The second ballade, in F major, is, of the three under consideration,
the least of a favorite and the least played; probably because the
radical extremes of mood which it presents, in abrupt, almost painful
contrast, its apparent incoherency, and its sudden, startling, seemingly
causeless changes of movement, render it difficult to comprehend and
still more so to interpret, and difficult to follow with intelligent
sympathy even when well rendered.
It opens with an exceedingly simple, undemonstrative theme, in the major
key, almost too lucid and childlike in the naïve directness of its
utterance, and singularly devoid of the glowing warmth and color which
usually characterize the melodies by this writer. Cool, pure, and
passionless, yet velvet-soft and delicately sweet, it floats upon the
gentle pulsations of the simple accompaniment, like a snow-white,
freshly fragrant water-lily, upon the crystal ripples of some
glacier-fed mountain lake. Then suddenly, without warning or apparent
reason, there bursts a furious tempest of rage, pain, and conflict, as
if some vast Titanic embodiment in bronze of lurid war had been melted
by a world-conflagration into a stream of fluid destruction, and poured
out upon some fair scene of pastoral peace and happiness.
Almost as suddenly the storm of fury abates, or rather seems to recede
into distance, sounding still for a time, but far and faint, as if its
tumult reached us muffled by intervening walls. Then the first simple
theme returns, sweetly calm in its pristine innocence, but soon merged
into a series of plaintive minor cadences, as of pathetic pleading, of
earnest, insistent supplication, interrupted by a brief and startlingly
abrupt climax, in full massive chords, like the confident defiance
hurled by the children of light at the hosts of darkness, certain of
victory, in their reliance on the omnipotent arm of the God of battles.
Once more the gentle first theme, followed by those imploring minor
cadences and a repetition of the strong, courageous climax, and then the
tempest breaks again with renewed intensity, the stress of desperate
strife, the agony of terror, a seething, surging, rushing torrent of
tone, as if men and demons were struggling for life in a swirling
vortex, where the elemental forces of ocean and fire had met in a
death-grapple.
The _finale_, in presto movement, an impetuous sweep of gloomy, exultant
harmonies, suggests the mood of a brave but sorely tried spirit,
dominating distress, rising superior to disaster, and proudly triumphant
in spite of seeming defeat. At the close, in form of a coda, a few
measures of the first melody return, saddened, but still gentle, ending
plaintively in the minor, as if to say, “There have been great wrong and
suffering and bitterness, but now is peace.”
Unquestionably this work presents two radically opposing elements in
sharpest contrast; the one, reposeful purity; the other, infuriate
passion. Of this much we are sure in simply listening to the music,
without searching for historical origin or collateral information. It is
interesting to note Rubinstein’s words with regard to it, and to see how
near his art instinct led him to the discovery of its realistic
significance, presumably without the aid of any definite knowledge as to
its actual origin. He writes of it:
“Is it possible that the interpreter does not feel the necessity of
representing to his hearers a field flower caught by a gust of wind, a
caressing of the flower by the wind, the resistance of the flower, the
stormy struggle of the wind, the entreaty of the flower, which at last
lies broken there? This may be paraphrased: the field flower, a rustic
maiden; the wind, a knight.”
Let us now examine the substance at least of the poetic material from
which Chopin derived the mood and suggestion of this musical work. Again
it is a ballad upon a Lithuanian theme, from the pen of Mickiewicz. But
this time it is a legendary and not a historical subject which is
treated. The Polish ballad is entitled “The Switez Lake,” and its
substance is here given in a somewhat abbreviated and simplified form:
In the heart of Lithuania lies the beautiful, sequestered Lake Switez,
its forest-mantled shores rarely visited by the foot of a stranger, but
peopled by the peasant fancy with wild legends, shadowy traditions, and
wraith-like memories of bygone days. Its blue waves murmur, at the foot
of giant oaks, their strange tales of nymphs and sprites and
water-kelpies, while through the long and still summer nights the sleepy
branches make answer, in dreamy whisperings, of elves and gnomes and the
uncanny doings of the little people of the forest. At least so the
belated countryman affirms, overtaken by nightfall in this haunted
region; and many are the tales of that awesome place and hour with which
he terrifies his companions around the winter fire.
