“While staying in this ‘card house,’ he composed some short but

very beautiful pieces, which he modestly entitled ‘Preludes;’ they

were real masterpieces. Some of them create such vivid impressions

that the shades of the dead monks seem to rise and pass before the

hearer in solemn and gloomy funereal pomp.[29] Others are full of

charm and melancholy glowing with the sparkling fire of enthusiasm,

breathing with the hope of restored health. The laughter of

children at play, the distant strains of the guitar, the twitter

of the birds on the damp branches, or the sight of the little pale

roses in our cloister garden, pushing their heads up through the

snow, would call forth from his soul melodies of indescribable

sweetness and grace. But many also are so full of gloom and sadness

that, in spite of the pleasure they afford, the listener is filled

with pain.

“I apply this especially to a Prelude[30] he wrote one evening,

which thrills one almost to despair. One day Maurice and I went

to Palma to make some necessary purchases. Chopin was pretty

well when we left him. Towards evening a heavy rain set in; the

rivers swelled rapidly; we lost our boots in the floods; our

driver deserted us; and we were exposed to great danger. It was

with difficulty that we accomplished a mile and a half in six

hours, and we did not reach home till midnight. We were greatly

vexed at arriving so late, as we knew our dear invalid would be

very uneasy. We found him, indeed, in a state of great agitation,

and already beginning to despair. With tears in his eyes he had

composed this noble and beautiful Prelude. When he saw us come in,

he jumped up with a cry, stood almost motionless, and in a strange,

hollow voice, exclaimed: “Ah, I thought you were dead!” By degrees

he grew calm, but when he saw our soaked and ruined clothes, the

thought of the danger to which we had been exposed again unnerved

him. [Sidenote: AN UNEASY VISION.] He told us afterwards that

during our absence he had had a vision, and that he could not

distinguish the dream from the reality. He had sunk into a kind

of stupor and fancied, while he was playing, that he had been

removed from earth, and was no longer in the land of the living. He

imagined that he was drowned, and as he lay at the bottom of the

sea could feel the cold drops keeping time as they dropped upon his

breast. When I called his attention to the even fall of the rain

upon the roof, he obstinately maintained that he had not heard it

before.

“He was vexed with me for using the expression, ‘harmonie

imitative,’ and he was right, for imitation is an absurdity which

can only tickle the ear. There was in Chopinʼs genius a subtle

innate harmony which reflected the expression of his musical

thoughts by a lofty assonance of tone, not through the material

repetition of the outward sound. The Prelude he wrote that evening

recalls, indeed, the rain drops falling on the roof of the

cloister, but according to his conception these drops are tears

falling from heaven on his heart.

“As yet, no other genius has appeared so full of deep poetic

feeling as Chopin. Under his hand the piano spoke an immortal

longing. A short piece of scarcely half a page will contain

the most sublime poetry. Chopinʼs rich genius never needed the

aid of gross material means. No! He required no trumpets and

ophicleides to awaken terror or enthusiasm. Hitherto he has not

been understood, and even now is not generally appreciated. Musical

taste and feeling must make considerable progress before Chopinʼs

works can be popular.

“Chopin felt both his power and his weakness; the latter arose

from an excess of power which he did not know how to control. He

could not, like Mozart—who in this capacity stands alone—create

masterpieces from common-place tones. Chopinʼs compositions contain

many surprises and _nuances_ which are often strange, mysterious,

and original; but never far-fetched or strained. Although he hated

and avoided what was incomprehensible, the over-intensity of his

feelings often carried him into regions to which he only could

attain.

“I fear that I was often a bad judge; for he was in the habit of

asking me for advice, as Molière did his cook; and when I had come

to know him intimately his style was quite clear to me. During

the eight years in which I became increasingly familiar with his

musical thoughts, and had acquired an insight into his character,

I used to find in his playing either an exaltation, a struggle and

a victory, or else the agony of an over-mastering thought. At that

time I understood him as he understood himself; a critic who knew

him less intimately would perhaps have advised him to express

himself more clearly.

“In youth he was full of witty and merry thoughts, as some simple

yet exquisite Polish songs give evidence. Some of his later

tone-poems bring before us a sparkling crystal stream reflecting

the sunbeams. Chopinʼs quieter compositions remind us of the song

of the lark as it lightly soars into the æther, or the gentle

gliding of the swan over the smooth mirror of the waters; they

seemed filled with the holy calm of nature. When Chopin was in a

desponding mood the piercing cry of the hungry eagle among the

crags of Majorca, the mournful wailing of the storm, and the stern

immoveability of the snow-clad heights, would awaken gloomy fancies

in his soul. Then, again, the perfume of the orange blossoms, the

vine, bending to the earth beneath its rich burden, the peasant

singing his Moorish songs in the fields, would fill him with

delight.

[Sidenote: CHOPINʼS SENSITIVENESS.]

“Chopinʼs character thus showed itself in varying circumstances;

although sensitive to all marks of friendship and smiles of

favour, he would remember the slightest offence for days and

weeks together. The most trivial _contre-temps_ would disturb him

exceedingly; but, what is still more strange, real grief never

troubled him so much as small vexations. He could not overcome

this weakness of character, and his irritation was often out of

all proportion to the cause. He bore his illness with heroic calm

and courage; real dangers did not frighten him, but, like very

imaginative and nervous men, he would torment himself ceaselessly

with melancholy thoughts.

“His excessive anxiety about trifles, his insuperable repugnance

to the slightest sign of poverty, and his luxurious habits, must

have made his residence in Majorca, after some days of illness,

very distasteful to him. But he was not in a condition to travel;

and when at last he had somewhat recovered, contrary winds arose

and the ship was obliged to lie at anchor for three weeks. It

was our only means of return, and unfortunately we were not able

to avail ourselves of it. Our stay at the Cloister was a misery

to Chopin and a hard trial to me. His agreeableness and cheerful

amiability in society were frequently matched by the gloominess

and peevishness of his behaviour to those around him at home, whom

he sometimes drove almost to despair. Yet I never knew anyone

so noble-minded, tender, and free from selfishness. He was a

faithful and honest friend. In happy moments his brilliant wit

often surpassed the cleverest sayings of the most eminent men; and

on matters which he thoroughly understood the soundness of his

judgment was incomparable. On the other hand, you would rarely

meet with a man of such exhaustless imagination and such a strange

and irritable disposition. But who could quarrel with the talented

artist for the waywardness and peculiarities that were the results

of ill health? A broken rosebud, the shadow of a passing chafer

affected him as much as if he had been bled or touched with glowing

iron.

“The only objects he cared for were me and my children; everything

else in the South seem unbearable to him. His impatience at the

delay of our departure did him more harm than all his vexation over

the want of comfort. Finally, at the latter end of the winter we

were able to go to Barcelona and from thence to Marseilles.”

[Sidenote: PLAYING IN A CHURCH AT MARSEILLES.]

When they landed at this city Chopin learnt that a funeral mass was to

be performed for the celebrated singer, Adolphe Nourrit,[31] who in a

fit of insanity had committed suicide. Frederic immediately hurried

into the church, and during the service seated himself at the organ and

played his last improvisation in honour of his departed friend.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVI.

_RETURN TO PARIS. MOSCHELES AND LISZT. CHOPIN AS A PIANOFORTE TEACHER._

After spending a fine summer at Nohant, the country residence of George

Sand, Chopin returned to Paris in the autumn. His health and spirits

had been excellent during the whole time, and if not perfectly restored

he was yet sufficiently strong to resume his usual occupations. It

appeared that the doctors had been mistaken; what they took for

consumption turned out to be bronchitis; they, therefore, strongly

advised the artist to spare his strength as much as possible and lead a

very regular life.

A tender mother or sister, or a loving and beloved wife, would

doubtless have succeeded in inducing Frederic, who was naturally gentle

and tractable, to pay more regard to the delicacy of his constitution

and pursue quieter habits; but in Paris, where he spent every evening

at assemblies which lasted late on into the night, he could not make

up his mind to stay at home and go to bed early. This exciting life

was very injurious to him; the first symptoms of consumption appeared,

and increased in severity year by year.

Chopin lived first in the Rue Tronchet, but he soon moved to the Quai

dʼOrleans, where he occupied the “pavilion” of a house inhabited by

George Sand. “Chopin was very pleased to have a drawing room in which

he could play and dream; but he was very fond of society, and used it

chiefly to give lessons in,” says George Sand; “it was only while he

was at Nohant that he composed.” His pupils welcomed him back with

great pleasure, and were charmed with the preludes and the host of new

compositions which he brought with him.[32]

In 1839 Moscheles, who had been desirous of knowing the Polish

_virtuoso_, arrived in Paris from London. The two artists met for the

first time at an evening party at the house of Monsieur Leo, to whom

Chopin dedicated the Polonaise, op. 53. As polished men of the world,

they saluted each other with the utmost courtesy, but went no further.

After this first brief meeting they were both invited by King Louis

Philippe to a concert at St. Cloud, on November 29th.

[Sidenote: A CONCERT AT ST. CLOUD.]

Chopin played before the royal family a nocturne and some studies,

and was, as Moscheles says, “admired and petted as a favourite.” The

German artist then played some drawing-room pieces, and, in conclusion,

his Duet Sonata, with Chopin. Moscheles thought Chopinʼs playing full

of charm and life, and in a letter to his wife he says:—

“Chopinʼs appearance corresponds exactly with his music; both

are delicate and fanciful (schwärmerisch.) He played to me at my

request, and then for the first time I really understood his music

and saw the explanation of the ladiesʼ enthusiasm. The _ad libitum_

which with his interpreters degenerates into bad time, is, when he

himself performs, the most charming originality of execution; the

harsh and dilettante-like modulations, which I could never get over

when playing his compositions, ceased to offend when his delicate

fairy-like fingers glided over them; his _piano_ is so delicate

that no very strong _forte_ is required to give the desired

contrast. Thus we do not miss the orchestral effects which the

German school demands from a pianist, but feel ourselves carried

away as by a singer who, paying little heed to the accompaniment,

abandons himself to his feelings. He is quite unique in the

pianistic world. He declared he liked my music very much; at any

rate he is well acquainted with it. He played his Studies, and his

last new work, the ‘Preludes,’ and I played several of my works

to him. Who would have thought that, with all his sentimentality,

Chopin had also a comic vein? He was lively, merry, and extremely

comic in his mimicry of Pixis, Liszt, and a hunch-backed pianoforte

amateur.”

[Sidenote: CHOPIN AN EXCELLENT MIMIC.]

Chopinʼs imitative talent displayed itself, as the reader knows, in

early youth, and increased so much in after years that the French

players, Boccage and Madame Dorval, declared that they had never seen

anything of the kind so excellent before. My friend, Joseph Nowakowski,

a fellow-student of Chopin, relates the following anecdotes:—

“When I visited Chopin in Paris, I asked him to introduce me to

Kalkbrenner, Liszt, and Pixis, ‘That is unnecessary,’ answered

Chopin, ‘wait a moment, and I will present them to you, but each

separately.’ Then he sat down to the piano after the fashion of

Liszt, played in his style and imitated all his movements to the

life; after which he impersonated Pixis. The next evening I went

to the theatre with Chopin. He left his box for a short time, and

turning round I saw Pixis beside me. I thought it was Chopin, and I

laughingly clapped him on the shoulder, exclaiming, leave off your

mimicry. My neighbour was quite flabbergasted by such familiarity

on the part of a total stranger, but fortunately at that moment

Chopin returned to the box, and we had a hearty laugh over the

comical mistake. Then, with his own peculiar grace of manner, he

apologized both for himself and me to the real Pixis.

