CHOPIN
Chopin’s music and its relative value in musical
value; racial and personal characteristics; influences
and preferences; Chopin’s playing--His instinct for
form; the form of his sonatas and concertos; the
_Polonaise-Fantaisie_; the preludes--Chopin as a harmonist;
Chopin’s style analyzed: accompaniment figures, inner
melodies, polyphonic suggestions, passages, melodies and
ornaments--His works in general: salon music; waltzes;
nocturnes; mazurkas; polonaises; conclusion.
I
No music for the pianoforte is more widely known than that of
Chopin. None has been more generally accepted. None has been exposed
so mercilessly to the mauling of sentimentality and ignorance; nor
has any other suffered to such an extent the ignominy of an affable
patronage. Yet it has not faded nor shown signs of decay. Rather year
by year the question rises clearer: is any music more irreproachably
beautiful? Less and less timidly, thoughtful men and women now demand
that Chopin be recognized truly as equal of the greatest, even of Bach,
of Mozart, of Beethoven. There are no fixed standards by which to
measure the greatness of music. We adore the sacredness of forms and
names. At the best we have a sort of tenacity of faith, supported by
a wholly personal enthusiasm. To many this demand on behalf of Chopin
will appear to be based on an enthusiasm that is not justifiable; but
by what shall enthusiasm be justified? It is an emotion, something
more powerful in music than reason. One must grant that no pianoforte
music has shown a greater force than Chopin’s to rouse the emotions
of the general world. That it moves the callow heart to sighs or that
the ignorant will fawn upon it is no proof of weakness in it. Your
ignoramus will dote on Beethoven almost as much. Chopin’s music has
depth upon depth of beauty into which the student and the artist may
penetrate. It can never be fully comprehended and then thrown aside. To
study it year after year is to come ever upon new wonders.
It is urged against Chopin that he wrote only for the pianoforte. But
this cannot have any weight in estimating the value of his music. It
is generally acknowledged that the pianoforte is of all instruments
the most difficult to write for. Chopin was absolute master of these
difficulties, just as Wagner was master of the orchestra. He was
therefore in a position to give perfect expression to his ideas, as
far as color of sound is concerned. Mr. Edgar Stillman Kelley in his
recent book on Chopin[35] brings forward the interesting point that
at the time Chopin was composing--roughly between 1830 and 1845--the
orchestra would have been quite inadequate to the expression of his
ideas; both because of the imperfections of many of the instruments and
because of the lack of virtuoso skill among the players. For Chopin’s
music is above all things intricate. There is a ceaseless interweaving
of countless strands of harmony, a subtle chromaticism of which the
brass instruments would have been incapable, and elaborate figures
and passages which violinists would not have been able to play. The
pianoforte on the other hand was relatively perfect. To it Chopin
turned, as to a medium that would not restrict his expression. And
so accurately and minutely did he shape his music in accordance with
the instrument, that the many attempts by clever and skillful men to
arrange it for the orchestra have almost entirely failed.
At any rate we have Chopin’s ideas perfectly expressed, almost without
a blemish, thanks to the piano. It is by the nature and quality of
these ideas that he must be judged. In beauty of melody, in wealth of
harmony, in variety, force, and delicacy of rhythm, he has not been
excelled. As to the quality of emotion back of these ideas, it has been
said that it is perfervid, sickly or effeminate; but such a statement
would hardly be borne out by the facts that his music remains fresh
in expressiveness and that it is generally acceptable. Delicate most
of it is, and it is all marked by a perhaps unique fineness of taste.
This, however, rarely if ever belittles the genuine and lasting emotion
which it modifies. Chopin’s character was undoubtedly one that wins
the love and sympathy of some men, and wholly antagonizes others. The
last years of his life he was weak and ailing and he was never robust.
Still it cannot be fairly said that his physical weakness has affected
his music. It should be remembered that Beethoven and Schumann were
sick men, the one sick in body, the other sick in mind. The wonder is
but greater when we think that such works as the Ballade in F minor and
the Barcarolle were written by a man so feeble that he had always to be
carried up flights of stairs.
Several points in Chopin’s character are more than usually interesting
in connection with his music. To begin with he was half Polish in blood
and wholly Polish in sympathies. It was his ambition to be for Poland
in music what the poet Uhland had been for Germany in literature.[36]
This does not by any means signify that many of the startling
originalities in his music are due to racial influences. Only in the
Polonaises and in the Mazurkas, both national dances of Poland, does
Chopin make use of Polish forms. Even in the Polonaises there is more
of universal than of national spirit, though in the Mazurkas, rhythms,
melodies, and harmonies have for the most part a distinctly Polish
stamp. Elsewhere in his music there are but rarely suggestions of a
tonality not common to the music of Western Europe, or of melodies more
Slavic than Latin or Teutonic.
It is in spirit that his music hints of another race, by its passionate
intensity, by its glowing color, and perhaps most of all by its
restraint. This may seem strange when we think of the almost barbaric
abandon of other Slavic composers. But Liszt in his book on Chopin
speaks at length of the peculiar reserve, not to say secretiveness,
of the Polish people in general and of Chopin in particular. He is
emphatic in his statement that only Poles came near the inner nature of
this musician; that others felt themselves delicately but surely held
at a distance. So in no small measure the meaning of his music, its
true beauty, eludes the player. There is a secret in it which perhaps
no player has the skill fully to reveal. It is not often explicit; it
is nearly always suggestive. We need not think that only a Pole can
penetrate the mystery. Perhaps only Poles can play the Polonaises and
the Mazurkas with full sympathy; but the Preludes, the Ballades and
Études and Scherzos, to speak of but a few of his works, are music for
the whole world. That they elude the efforts of most players is due
to no peculiar tricks of rhythm or of melody; but to the quality of
secretiveness which has somehow been transfused from the composer into
his music. Even in the most splendid of his compositions, as in the
most intimate, there is a touch of personal aristocracy, of reserve.