Once, many years ago, a gallant knight, of a most ancient and lofty
lineage, with dauntless courage and a pious heart, whose castle crowned
a neighboring height, resolved to sound and solve the mystery hid in its
depths; and, taking with him a mammoth net of stoutest cords, a score of
brawny henchmen to draw its meshes, and a venerable priest, to bless the
catch and exorcise spirits, he proceeded to the shore. Prayer was said,
the net was flung and sank, and mighty was the struggle that ensued. The
tightened meshes strained to bursting, the taut ropes writhed and moaned
like things alive, and dragged upon the arms that strained to draw them
shoreward. The water raved and churned against the trembling banks, and
black clouds, thunder-voiced, concealed the sky. The pious father’s
constant prayers at last prevailed, and the net, with its strange
burden, was safely landed. A pale but exquisitely lovely maid, with
sweet, calm dignity in face and mien, a wreath of snow-white
water-lilies on her shining hair, arose from out the tangles of the net,
and in a voice like the low murmur of soft waves at twilight, thus she
spoke:
“Rash knight! Thy lineage and piety combined protect thee, else hadst
thou found a grave, with all thy following, in this adventure. But as
thou art of godly mind and as we are akin by blood, through long
descent, it is vouchsafed to me this once to break the mystic silence of
the centuries, and to reveal to thee the secret of the lake, and mine,
its lily queen.
“Know then, where now is forest dark and dense, a noble city reared its
lofty battlements in former years. My sire, its ruling prince, held all
but regal sway; and I, his child, a princess well beloved by all,
counted my sunny years beside the Switez waves, as blithe as they. One
morning, in that ne’er-to-be-forgotten spring, the trumpet voice of war
through all our streets rang out the call to arms. Our royal master,
Mindog, Lithuania’s king, had summoned all who wielded lance, to join
him in the field, against a horde of merciless Russian barbarians,
wasting all the land. And forth my father hastened, with him all his
goodly company of knights and men at arms, and left us women, trembling
and defenseless, in the town, trusting in God and in our innocence, till
their return. That very night, by a circuitous route, evading Mindog’s
might and my stout father’s sword, the Russians came, many as the sands
upon the shore, ruthless as wolves in winter’s dearth. Our gates
unguarded proved an easy prize, and in they poured, thronging our
streets, demoniac in their lust for blood, exulting in the havoc of our
homes. My maidens, wild with terror, crowded round, imploring succor;
while I, as weak as they, saw our dishonor, worse than death, stalking
upon us from the barbarian ranks.
“Then, in the frenzied panic, some one cried, ‘Our only hope is mutual
destruction! Let us slay each other, cursed be she who falters!’ Like
sudden inspiration, the mad purpose seized us all. And then was seen a
sight to set red war atremble with affright, and blanch the lurid sun to
sickly pallor. Fair hands, used only to the lute and broidery frame,
unsheathed the dagger and made bare the breast. With clinging arms and
lips together pressed, and sad eyes beaming love-light through their
tears, each sought to find her sister’s heart and still its throbbing
with her poniard’s point. Yet strength and courage faltered at the fatal
stroke. In my great agony I raised my voice in prayer to Him who guides
the storm-clouds’ wrath and curbs the tempest in its wild career.
‘Prevent,’ I cried, ‘this awful crime, and save us in this hour of
direst need! Send us in mercy the swift death we needs must find, but
let not maiden blood by maiden hands be shed!’
“The prayer was heard. An earthquake shook our city, until it rocked and
reeled, crumbling and sinking like the snow-drifts in a springtime rain;
while from the lake a mighty wall of water rose and rushed upon us,
whelming alike pursuer and pursued, foeman and friend; hushing the din
of war and shriek of victim in one common flood of cool, safe silence.
“So our city fell. My maidens, all transformed to water-lilies, blossom
here in happy purity through long summers, and palsy-withered is the
impious hand that strives to drag them from the friendly shelter of the
waves; while I, their lily queen, within my crystal realm hold quiet
sway, safe from the rude approach of man’s destructive passions. Now
thou knowest the story, all save this. My father fell by Russian spears.
My princely brother, on returning from the wars, found all his realm a
waste, his capital destroyed, found home and sister vanished in the
flood; and wandering in other lands, when years had passed, he wedded a
stranger bride. From this their union, through a long, illustrious line
of heroes, thou art sprung. Hence thou art safe upon these shores,
despite this day’s temerity, so long as with a pure heart and noble
mind, thou dost guard our name and honor in the world. Remember this.
But seek no more to pierce the kindly veil of mysteries, not meant for
mortal eyes; and never hope or strive to see again the lily queen of
Switez.”
So speaking, with a smile of saddest sweetness, she turned slowly to the
lake, and vanished in its whelming waters, which closed with laughing
ripples round her.
No one familiar with Chopin’s ballade in F can fail to perceive the
close and accurate application of the music to this romantic tale. It
begins at and deals with the appearance and story of the lily queen, and
her gentle, pure, and winning personality, and soft-voiced narration,
figure symbolically in the opening melody. The sudden burst of the
terrific war cloud, the maiden’s trust in and confident appeal to a
higher power, the final whelming of the city in the friendly flood,
follow successively in almost literal portrayal, the work closing in the
mood of the maiden’s final farewell and warning to the adventurous
knight who had disturbed her repose.
Viewed from the standpoint of the subject-matter, the startling, almost
drastic, contrasts of the work seem not only intelligible, but
legitimate and artistic.