“Liszt frequently met Chopin in society and had many opportunities

of observing his imitative talent. He looked quietly on while

Chopin mimicked him, and, far from being offended, he laughed and

seemed really amused by it. There was not the slightest jealousy

between these two artists, and their friendship remained unbroken.

“One day Chopin was asked at a party to play some of his latest

works, and Liszt joined in the request. On sitting down to the

piano, Chopin noticed that there were no pedals, and the hostess

then remembered that they had been sent away for repair and had not

been brought back. Liszt laughingly declared that he would furnish

them himself, and crawling under the piano he knelt there while

Chopin played, and completely supplied the place of the pedals.[33]

“Some years afterwards, in June, 1843, a large number of artists

were assembled at Nohant. Among them were Liszt, the celebrated

Pauline Viardot-Garcia, whose incomparable power of ideal

expression made her the best interpreter of Chopinʼs Polish songs;

the painter, Eugène Delacroix, many of the best actors and several

eminent literary people. The hostess, with her son and daughter and

some married couples from the neighbourhood, completed the party,

all of whom were young enough to be enthusiastic about art, and

full of hope.

[Sidenote: DIFFERENCE BETWEEN CHOPIN AND LISZT.]

“One evening, when they were all assembled in the _salon_, Liszt

played one of Chopinʼs nocturnes, to which he took the liberty of

adding some embellishments. Chopinʼs delicate intellectual face,

which still bore the traces of recent illness, looked disturbed;

at last he could not control himself any longer, and in that tone

of _sang froid_ which he sometimes assumed he said, ‘I beg you, my

dear friend, when you do me the honour of playing my compositions,

to play them as they are written or else not at all.’ ‘Play it

yourself then,’ said Liszt, rising from the piano, rather piqued.

‘With pleasure,’ answered Chopin. At that moment a moth fell into

the lamp and extinguished it. They were going to light it again

when Chopin cried, ‘No, put out all the lamps, the moonlight is

quite enough.’ Then he began to improvise and played for nearly

an hour. And what an improvisation it was! Description would be

impossible, for the feelings awakened by Chopinʼs magic fingers are

not transferable into words.

“When he left the piano his audience were in tears; Liszt was

deeply affected, and said to Chopin, as he embraced him, ‘Yes, my

friend, you were right; works like yours ought not to be meddled

with; other peopleʼs alterations only spoil them. You are a true

poet.’ ‘Oh, it is nothing,’ returned Chopin, gaily, ‘We have each

our own style; that is all the difference between us. You know,

quite well, that nobody can play Beethoven and Weber like you. Do

play the Adagio from Beethovenʼs C sharp minor Sonata, but nicely,

as you can do when you choose.’ Liszt began his Adagio, his hearers

were moved deeply, but in quite another manner. They wept, but not

tears of such sweetness as Chopin had caused them to shed. Lisztʼs

playing was less elegiac, but more dramatic.”

“Some days afterwards,” writes Charles Rollinat, in _Le Temps_,

“We were once more the guests of George Sand. Liszt asked Chopin

to play, and, after a little pressure, he consented. Liszt then

desired the lights to be put out and the curtains drawn that it

might be perfectly dark. This was done, and just as Chopin was

sitting down to the piano Liszt whispered something to him and

took his place. Chopin seated himself in the nearest arm chair,

not dreaming of his friendʼs intention. Liszt immediately began

to improvise in the same manner as Chopin had done on the former

evening, and so faithfully copied both sentiment and style that

the deception was perfect. The same signs of emotion were again

perceptible among the audience, and just as the feeling reached

its height Liszt lighted the candles on the piano. A general cry

of astonishment echoed through the room. ‘What, it is you?’ ‘As

you see,’ said Liszt, with a laugh. ‘But we made sure it was

Chopin playing,’ rejoined the company. In this ingenious way Liszt

revenged himself on his dangerous rival.

“Comedies were sometimes performed, or improvised recitations

delivered, the latter spontaneous and poetical, as all true

improvisations ought to be. There was a theatre in George Sandʼs

chateau, and also a great variety of costumes. Only the subject of

the piece and the number of scenes needed to be given; the actors

improvised the dialogue. Liszt and Chopin were the orchestra; they

sat at two pianos right and left of the stage behind some drapery,

and followed the play with appropriate music.

“Both artists were endowed with an astonishing memory. They had

at their command all the Italian, French, and German operas

of importance, and could select, with marvellous readiness,

motives adapted to the particular situation, and work them out

so effectively and with such fervour that the actors—whose own

achievements were by no means inconsiderable—called out from the

stage, ‘Hold, you are too lavish with your beauties.’

[Sidenote: A MUSICAL ECHO.]

“In the middle of the garden was an esplanade, commanding a view of

the whole valley. A table, some stone benches, and a light garden

seat seemed to invite the loiterer to stay and rest. The esplanade

was surrounded by a strong iron railing, to prevent the children

who played there from falling into the brook. The spot was noted

for a wonderful echo, which repeated every word three or four times

with perfect clearness. The children often amused themselves in

what they called making the echo talk. One evening the thought

occurred to somebody of bringing out the piano and letting the echo

repeat fragments of romantic music. The idea met with universal

approval, and the magnificent Erard Instrument was taken out on to

the esplanade.

“It was a clear, still night in June; there was no moon, but in

the place of her silvery light shone a countless host of stars.

The piano was opened towards the valley, and Lisztʼs energetic

hands performed the well-known hunting chorus from ‘Euryanthe.’

He stopped, of course, to wait for the echo after each pause.

Even after the first we were all wild with enthusiasm; there was

something marvellously poetic in nature thus echoing art. The

musical phrase was too long both the first and second time for the

echo to give it back clearly; but the third and fourth time the

echo of the echo in the chorus was beautifully repeated, without

missing a note, by the natural echo. Liszt himself felt the

spell and quickened the time. Every phrase excited the liveliest

curiosity and the most intense expectancy. One in particular swept

with a sweet melancholy sound over the tops of the trees in the

valley; but the last announced the triumph of the human will over

the obstacles opposed by nature.

“After this most artistically managed Fanfare, Chopin took Lisztʼs

place and made the echo sing and weep. He played some scraps from

an impromptu which he was at that time composing. Fredericʼs

delight over this diaphanous Æolian music knew no bounds; he

continued his converse with the spirits of the valley much longer

than Liszt had; it was a strange communion, a whispering and a

murmuring like a magic incantation.

“The hostess was almost obliged to draw him by force from the

piano; he was in a state of feverish excitement. When Chopin had

finished playing, Pauline Garcia sang the lovely naïve romance,

‘Nel cor piu non mi sento.’ It was an excellent choice, for every

phrase consisted of only two notes, which, to the intense delight

of us all, the echo repeated with astonishing clearness. Aurora had

already begun to spread her rosy veil before the party broke up,

carrying with them not only a delicious impression but, doubtless,

an undying recollection.”

As is so often the case in life, the warm friendship between Liszt and

Chopin grew very cool in after years, and finally died out altogether.

On whose side the fault lay I will not venture to decide, but in some

of the letters to his parents Chopin complains bitterly of Liszt.

[Sidenote: CHOPIN AS A TEACHER.]

Having given up performing in public Chopin occupied himself with

giving lessons. His handsome gentlemanly appearance, his great talents

and brilliant fame, and his gift

for teaching caused him to be greatly esteemed and sought after,

particularly by the aristocracy. In taking pupils he always gave the

preference to his compatriots, and trained many of his own countrywomen

who have more or less acquired his style and manner. Especially to be

mentioned are, Princess Marcelline Czartoryska _née_ Radziwill, the

Countess Pauline Plater, Countess L. Czosnowska, Countess Delphine

Potocka, Princess Beauvau, Madame Rosengart-Zaleska, Emilie Hofmann,

Baroness Bronicka, &c. Among his non-Polish pupils were: Madame Kalergi

_née_ Countess Nesselrode, afterwards Madame de Muchanoff, Mͩˡˡͤˢ.

Emma and Laura Harsford, Mademoiselle Caroline Hartmann, Mademoiselle

Lina Freppa, Countess Flahault, Baroness C. de Rothschild, Miss J.

W. Sterling, Mademoiselle de Noailles, Mademoiselle L. Duperré,

Mademoiselle R. de Könneritz, Princess Elizabeth Czernicheff, Countess

dʼAgoult, Princess C. de Souzzo, Countess dʼAppony, Baroness dʼEst,

Mͩˡˡͤ. J. de Caraman, Mͩˡˡͤ. C. Maberly, Countess de Perthuis,

Countess de Lobau, Countess Adele de Fürstenstein, and Mͩˡˡͤ. F.

Müller, to whom Chopin dedicated his Allegro de Concert op. 46, and who

has frequently been spoken of as his most gifted and favourite lady

pupil.

Unlike other great artists, Chopin felt no dislike to giving lessons,

but, on the contrary, took evident pleasure in this laborious

occupation, when he met with talented and diligent pupils. He noticed

the slightest fault, but always in the kindest and most encouraging

manner, and never displayed anger towards a dull pupil. But later

on, when increasing illness had made his nerves extremely irritable,

he would fling the music from the desk and make use of very severe

expressions. Not pencils merely, but even chairs were broken by

Chopinʼs apparently weak hand; however, these outbursts of temper never

lasted long; a tear in the eye of the culprit at once appeased the

masterʼs wrath, and his kind heart was anxious to make amends.

He could not endure thumping, and on one occasion jumped up during

a lesson, exclaiming, “What was that, a dog barking?” Owing to the

delicacy of his nerves his playing was not so powerful as that of other

pianists, Liszt especially. This rendered the first few lessons a real

torture to his pupils. He found most fault with a too noisy touch; his

own thin slender fingers rested horizontally on the keys, which he

seemed to stroke rather than strike. Nevertheless he was quite able to

produce vigorous tones. It is a great error to suppose that his playing

was invariably soft and tender, although, in after years, when he had

not sufficient physical power for performing the energetic passages, it

lacked contrast, but in his youth he displayed considerable fire and

energy, of which he never made any misuse.

Moscheles, in speaking of his playing at a _soirée_ at the Palace of

King Louis Philippe in 1839, says, “The audience must, I think, have

caught the enthusiasm which Chopin threw into the piece throughout.”

[Sidenote: CHOPINʼS METHOD.]

He would not take a pupil who had not some amount of technical skill,

yet he made them all alike begin with Clementiʼs “Gradus ad Parnassum.”

We see from this that his chief object was the cultivation of the

touch. The pre-eminence attached to technical superiority by pianists

of the present day obliges them to devote their whole time to acquiring

mechanical dexterity and enormous force. Thus they frequently lose

their softness and lightness of touch, and neglect the finer _nuances_

and the artistic finish of the phrasing.

The second requirement that Chopin made of a new pupil was perfect

independence of the fingers; he, therefore, insisted on the practising

of exercises, and more especially the major and minor scales from

_piano_ up to _fortissimo_, and with the _staccato_ as well as the

_legato_ touch, also with a change of accent, sometimes marking the

second, sometimes the third or fourth note. By this means he obtained

the perfect independence of the fingers, and an agreeable equality and

delicacy of touch. Chopin thought of embodying in a theoretical work

the results of his long years of study, experience, and observation of

pianoforte playing; but he had only written a few pages when he fell

ill. Unfortunately he destroyed the manuscript shortly before his death.

Every poetical composition is a revelation of the beautiful which the

player ought to recognise, and as far as possible interpret in the

spirit of the composer. To the many requests made to him for advice

Chopin invariably replied, “Play as you feel and you will play well.”

