "never draw back this hand from me, and,
whatever happens, preserve so much honour and courage as not
to forget that before being thy mistress I was thy
FRIEND....I ask of thee only, if thou growest weary of my
Jove as thou now art of my friendship, to recollect that it
was not a moment of delirium that threw me into thy arms, but
a sudden impulse of my heart, and a more tender and more
lasting feeling than the intoxication of voluptuousness."
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:--
When one gives the world what the world calls the scandale of
love, one must have at least the courage of one's passion. In
this respect the women of the eighteenth century are better
than you: they did not subtilise love in metaphysics [elles
n'alambiquaient pas l'amour dans la metaphysique].
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.
One must have a passion in life. I feel ennui for the want of
one. The agitated and often even rather needy life I am
leading here drives spleen far away. I am very well, and you
will see me in the best of humours. [To her friend A. M.
Duteil. Paris, February 15, 1831.]
I have an object, a task, let me say the word, a passion. The
profession of writing is a violent and almost indestructible
one. [To Jules Boucoiran. Paris, March 4, 1831.]
I cannot bear the shadow of a constraint, this is my
principal fault. Everything that is imposed upon me as a duty
becomes hateful to me.
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:--
Moreover, it is only just that this great liberty which my
husband enjoys should be reciprocal; otherwise, he would
become to me odious and contemptible; that is what he does
not wish to be. I am therefore quite independent; I go to bed
when he rises, I go to La Chatre or to Rome, I come in at
midnight or at six o'clock; all this is my business. Those
who do not approve of this, and disparage me to you, judge
them with your reason and your mother's heart; the one and
the other ought to be with me. [To her mother. Nohant, May
31, 1831.]
Marriage is a state so contrary to every kind of union and
happiness that I have good reason to fear for you. [To Jules
Boucoiran, who had thoughts of getting married. Paris, March
6, 1833.]
You load me with very heavy reproaches, my dear child...you
reproach me with my numerous liaisons, my frivolous
friendships. I never undertake to clear myself from the
accusations which bear on my character. I can explain facts
and actions; but never defects of the mind or perversities of
the heart. [To Jules Boucoiran. Paris, January 18, 1833.]
Thou hast pardoned me when I committed follies which the
world calls faults. [To her friend Charles Duvernet. Paris,
October 15, 1834.]
But I claim to possess, now and for ever, the proud and
entire independence which you believe you alone have the
right to enjoy. I shall not advise it to everyone; but I
shall not suffer that, so far as I am concerned, any love
whatever shall in the least fetter it. I hope to make my
conditions so hard and so clear that no man will be bold and
vile enough to accept them. [To her friend Adolphe Gueroult.
Paris, May 6, 1835.]
Nothing shall prevent me from doing what I ought to and what
I will do. I am the daughter of my father, and I care not for
prejudices when my heart enjoins justice and courage. [To her
mother. Nohant, October 25, 1835.]
Opinion is a prostitute which must be sent about her business
with kicks when one is in the right. [To her friend Adolphe
Gueroult. La Chatre, November 9, 1835.]
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--
a kind of orgy of a personality intoxicated with itself, an
abuse of intimate secrets in which she slashes her friends,
her reminiscences, and--truth.
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.
At no time whatever [writes Paul Lindau in his "Alfred de
Musset"] is there to be discovered in George Sand a trace of
a passion and inconsiderateness, she possesses an
imperturbable calmness. Love sans phrase does not exist for
her. That her frivolity may be frivolity, she never will
confess. She calculates the gifts of love, and administers
them in mild, well-measured doses. She piques herself upon
not being impelled by the senses. She considers it more
meritorious if out of charity and compassion she suffers
herself to be loved. She could not be a Gretchen [a Faust's
Margaret], she would not be a Magdalen, and she became a Lady
Tartuffe.
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:--
A woman of genius, but a woman with sensual appetites, with
insatiable desires, accustomed to satisfy them at any price,
should she even have to break the cup after draining it,
equally wanting in balance, wisdom, and purity of mind, and
in decorum, reserve, and dignity of conduct.
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--
most of her romances are dazzling rehabilitations of
adultery, and in reading their burning pages it would seem
that there remains only one thing to be done--namely, to break
the social chains in order that the Lelias and Sylvias may go
in quest of their ideal without being stopped by morality and
the laws, those importune customs lines which religion and
the institutions have opposed to individual whim and
inconstancy.
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
The world thou burnest in a poet-fire,
We see thy woman-heart beat evermore
Through the large flame. Beat purer, heart, and higher,
Till God unsex thee on the heavenly shore
Where unincarnate spirits purely aspire!
END OF VOLUME I.
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by Frederick Niecks