He was by nature the most selective of all musicians. In matters of
music he accepted only what was pleasing to his fine taste. Therefore
the music of Beethoven seemed to him often rough and noisy; that of
Schubert a mixture of sublime and commonplace; for that of Schumann
he seems to have had little or no appreciation. This has often been
held to signalize a fault in his musical understanding; and those who
so regard it have been pleased to take his love of Italian opera,
particularly of Bellini, as further proof of their point. One must not
forget, however, that a group of some of the greatest singers the world
has ever known were engaged at the Italian opera in Paris, among them
Malibran-Garcia, Pasta, Rubini, Lablache; and that such performances as
they gave must have been distinguished by consummate artistry. Chopin
often advised his pupils to hear great singers, that they might give
to their playing something of the grace of song. At the Italian opera
there was perfect singing; and there, very likely more than elsewhere,
Chopin’s exquisite, artistic nature found satisfaction.
His delight in the music of Hummel, like his pleasure in that of Field,
is easy to understand. In neither is there distortion of line, nor
harshness. More than any other music of that time it was intimately
suited to the piano. As delicate, fluent sound it must even today be
granted excellent; and for Chopin no fury or power of emotion could
justify sound that was unpleasant. His understanding of and love for
the piano were so perfect and exacting that one can easily imagine
him more willing to forgive triviality of emotion, for the sake of a
delicate expression, than to tolerate a harsh or clumsy treatment of
the instrument, for the sake of any emotional stress whatsoever.
But neither the Italian opera nor the music of Hummel and Field was
the favorite music of Chopin. The two composers whose works he accepted
unqualifiedly were Sebastian Bach and Mozart. Here he found a rich
emotion and a flawless beauty of style. Here there was no distortion,
no struggle of ideas, no harshness. Here was for him perfection of form
and, what is perhaps rarest in any art, a just proportion between form
and content, an unblemished union of all the elements which make music
not only great but wholly beautiful.
As a player he aimed first and always for beauty of tone and fineness
of shading. He was not often successful before a large public. This
was due in part to the weakness of his body, but probably more to the
nature of his temperament. On account of the first he was unable to
‘thunder,’ and therefore, in his own words, to overwhelm his audience
if he could not win them. But on account of his extremely sensitive
nature a large audience, full of strange faces, was frightful to him.
He shrank from displaying his art before a crowd. This was no doubt
bitter to him. The triumphant general fame of a Liszt or a Thalberg was
denied him. Yet in many respects he was the most remarkable pianist
the world has been privileged to enjoy. Among friends in his rooms
his playing had more than an earthly charm. It seems to have been
distinguished not only by rare delicacy of touch, but by a skill with
the pedal, with both the sustaining pedal and the soft pedal. He was
master of blending his harmonies in a way that raised those who heard
him at his best into a veritable ecstasy. Under his fingers the piano
seemed to breathe out a music that floated in air. Though he was not,
as we have implied, a powerful player, he was capable of flashes of
extraordinary vigor; but it was less by sharp contrasts and extremes
that he got his effects, than by infinite nuances. And he was above all
else a poet of sound, a man of swift fancies, of infinite moods and
changes.
Chopin spent the years of his boyhood and youth in Warsaw. In the
summer of 1829 he spent some weeks in Vienna, and played there twice in
public. In the list of those who were present at these concerts--which,
by the way, were wholly successful--one reads the names of men and
women who had known Beethoven and Schubert, even friends of Mozart. He
went again to Vienna in the fall of 1830 and remained there, more or
less idling, until uncertain political conditions and an outbreak of
cholera drove him in July, 1831, to seek Paris. Here he arrived about
the end of September, and here with few exceptions he lived the rest of
his life.
He found himself at once in the midst of a society made up of people
who were enthusiasts, and were in favor of, or actually apostles of,
some radical reform in society or in the arts. Thus at their gatherings
there was a great deal of animated and even polemical conversation.
It was largely self-conscious. Each talker felt himself the oracle of
a new doctrine. But Chopin was silent at most of these reunions. He
talked little or not at all about himself and his work. His conduct
seems an advocacy of conservatism; but as a matter of fact his music
proves him to have been one of the great innovators in the art.
II
It is evident that in many respects Chopin’s innovations sprang from
instinct. They are not the conscious putting to test of a theory of
reform, as are, in a small way, the _Carnaval_ of Schumann, and in
a more grandiose one, the B minor sonata of Liszt. As regards form,
for example, he was in many cases not in the least dependent upon
past or contemporary standards. Such pieces as the _Ballades_ and the
_Barcarolle_ are without precedent. But they are the spontaneous growth
of his genius; not the product of an experimental intelligence. The
intellectually formal element which Berlioz, Schumann, and Liszt made
bold with, Chopin quite ignored.
The theories of those of his contemporaries just mentioned have been
made convenient apologies by many of their subsequent critics. Though
the present day is beginning to show a wisdom free of controversy, it
is still difficult to judge Liszt’s sonata solely from the standpoint
of musical vitality. If one is left by it cold or suspicious, one
cannot wholly disregard, in estimating its worth, the scheme upon
which it is devised. In perhaps no music is there less need of such an
intellectual justification than in Chopin’s. The man’s instinct was
his only guide, and in most cases the results of it were singularly
faultless.
Therefore, attempts to reduce such pieces as the _Ballades_ and the
_Barcarolles_ to one of the few orthodox formal schemes are gratuitous.
In the first place the music is positively in no need of such a
justification as many still believe the respectable names of sonata
or fugue or rondo provide. In the second place, though a work like
the Ballade in F minor can be forced into the mold of the triplex or
sonata-form, it can be so forced only by distorting the lovely features
which make it the thing of beauty that it is. It is only fair to
recognize that Chopin has created something new, in forms of a graceful
and subtle proportion that speaks of a higher force than theory. The
mind of man has yet to understand the logic of their beauty. Chopin is
still unique.
The very elusiveness of the formal element in Chopin’s music
persistently raises a question as to the extent of his mental grasp
on the materials of his art. It is foolish to discuss how much of
great genius is intellectual, how much emotional. It would seem as if
the great emotion gave the spark of life to any work of art, that the
powerful mind gave it shape. But in the music of Chopin an instinct
rather than a thought gives shape. It is interesting to observe the
working of this instinct in forms to the grasp of which an intellectual
power has generally been considered essential; namely, in the
sonatas. Of these there are three: an early one in C minor, published
posthumously; one in B-flat minor, opus 35; and one in B minor, opus 58.
The first of these is almost in no way representative of the composer.
It was completed by 1828 and sent to Vienna for publication; but it
did not appear in print until two years after Chopin’s death. Neither
in melodiousness nor in harmonic richness does it show the mark of his
genius. It is ordinary in treatment of the piano. One can hardly attach
even an historical significance to it, since works composed at or about
the same time give more than a suggestion of his future greatness.
