“Sorrow” and “Ideal”
But it was not until the following year that he was to find his voice.
One evening at the Opera, he noticed in a small part a young singer
with a clear tone, fair hair, and an attractive mouth. He learned that
her name was Constance Gladkowska, and that she was still a pupil at
the Conservatory. The impression this girl produced on him was strong,
but altogether pure and childlike. To get the ribbon that tied her
hair, to die holding it hidden on his breast, would have satisfied his
longings. And so delicate was this sentiment that at first he confided
it to no one. Besides, another thought wrung him more: the thought of
leaving Warsaw, because he well knew that he had exhausted its musical
resources.
In July, 1829, his father furnished him with a little money, which
had been saved with difficulty, and the young composer, on whom from
all sides so many hopes were now centred, was able to leave for
Vienna. His first visit there was to Haslinger, the music publisher,
a great eulogist who received him with open arms and already called
him “the new star of the North.” But Chopin, who was not yet twenty,
was cautious and sceptical. He was presented to Count Gallenberg,
the superintendent of the Imperial theatres; he was urged to give a
concert. “What reassures Count Gallenberg,” he wrote to his family, “is
that I shall not tax his purse. I am going to play for nothing. I am
acting the disinterested and the dilettante. I am a musician for love
of the art.”
The concert took place at the Imperial Theatre on the 11th of August,
at seven in the evening. The orchestra played a Beethoven overture,
some airs of Rossini. Then the delicate Chopin, already sickly looking,
came on to the platform. An old lady sitting in the first row said in a
whisper, “What a pity the young man doesn’t make a better appearance!”
But Chopin’s whiteness was from rage rather than nervousness, because
the orchestra, not having been able to decipher his _Variations_, had
forced him to change the programme. He therefore improvised on a theme
from _The White Lady_, then on the Polish air, _Chmiel_.
With the one exception of Liszt, no one has ever improvised like
Chopin. Under his elegant hand there opened a new world of velvet
tragedies, of ravishing sorrows, where each hearer trembled as he
discovered a memory of his own griefs. And old men as well as young
schoolgirls followed with delight these exquisite whisperings. But the
power of poets—what is it, if not to draw singing from one’s own soul,
the secret of which they know better than oneself?
So successful was this first concert that Chopin resolved to give
another a week later. This time he played his _Krakoviak_, which the
orchestra had rehearsed, and his _Variations_ on the _La ci darem_.
Count Lichnowsky, Beethoven’s friend, was present and applauded wildly.
The public, the musicians, and the critics could not conceal their
surprise, for everything was new about Chopin, both the substance and
the form. “The public recognized a great artist in this young man... On
the ground of the originality of his playing and of his compositions
one could almost attribute genius to him,” said the _Wiener
Theaterzeitung_; and the _Allgemeine Musikalische_: “The exquisite
delicacy of his touch, the indescribable dexterity of his technique,
the finish of his _nuances_, which reflect the deepest sensitiveness,
the clarity of his interpretation and of his compositions, which
bear the marks of a great genius, all reveal a virtuoso favoured by
nature, who has flashed above the horizon without previous heralding,
like one of the most brilliant meteors.” One single criticism, that
Chopin made of himself: he plays too softly, he lacks brilliance and
resonance. “They are almost of one voice in saying I play too softly,
too tenderly, rather, for this public,” he writes to his family. “They
are accustomed to the great drums of their virtuosos. But I prefer them
to say that I played too softly than too brutally.” And in another
letter: “It is my way of playing, and I know it gives infinite pleasure
to women and artists.”
Thereupon he left for Prague, accompanied to the diligence by all
the Viennese musicians, whom he had conquered in so short a time.
Even Czerny, with whom Chopin had several times played duets, was
there. Chopin thought him “a fine man and more sensitive than his
compositions.” He visited Prague, where he made the acquaintance of
the famous violinist Pixis, and of Alexandre Klengel, the composer
of forty-eight fugues considered the finest since Bach. Klengel
interested Chopin greatly, and they spent half a dozen hours together,
at the piano and in conversation. Then Frederick left for Dresden, viâ
Teplitz, a watering-place on the frontier of Bohemia and Saxony, where
he passed the evening at the château of Prince Clary.