One day, when one of his pupils was playing in a stiff, feelingless,

mechanical manner, he impatiently exclaimed, “Mettez y donc toute votre

âme.”

His friends relate that he used to lament greatly over one pupil, who

studied with indefatigable diligence and perseverance, and possessed

all the qualities for becoming an artist of the first rank except the

most essential of all—feeling.

Yet how much mischief may arise from following this true and simple

maxim, “Play as you feel.” How many celebrated pianists exaggerate

or misunderstand the meaning of Chopinʼs works! His principle is

only a sure and infallible guide when the player has the capacity of

perceiving the intentions of the composer. This, unfortunately, is a

rare gift, and its absence in the rendering of Chopinʼs compositions

is doubly painful. He felt this himself, and when one of his French

pupils was being overwhelmed with praise for his performance of one

of his masterʼs works, Chopin said, quickly, that he had played the

piece very well, but had quite missed the Polish element and the Polish

enthusiasm. Nor did he confine this criticism to the interpretation

of distinctively Polish works, such as mazurkas and polonaises, but

applied it also to his concertos, nocturnes, ballads, and studies.

[Sidenote: FEW GOOD INTERPRETERS OF CHOPIN.]

La Mara[34] was not wrong in saying that a correct performance of

Chopinʼs works was rarely to be had. No one, be he ever so great a

pianist, who cannot sympathise with the misfortunes which have been

and are still the lot of the Pole, no one who does not understand the

melancholy characteristic of the whole nation, can interpret Chopin

with faithfulness.

One evening, in 1833 or 1834, there were assembled at the house of the

Castellan Count Plater three great artists: Liszt, Hiller, and Chopin.

A lively discussion arose on national music, Chopin maintaining, that

no one who had not been in Poland and inhaled the perfume of its

meadows could have any true sympathy with its folk-songs. As a test of

this it was proposed to play the well-known Mazurka, “Poland is not

lost yet.” Liszt played first, then Hiller, each giving a different

interpretation. Several pianists followed; last of all came Chopin,

whom both Liszt and Hiller were obliged to admit far surpassed them in

comprehending the spirit of the Mazurka.

There is, undoubtedly, a growing interest among the public in

Chopinʼs original compositions, but the number of his interpreters

who really understand him is still very small. In some we find a

certain affectation and coquetry, in others only the poetic frenzy

(schwärmerei) which is infused into most of his works, while others

again seek expression by means of violent contrasts. These apparent

diversities are rarely combined in one individual, but it is only in

their union that we find the true Chopin stamp of genius.

As the best means for acquiring a natural style our master recommended

the frequent hearing of Italian singers, among whom there were at

that time many celebrities in Paris. He always applauded their broad,

simple style and the easy manner in which they used and consequently

preserved their voices, as worthy the imitation of all pianists,

especially of those who hoped to attain perfection. He advised his

pupils not to break up the musical thoughts, but to let them pour out

in a broad stream; he liked to hear in a player what in a singer is

understood by _portamento_. He hated any exaggeration of accent which,

in his opinion, destroyed all the poetry of playing and made it appear

pedantic.

[Sidenote: CHARACTERISTICS OF CHOPINʼS PLAYING.]

Chopinʼs soft velvety fingers could evoke the most exquisite effects.

No other pianist of the day possessed his executive skill and refined

taste, or equalled him in those passing embellishments which he

interwove into his playing, and which resembled filagree work or the

most delicate Brabant lace. He was very fond of playing to himself or

some favourite pupil the works of Sebastian Bach, which he had studied

with the utmost accuracy and completely mastered.[35] The _tempo

rubato_ was a special characteristic of Chopinʼs playing. He would keep

the bass quiet and steady, while the right hand moved in free _tempo_,

sometimes with the left hand, and sometimes quite independently, as,

for example, when it plays quaver, trills, or those magic, rhythmical

runs and _fioritures_ peculiar to Chopin. “The left hand,” he used

to say, “should be like a bandmaster, and never for a moment become

unsteady or falter.”

By this means his playing was free from the trammels of measure and

acquired its peculiar charm. The outlines, like those in a good

painting of a winter landscape, shade off into a transparent mist. He

used the _tempo rubato_ with great effect, not only in his nocturnes

but also in many of his mazurkas. Those who have entered into the

spirit of Chopinʼs works will easily see when to use the _rubato_.

Chopin rendered the _tremolo_ to perfection, making the melody float

like a boat on the bosom of the waters. Liszt says:—

“Chopin was the first to use the _tempo rubato_, which gave such

an original stamp to his compositions: an evanescent, interrupted

measure, ductile, abrupt, yet languishing, and flickering like a

flame in the breeze. In his later works he left off marking _tempo

rubato_ at the commencement of a piece, considering that whoever

understood it would of himself discover this law of latitude.

Chopinʼs works require to be played with a certain accent and

swing which it is difficult for anyone to acquire who has not

had frequent opportunities of hearing him play. He seemed very

anxious to impart this style to his pupils, and especially to his

compatriots. His Polish pupils, particularly the ladies, acquired

this method with all the quick sensitiveness which they possess for

poetic feeling; and their innate perception of his thoughts enabled

them to follow faithfully all the undulations on his azure sea of

sentiment.”

While Chopin was strong and healthy, as during the first years of his

residence in Paris, he used to play on an Erard piano; but after his

friend Camillo Pleyel had made him a present of one of his splendid

instruments, remarkable for their metallic ring and very light touch,

he would play on no other makerʼs. If he were engaged for a _soirée_

at one of his Polish or French friends, he would often send his own

instrument, if there did not happen to be a Pleyel in the house. “Quand

je suis mal disposé,” said Chopin, “je joue sur un piano dʼErard et jʼy

trouve facilement un son fait. Mais quand je me sens en verve et assez

fort, pour trouver mon propre son à moi, il me faut un piano de Pleyel.”

[Sidenote: CHOPINʼS REVERENCE FOR ART.]

Chopin sacredly cherished art as one of heavenʼs best gifts, as a

gentle comforter in sorrow, and would never put it to any common-place

purpose. There are, unfortunately, plenty of famous artists who regard

their art merely as a means of subsistence. What Schiller says of men

of science is no less true of artists:—

“Einem ist sie die hohe, die himmlische Göttin, dem Andern

Eine Tüchtige Kuh, die ihn mit Butter versorgt.”

Throughout his life art was to Chopin a lofty goddess. He was

frequently asked by wealthy and aristocratic personages to give

instruction to them or to their relations, but the largest honorarium

could not induce him to teach anyone devoid of talent; although at

that time he had long ceased to receive anything from his parents,

was very particular about the appointments of his household, fond of

giving presents, and always dispensed a most liberal hospitality. In

a pleasant manner—and, indeed, no other was possible to him—Chopin

would refuse on the score of not increasing the number of his pupils.

Young people of talent he would encourage with the sincerest kindness,

lending them books, music, and sometimes money even, when he found

their means were limited; many he taught gratuitously. One of his most

talented pupils was Filtsch,[36] a young Hungarian; Chopin thought a

great deal of him, and always delighted in his company. His premature

death made a deep and painful impression on our master. All who knew

Filtsch intimately, and had heard his beautiful playing, say that he

would have fulfilled the most splendid hopes, and unite in deploring

his death as a sad loss to the musical world.

Among Chopinʼs best pupils we must name: Gutmann, Guntsberg; Telefsen;

George Mathias, who is now a professor at the Paris Conservatoire;

Charles Mikuli, director of the Musical Union, at Lemberg; Casimir

Wernick, who died young, at St. Petersburg, in 1859; and Gustav

Schumann, a much esteemed pianist in Berlin, who only went to Paris for

a short time to receive instruction from Chopin.

Chopin was not only respected but loved by all his pupils for his warm

sympathy and exceedingly fascinating manners. To Polish artists he was

especially amiable and kind, and ever ready to serve them in any way;

thus, showing that his love for his fatherland was as warm as when a

dreamy, gentle boy, his parentsʼ house in Poland was all the world to

him. So it came to pass that many artists, who were only spending a

short time in Paris, but were anxious to acquire fame and popularity,

gave themselves out as Chopinʼs pupils, although he did not even know

their names. When asked if such a one were his pupil, he would answer,

“I never taught him, but if it is any benefit to him to be called my

pupil, let him enjoy it in peace.” Chopin was not only a kind, but

also a conscientious teacher. He never gave more than four or, at the

utmost, five lessons a day for his healthʼs sake, but he attended

regularly to those and never put off his pupils, except when he was

very ill, or when friends and acquaintances from Poland came to see

him. Carriages were frequently sent for him by those of his pupils

living at a distance, but in the last years of his life they were

obliged to come to him, and when he became so weak that he could

scarcely sit up, he would give lessons lying on a _chaise longue_

before a pianette, with the pupil seated at another instrument. If a

passage were played wrongly or not according to his taste, he would

raise himself up and play it, and then lie down again.

[Sidenote: SCHULHOFF INTRODUCED TO CHOPIN.]

His noble character and truly artistic nature appeared on all

occasions; the following episode is a proof of his excellent

disposition. Julius Schulhoff came to Paris when a young man, and

completely unknown. One day he heard that Chopin, who was at that time

in very bad health and difficult of access, was going to Mercierʼs[37]

piano manufactory to see a newly invented _transpositeur_. This was

in 1844. Schulhoff availed himself of this opportunity for making the

masterʼs acquaintance, and was among the little band awaiting the

arrival of Chopin, who came accompanied by an old friend, a Russian

bandmaster. Seizing a favourable moment, Schulhoff asked a lady

present to introduce him. To her request that he should play something

to Chopin, the great artist, who was frequently tormented by the

visitations of _dilettanti_, reluctantly acceded by a slight nod.

Schulhoff sat down to the piano, while Chopin, with his back to him,

leant against it. But after the first few chords he turned his head

to Schulhoff, who was playing his new “Allegro brillant en forme de

Sonate,” which he afterwards dedicated to Chopin as op. 1.[38] Chopin

drew nearer and nearer, listening with growing interest to the refined,

poetical playing of the young Bohemian; his pale face lighted up, and

by look and gesture he testified his warm approval. When Schulhoff

had finished, Chopin held out his hand, saying, “Vous êtes un vrai

artiste—un collègue.” A few days afterwards Schulhoff paid him a visit,

and begged him to accept the dedication of the “Allegro;” the master

thanked him in his most winning manner, and some ladies present heard

him say, “Je suis très flatté de lʼhonneur que vous me faites.”

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVII.

_DOMESTIC SORROWS. TWO LETTERS OF GEORGE SAND. BREACH WITH GEORGE SAND.

JOURNEY TO ENGLAND. RETURN TO PARIS. CHOPINʼS ILLNESS AND DEATH._

The fears of the Physicians began to be realized. Chopinʼs manner of

life in Paris was quite contrary to their advice, and the saddest

results ensued. In 1840 decided symptoms of an affection of the lungs

appeared. The sufferer was much troubled by sleeplessness, and during

those restless nights his active and versatile imagination conjured

up the gloomiest fancies. The gravity of the situation was now

unmistakable. His annual visit to Nohant always gave him some relief;

there he could live in perfect freedom, and work or rest as he felt

inclined. But the winter unfortunately increased his sufferings, and

the sharp cold winds destroyed all the good effected by the mild air of

Nohant.