For example, it was in connection with the contemporary variations on
Mozart’s aria, _La ci darem la mano_, that Schumann wrote, ‘Hats off,
gentlemen: a genius!’ It is true that the return of the first theme,
at the beginning of the last section of the first movement, in B-flat
minor instead of C minor, is at variance with conventional usage; but
this was by no means unprecedented. The 5/4 rhythm of the Largo is
evidently an attempt at originality; but it is self-conscious, not
spontaneous. In spite of these features the work goes to prove only one
thing: that in such a familiar and well-established form as the sonata,
Chopin at that time either dared not or felt he should not trust to his
own instinct, even as to the treatment of the instrument.
But the other two sonatas are worthy of his full maturity, and
they show, like the _Études_, the _Scherzi_ and the _Ballades_,
the perfection and sureness of his art of self-expression. And in
thus revealing himself he could not but be an innovator. He brought
something new to the sonata. Consequently the opinion that he is ill at
ease in the form, which may be interpreted to mean (or generally is so
interpreted) that he had not the intellectual grasp of music necessary
to the composing of a great sonata. This, it is to be feared, is one of
the ready-made opinions in music. There are many such at hand. A few
great critics have given the hint. Liszt, in writing of the concertos,
ventured to say that they showed _plus de volonté que d’inspiration_.
The remark has been applied to explain the uneasiness of the two great
sonatas. Mr. J. S. Shedlock in his book on the pianoforte sonata wrote
that ‘the real Chopin is to be found in his nocturnes, mazurkas, and
ballads, not in his sonatas.’ But, though it is nearly absurd to pick
from many supremely great works one that is superior to the others,
and we do not in the least wish to infer that Chopin’s B-flat minor
sonata is his masterpiece, we think it may be fairly questioned whether
he ever wrote anything greater. It is thoroughly impregnated with his
unique spirit. There is not a note of it that is not of the ‘real’
Chopin. Furthermore, the B minor sonata is not less thoroughly Chopin.
It may be reserved to the trained critical mind to decide what is
great art of any kind; but the decision as to what is great music must
ultimately rest with time and its changing voice of expression--the
general world. Upon no sonatas, except some of those of Beethoven, does
the public set such store as upon these two of Chopin. The sonatas of
Weber, Schubert, Schumann and Brahms hold no such place in the general
favor. In the case of the first three of these men a looseness in the
grasp of form is responsible for the gradual degradation of their long
works. It is logical to infer, then, that a similar looseness is not
evident in the sonatas of Chopin. At any rate it has not yet become
palpable to the public, whatever critics may have said. And the sonatas
have undergone and are still undergoing a tremendous test. Therefore,
however much men may declare the intellectual weakness in Chopin’s
music, one must conclude that his instinct gave sufficient vitality
even to his sonatas to enable them, alone among sonatas, to hold their
public place with those of Beethoven. And it would seem that the
undisputed intellectual power of Brahms failed where the instinct of
Chopin succeeded.
Of course it will be urged in explanation of the popular acceptance
of the sonatas of Chopin, that they are eminently gratifying to the
pianist, suitable to the instrument, and consequently delicious to the
public. At the most this is but a grace which no other sonatas have
in so great measure. It is not a virtue by which alone music endures.
Music cannot last without a positive strength of form; and this, no
matter what the source of it, the Chopin sonatas have.
So then, what do men mean when they state, in the face of the enduring
strength and beauty of these works, that Chopin has shown himself ill
at ease in them? Chiefly that these sonatas are different from those
of Beethoven. For the most part they choose to condemn the difference,
rather than to understand and appreciate it. But if the verdict of time
is worthy of consideration, this difference is not condemnable, and an
analysis of it will bring us face to face with Chopin the innovator,
not Chopin the insufficient.
It is usually in the first movement of a sonata that a composer either
proves his skill or discloses his weakness. It is the first movements
of these two sonatas that are brought into question before the courts
of theory. They will be found to differ in at least two distinct if not
radical features from movements of similar form by Beethoven. First, in
the self-sufficient breadth and splendor of the second themes. Through
these themes the composer speaks with his most intense meaning; on them
the music soars to its highest, flaming pinnacle of beauty. This is
obviously at variance with what we may call the classical procedure.
Early in the evolution of the triplex form, a powerful tendency became
evident to give to the first theme a vigorous, declarative character,
and to the second a softer, more songful one. The first theme usually
dominated the movement, and the development of its significance was
the life and flow of the music. Generally the second theme, by reason
of its contrasting character, served to accentuate the meanings of
the first. Chopin handled his material otherwise. Though he preserved
in a measure the conventional character of the two themes, the first
undergoes no logical development, but whirls here and there in a
sort of tempestuous chaos for which the second theme offers sublime
justification. Except in the opening measures, the first theme is given
no definite shape. Neither in the B-flat minor sonata nor in the B
minor sonata does it reappear at the beginning of the third section.
In the development section of both sonatas it is but a fragment tossed
here and there on stormy harmonies.
The result is of course a lack of logical coherence. But one may well
ask if the hot intensity of utterance has not welded the notes and
parts of these movements into a complete fusion, if there is need of
logic in such molten music.
In the second place, the Chopin sonatas owe not a little of their
unique appearance to the composer’s great gift of harmony. The
foundation of the classical sonata form was harmonic, and, be it
said with due regard to exceptions, was rigid. Nothing was more
characteristic of it, both in the early and late stages of its use,
than the harmonic clearness of what one may call the approach to
themes, episodes, or sections, and the sharp definition of these
sections by what were fundamentally conventional cadences. Chopin in
his sonatas obliterated at least one of these sectional lines. It is
impossible to decide in the first movements where the middle section
ends and the last section begins. It is not only that the first
theme fails to make its reappearance. The harmonies surge on from
the development section into the last section with no trace of break
in their current. Even the cadences at the end of the first sections
are incomplete, and the modulations by which they progress sudden and
remote. Such procedures foretell unmistakably the endless harmonies
of Wagner. So does the treatment of the development section in both
sonatas, with the scattering of motives over never-ending progressions
of chords.