A small but “respectable” company were assembled there: the men of the
house, an Austrian general, an English naval captain, a Saxon general
sewed up in decorations, some young men and girls. After tea, the
Princess asked Chopin if he would “deign” to seat himself at the piano.
The artist replied that he would “deign,” and asked for a subject
for improvisation. The Prince’s _maître de musique_ proposed a theme
from Rossini’s _Moses_, and Chopin launched forth upon embroideries
so lovely that he was obliged to return to the piano four times. They
tried to keep him at Teplitz, but he would not consent. A restlessness,
a certain nervousness, pushed him on to continue his journey. Something
was working deeply in him. Dresden hardly interested him. He stayed
there a few days doing nothing, then left for Breslau, and returned at
length to Warsaw on September 12th.
Three weeks later, while writing a waltz, he found out what ailed him.
“I have, perhaps to my sorrow, found my ideal. For six months now I
have dreamed of her each night, and I have never spoken a word to her.
It was for her that I composed the _Adagio_ of my _Concerto_ (in F
minor, op. 21), as well as the _Waltz_ (op. 70, no. 3), written only
this morning and which I am sending to you. Notice the passage marked
with a cross. No one, except you, will know the meaning of it. How
happy I should be, my dear friend, if I could play it to you! In the
fifth bar of the trio, the bass carries the melody as far as the high
E flat, in the key of G flat. I should not tell you this, as I am sure
you would have noticed it for yourself.”
This confidence was addressed to Titus, the friend beloved above all
others because he too was a musician, and Chopin found at once the two
words that were henceforth to be the keys to his whole life: “sorrow”
and “ideal.” They give an atmosphere. Perhaps they give too much; but
if they have since then lost something of their meaning, can we not
give back to them in spirit a living poetical value? In this Europe
which was open to romanticism and fervently breathed a too magnificent
vocabulary lived the faith that moves and the candour that engenders
deeds of love and of history. An evil age, “An age of fools and
follies,” says M. Charles Maurras. Perhaps. But an age in which ideas
and dreams have more than a rhetorical value puts a high price on art.
And no one was less satisfied than Chopin with mere words. Those which
he himself used translate exactly the accents of his piano. When he
wrote that to his sorrow he had discovered his ideal, doubtless he did
not suspect what a true note he had struck. Here, fixed for ever, is
the musical theme in which, thanks to him, millions of beings were to
discover the joys of hopelessness.
In this sorrow, in this ideal, he was of course thinking of Constance
Gladkowska. He wrote again some time later: “You cannot imagine how sad
Warsaw seems to me. If I were not so happy with my family, I would not
care for this place. Oh! how bitter it is to have no one with whom to
share sorrow and joy! How dreadful when the heart is oppressed to be
unable to unfold it. You know what I mean. Many times I pour into my
piano what I should like to confide to you.”
He heard much music, and was greatly struck by the last of Beethoven’s
trios. Never, he said, had he heard anything greater. He composed. He
went to the Opera. Mlle. Gladkowska made her debut in Paër’s _Agnes_
and he admired her playing, her beauty, the range of her voice. “Her
phrasing and _nuance_ are delicious. At first her voice trembled
slightly, but she soon got over that. She was overwhelmed with
applause.” He made her acquaintance, accompanied her at the piano,
felt that he should die of sadness and uncertainty. Ought he to leave?
Must he stay? He decided to accept an invitation from Prince Radziwill
and went to spend one autumn week at Antonin. He was received as a
personage, and played duets with the Prince, who was the author of an
orchestration of _Faust_.
Two charming Eves graced this paradise—“I mean the two young
princesses, pleasant, musical, and gentle creatures. As for the
Princess Mother, she knows that it is not birth that makes a man.”