On May 3rd, 1844, Frederic received a heavy shock in the death of his

dearly beloved father. The sad intelligence quite prostrated him; and

he was agonized by the thought that he had not been able to soothe his

parentʼs last moments, and receive his blessing and farewell. Frederic

felt that he ought to write to comfort his mother and sisters, and

mingle his tears with theirs, if only by letter; but, as often as he

resolved to do so, his strength failed him. At length George Sand, who

was at that time still faithful to Chopin, undertook the sad duty, and

wrote expressing her sympathy with the mother of the man whom once she

had so passionately loved, and for whom she still cherished friendship

and respect. The following is an exact transcription of her letter:

[Sidenote: GEORGE SAND TO MADAME CHOPIN.]

_Paris, le 29 Mai, 1844._

MADAME!

Je ne crois pas pouvoir offrir dʼautre consolation à lʼexcellente

mère de mon cher Frédéric, que lʼassurance du courage et de la

résignation de cet admirable enfant. Vous savez si sa douleur est

profonde et si son âme est accablée; mais grâce à Dieu, il nʼest

pas malade, et nous partons dans quelques heures pour la compagne,

où il se reposera enfin dʼune si terrible crise.

Il ne pense quʼà vous, à ses soeurs, à tous les siens, quʼil chérit

si ardemment, et dont lʼaffliction lʼinquiète et le préoccupe

autant que la sienne propre.

Du moins, ne soyez pas de votre côté inquiète de sa situation

extérieure. Je ne peux pas lui ôter cette peine si profonde, si

légitime et si durable; mais je puis du moins soigner sa santé

et lʼentourer dʼautant dʼaffection et de précautions que vous le

feriez vous même.

Cʼest un devoir bien doux que je me suis imposé avec bonheur et

auquel je ne manquerai jamais.

Je vous le promets, Madame, et jʼespère que vous avez confiance

en mon dévouement pour lui. Je ne vous dis pas que votre malheur

mʼa frappée autant que si jʼavais connu lʼhomme admirable que vous

pleurez. Ma sympathie, quelque vraie quʼelle soit, ne peut adoucir

ce coup terrible, mais en vous disant que je consacrerai mes jours

à son fils, et que je le regarde comme le mien propre, je sais que

je puis vous donner de ce côte-là quelque tranquillité dʼesprit.

Cʼest pourquoi jʼai pris la liberté de vous écrire pour vous dire

que je vous suis profondément dévouée, comme à la mère adorée de

mon plus cher ami.

GEORGE SAND.

Among Chopinʼs friends and admirers was Alexander Thies,[39] of Warsaw.

He had often seen Frederic in Paris, and through him had become

acquainted with George Sand, whom as a writer he greatly admired. He

wrote from Warsaw a kind letter of inquiry about Chopin and Mickiewicz,

and in conclusion wished good health, prosperity, and fame to George

Sand. I mention these three words particularly that the following reply

may be intelligible.

[Sidenote: GEORGE SAND TO A. THIES.]

_Paris, le 25 Mars 1845._

Monsieur!

Nous sommes bien coupables envers vous, moi surtout; car lui

(_Chopin_), écrit si peu et il a tant dʼexcuses dans son état

continuel de fatigue et de souffrance, que vous devez lui

pardonner. Jʼespérais toujours lʼamener à vous écrire, mais je nʼai

eu que des résolutions et des promesses, et je prends le parti de

commencer, sauf à ne pas obtenir, entre sa toux et ses leçons, un

instant de repos et de calme.

Cʼest vous dire que sa santé est toujours aussi chancelante. Depuis

les grands froids quʼil a fait ici, il a été surtout accablé; jʼen

suis presque toujours malade aussi, et aujourdʼhui je vous écris

avec un reste de fièvre. Mais vous? Vous souffrez plus que nous, et

vous en parlez à peine. Vous êtes un stoïque de chrétien, et il y

a bien dʼassez belles et grandes choses dans votre doctrine, pour

que je vous passe la forme, sur ce point. Vous ne me convertirez

pas. Mais que vous importe? Vous nʼêtes pas, je lʼespère, de ces

catholiques farouches, qui damnent sans retour les dissidents.

Dʼailleurs, lʼorthodoxie de ces principes dʼintolérance est très

controversée, et votre grand coeur peut prendre là-dessus le parti

qui lui convient; moi, jʼai lʼespoir dʼêtre sauvée tout comme une

autre, bien que jʼai fait le mal plus dʼune fois tout comme une

autre. Mais il y a plus de miséricorde là-haut quʼil nʼy a de

crimes ici-bas. Autrement, ce ne serait pas la justice divine, ce

serait la justice humaine, la peine du faible. Blasphème inique et

que je repousse avec horreur.

Je ne vous dirai rien de _Mickiewicz_, il nʼa pas fait son cours

cette année, et je ne lʼai pas vu[40]. Je nʼai même pas lu son

livre. Je le regarde aussi comme un noble malade, mais sans le

croire sur le chemin de la vérité, je le crois aussi bien que vous

et moi sur la route du salut; sʼil est dans son erreur convaincu,

humble et aimant Dieu, Dieu ne lʼabandonnera pas, Dieu ne boude

pas, et je ne puis croire quʼune telle âme ne soulève pas quelque

coin du voile étrange dont il sʼenveloppait lʼannée dernière.

Je vous remercie de vos souhaits affectueux, santé bien-être et

gloire; tout cela est chimère. Nous sommes ici-bas pour souffrir

et travailler; la santé est une bénédiction du ciel, en tant

quʼelle nous rend utiles à ceux qui ne lʼont pas; le bien-être

est impossible à quiconque veut assister ses frères, car dans ce

cas-là, plus il peut recevoir, plus il doit donner. La gloire est

une niaiserie pour amuser les enfants. Une âme sérieuse ne peut

y voir autre chose que le résultat douloureux de lʼignorance des

hommes, prompts à sʼengouer de peu de chose. La santé serait donc

le seul bien désirable dans vos trois souhaits. Mais je ne lʼai

pas cette année et je ne murmure pas, puisque vous, qui le méritez

mieux que moi, vous ne lʼavez pas retrouvée.

Espérez-vous maintenant en cette cure que vous avez entreprise avec

tant de courage? Ecrivez-moi donc que vous êtes mieux; cela nous

consolerait de nʼêtre pas bien. Eh quand nous revenez-vous? Nous

nʼirons pas de bonne heure à la campagne, si le printemps est aussi

laid que lʼhiver. Jʼespère donc que nous vous reverrons ici, et

si vous tardez, nous voulons vous voir à Nohant. Vous devez nous

dédommager dʼy être restés si peu lʼautre fois. Mes enfants vous

remercient de votre bon souvenir et font aussi des voeux pour vous.

A vous de coeur, toujours et bien sincèrement, vous le savez.

GEORGE SAND.

The letters of George Sand show that Chopinʼs condition was already

regarded as hopeless. Soon after the death of his father, the poor

invalid, who so much needed comforting and cheering, had to bear

another grief in the loss of his dearest friend in Paris, Johann

Matuszynski. As his physical sufferings increased, he grew melancholy

and was haunted by the most dismal imaginations. George Sand speaks of

this in writing to a friend who knew him well:

“The Catholic faith, by teaching the doctrine of a purgatorial

fire, represents death in a terrible light. Far from picturing the

soul of a beloved one in a better world, Chopin often had dreadful

visions, and I was obliged to spend the night near his sleeping

apartment, to dispel the spectres of his dreaming and waking hours.

He dwells a great deal on the superstitions of Polish tradition.

The spirits harass and entangle him in their magic circle, and

instead of seeing his father and friend smiling at him from the

abodes of the glorified, as the Lutheran doctrine teaches, he

imagines that their lifeless forms are at his bedside, or that he

is tearing himself from their cold embrace.”

[Sidenote: INCREASING ILLNESS.]

Month by month the disease made rapid strides, and his strength

perceptibly diminished. The cough grew more obstinate, and very often

he was so weak and suffered so from want of breath, that when he went

to see his friends he was obliged to be carried upstairs.

The following are the compositions written between 1843 and 1847:

Polonaise, op. 53; Berceuse, op. 57; Sonata in B minor, op. 58;

Mazurkas, op. 59 and 63; Barcarole, op. 60; Polonaise-Fantasia, op. 61,

and Sonata in G minor for piano and violincello, op. 65. These pieces

are throughout beautiful, and poetical, but the melancholy and peculiar

agitation displayed, especially in the two last, reveal the morbid mind

of the composer. The musical thoughts have not the pleasing clearness

of his earlier works and not infrequently border on eccentricity. But

how full of sorrow and suffering had these years been to the delicately

wrought spirit of the artist with its natural inclination to melancholy.

Chopin who, in spite of his self-absorption, noticed everything that

went on around him—his innate sensitiveness of feeling supplying the

place of observation—could no longer conceal from himself, that the

woman who had attracted him by the intensity of her love, and won the

devotion of his deeply poetical nature, that she, whose steadfastness

had seemed firm as a rock, was daily wavering in her affection. His

pride whispered, “leave her, she regards you as a burden;” but the

moral feeling fostered by his education, and his parentsʼ noble example

of wedded faithfulness and constancy, exhorted him to stay.

There were times during his youth when Chopin felt some scruples

about his illegitimate connection with Aurora Dudevant-Sand, when

he sincerely wished that he could lead her to the altar, and cursed

the fate which hindered him. Afterwards he consoled himself with the

thought that the firmness of the bond on both sides made it sacred, and

unquestionably nothing on earth would have moved him to separate from

her.

George Sand thought otherwise. This fanciful woman, with her keen

susceptibilities for the beautiful, had loved the young, interesting,

and celebrated composer; but the dejected invalid was an incumbrance.

Her change of feeling was first manifested by occasional sullen looks

and by the increasing shortness of her visits to the sick room. Chopin

felt much pained, but was silent, for according to his ideas it would

have been dishonourable on his part to cause a breach. His strength

of will was impaired by broken health, and he submitted patiently to

innumerable little mortifications which, however, wounded him deeply;

his moral sense told him that he ought to atone for the wrong he had

done in taking this woman unlawfully to himself.

[Sidenote: “LUCREZIA FLORIANI.”]

He was grieved at the complaints she often made in his presence of the

fatigue of nursing him; he begged her to leave him alone and go out

into the open air; he entreated her not to give up her amusements for

his sake, but to go to the theatre and give parties, &c.; he should be

quiet and contented if he knew that she were happy. At last, before the

sick man had dreamed of a separation, an heroic expedient, as Count

Stanisla Tarnowski says, was resorted to. George Sand had written a

romance, entitled, “Lucrezia Floriani,” of which the following is a

brief summary.

“Prince Charles, a man of a noble and sympathetic character,

but sickly, nervous, jealous, proud, and full of aristocratic

notions, falls passionately in love with Lucrezia, a woman no

longer young, who has given up love and the world, and lives only

for her children and to do good. She is a famous artist, who does

not pretend to be better than she is, but who is better than she

is said to be. This consuming love causes Prince Charles a severe

illness which endangers his life. Lucrezia saves him and loves him;

but, foreseeing that this love would be a misery to her, conceals

it. Prince Charlesʼs feelings, however, growing more and more

passionate and again threatening his safety, the object of his

adoration gives herself up to him.”

It is strange how women of a certain age like to hide their feelings

under the cloak of sacrifice and motherly care. _They_ are not in

love, but the weak, sick, nervous being needs support and tenderness.

Thus is produced that painful and disagreeable counterfeit of motherly

affection which we so often meet with, as in “Lucrezia Floriani.”

“Whence,” asks the writer of the romance, “arises this unnatural

specious feeling? Perhaps if a heroine loves at that age, when, as

Hamlet says, ‘the heyday in the blood is tame,’ she feels degraded in

her own eyes and in those of the world, and to regain her position,

and gloss over her real feelings and actions, she makes a pretext of

sacrifice and tender care.” In this way the famous Madame de Warrens

interpreted her sacrifice, of which J. J. Rousseau says so much in his

“Confessions;” and thus Lucrezia explained her love for Charles.