No sonatas, not even those of Beethoven, present such radical
variations from the accepted form; and naturally the question arises
whether such movements as these of Chopin’s are properly in sonata form
at all. One can only answer that Chopin named them sonatas, and that
they represent at least what he felt a sonata should be. Mr. Shedlock
has said of Beethoven that in aiming at a higher organization, he
actually became a disorganizer. One cannot attribute such a conscious
aim to Chopin; yet it is plain that his instinct led him to the
complete demolition of one or two of the conventional restrictions of
the sonata form.
Before leaving the sonatas there is a word to be said of Chopin’s
comprehension of the group of four movements as a whole. It is such a
comprehension on the part of a Beethoven that makes many of his later
sonatas and a few of his earlier ones indisputably grand. In his case
the successive dependence of the various movements on each other is
often made plain either by the actual merging of one into the other,
or by the employment of the same or cognate thematic materials in all.
Of such structural unity there is no trace in the two great sonatas of
Chopin. The separate movements are formally complete in themselves, and
not materially related. Any other union between the separate movements
of suite, sonata, or symphony, if, indeed, it is not a matter of
familiarity with the whole work, or of respect for the composer, exists
only in the mind of the hearer according to his or her sensibilities.
Of the Chopin sonatas that in B-flat minor will probably impress most
people as an impassioned and powerful whole; that in B minor as less
unified.
The Funeral March of the former has a double existence, one within
and one without the sonata. It is known that it was completed perhaps
before the sonata was thought of; and that certainly the other
movements were written in some sort of relation to it. The finale which
follows it cannot possibly be dissociated from the sonata; and the
first and second movements share a common intensity of passion. Organic
unity the series may not have, but its phases of emotion lead, and
almost blend, one into the other.
The two concertos, written as Chopin was on the verge of manhood, have
evidently not held, if ever they won, so high a place in pianoforte
literature as the two great sonatas. For one thing, Chopin’s treatment
of the orchestra is, according to most critics, uninspired and
unsatisfactory. But for another thing, their form is conventional, and
in submitting to a conventional ideal Chopin is unquestionably ill at
ease. Ten years later when he wrote the B-flat minor sonata he was
all past his age of submission, and made of the form something new,
shaped it fearlessly to his need of self-expression. The _Fantasia_
in F minor, written about this time (1840), is longer than any single
movements in the sonatas. Though unconventional in structure it is none
the less faultless.
There still remains a profoundly moving work of Chopin’s, which,
from the point of view of form, is astonishing. This is the
_Polonaise-Fantaisie_, opus 61, seemingly his last work for the piano
in large proportions. The _Barcarolle_, opus 60, was written probably
about the same time; and it is worthy of note that this perfect piece
escapes the grasp of most who would play it--i.e., interpret it in the
only way that music can be truly interpreted. The difficulty is usually
ascribed to its apparently rambling structure. But here, as in most
cases where the composer may seem to be at fault, the imperfection
exists in the player, not in the music. The right touch and the right
quality of fervid yet delicate poetic imagination will reveal in the
_Barcarolle_ a poem in music of the most exquisite proportions. It is a
work of matchless beauty. But the _Polonaise-Fantaisie_ is not lyrical;
it is intensely dramatic. It builds itself out of the strength, the
weakness, the despair of unnamed forces in conflict. It is the cry of
Poland in her agony, the pride of her people, crushed and tormented, in
a broken voice.
The clashing moods of the piece are not of the sort that can be
regulated and made orderly within even the expanded forms of
conventional art. The grief and despair, the wrath, the pity, the
unconquerable pride and hope of Chopin, shuddering like a great harp
in the wind of destruction that has swept over his country, here
demand and take on unfettered freedom of expression. The result is
a work which reaches over Liszt to the symphonic poems of modern
writers. It is probably not of historical importance; but it is of
great significance as testimony to Chopin’s constructive originality.
Liszt said of it that because of its ‘pathological contents,’ it must
be excluded from the realm of art. If Chopin had chosen to supplement
the piece with a few words as to its meaning, a program, as the phrase
goes, Liszt would have had to judge differently, or else by the same
token exclude other great works from the hallowed aristocracy to which
he denied this one entrance.
At the other extreme of Chopin’s achievements stand the twenty-four
_Préludes_. Some of these, like the eighth, fifteenth, sixteenth,
nineteenth, for example, are well-rounded and completed pieces, which
have not more of the spirit of improvisation which one associates
with the term ‘prelude’ than his longer works. But many others are
hardly more than fragments, or sketches, or instantaneous impressions.
In pieces of such length, form is of no importance. What is perhaps
unparalleled is their vividness. They seem now like a veiled glow,
fading into darkness, now like a momentary flash from that region of
secret fire in the light of which Chopin ever lived.
So Chopin’s power of expression showed itself new, fine, and broad.
He is a master of presentation. There are but three or four of his
considerable works of which one may say that they show uncertainty
in judgment, an awkwardness in line, a clumsiness in balance. The
vast majority of his compositions are perfect in shape and form, and
flawlessly put together. If only we at this day might hear them unfold
through his magic fingers! For, no doubt, what seems weak or unstable
to the cautious judgment that relies upon standards of more rational
genius, seems so only because the key is lost that will open to view
the delicate machinery in all its perfect assemblage.
III
Chopin is second to no composer as a harmonist. In this respect,
it now seems he stands directly in line with Bach and Mozart. The
fabric of the music of all three is chromatic; but it is usually so
delicately woven that its richness is accepted almost unconsciously by
the listener. Like Bach, Chopin wanders where he will in the harmonic
field. Like Mozart, he is ineffably graceful and subtle. The foundation
of his music is a series of widely varied, yet blending chords. He is
rarely startling. His modulations are swift and flashing; but they
seldom if ever seem abrupt.
On the whole his music has few conspicuously unusual chords. The
crashing dissonances just before the end of the Scherzo in B minor are
exceptional. So are the wild bursts in the prelude in D minor. But
there are sequences of chords which, when analyzed, show an amazing
boldness. For example, the opening measures of the scherzo in the
B-flat minor sonata; the middle section of the study in C minor; the
swirl of chords before the coda in the F minor Ballade; the long
modulating passage between the A major and E-flat major portions of the
G minor Ballade; the whole of the study in broken chords; and countless
others.
He is fond of shifting the harmony down through chromatic steps, as
in the prelude in E minor and the mazurka, opus 17, No. 4. Rushes of
chromatic sixths and fourths, such as are in the E minor concerto, at
the beginning of the great polonaise in A-flat major, and the scherzo
of the B-flat minor sonata, are effects of color more than of harmony.