The young princesses knew it, too, and they amused themselves by taking
lessons from this artist with the complexion of a girl. Wanda allowed
him to play with her fingers, to which he had to teach the correct
position. Elise did his portrait. “Princess Wanda has a real musical
instinct. There is no need to be constantly saying to her: here,
_crescendo_, there, _piano_... here more slowly, there faster... I had
to promise to send her my _Polonaise in F minor_.” He wrote another
Polonaise, for piano and violoncello. “It is a brilliant piece for
women to play.” He did not forget Constance, even though Princess Elise
was so ravishing. But he realized the possibility of being charmed in
all innocence by two beings at once. Nor did he forget his dear Titus
of the silent, savage heart. In a moment of expansion he wrote to him:
“I might anoint my body with the rarest perfumes of Byzantium and you
would still refuse to embrace me if I had not bound you by a kind of
magnetic attraction. But there are secret forces in nature....”
Returning to Warsaw, he decided to give a concert which Constance would
attend. She could not fail to understand that it was to her alone that
he dedicated his young fame. The concert actually took place on the
17th of March, 1830, when he had just completed his twentieth year.
The event aroused an extraordinary amount of attention. The hall was
crowded. The programme, of the usual variegated order, announced music
by Elsner, Kurpinski, a hunting-horn solo, some singing. Chopin’s part
consisted of his _Concerto in F minor_ and a fantasia on national
airs. But the effect was not all that he had hoped. The connoisseurs
alone had realized and appreciated his originality as an artist. But
Constance, sitting in the front row, smiled at him and he felt repaid.
A second concert, several days after the first, was a more brilliant
success, and the _Rondo à la Krakoviak_ aroused acclamations. From
all over the house came cries: “A third concert! A third concert!”
This time it really seemed as though the critics, the crowd, and the
musicians were of one accord in declaring Chopin Poland’s greatest
pianist and composer. But the weeks slipped by without bringing him
real happiness. His love for Titus and Constance both sustained and
tormented him. He carried their letters next his heart. For them alone
he composed, and his latest music seemed to him worthless till they
had heard it. “Work drives me on. I am composing hard. Often I turn
night into day and day into night. I live in a dream and sleep while
I am awake. Yes, worse still, it is as though I must sleep for ever,
for I am for ever feeling the same thing. But instead of gathering
strength from this somnolence, I am tortured further and weaken myself
the more....” He worked on his _Adagio in E major_, which was to be
“romantic, calm, melancholy,” and to evoke “crowds of gentle memories.
It should be like a reverie on a moonlit spring night.... What does it
matter if it is bad? You will see in it my fault of doing badly against
my will. But that is because, also against my will, something has
entered my heart by way of my eyes. It drives me, torments me, although
I love it and cherish it.”
An unexpected treat was given him by the arrival of a celebrated German
singer, Sontag, who gave a series of six concerts. To her Prince
Radziwill presented Chopin, who experienced a moment of enthusiasm. She
was not beautiful, but charming beyond description, and she enchanted
the circle in which she moved. Frederick was allowed the honour of
seeing her in her morning peignoir, and brought Constance to her. But
the transit of the singer was no more than a meteoric interlude and
Chopin slid back into his uncertainties. Departure seemed more and more
necessary for his musical development, and on the other hand the fear
of losing his love paralysed him. On September 4th he wrote to Titus:
“I have fits of fury. I still have not budged. I haven’t the
strength to name a day for leaving. I have a presentiment that if
I leave Warsaw I shall never see my home again. I believe that I
am going away to die. How sad it must be not to die where one has
always lived! How dreadful it would be for me to see at my deathbed
an indifferent doctor or servant instead of all my own folk! I
should like to stay with you for a few days; perhaps I might find
some peace again. But as I cannot, I limit myself to roaming the
streets, crushed by my sadness, and I return—but why? To pursue my
fancies. Man is rarely happy. If he is destined to only a few short
hours of bliss, why should he renounce his illusions. They too are
fugitive.”