For two months she was unspeakably happy; then everything changed.

Charles grows jealous, unreasonable, and capricious; he cannot bear

the sight of Lucreziaʼs old friends. There are constant outbursts of

anger and nervous excitement, or fits of madness and desperation.

Wearied and harassed, Lucreziaʼs health and strength give way; but of

this she makes a secret and never complains because she has vowed to

make any sacrifice for Charles. She knows that she will die—for Charles

will make a martyr of her—and that her children will be orphans, yet

she goes on suffering in silence because she has pledged herself to

be faithful to him. After a few years of a life of such constant

torture, and of alienation from her friends on account of the jealousy

of Charles, she ceases to love him and submits resignedly to her fate.

At length, exhausted by protracted self sacrifice, Lucrezia dies.

[Sidenote: A LITERARY PORTRAIT OF CHOPIN.]

It was at that time generally thought that Prince Charles was a

portrait of Chopin, although the exaggeration with which the character

was drawn made it a caricature. The love story in the romance certainly

bore a strong resemblance to the connection between himself and George

Sand, which, with all its happiness, was, as none better than he knew,

a very painful one. Both Frederic and the world were well aware that

the real Lucrezia was not a victim to her devotedness, and that the

Charles of the novel could be none other than Chopin. It is said that,

by a refinement of cruelty, the proofs were sent to him for correction;

it is a matter of fact, however, that George Sandʼs children said to

him, “Monsieur Chopin, do you know that Prince Charles is meant for

you?”

Everyone acquainted with the circumstances blamed the authoress. She

excused herself,[41] saying that she had been misunderstood, and that

the intention imputed to her had no existence.

“But,” said she by way of justification, “Charles is not an artist

or a genius; he is only a dreamer. His character scarcely rises

above the common-place; it never appears amiable, and has, indeed,

so little in common with that of the great composer, that Chopin,

although he every day reads the manuscript off my writing table

and is very suspicious about other things, never imagined that

any reference was intended to himself. Afterwards, indeed, the

malicious whisperings of some of his friends, who were enemies to

me, made him fancy, that in Prince Charles I was describing him,

and in the martyr Lucrezia, myself; and that this romance depicted

the relations between us. His memory was at that time very weak,

and when a garbled version of the story was presented to him, he

had quite forgotten the real description of the character and

circumstances of Prince Charles. Why did he not read my novel

again?”

Madame Sand much regretted that Matuszynski was not living when

a breach between herself and Chopin had become inevitable. “His

friendship for Chopin and the influence he had over him would,” said

the authoress, “have rendered innocuous the whisperings of intriguers,

and if a separation had taken place at all, his mediation would have

made it less violent and painful.”

The sick and enfeebled artist suffered, however, most keenly from the

mortification which he received from this book. “If,” he reflected, “I

now desert the woman whom I formerly esteemed and loved, I make the

romance a reality, and expose her to the blame, nay, even the scorn of

the strictly virtuous.” He nobly struggled on, retreating more and more

into himself, till at last he could bear it no longer.

In the beginning of 1847, during a violent scene, of which her daughter

was the innocent cause, George Sand brought about a complete rupture.

To her unjust reproaches he only replied, “I shall leave your house

immediately, and I only desire that my existence may be blotted out

from your memory.” To these words George Sand offered no objection, for

they were just what she desired, and the same day the artist quitted

her for ever.

[Sidenote: GUTMANNʼS DEVOTED CARE.]

Agitation and grief again laid him on a sick bed, and his friends

were long and seriously afraid that he would only exchange it for his

coffin. Gutmann, his favourite pupil, and one of his best friends,

nursed him with the most devoted care; and the deep gratitude of the

sufferer was shown by the questions which he continually asked of the

friends and acquaintances who came to see him. “How is Gutmann? Is he

not very tired? Will it not be too much for him if he sits up with me

any longer? I am sorry to give him so much trouble, but there is no one

else I like so well to have about me as him.” These were almost the

only words he spoke, for his visitors would not let him talk, and did

all they could to amuse him and divert his mind.

Through the efforts of the physicians and the indefatigable attentions

of Gutmann, Chopin at length somewhat recovered. But the first time

he appeared again among his friends he was so much altered that they

hardly knew him. The following summer he was apparently much better,

and able to compose; but he would not leave Paris, as was his constant

habit at that time of year, and was thus deprived of the fresh country

air which had always been so beneficial to him.

During the winter of 1847-1848 Chopin was in a very precarious state

of health. Political disturbances and other causes made his residence

in Paris increasingly unpleasant, and he resolved on visiting England,

where he had many very kind friends, who had repeatedly invited

him to come whenever he had time. But before leaving the queen of

Continental cities he wished to give a farewell public concert.[42]

It took place on February 16th, 1848, at the Pleyel Hall, and Chopin

could not have desired a more select and distinguished audience, or a

more enthusiastic reception.[43] Many of the most exalted personages

and the first artists in Paris were present, and throughout the

performance all were anxious to testify their respect and admiration

for the talented composer, the rare _virtuoso_ and the loveable man.

Frederic was deeply affected; this, the last of his Parisian triumphs,

was a balsam for many of the wounds of fate which, although gradually

healing, were still sometimes very painful.

[Sidenote: OVERTHROW OF THE ORLEANISTS.]

Chopin was greatly shocked by the political events of February 23rd,

which overthrew a dynasty, and sent a monarch and his family into

exile. From Louis Philippe and his kindred he had experienced nothing

but affability and kindness, and Frederic deplored the fate of the

Orleanists. At the same time, however, this revolution awakened fresh

hopes for his unfortunate country, which he loved as passionately and

faithfully as when, a youth in Warsaw, he set to music patriotic songs

which it was unsafe to publish. But when he saw that the storm which

swept over Europe brought neither freedom nor independence to Poland,

he suppressed his longings, and in talking of politics rarely gave vent

to the feelings of his over-charged heart.

There was now nothing to prevent his journey to England. His friends,

much as they liked his company, did not dissuade him from his purpose,

and hoped that he would soon feel at home in London. At the latter

end of March, just a month before his departure, he was invited to

a _soirée_ by a lady, at whose hospitable house he had, in former

days, been a frequent guest. He hesitated before deciding to go, for

during the last four years he had not been often seen in the Parisian

_salons_; then, as if moved by an inward premonition, he accepted the

invitation.

A lively conversation about Chopin had been going on at Madame H.ʼs

before he arrived. A musical connoisseur was describing his meeting

with the famous artist at Nohant, and his wonderful playing on the

beautiful summer moonlight night. A lady observed: “Chopinʼs spirit

pervades the best of Sandʼs romances. Like all highly imaginative

writers, she often lost patience over her work, because before she had

carried out one plan her mind was advancing to something fresh. To keep

herself to her desk and to enable her to write with more care, she

would ask her lover to improvise on the piano, and thus, inspired by

his playing, she produced her best novels.”

A deep, half audible, sigh escaped from a lady, who, unobserved by the

speaker, had stepped softly into the _salon_ from the adjoining room.

A flush overspread her pale face, tears stood in her deep mysterious

eyes; what could have moved her so profoundly?

Several gentlemen then entered the room, and the lady retreated behind

a mass of ivy which formed a convenient screen. She sat there for about

an hour, unnoticed except by the hostess, who understood her behaviour.

When the company had become more numerous the lady rose, and, walking

up to Chopin, with the swinging step peculiar to her, held out her

hand. “Frederic,” she murmured, in a voice audible only to him, and

standing before him he saw, for the first time, after a long and

painful separation, George Sand, repentant, and evidently anxious for

reconciliation. His delicate, emaciated, yet still beautiful face, grew

deadly pale; for a moment his soft eyes met hers with an inquiring

look, and then he turned away and left the room in silence.

[Sidenote: WARM RECEPTION IN ENGLAND.]

Towards the end of April he bade adieu to his friends and set off for

London. In England Chopinʼs works already enjoyed a well-deserved

esteem and popularity; he was, therefore, everywhere received with

unusual marks of respect and with that hearty sympathy which is the

best reward of the poet and artist. The hospitality and kindness of

his old friends, and the courtesy of his new acquaintances, were

very grateful to Fredericʼs sensitive and affectionate nature. He

again appeared in society, and hoped that, while pursuing his beloved

art amid fresh surroundings, he might forget the woman for whom,

notwithstanding all the wrong she had done him, he sometimes ardently

longed. He could not, despite all his efforts, erase from his memory

the period of almost supernal happiness once created for him by her

dazzling intellect, exhaustless fancy, and ardent love, although his

reason constantly told him that she was not worthy of a sigh.

After he had been presented to the Queen by the Duchess of Sutherland,

and had played at Court, he daily received invitations from the first

families, and became, finally, a noted favourite. The late evening

parties, the want of sleep, and the wear and tear of _salon_ life,

were very injurious to his weak constitution, and quite opposed to

the doctorsʼ orders. For the sake of quiet he accepted an invitation

to Scotland, but, as might have been expected, the climate was too

severe for him. The prevalent mists, so trying to nervous temperaments,

affected his spirits, and induced that melancholy which had often

troubled him in early years, and become infused into his earnest and

wildly romantic compositions. He writes from Scotland to his friend

Grzymala:—

[Sidenote: VISIT TO SCOTLAND.]

“I have played at a concert in Glasgow before all the _haute volée_.

To-day I feel very much depressed. Oh, this fog! Although the window

at which I am writing commands the same beautiful prospect with which,

as you will remember, Robert Bruce was so delighted—Stirling Castle,

mountains, lakes, a charming park, in a word the most splendid view

in Scotland—I can see nothing except when the sun breaks momentarily

through the mist. If it would but do this a little oftener! I shall

soon forget Polish, and speak French like an Englishman, and English

like a Scotchman.

“If I do not write you a Jeremiade it is not because I mistrust your

sympathy, but because you only know everything; and if I once begin

I shall go on complaining for ever, and always in the same strain.

But, no, I am wrong in saying it is always the same, for I grow worse

every day. I feel weaker and weaker and cannot compose, not for want of

inclination, but from physical causes, and besides I am in a different

place every week. But what _am_ I to do? I must at least lay by

something for the winter.”

Despite the kindness and the hospitable welcome which he received from

two Scotch ladies, sisters, one of whom, Miss J. W. Stirling, had been

his pupil, he did not enjoy his visit, and sometimes longed for wings

that he might fly back to France. I quote again from his letter to

Grzymala:—

“I am quite incapable of doing anything all the morning, and when

I am dressed I feel so exhausted that I am obliged to rest. After

dinner I have to sit two hours with the gentlemen, listen to their

conversation, and look on while they drink. I feel ready to die with

weariness, and think of other things all the time till I go into the

drawing-room, when I have to use all my efforts to rouse myself, for

everybody is curious to hear me play. After this, my good Daniel

carries me upstairs, undresses and puts me to bed; he leaves the light

burning, and I am once more at leisure to sigh and dream, and look

forward to passing another day in the same manner. If I ever arrange to

do anything I am sure to be carried off in another direction, for my

Scotch friends—although with the best intentions in the world—give me

no rest. They want to introduce me to all their relations; they will

kill me with their kindness, but for mere politenessʼ sake I must put

up with it all.”

Witty men never quite lose their sense of humour, and a gleam of

cheerfulness, a spark of his former brilliant _esprit_, would now and

then shine forth amid his melancholy. He describes going to the opera

in London when Jenny Lind made her _débût_, and the Queen appeared in

public for the first time after a long retirement. He says, “I was

very much impressed, especially by old Wellington, who, as a valiant

protector of monarchy, sat in front of his sovereign, like a faithful

watch-dog guarding his lordʼs castle. I have made the acquaintance of

Jenny Lind; she is from Sweden, and is quite an original.”