But he gets magnificent harmonic effects by sending wide, whirring
chords through half-steps down or up the scale, as in the first _meno
mosso_ section of the scherzo in C-sharp minor, or in the cadenza-style
passage of the study, opus 10, No. 3. Yet again, before the return of
the first motives in the study, opus 25, No. 6, there is a long cascade
of diminished seventh chords. Sometimes he leads his music through
broader progressions, which are in effect diatonic. The dropping of
the music from its dramatic height in the C-sharp minor portion of the
ballade in A-flat major, the long descending play with the triplet
motive in the middle section of the second scherzo, and all the second
part of the scherzo in the B-flat minor sonata offer examples of this
bold harmonic stride.
One may take up a handful of Chopin’s music almost at random and find
signs of his harmonic boldness, and there is hardly a line of it which
does not reveal his ever subtle power over chromatic alterations. This
is so fine and really so ever present as almost to defy analysis. Yet
one or two pages in which it is unusually suggestive may be cited.
All the first part of the scherzo in B minor, particularly the second
section of it, is but a play with chords which, but for the unpleasant
connotation of the word, might almost be said to writhe, so are they
twisted and interwoven by a ceaseless alteration of their fundamental
notes. By reason of this same chromatic litheness, both the study in
C major, opus 10, No. 7, and the coda of the second ballade take on a
shimmer of harmonic light.
The chromatic scale has often been used for a sort of windy or surging
effectiveness in pianoforte music. Witness the first movement of
Beethoven’s concerto in G major, Weber’s Rondo in C major. But rarely
in any music has it been used so melodiously as in Chopin’s. Sometimes
it is but a strand over which other strands are woven, as in the
colossal Étude in A minor; but even more remarkable are those cases in
which he contented himself with the unadorned scale. The studies in A
minor, opus 10, No. 2, and G-sharp minor, opus 25, No. 6, rest upon the
ordinary familiar chromatic scale, perhaps the gaudiest of the virtuoso
trappings; yet even the first of these, in its frankly étude manner,
has an uncommon beauty, and the second has more than an earthly charm.
Neither study depends upon a vague, windy effect. Both demand rather a
distinct touch. We have then a chromatic scale in which the separate
notes are constantly audible throughout the entire piece, a chromatic
scale, turned by some alchemy of which Chopin alone possessed the
secret, into graceful melody.
It is in a sense this power in Chopin to turn every note to melody
that is the secret of the perfection of his style. We may pass over
his characteristics in the broader melody. These, like the qualities
of Bach’s, Mozart’s and Schubert’s melodies, are of an essence that
escapes words. The metaphor is perhaps sickly--but one may as well
attempt to catch firmly in words the fragrance of flowers. But
the power over a more subtle melody, what one might call an inner
melodiousness, is so striking in Chopin that it may not be passed
at least without special comment. Bach and Couperin possessed the
same kind of skill; and this, though manifested in almost radically
different forms, and applied upon a wholly different instrument, makes
their music unqualifiedly welcome upon the modern pianoforte. In the
case of Chopin, it was brought to bear upon our own instrument, and
wrought the perfect style for pianoforte music, a style which conforms
to the special qualities in the instrument of which we have elsewhere
spoken at length. (See Introduction.)
In Chopin accompaniment figures for the piano are brought to their
highest perfection. It may be fundamentally his choice of harmonies
that gives them a richness not to be found so generally in any other
music for the instrument. Here must lie the secret of the beauty of
certain passages, like that of the melodious second theme in the
scherzo in B-flat minor, where the accompaniment is only a series of
chords, the movement or rolling of which is not at all unusual. But
in the formation of figures there is often a distinction peculiar to
Chopin alone.
First one notices the wide spacing of the notes, the avoidance of
all thickness such as often makes the pianoforte music of Brahms
unsatisfactory from the point of view of the pianist. By means of these
widely spaced figures he obtains a sonority of after-sounds from the
piano in which the overtones and sympathetic vibrations play a great
part. It is never muddy or thick. There are many pages of his music
which show group after group of these figures employed to give only a
shimmering, not a distinct harmonic background to the melody which he
wishes to set forth. One remembers the nocturnes in C-sharp minor and
D-flat major, the study in A-flat major, opus 25, No. 1, and countless
passages in other works.
[Illustration]
Frédéric Chopin.
_After the portrait by Ary Scheffler._
These undulating figures are no more than the Alberti bass,
developed to suit the piano. To the student they offer little more than
an example of wholly satisfactory spacing of notes on the keyboard. But
Chopin is rarely so simple. In almost all his accompaniments based on
broken chords he introduces something of an independent spirit. This
shows itself either in the suggestion of an inner melody which here
and there joins richly with the chief subject; or in the accentuation
of certain notes of harmonic significance. In neither case does the
accompaniment take on a definite line, as it so often does in the music
of Brahms. Particularly in the latter case, the accompaniment is still
vaguely sonorous, the separate notes not more distinct than they must
be to preserve a sense of gentle or vigorous movement.
It must not be supposed that these notes, which accentuate harmonic
coloring, are literally to be emphasized. They are rarely marked with
accent signs. But Chopin has so placed them at the height of the figure
that they must stand out, even if played more lightly than the notes
with which they are associated. The accompaniment of the second theme
in the sonata in B minor, especially the later portions of it where it
is broken into groups of sixteenth notes, offers proof of a subtlety in
awakening a sensuous volume of sound out of the piano which is at once
vague and distinct, that can hardly be matched.
As for the flashes of counter-melodies, of hidden strands of music
which enrich his accompaniments, we approach here into one of the
mysteries of Chopin’s genius. It is in suggesting these that the
technique of the pianist frequently fails. There is need of a touch
at once pointed and yet often as gentle as a breath. Sometimes these
magical notes are at the extremity of a wide space. Chopin has
written a study--opus 10, No. 9--which deals almost wholly with this
difficulty. Again they are concealed in the very middle of the figure,
as in parts of the accompaniment of the nocturne in D-flat major.
Finally there are accompaniments which are all elusive melody. How many
melodies are there, for example, within the accompaniment, if so it may
be called, of the nineteenth prelude; in the magnificent passages of
the fourth ballade, before the coda; in the first E-flat major section
of the first ballade? Even where figures have given way in passages of
utmost sonority to chords, there is a full melodic life here and there.