More curious still is his letter of September 18th, where he makes this
singular confession:
“You are mistaken in thinking, like so many others, that my heart
is the reason for my prolonging my stay here. Be assured that I
could rise above all if it were a question of my own self, and
that, if I were in love, I could manage to dominate for several
more years my sad and sterile passion. Be convinced of one thing, I
beg, that is, that I too consider my own good and that I am ready
to sacrifice everything for the world. For the world;—I mean, for
the eye of the world; in order that this public opinion which has
so much weight with us may contribute to my sorrow. Not to that
secret suffering that we hide within ourselves, but to what I might
call our outward pain... As long as I am in good health, I shall
work willingly all my life. But must I work more than my strength
permits? If it is necessary, I can do twice what I do to-day. You
may not be master of your own thoughts, but I am always. Nothing
could make me drop them as the leaves from the trees. For me, even
in winter, there is always verdure. Of course, I am speaking only
of the head! In the heart, on the other hand... good Lord! there is
tremendous heat! No wonder the vegetation there is luxurious....
Your letters lie upon my heart, next to the ribbon (Constance’s),
for though they do not know each other, these inanimate objects
nevertheless feel that they come from friendly hands.”
In short, this irresolute knew well that the very base of his nature
was his musical instinct; that this instinct would conquer all, his
desires, his comfort, his peace; that his “secret suffering,” if it was
inevitably necessary, still amounted to less than that stubborn march
towards a future of melody and solitude.
Coming out of church one day he saw Constance. “My eyes caught her
glance. I tore off into the street and it took a quarter of an hour to
pull myself together. Sometimes I am so mad that it is terrifying. But
on Saturday week I leave, come what may. I shall pack my music in my
trunk, her ribbon in my soul, my soul under my arm and,—away I go, in
the diligence!”
Finally, on October 11th, he gave a last concert, in which Mlle.
Gladkowska assisted. Frederick played his whole _Concerto in E minor_,
a work that he had just finished, and a _Fantasia on Polish Airs_.
Mlle. Gladkowska, dressed in white and crowned with roses, sang the
cavatine from Rossini’s _Lady of the Lake_. “You know the theme: _O
quante lagrime per te versai_,” wrote Chopin to Titus. “She rendered
the _tutto detesto_ to the G flat admirably. Zielinski said the G
alone was worth a thousand ducats. After leading her off the stage I
played my _Fantasia_ on the setting of the moon. This time at least I
understood myself, the orchestra understood itself and the audience
understood us.... Now nothing remains but to strap my trunk. My outfit
is ready, my orchestrations are recopied, my handkerchiefs hemmed, my
new trousers have been tried on.” What was he still waiting for?
It was as though destiny offered him one final chance. He did not take
it.
The 1st of November, 1830, was the date fixed; he was to leave for
Vienna. In the morning a whole troupe set forth. Elsner, friends,
musicians, conducted him as far as Wola, the historic suburb where, in
earlier times, the election of the kings had taken place. They held a
banquet. They played a cantata composed by Elsner in his honour. They
sang:
“May your talent, native of our soil,
Display itself in all and everywhere,
Be you on the Danube’s shores,
Or by the Spree, the Tiber or the Seine.
Cherish the customs of your fathers,
And, by the notes of your music,
Our mazurkas and our Kracoviennes,
Sing the glory of your native land.
Yes, you shall realize our dreams.
Know always, Chopin, that you by song
Shall glorify your native land.”
Chorus:
“To leave your fatherland is naught,
Because your soul remains with us.
We raise our prayers for your happiness,
And shall cherish your memory in our hearts.”
He is pale, the young prince, when they present him with a silver cup
filled with his native soil. And now he bursts into sobs.
* * * * *
As for Constance, she never saw him again. Two years later she married
a country gentleman. Then, the blue eyes that the poet had loved,—by
what strange trick of fate should they be deprived of light? Constance
became blind. Sometimes, however, she would sit once more at the piano
and sing that lovely song: _Quante lagrime per te versai_.... Someone
who knew her towards the end of her life told how “from her eyes, which
remained starry in spite of their blindness,” would then fall the tears.