His _ennui_, however, increased. He wrote to Grzymala:—

“I am going to Manchester where there is to be a grand concert, and I

am to play twice without orchestral accompaniment. Alboni is also to

perform, but I take no interest in this or anything else. I shall just

sit down and play, and what I shall do afterwards I do not yet know. If

I were only sure of not being ill if I spent the winter here.”

In another letter he complains that he is feeling ill, but has to play

at a concert, and he commissions his friend in Paris to look out for a

suitable residence. He adds, “why I should trouble you with all this

I do not know, for I really do not care about anything. But I must

think about myself, so I ask you to help me in doing so.” Then comes

a reference to the unhappy love which he cannot forget: “I never yet

cursed anyone, but I am now so overwhelmed by the weariness of life,

that I am ready to curse Lucrezia. But there is pain in this too,

which is all the worse as one grows older in wickedness every day.” He

finishes by saying, “It is no good their troubling about me at home. I

cannot be more wretched than I am, and there is no chance of my being

less so. In general I feel nothing and await my end with patience.”

And indeed the end was not far off. In his last letter from England he

writes:—

[Sidenote: LAST LETTER FROM ENGLAND.]

“On Thursday I am to leave terrible London. In addition to my other

ills I have got neuralgia. Tell Pleyel to send me in a piano on

Thursday evening, and have it covered; buy a bunch of violets to make

the room smell sweet.[44] I should like when I return to find some

books of poetry in my bedroom to which I shall, probably, be confined

for some time. So on Friday evening I hope to be in Paris; a day longer

here, and I should go mad or die. My Scotch lady friends are good,

but very wearisome. They have made so much of me that I cannot easily

get quit of them. Let the house be thoroughly warmed and well dusted.

Perhaps I may get well again.”

This was, alas! a false hope. Chopin left London in the beginning of

1849, after performing for the last time at a concert he had got up for

the benefit of the Polish emigrants, and which was very numerously

attended. Soon after his return to Paris he suffered a severe loss in

the sudden death of the celebrated Dr. Molin, to whose skill and care

Chopin owed the prolongation of his life. From that time he despaired

of himself. The place of the beloved and honoured physician, whose very

presence had been a comfort, could never be supplied.

[Sidenote: TOO ILL TO TRAVEL.]

Hearing that his dear friend, Titus Woyciechowski, was going to Ostend

for the sea baths, Frederic felt a strong desire to join him. Relative

to this we find two letters—the last he ever wrote. As a Russian

subject, it was not then very easy for Woyciechowski to go to Paris. He

would have required special permission from the authorities at Warsaw,

or at least a letter from the Russian Ambassador in Paris:

_Paris, August 20th, 1849._

_Square dʼOrleans, Rue St. Lazare, No. 9._

MY DEAREST FRIEND,

Nothing but my present severe illness should prevent me from

hastening to you at Ostend; but I hope that by the goodness of God

you may be enabled to come to me. The doctors will not allow me to

travel. I am in my room drinking Pyrenean water, but your presence

would do me more good than all the medicines.

Yours till death,

FREDERIC.

_Paris, September 12th, 1849._

MY DEAR TITUS,

I have not had time to see about obtaining the permission for you

to come here. I cannot go for it myself, as I lie in bed half my

time, but have asked a friend, who has a good deal of influence, to

see about it for me, and shall hear something definite by Sunday. I

wanted to go by rail to the frontier at Valenciennes to meet you;

but the doctors forbid my leaving Paris, because a few days ago

I was not able to get as far as Ville dʼAvraye, near Versailles,

where I have a god-son. For this reason they will not send me to a

warmer climate this winter.

You see it is only illness that keeps me; had I been tolerably well

I should certainly have gone to Belgium to visit you. Perhaps you

may be able to come here. I am not egotistical enough to wish that

you should come merely for my sake; for, ill as I am, you would

be wearied and disappointed, although I think we might pass some

pleasant hours, recalling youthful memories, and I wish the time we

do have together to be an entirely happy one.

Ever yours, FREDERIC.

From that day the disease made rapid strides. Chopin did not fear

death, but seemed in a manner to long for it. The thought of quitting

a life so full of sad remembrances was not altogether unwelcome. His

moments of respite from pain became fewer and fewer. He spoke with

perfect consciousness and calmness about his death and the disposal of

his body. He expressed a wish to be buried in the churchyard of Père

Lachaise beside Bellini, with whom between 1832 and 1835 he had been

very friendly.

He was so much worse by the beginning of October that he could not

sit up. His relatives were informed of his condition, and Chopinʼs

eldest sister, Madame Louise Jedrzejewicz, immediately hastened to him

with her husband and daughter. The meeting between brother and sister

must be imagined rather than described. In 1844 Louise had nursed her

beloved brother through a dangerous illness, and afterwards spent a few

weeks with him at Nohant. She felt now directly she saw him that he

would only need her tender care a short time. Sometimes, when free from

pain, he was still cheerful and hopeful. He even took a new house, No.

12, Place Vendôme, and gave minute directions about furnishing it.

At length the last hour approached. His sister and his faithful pupil,

Gutmann, never left him for a moment. The Countess Delphine Potocka,

who was at some distance from Paris, set off to return the instant she

heard of the hopeless condition of the revered master, that she might

receive his farewell. In the room adjoining the apartment where Chopin

lay speechless, were some friends anxious to see him before he closed

his eyes for ever. It was a Sunday, the fifteenth of October, and the

streets were quieter than usual. His sufferings were intense, yet he

tried to smile at the friends around him; and when he saw the Countess

Potocka, who was standing beside his sister weeping bitterly, he asked

her softly to sing something. By a strong effort of self-control she

mastered her emotion, and in a ringing voice of bell-like purity, sang

Stradellaʼs Hymn to the Virgin, so beautifully and so devoutly that the

dying man—artist and lover of the beautiful to the very last—whispered

with delight, “Oh how beautiful! My God how beautiful! Again, again.”

As if endowed with supernatural strength the Countess sat down to the

piano and sang a psalm by Marcello. Those standing at his bedside saw

that he was growing weaker every second and sank noiselessly on their

knees. The solemn stillness was broken only by Delphine Potockaʼs

wonderful voice, which sounded like that of an angel summoning the

great master to the realms of the blessed; all suppressed their sobs

that they might not disturb the enjoyment of his last moments.

[Sidenote: CHOPINʼS LAST HOURS.]

Evening was closing in; his sister knelt by his bedside, weeping. The

next morning Chopin felt a little better. He asked for extreme unction,

and Alexander Jelowicki, a very pious and learned priest, who was held

in high esteem by his countrymen, was sent for. The dying man confessed

to him twice, and, in the presence of his friends, received the last

sacrament. He then called them all one by one to his bedside and

blessed and commended them to God. After that he quite lost the power

of speech and seemed unconscious. But a few hours later he revived and

desired the priest to pray with him. Resting his head on Gutmannʼs

shoulder, Chopin, in a clear voice repeated after the priest every word

of the Litany. When the last agony commenced he said, “Who is near me?”

Then he asked for some water, and when he had moistened his lips he

inclined his head and kissed the hand of Gutmann, who was supporting

him. After this last sign of gratitude and affection, he sighed once

as if released from a burden, and then closed his eyes for ever. At

this moment the bells of Paris struck three oʼclock in the morning, of

October 17th, 1849. A few minutes afterwards the doors of the chamber

were opened and the friends and acquaintances in the next room came to

look once more on the beloved face of the dead.

It was well known in musical circles that Chopin dearly loved flowers

and the very same morning such quantities were sent that the body

of the dead but undying master as it lay in state was literally

covered with them. His face, which had been somewhat changed by long

illness, assumed an expression of indescribable serenity and youthful

loveliness. M. Chesinger took a cast of his countenance, from which he

afterwards copied the marble bust which adorns Chopinʼs tomb.

[Sidenote: FUNERAL SERVICE.]

The reverent admiration which Chopin had always felt for Mozart led him

to request, in his last days, that no music but the German masterʼs

sublime Requiem should be performed at his funeral. Up till 1849

women had not been allowed to take part in the musical performance at

the Madeleine Church, and special permission had to be obtained from

the ecclesiastical authorities. On this account the funeral did not

take place till October 30th. The first artists in Paris co-operated.

The funeral march from Chopinʼs B flat minor Sonata, which had been

scored by Reber for the occasion, was introduced at the Introit. For

the Offertory, Lefébure Wély played on the organ Chopinʼs Preludes in

B minor and E minor.[45] The solos of the Requiem were rendered by

Mesdames Pauline Viardot-Garcia and Castellan, and the famous bass

singer, Lablache, who gave a splendid delivery of the “Tuba mirum.”

Meyerbeer conducted, and the pall-bearers were Prince Alexander

Czartoryski, Delacroix, Franchomme and Gutmann.

When the remains were lowered into the grave, Polish earth was

scattered on the coffin. It was the same that Chopin had brought from

Wola nineteen years before as a memorial of his beloved fatherland. He

had always guarded it with pious care, and shortly before his death

had requested that if he might not rest in Polish soil his body might

at least be covered with his native earth. Chopinʼs heart, which had

beaten so warmly and suffered so deeply for his country was, according

to his desire, sent to the land whose sun had shone on his happy youth;

it is preserved _ad interim_ in the church of the Sacred Cross, at

Warsaw.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVIII.

_CHOPIN AS A MAN._

To what has been written I have little to add. Chopin was a model son,

an affectionate brother, and a faithful friend. His personal appearance

was so agreeable and harmonious that the eye rested on him with

pleasure. His dark brown eyes[46] were cheerful rather than pensive,

his smile was kindly and perfectly good-natured; he had a complexion of

almost transparent delicacy, and luxuriant brown hair, as soft as silk;

his Roman nose was slightly aquiline; all his movements were graceful,

and he had the manners of an aristocrat of the highest rank. Everyone

with any discernment of true gentility and real genius could not but

say, on seeing Chopin, “there is a distinguished man.” His voice was

musical and rather subdued. He was not above middle height, naturally

delicate, and in his general contour resembled his mother.

One of his lady friends not inaptly remarked that “his disposition was

joyous, but his heart full of dreamy yearning,” which shows that by his

good spirits he diffused cheerfulness around him. Through his nature

there ran a vein of melancholy and enthusiasm (schwärmerei) which was

very attractive. He had so much amiability and good-breeding, that

his physical sufferings, his nervous excitability, and the violent

antipathies which he felt in common with all nervous people never, made

any difference to his behaviour in daily life. He rarely spoke about

his own feelings lest he should be misunderstood.

At some houses in Paris he was a daily guest, and he always spent

the evening with friends. Thus he had the _entrée_ of twenty or

thirty _salons_, where he met with universal kindness and attention,

as everybody was fascinated by him. To have transported Frederic

Chopin, the darling of princesses and countesses, from these refined

surroundings into a simple common-place circle, would have been nothing

short of depriving him of the chief end of his existence.

Unlike most great artists, he had an aversion to appearing in public.

To give a concert was to him a disagreeable undertaking, which he never

entered on without repugnance. He had sufficient pride to enable him to

make a dignified appearance; he knew, but did not over-estimate, his

own powers, and recognized with friendly fellow-feeling the artistic

merits of others.