The accompanying chords in the big passages of the Barcarolle, just
before the end, have indeed almost a polyphonic significance.
Here then is that inner melodiousness of Chopin’s music which goes
far towards making it the great work of art that it is. It is so
little explicit, often hardly more than suggested, so delicate and so
infinitely varied that one must for ever question just what the nature
of it is. Yet if one tries to analyze Chopin’s style, his treatment
of the keyboard, his unmatched grace and elegance and fervor, it is
precisely against this inner musical life that one must ultimately come
to pause. There are conceptions of emotion expressed in pianoforte
music which are perhaps grander than his because less personal; there
are other works for the piano that are more abstract and seemingly
therefore less capricious; but there is perhaps no music which quite
like his has called forth the full spirit of the most mechanical of the
string instruments.
Is it essentially polyphonic music? The first canon of the pianoforte
style is _movement_. That is a mechanical necessity. The strings must
be kept in vibration, constantly touched. In music so fine as Chopin’s
this movement must be found to have a beauty in itself. It must be
ever varied. It must take on an independent character of its own. So
far, in studying accompaniment figures, one finds in them an almost
never-absent suggestion of such a life. Perhaps one of the greatest
proofs of Chopin’s skill is that he rarely attempted more than to
suggest it. For he knew above all things his piano. He knew its great
power over chords and harmony, that music for it must first of all
bring out this richness of vibration of which it was capable. He knew
that the logical, consecutive movement of the polyphonic style left
his piano more than half dumb. Polyphony was no outlandish book to
him. Many an anecdote testifies to his worship of the ‘Well-Tempered
Clavichord’; many to his ability to reveal as few, perhaps no others,
have been able to do, the beauty of the preludes and fugues in it. But
in his own music he submerged polyphony, so to speak, just beneath the
sea of moving harmonies. Over and through the fine silver network his
harmonies swirl and flow like waters. Only now and then a strand of it
shines clear; but always its presence may be seen, though its lines
quiver and break.
Now and again one comes across measures in his music which do more
than hint at the sterling imitative style of the old masters, or that
show a grasp of that sort of logical technique which is able to weave a
single motive or two into various shapes, a highly concentrated sort of
music. These are neither more nor less beautiful than other measures,
and surely their value is the value of all his music, not enhanced by
the evidence of a highly respected technical skill. The fourth ballade
gives surprising examples of this intensive art. The few measures in
canonic style which bring back the principal subject are worthy of
study; but even more remarkable is the page of music which precedes
them. Here, following an episode in which the steady rhythm of the
whole great work takes on almost the gaiety of a dance, we come upon
music of the most profound character, fully and sonorously scored, rich
in harmony, expressive of passion. The bass part is one variant of the
chief subject, the treble part is another. Here is skill of the sort
that brings praise to Brahms; but in the music of Chopin to mention it
is hardly worth while, so little, rather so entirely not at all, is it
an end in itself.
Finally there are pages of his music in which the movement of his
accompaniment are so free and extended, or so interwoven with what
seems the chief idea, that one is at loss to classify them as to style.
These it seems to us are the result of his finest art of writing for
the piano. In some cases it is easy to speak of the accompaniment
as an arabesque, with the implied meaning that, delicately and
carefully as it has been shaped and perfected, it remains of secondary
importance. So, for instance, with the little prelude in G major,
and, to a somewhat greater extent, the study in C minor, opus 10,
No. 12. But the prelude in D major is a net of sounds from which
nothing but shimmering harmony shines out, though there are two
voices for ever entwining about each other. Which is melody and which
accompaniment in the prelude in F major? What is going on within the
prelude in F-sharp minor, that outwardly seems but a broad melody with
whirring accompaniment? At last, in the later works, one comes across
accompaniments running from top to bottom of the keyboard, every note
of which is but part of a melody. Take as examples of this art the
following passages from the fourth scherzo:
[Illustration: Music score]
These few measures are typical of the essence of the keyboard,
rather the pianoforte, style of Chopin, a style showing a grace and
flexibility highly characteristic of his music in general. One finds
such art only very rarely in the works of other composers since the
time of Bach and Couperin, as, for example, in the second Intermezzo
in the second number of the _Kreisleriana_ and at the end of Brahms’
Caprice in F-sharp minor, opus 76, No. 1. It is the sort of music which
sounds best on the pianoforte, which cannot give the same effect on any
other instrument nor by any combination of instruments. There are the
constant movement which is necessary to keep the piano vibrating, and
the richness of harmony which belongs to no other single instrument
except the organ. The homogeneous nature of the scale gives to the runs
a continuity of line and of color that is almost uniquely proper to the
piano. The single notes of the runs drop with the bell-like quality
which likewise belongs only to this instrument. At last it must be
noted how the sound of it all floats and changes. This is strikingly a
sonority of after-sounds.
In the case of the above selection from the Scherzo this is obtained
by the arrangement of chords with the broad melody of the left hand.
Of the six chords that are struck four are left to vibrate during two
measures; that is to say, that five-sixths of their value is given
only in after-sounds. Against this tonal background are arranged the
rapidly moving notes of the right hand, which a careful study will show
accentuates in varying fashion the floating harmonies of the left. So
that the whole passage has not only a vague shimmer but a sparkling
radiance as well.
In the following selection from the same piece it will be noticed
that this sonority is built up by the movement of the accompanying
figures which at the same time sprinkle their own mist with sparks. It
is like the passage of a faint comet through the sky, leaving a trail
of apparently substantial light. And here this drifting light of sound
resolves itself into definite harmonies, in the third, fifth, seventh,
ninth, fourteenth and fifteenth measures. The substantial harmonies of
the passage are very obviously established by the chords in the left
hand part; but it is the movement of the right hand that makes them
glow and darken as it were. In those measures not mentioned above,
this movement seems to weave a mist about these harmonies, which, in
the measures we have numbered, clears for an instant and lets the
light through. And that the notes in this movement which have such an
harmonic clarity may be not so much emphasized as retained is one of
the fine points in the playing of Chopin which the unskilled player is
likely wholly to miss, and with it the elusive subtlety of Chopin.
[Illustration: Music score]
The ordinary pianoforte style of running figuration generally is made
up of simple arpeggios or scales. Liszt does not often show himself
master of more than such. It is only Chopin who envelopes his harmonies
in such an exquisitely spun thread of melody. The last measures of the
Barcarolle show such a thread of pure gold, woven and twisted as no
other composer for the piano has been able to spin.
[Illustration: Music score]
In such passages as these three we find a movement which entered
the pianoforte style as a necessity (to keep harmonies in vibration)
metamorphosed into a line of melody which still retains the power to
suggest harmonies. It demands the virtuoso but is in no sense virtuoso
music. For virtuoso music is a music in listening to which one hardly
knows whether it is sound itself or the rapid movement of sound that
thrills. Figures have little musical significance in it. Notice how
in the music of the two greatest virtuoso composers for the piano,
D. Scarlatti and Liszt, a few figures are repeated endlessly with no
variation. The necessity of movement has become a luxury, oftenest not
truly beautiful, nor of any but a gymnastic worth.
It was Chopin who entirely appreciated the true value of movement on
the keyboard; who where it was necessary made it beautiful, and never
made it an end in itself. Hence it may be questioned if there is figure
work, mere display, in Chopin’s music. There is hardly a passage of
rapid notes in his music which has not a pure melodic significance and
which does not weave itself about harmonies that are constantly varied.
He delighted in rapid notes. The coda of the waltz in A-flat major,
op. 34, No. 2, the study in F minor, op. 25, No. 2, the scherzo of the
sonata in B minor, the variation of the chief subject in the third
part of the fourth ballade, these come to mind among a host of other
examples of his inimitable grace and musical worth in such music. And
when he combined such a fleet melodiousness with broader themes and
harmonies did he not prove himself a master of the science of music in
a new light? Not without a reason are the preludes and fugues of the
‘Well-Tempered Clavichord’ a masterpiece of everlasting and inimitable
worth. We may call it concentration, intensity, economy of musical
means which gives them their enduring firmness. And much of this
firmness is in the music of Chopin, because there are no empty notes,
none without two and even threefold significance. This complication of
movement with melody, this ever-whispering inner melodiousness, these
spring from Bach, the greatest of masters.
Other essentials of the pianoforte style may be found in the work of
other masters as well as in that of Chopin. Such are the contrast of
registers and the variety of rhythm. One more feature of his style,
however, is pronounced enough to demand attention. This will be
observed in his treatment of many melodies. Here any composer will
find himself face to face with one of the most difficult problems the
piano presents; for, as we have said, he must if possible arrange his
melody in such a way that one will not feel it would have been more
suitable to the voice or the violin. Movement is again necessary.
Without belittling the value of an accepted masterpiece one may call
attention to the long pause of the melody at the end of the first
phrase of Schumann’s _Warum?_, which barely escapes destroying the
piece as a work for the piano. There must be not only a pronounced
but a secondary melodic movement in such pauses in pianoforte music,
as Schumann himself introduced subsequently in _Warum?_ In many cases
the composer contents himself with giving a touch of melodic life to
the accompaniment, as Chopin does, for example, in the pauses of the
second theme in the first movement of the B-flat minor sonata. But most
remarkable in Chopin’s treatment of melodies, noticeably in his later
and broader style, is his fondness for secondary melodies that have
almost the consecutive movement of an obbligato part. This is one step
in organization beyond the inner melodiousness of his accompaniments.
Without selecting examples from a number of his works, one may call
attention to the study in C-sharp minor, opus 25, No. 7, to the various
treatments of the melodic material in the fourth ballade, to the whole
Barcarolle, especially to the imitations in the middle section and in
the coda. By means of this the piano speaks with a voice made sonorous
by its own peculiar abilities, and Chopin’s melodies stand apart from
melodies for violin or voice.
What has been said of his ability to give to rapid notes a genuinely
musical significance applies in general to the ornaments which now
and again are brought into his music. Of the older standardized
ornaments which were thickly sprinkled through the music of Couperin
and Emanuel Bach, only a few survived the harpsichord, to which they
were appropriate. The turn, the trill and the grace-note are the chief
of these, all of which, it will be noted, are used as frequently in
music for other instruments as in music for the pianoforte. The others
were expanded into much greater form or gave way entirely to a new
sort of ornament which covered wide intervals and a wide range, and
was intended less to add grace to the melodic line than to introduce a
variety of sonority into the music.
These more pretentious frills were added _ex tempore_ by men like
Hummel, Field, and even Liszt, not only to their own music but to
that of other composers. Liszt, in his remarks prefatory to an
edition of Field’s ‘Nocturnes,’ said that the little pieces as they
appeared on the engraved page hardly gave more than a suggestion
of the richness which their composer gave to them by means of his
improvised adornments. Whatever may have been the practice of Chopin
in playing, he angrily resented the addition of extemporized ornaments
to his own music by any player whatsoever, even one so brilliant as
Liszt. It seems likely that such ornaments _d’occasion_ were pretty
conventional stuff. Liszt has filled up his music with a great deal
of them, laboriously written out. Chopin’s ornaments rarely lack the
distinction which is characteristic of his style in general; that is to
say they are rarely a series of figures, oftenest a tracery of melody.
Those such as we find in the nocturne in F-sharp major, the impromptu
in the same key, and even in the first polonaise, are finely and
carefully drawn, and their effect in the piece, like the effect of the
piece as a whole, calculated down to the smallest note. Even in this
regard Chopin’s music is perfected, and the addition of extra notes,
especially of the breathless, virtuoso kind, cannot, as Chopin himself
well knew, but distort its proportions. There is practically none of
these passages which is massive, which has not a value in detail that
the pianist must reveal.
Excepting always the music of Bach, there is almost no keyboard
music save Chopin’s in which every note is thus fraught with meaning
and delight. Therein lies the secret of his style, its clearness,
flexibility and charm. As a work of art it is flawless, and in that may
well rest its best assurance of an immortal life.
IV
There is little to be said of the quality of Chopin’s music in
general, and that little has often been fervidly spoken, now in
praise, now in blame. His music may be variously classified. There are
works of his young manhood, works of more mature stamp, finally works
written in the last years of his relatively short life which are very
noticeably more profound and more involved than earlier ones. To study
his music in the order of its creation is to trace the deepening and
the sobering of his emotional life. An intensity is common to it all, a
fervor which a long and painful illness had not the power to assuage.