Accustomed to comfort and elegance, he liked to be surrounded by

_objets de luxe_, to have his apartments richly carpeted, and filled

with ornamental furniture, costly consoles, and _étagères_ covered

with presents. He was passionately fond of flowers, and, as I have

before mentioned, always had some in his rooms. His dress was stylish

and tasteful, and his linen which came from the best shops in Paris,

dazzlingly white. He did not agree with those who say that an artist

has a right to neglect his appearance. It is said that when he was

going to play in public he would order in coats from different tailors,

and, having tried them all on and found something to object to in each,

he would at the last moment borrow one of his pupil, (Gutmann), which

was a great deal too large for him.

[Sidenote: HIS GENEROUS NATURE]

He used, especially when he first came to live in France, to do all

he could to help poor Polish emigrants, either by recommendations or

with money and clothes. When Princess Czartoryska opened a bazaar for

their benefit at the Hotel Lambert, Chopin spent more than a thousand

francs in elegant trifles, which he gave away. His generosity in this

direction knew no bounds, and it is not surprising that he left nothing

when he died. As a boy he had begun his artistic career with a concert

for the poor, and the last he ever gave was for the Polish emigrants

in London. It was this ready sympathy that caused the breach with

Charles Lipinski, who came to Paris in 1835, and gave some concerts.

Chopin proposed that they should give a concert together for the

benefit of the Poles, but Lipinski refused, saying, that he did not

wish to compromise himself at St. Petersburg, where he intended to

perform next year. Chopin was so indignant at this answer that he broke

off the friendship, and never forgave Lipinski for his hard-hearted

indifference towards his distressed countrymen.

He was always willing to sacrifice himself for his friends, but to

strangers he was cool and reserved. If he found people seeking his

acquaintance and sending him invitations for the sake of gaining

distinction, he soon put an end to the connection. When a rich man, who

had asked him to dinner that he might amuse the guests by his playing,

pressed him to perform, Chopin replied, “Ah, sir, I have dined so

sparingly.” But when he was sure that he should give real pleasure he

was never stingy in exercising his talents. The famous author, Louis

Blanc, writes in his “Histoire de la Revolution, 1848,” (vol. II.)

“When the republican, Gottfried Cavaignac (cousin of the celebrated

general) was approaching his end, he expressed a wish to hear music

once more. Louis Blanc, who was personally acquainted with Chopin,

promised to go and find the artist, and bring him back with him, if

the doctor would consent. Chopin, being informed by Louis Blanc of

the circumstances, set off at once. He was taken into a room with

rather a bad piano and sat down to play. Suddenly a loud sob was

heard. Moved and excited, Gottfried felt quickened with new

life, and sat up, with his eyes full of tears. Chopin was so much

affected that he could not go on. Madame Cavaignac bent anxiously

over her son, who, mustering up all his strength, said, in a weak

voice, ‘Donʼt be troubled, mother; it is nothing. Oh, what a

beautiful art is music! Such music and such playing!’”

[Sidenote: DISLIKE TO CORRESPONDENCE.]

Frederic was in general not at all fond of letter-writing, and

needed some strong motive to induce him to take up his pen. The only

correspondence he kept up was with his relations and his friend

Woyciechowski; and after 1838 this somewhat fell off, his connection

with the great French authoress and his ill-health being probably the

cause. He dared not make known to his family the full particulars of

his manner of life, and knowing the strict moral principles of his

parents, he preferred to keep secret his _liaison_ with George Sand.

This gave a certain air of embarassment to his letters, which had

formerly been so open and unconstrained, that on reading them one

seemed both to see and hear him.

“It was often very comical,” says Liszt, “to see Chopin receive a

written invitation to dinner, which he either wished or was obliged to

decline; he would take a long walk and excuse himself in person rather

than reply by writing.”

He often accompanied the letters to his sisters and his nephews and

nieces with playthings or articles of dress, and was as delighted as a

child if he could prepare some surprise for them. It was a _fête_ day

for him when a letter came from Warsaw. He never talked about it, but

privately devoted his thoughts to those he loved. He valued so highly

any present they sent him that he would not suffer any one to touch it

or even to look at it for long.

Brought up from a child in the faith of the Romish Church he did

not like to talk or argue about religion, but kept his opinions to

himself. He rarely took any prominent part in discussions on politics

or literature, although he enjoyed listening to them. He never obtruded

his ideas on anyone, but if his beloved art were attacked he was

instantly up in arms. In the cause of Romanticism he broke many a

lance, and gave abundant proof, particularly during the first years

of his residence in Paris, of his thorough devotion to the principles

of that school. Its most important representatives at that time were

Berlioz and Liszt, the ablest, boldest, and most persevering opponents

of the Classic school. In 1832 Chopin, who had grown up amid the

clamour of this contest, adopted the views of Berlioz and Liszt, and

joined the party who openly discarded the old-fashioned style, from

which they held as much aloof as from charlatanism. All through the

controversy over the Romantic school, some of the productions of which

were real masterpieces, Chopin remained staunch to his opinions. He

would not make the slightest concession to those who did not follow

art for its own sake, but only used it as a means of obtaining money,

fame, or honour. Much as he enjoyed the society of fellow artists, he

renounced it unhesitatingly if convinced that they were going too

far in their resistance to all innovation, and were endeavouring to

restrict his own creative efforts. To him art was sacred, and he would

never praise a composition or an interpretation which he did not think

really worthy of being commended.

[Sidenote: CHOPINʼS CARE IN COMPOSITION.]

Chopin needed no recourse to artificial means to secure the triumph

and popularity of his works. To his most intimate friends he

would sometimes say, “I believe that my works will stand on their

intrinsic merits; whether these be recognized now or in the future

is immaterial.” A thorough training in youth, a habit of reflection,

and his great reverence for the beauties of the classics, effectually

preserved him from blindness and error. The extraordinary care

and conscientiousness with which he finished his works protected

him from the attacks of those superficial or hostile critics who

sought eagerly for the smallest mistake. Early accustomed to the

sternest self-examination, he threw into his waste-paper basket many

compositions which others would perhaps have proudly handed to their

printer. He never undertook a work unsuited to his capacities or began

anything which he was not sure he could successfully carry out.

Educated by German masters and on German principles, Chopin had a

decided preference for the music of that country. Handel, Gluck, Bach,

Haydn, and Mozart were his ideals of perfection; and although he felt

the spell of Beethovenʼs genius, he had less sympathy with its gigantic

conceptions than with the fascinating charm and lovely melodies of

Mozartʼs compositions. There seemed to him in Beethovenʼs works a want

of delicate finish, the proportions were too colossal, and the storms

of passion too violent. About the year 1835, Schubert began to be known

in Paris, principally by his songs. Like all impartial musicians,

Chopin was charmed by their wealth of melody; but he regretted that in

his larger works, the exuberance of the composerʼs fancy frequently led

him to overstep the limits of form, and thus impair the effect.

When Chopin first began to attract the attention of the musical world

in Paris, there were odd stories current about his parentage. Some

thought he was a German; others, on account of his name, a Frenchman.

He always protested energetically against these suppositions,

declaring, with the pride of a good patriot, that he was a Pole. His

nationality and his love for his country were shown both in word and

deed, appearing not only in his generosity, and his voluntarily sharing

the exile of his unfortunate countrymen, but also in his choice of

friends and his preference for Polish pupils. However, he was not at

all addicted to boasting of his patriotism. Although of French descent

on his fatherʼs side and perfectly familiar with the language, his

accent still betrayed the nationality of his mother.

Just as he drew musical inspiration from the Polish folk-songs, so

he loved to imitate the simple speech of the peasants, which he could

render to perfection in its crispness and terseness, if he were in good

spirits. When, for example, in a circle of intimate friends his playing

had created a melancholy impression, he could at once disperse it by a

counterfeit of the peasant dialect, especially that of the Mazovians

and Cracovians. If a discussion arose as to the comparative merits of

the different modern languages, he would always extol his mother tongue

to the skies, and could never say enough in praise of its beauty,

wealth, sweetness, aptness of expression, and masculine power.

[Sidenote: CHOPINʼS SUPERSTITION.]

In common with many imaginative natures, Chopin was, in a greater or

less degree, according to his state of health, very superstitious.

Loitering along the Boulevards, one evening after a _soirée_, in

company with some friends, among them A. Szmitkowski, to whom he

dedicated his glorious mazurkas, op. 59, he was joking about his

financial troubles. “I wish,” he said, “that some good genius would

put twenty thousand francs into my desk. That would set me up once

for all, and I could indulge in the comfort I am so fond of.” That

night he dreamt that his wish was realized. A few days after, on

opening a secret drawer of his desk in which he kept his money and

some much-prized memorials, he actually found the desired sum. Miss

Stirling, his pupil and devoted follower, had given it to Szmitkowski

to put there, after having heard from him of Chopinʼs wish and strange

dream.

Chopin had a dislike to the numbers seven and thirteen; he would never

undertake anything of importance on a Monday or Friday, sharing a

belief almost universal in Poland that these are unlucky days (ferelne.)

Devoted from childhood to his art, he lived constantly in the

tone-world, and when not listening to music, he thought and dreamed of

it. It is easy to understand that incessant practice would irritate and

chafe his naturally susceptible nerves, and that his feelings, fancies,

and even his whole spiritual nature, gradually grew into a state of

etherial delicacy. How painful, too, must have been the discord, when

he was brought into contact with rough reality. He would then confide

to his instrument his inmost thoughts, which became more and more

melancholy, until at last his heart broke. Liszt says of Chopin, “To

the modern calm simplicity of devotion Chopin united the reverent

homage paid to art by the early Mediæval masters. Like them he regarded

the exercise of his art as a high and holy calling, and like them too

he was proud of having been dedicated by nature to be its priest, and

he brought to its service a pious worship which at once ennobles and

blesses the artist.” [Sidenote: AN OLD POLISH CUSTOM.] These feelings

found expression even in his last hours, as a reference to Polish

customs will explain. It is still a practice, though less common than

formerly, for the dying person to choose the clothes for his burial;

many, indeed, have them prepared long beforehand. Thus are revealed

the most secret and cherished thoughts, and by worldly but believing

people the garments of the cloister are often selected for their last

dress, especially by women. Men are more generally buried in their

uniform with their arms laid beside them.

Chopin, although not only a composer, but one of the greatest of

pianists (the first of his day as many think) gave proportionately the

fewest concerts; yet he wished to be laid in the grave in the clothes

he had worn on those occasions. A deep feeling, springing from the

inexhaustible fountain of his artistic enthusiasm, doubtless prompted

this last desire. It was fulfilled. As he lay covered with flowers and

palm branches in the familiar dress, the admirers who surrounded his

coffin could but exclaim, Frederic Chopin remained true to himself, for

his last thoughts were of his art.

Banished from his home by political events, separated from his family,

led into the thorny paths of unhappy love, bowed down by illness, his

life was brought to an early close, but in his sublime creations he has

left us a portion of his own rich spirit.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIX.

_CHOPIN AS A COMPOSER._

As a creative artist, Chopin holds a unique position. Confining

himself to the comparatively restricted limits of a single instrument,

it is, in the opinion of competent judges, his especial merit to

have been not only a thoroughly scientific musician, but also a true

poet, whose productions have had the most wide-spread influence on

all modern pianoforte composers, an influence not unlike that of

Heine in the domain of poetry. Poet and musician alike give us the

most perfect emotional pictures in the smallest forms, but with this

difference, that while Heineʼs scepticism had a blighting effect on

these miniatures, Chopinʼs harmonious disposition was a fructifying

energy. How strongly convinced must Chopin have been that his special

mission was the embellishment of pianoforte literature, to be able to

resist the tempting and seemingly effective help of an orchestra, and

to voluntarily restrict himself to one instrument, for which he wrote

masterpieces, of their kind incomparable. Liszt justly observes,

[Sidenote: LARGE AND SMALL ART FORMS.]

“We are too much accustomed at the present day to consider great only

those composers who have written at least half a dozen Operas and

Oratorios, besides Symphonies; demanding, in our folly, everything

and more than everything of one musician. However universal this idea

may be, its reasonableness is very problematical. We have no wish to

contest the hardly won glory or the real superiority of the composers

who have adopted the largest forms; all we desire is that, in music,

size should be estimated in the same way as in the other arts: a

painting, such as the ‘Vision of Ezekiel,’ or ‘The Churchyard,’ by

Ruysdaël, twenty inches square, is placed among the chefs-dʼœuvre, and

ranks higher than many larger pictures by a Rubens or a Tintoretto. Is

Beranger less of a poet because he poured all his thoughts into the

narrow limits of a song? Is not Petrarch known chiefly by his sonnets?

How many of his readers are acquainted with his poem on Africa? We

cannot but believe that the criticism which denies the superiority

of an artist like Schubert over one who occupies himself in scoring

tame operatic melodies, will disappear; and that, henceforth, we shall

consider the quality of the expression whatever may be the size of the

form chosen for its vehicle.”

To give a competent analysis of Chopinʼs works (a list of which with

the opus numbers appears at the end of this book) would require a

volume to itself. I must, therefore, be content with a general survey

of his compositions, enlarging more fully on that species whose origin

or, at least, whose high development, we owe to his genius.

The human mind is subject to two kinds of influence—internal and

external. The former are determined by natural disposition, the latter

by family and national associations. From their union proceeds the

individuality of the man who is subject to their ever present forces.

Individuality can neither protect its works from influences nor change

its own nature, because even if it adopts another course, though the

result may be a very perfect organization, the traces of earlier

impressions can never be obliterated.

It is interesting to watch the growth and development of Chopinʼs

talents in relation to the different schools. Although under the

influence of none in particular, and not following the guide of any of

the leading spirits of the day, he showed a slight and brief preference

for Hummel, whom he took as a model, especially with regard to his

passage work. We can trace this master in the form of most of Chopinʼs

works, while from beginning to end there is an individuality in the

choice of thoughts. The leaning to Hummel is chiefly discernible in his

rondos; but in the “Don Juan” variations and the fantasia on Polish

airs, that boldness and freshness of thought, independence of working,

and originality of conception, which at once gave him a prominent

position among contemporary composers, are already apparent. His

lavish display of sentiment, youthful grace and energy, hopefulness

and melancholy, show how unquenchable were the springs of his genius.

Indeed so vast was the wealth of his ideas that, as was remarked in

referring to his early works, he never repeated the same thought in

the same manner, but either by the most tasteful arabesques, or choice

changes of harmony, imparted to it at every return a renewed interest.

He was very clever in turning to account all the embellishments and

_fioritures_ characteristic of the old Italian style of vocal music.

[Sidenote: CHOPINʼS EARLY WORKS.]

Chopinʼs earliest works are undoubtedly the result of the musical

tendencies of the age; traditional forms opened to him the gates

of the temple where the greatest masters of pianoforte playing sit

enthroned. But into these forms he infused his own creative talent.

Chopinʼs imagination struck deeper chords than that of other composers;

he inaugurated a new era (as he himself wrote to Elsner) and cut a

way for himself, not for the sake of surpassing others, but by the

unconscious impulse of his own original thoughts. In his youthful years

he occasionally availed himself of the resources of the orchestra; but

never afterwards except for the Polonaise, op. 22, that brilliant piece

which, although in E flat major throughout, begins with a marvellously

tender and imaginative introduction in G major. In the orchestral

colouring a certain timidity is frequently perceptible, owing, perhaps,

to an ignorance of the capacities of the different instruments. He

showed a preference for the violoncello; its elegiac tone was in

harmony with his own nature. Besides the Polonaise, op. 3, he also

composed, with Franchomme, a duet, for piano and ʼcello, on motives

from “Robert le Diable” (a work without any special merit, written in

accordance with the taste of the day), and shortly before his death,

the Sonata in G minor, op. 65, the first movement of which is of

surpassing beauty.

Among the works for piano alone, the Sonatas, as being his largest

compositions, claim our first attention. The earliest published, as op.

4, dedicated to Elsner, shows a striving after classic forms, but does

not give us the idea that the composer was working from inspiration,

his wishes and capacities do not seem always to correspond, and the

work altogether awakens no lasting interest. The third movement is most

worthy of notice, but this does not satisfy us completely; it sounds

rather forced and laboured, probably on account of the unusual 5/4

measure. Incomparably more important is the Sonata in B flat minor, op.

35. The anxious character of the first theme is happily contrasted with

the exuberant song of the second motive; and the Funeral March could

only have been written by one in whose soul the pain and mourning of a

whole nation found its echo.

The more dramatic Sonata, in B minor, op. 58, is better adapted by

the brilliancy of its ornamentation for a concert performance. The

composer seems to have found it difficult to keep the profusion of

thought within due proportions, especially in the Adagio. In the

development of the first theme in the first movement, there is a want

of repose which is only made up for by the wonderful _cantilene_ in D

major. Chopin is generally less successful when writing in stricter

forms which hamper the bold flight of his fancy. His inventive power

and melodic wealth were so abundant that it was irksome to him to work

out his themes systematically; and his Sonatas, therefore, with respect

to form, sometimes appear unfinished; while in more congenial spheres

he could permit his rich imagination to have freer play.

[Sidenote: CHOPINʼS MAZURKAS.]

Chopin was very partial to the dance forms—mazurka, polonaise, waltz,

tarantelle, cracovienne, and bolero—which he first truly idealized. Out

of the large number of his mazurkas it is difficult to tell to which

to award the palm; so wide a scope do they offer for individual taste.

Among the best—which, by their gay or melancholy character, appear

so diverse but are all alike characterized by the same rhythm—must

undoubtedly be reckoned, op. 7, Nos. 2. and 3; op. 17, Nos. 1 and 2;

op. 24, No. 2; op. 30, No. 3; op. 33, No. 4, The mazurkas, op. 24,

No. 4; op. 50, No. 3; op. 63, No. 3, distinguished by poetical charm

and contrapuntal skill, are worthy of mention. Some of those mazurkas

are almost more effective which display a tinge of melancholy, as if

the composer had only indulged in a momentary diversion and narcotic

intoxication to return the more sadly to his original gloom. The most

striking mazurka of this class is op. 56, No. 2.

Tradition assigns to the polonaise the following origin. When the

dynasty of the Jagiellons died out, Henry of Anjou, son of Catherine

de Medicis, afterwards Henry III., was, in 1573, elected King of

Poland. The following year he received the representatives of the

nation in solemn state at Cracow Castle; and the gentlemen made their

wives slowly defile before the king, keeping step to an accompaniment

of music. Every time a foreign prince was elected to the throne

this ceremony was repeated, and from it was gradually developed the

national dance of the polonaise, which has kept its place in Europe

up to the present day. In the slow sweeping measure of the polonaise

there is much stateliness and gravity, and the turnings and changes

seem like the echo of the murmurs from the active life of the old

Polish nobility. It used always to be danced with the sabre called

“Carabella.” Prince Michael Oginski and afterwards Kurpinski were the

first to treat it artistically, a circumstance which contributed in

some measure to their reputation; after them, non-Polish composers,

such as Beethoven, Schubert, Weber, Spohr, &c., made it into an

independent musical form, and wrote works on the model of the

polonaise; until Chopin ennobled it with his own poetry and ideal

beauty, and once more infused into it a distinctively Polish cast of

thought.

[Sidenote: CHOPINʼS POLONAISES.]

Chopinʼs polonaises may be divided into two groups: the one with its

marked rhythm, displaying the martial element; the other the dreamy

melancholy feeling peculiar to Chopin. To the first order I should

assign the polonaises in A major, op. 40, No. 1; F sharp minor, op. 44;

and A flat major, op. 53. For simplicity of form and characteristic

nationality the preference must be given to the polonaise in A major;

although technically inferior and deficient in poetry—for it is

_forte_ almost throughout, and the themes are not well contrasted—it

is effective on account of its chivalric ring and natural dignity.

The grandest and boldest is undoubtedly the F sharp minor polonaise,

dedicated to Princess Beauvau, sister to Countess Delphine Potocka. The

gloomy colouring and wildly defiant character of the chief theme are

suddenly interrupted by a charming _intermezzo_ in the mazurka style.

Almost equally marvellous is the dreamy _finale_, in which, while the

right hand holds the C sharp—to which the semitone D immediately falls

like a heavy _appoggiatura_—in the left hand the energetic theme dies

away to the gentlest _pianissimo_. The majestic A flat major polonaise

was composed in 1840 after Chopinʼs return from Majorca.

Chopinʼs nervous system was so much affected by his illness that, for

sometime afterwards, his restless imagination would not permit him to

sleep. One night, while playing a work he had just finished, he fancied

that the doors opened, and that a great company of Polish knights and

noble ladies in the old costume (robe ronde et cornettes) came in and

marched past him. He was so much perturbed by this vision that he

rushed out through the opposite door and would not return to his room

for the rest of the night. Indeed the middle movement in E major, with

the long crescendo in the bass, so vividly conjures up an approaching

band of knights, galloping over a plain in the pale light of the moon,

that one hears in fancy the tramp of the fiery steeds and the clatter

of arms.

The second group comprises the polonaises in C sharp and E flat minor,

op. 26; the polonaise in C minor, op. 40, No. 2; and three in D minor,

B flat major, and F minor, op. 71, published by Fontana. The two first,

dedicated to J. Dessauer, are pre-eminent for loftiness of sentiment.

They were composed at a time when Chopin was at the summit of his

greatness, when his vigorous and original mind, unhampered by trivial

considerations about form, created for itself the form best adapted

to its conceptions. For example, the first polonaise (C sharp minor)

not only has a melody of uncommon beauty, but there is also a rare

depth of character in the apparently bold incoherent themes with which

the work begins. While the grand rhythmical swing of the first theme

depicts manly courage, which is tempered by an erotic love theme, the

second subject, with the exception of the lightning-like passages in

the right hand, is of a hopeful, soothing character; the D flat major

motive closes the happy scene. None of the later polonaises contain a

double motion of the melody, as we find in the conclusion of this. The

second number of the same opus (E flat minor) is mysterious, gloomy,

and shuddering; it seems to picture the suffering Poles banished in

chains to Siberia.

The Fantasie-polonaise in A flat major, op. 61, holds a position

distinct from either of these groups. It is intended to represent the

national struggles and contests, and concludes, therefore, with a

pompous hymn of victory. Chopinʼs firm belief in the ultimate triumph

of the Polish nation after its many bitter trials—a feeling so well

depicted in the poetry of Mickiewicz, Krasinski, and frequently of

Slowacki, the greatest poets of that period—speaks out very clearly in

this the most finished of his larger pianoforte works.

[Sidenote: ROMANTIC NATURE OF HIS MUSIC.]

It would be foolish to seek in Music for allegory, history, politics,

or philosophical deductions. The sphere of music is feeling, through

which and to which it speaks, and through feeling unites itself with

the poetry of the present day, not only by a common national sentiment,

but in nearly all its tones and _nuances_. Chopinʼs music is like

poetry, a flower of Romanticism, and it has the same beauties and

the same defects as our romantic poetry. It touches the highest and

deepest springs of emotion, is original, rich in thoughts and forms;

but it suffers from the same exaggerated sentiment and melancholy, and

frequently degenerates into nervous debility.