Neither the Ballade in F minor nor the _Polonaise-Fantaisie_ is less
impassioned than the study in C minor, opus 10, No. 12. Outwardly they
all show the same restlessness and tumultuousness. But the passion of
the later works is deeper if not more calm than that of the earlier,
and the expression of it is more varied and full of contrasts. Works
like the fourth Scherzo, the fourth Ballade, and the Barcarolle have
an under meaning so hard to grasp that perhaps the majority of those
who study them or hear them find fault with the structure and say they
are rambling. There is in all his music a reserve which puts it beyond
the touch of most who would play it. In these last great pieces one
discerns vaguely something of the holiness of that inner life of his
which no one ever heard him speak of, of the intense, yearning idealism
that tortured him. His was a spirit that underwent the chastening
brought upon us by suffering in body and mind in silence, this
fastidious, dainty, malicious, little man, for ever suffering, for ever
unconquerable in pride.
But the compositions may be more definitely classified than by the
signs they show of Chopin’s general development. There are, for
example, three distinct groups: salon pieces, such as the Waltzes and
Nocturnes; pieces in which he speaks as it were his native Polish
language, such as the Mazurkas and the Polonaises, and finally works
which seem the unrestricted expression of his emotions: the Ballades,
Scherzos, Sonatas, Preludes, and Études.
All the salon pieces are characterized by elegance. In addition,
the Waltzes have in most cases a sparkle, the Nocturnes a discrete
melancholy. Yet Chopin is full of surprises, and there are waltzes
like that in A minor and that in C-sharp minor which pass out of the
category of elegant salon music based on dance rhythms, and may be
treated as among the most thoughtful and the sad expressions of his
experience. The first two waltzes, and the great waltz in A-flat major,
opus 42, reveal him delighting in poignant and lively rhythms, in a
grace from which a certain chivalric gallantry is not lacking, and
above all in the captivating qualities of his instrument.
Perhaps the majority of the Nocturnes show a sentiment a little too
much perfumed for the salon. They are commonly considered the weakest
of his compositions; and it can hardly be denied that some of them lack
virility and health. On the other hand, one like that in C minor is
fit to stand among the most impassioned and noble of his compositions;
and those in G major and in D-flat major must long be redeemed from
commonplaceness by the perfection of their style as pianoforte music.
In the Mazurkas, harmonies, rhythm, and melodies have a distinctly
Polish character. In the Polonaises only the rhythm is national; and
this has been so long in the favor of the international world of music
that it carries with it little of Polish spirit. Most of the Mazurkas
and the Polonaises never shake off an under mood of deep sadness,
and there is none of them, however gracious, which does not sing of
a national pride. Pride and sorrow are the keynote to them, sorrow
that is often hopeless, pride that rises to anger and defiance. There
are among the Mazurkas many which have an elegiac sadness, which are
poems of meditation and lamentation, as if by the ruins of his beloved
country he, like the great prophet, sat down and wept. They are often
as short as the short preludes, but share with them a vividness and
intenseness that place them among the most remarkable of compositions
for the instrument.
The Polonaises are in broad form. Those in A major, A-flat major,
and F-sharp minor are truly colossal works, ringing, clashing,
marching music, without a touch of bombast. It is astonishing how all
polonaises, polaccas, and even marches by other composers lose their
light beside them. Those in C minor and in E-flat minor are sombre
and gloomy, the former full of heaviness, the latter of mysterious
agitation as of a band of conspirators, in the apt phrase of Professor
Niecks. That in C-sharp minor lacks the dignity of its companion
pieces. The first part is fretful and nervous. The Trio section in
D-flat has, however, a more measured, though an effeminate speech.
Of his other great works one would be glad to say nothing. We have
already attempted to analyze the perfection of their style, the
richness of their harmonies, the firm proportions of their form. To
the discovery of their particular beauties each lover must be led by
his own enthusiasm. The rapture they may charm him to is his own joy.
Chopin the artist may be held up to the critical inspection of the
whole world, and in such an inspection few will pass with higher praise
than his.
But Chopin the musician speaks to each ear apart. His music is a
fervid, aristocratic, essentially noble soul made audible, if so we
may translate Balzac’s remark that he was _une âme qui se rendait
sensible_. Illness held him in an inexorable grip during those years
of his life when he wrote many of his greatest works. His pride, which
no one may measure, made his life one agony with that of his broken
country. Yet there was the saving streak of iron in him, and that is in
his music behind all the vehemence, the fever, and the passion.
And what may not be overlooked is his love of gaiety. His wit was
malicious and keen, but he had a pleasing humor as well, one that
overflowed in mimicry and an almost childish love of fun. This too
is constantly coming to the surface in his music. It would be wholly
mistaken to think of Chopin as a composer of only sad or turbulent
music. A whole list of masterpieces could be chosen from those of his
compositions which are gay without _arrière-pensée_, which are witty
and vivacious, and clear as happy laughter. It is perhaps this very
spirit which saves his music always from heaviness, which makes it
in the last analysis more healthy and more sane than much of that of
Schumann or Brahms. Never are his moods heavy, stagnant, or inert.
Intense as they may be they are swift-changing and vivid.
Are they not thus in their nature suited to the piano more than to all
other instruments? To the piano, the sounds of which are no sooner
struck than they float away, the very breath of whose being is in
constant movement?
The mass of Chopin’s compositions remains unique in the literature of
pianoforte music as an expression of emotion that is without alloy.
There is no trace in it of experiment, of theory, or of symbolism.
Its idealism is the idealism of beauty of sound, both in form and
detail. If we call it poetical it is because it seems a fire of the
imagination. Yet here is a faculty in Chopin which deals only with
sound. His music is most decidedly abstract and absolute. Poetical as
it may be, there is no meaning in it but the meaning of sound. Not only
does it not call for supplementary explanations in terms of another art
or of definite, emotional activities in life; it defies the effort that
would so relate it to a world of perceptions. Like fire it burns the
thought that would frame it.
FOOTNOTES:
[35] ‘Chopin the Composer.’ New York, 1914.
[36] Professor Frederick Niecks in his ‘Frederic Chopin’ (1888) has
presented practically all that is known of Chopin to the public, in a
manner that is no less accurate than it is wholly just and impartial.
Needless to say that we are greatly indebted for this chapter to that
excellent and wise book, especially in the matter of biographical and
personal details.