Produced by John Mamoun and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
LIFE OF CHOPIN
by Franz Liszt
Translated from the French by Martha Walker Cook
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION OF THE TRANSLATION TO JAN PYCHOWSKI
PREFACE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
INFORMATION ABOUT THIS E-TEXT EDITION
The following is an e-text of "Life of Chopin," written by Franz Liszt
and translated from the french by Martha Walker Cook. The original
edition was published in 1863; a fourth, revised edition (1880) was
used in making this e-text. This e-text reproduces the fourth edition
essentially unabridged, with original spellings intact, numerous
typographical errors corrected, and words italicized in the original
text capitalized in this e-text. In making this e-text, each page was
cut out of the original book with an x-acto knife to feed the pages into
an Automatic Document Feeder scanner for scanning. Hence, the book was
disbinded in order to save it. Thanks to Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading team for help in proofreading this e-text.
DEDICATION OF THE TRANSLATION TO JAN PYCHOWSKI
Without your consent or knowledge, I have ventured to dedicate this
translation to you!
As the countryman of Chopin, and filled with the same earnest patriotism
which distinguished him; as an impassioned and perfect Pianist, capable,
of reproducing his difficult compositions in all the subtle tenderness,
fire, energy, melancholy, despair, caprice, hope, delicacy and
startling vigor which they imperiously exact; as thorough master of
the complicated instrument to which he devoted his best powers; as
an erudite and experienced possessor of that abstruse and difficult
science, music; as a composer of true, deep, and highly original
genius,--this dedication is justly made to you!
Even though I may have wounded your characteristically haughty,
shrinking, and Sclavic susceptibilities in rendering so public a tribute
to your artistic skill, forgive me! The high moral worth and manly
rectitude which distinguish you, and which alone render even the most
sublime genius truly illustrious in the eyes of woman, almost force
these inadequate and imperfect words from the heart of the translator.
M.W.C.
PREFACE
To a people, always prompt in its recognition of genius, and ready to
sympathize in the joys and woes of a truly great artist, this work
will be one of exceeding interest. It is a short, glowing, and generous
sketch, from the hand of Franz Liszt, (who, considered in the double
light of composer and performer, has no living equal,) of the original
and romantic Chopin; the most ethereal, subtle, and delicate among our
modern tone-poets. It is a rare thing for a great artist to write on
art, to leave the passionate worlds of sounds or colors for the colder
realm of words; rarer still for him to abdicate, even temporarily, his
own throne, to stand patiently and hold aloft the blazing torch of his
own genius, to illume the gloomy grave of another: yet this has Liszt
done through love for Chopin.
It is a matter of considerable interest to note how the nervous and
agile fingers, accustomed to sovereign rule over the keys, handle the
pen; how the musician feels as a man; how he estimates art and artists.
Liszt is a man of extensive culture, vivid imagination, and great
knowledge of the world; and, in addition to their high artistic value,
his lines glow with poetic fervor, with impassioned eloquence. His
musical criticisms are refined and acute, but without repulsive
technicalities or scientific terms, ever sparkling with the poetic ardor
of the generous soul through which the discriminating, yet appreciative
awards were poured. Ah! in these days of degenerate rivalries and bitter
jealousies, let us welcome a proof of affection so tender as his "Life
of Chopin"!
It would be impossible for the reader of this book to remain ignorant of
the exactions of art. While, through its eloquence and subtle analysis
of character, it appeals to the cultivated literary tastes of our
people, it opens for them a dazzling perspective into that strange world
of tones, of whose magical realm they know, comparatively speaking,
so little. It is intelligible to all who think or feel; requiring no
knowledge of music for its comprehension.
The compositions of Chopin are now the mode, the rage. Every one asks
for them, every one tries to play them. We have, however, but few
remarks upon the peculiarities of his style, or the proper manner of
producing his works. His compositions, generally perfect in form, are
never abstract conceptions, but had their birth in his soul, sprang
from the events of his life, and are full of individual and national
idiosyncrasies, of psychological interest. Liszt knew Chopin both as man
and artist; Chopin loved to hear him interpret his music, and himself
taught the great Pianist the mysteries of his undulating rhythm and
original motifs. The broad and noble criticisms contained in this book
are absolutely essential for the musical culture of the thousands now
laboriously but vainly struggling to perform his elaborate works, and
who, having no key to their multiplied complexities of expression,
frequently fail in rendering them aright.
And the masses in this country, full of vivid perception and intelligent
curiosity, who, not playing themselves, would yet fain follow with the
heart compositions which they are told are of so much artistic value,
will here find a key to guide them through the tuneful labyrinth. Some
of Chopin's best works are analyzed herein. He wrote for the HEART OF
HIS PEOPLE; their joys, sorrows, and caprices are immortalized by
the power of his art. He was a strictly national tone-poet, and to
understand him fully, something must be known of the brave and haughty,
but unhappy country which he so loved. Liszt felt this, and has been
exceedingly happy in the short sketch given of Poland. We actually know
more of its picturesque and characteristic customs after a perusal of
his graphic pages, than after a long course of dry historical details.
His remarks on the Polonaise and Mazourka are full of the philosophy
and essence of history. These dances grew directly from the heart of
the Polish people; repeating the martial valor and haughty love of noble
exhibition of their men; the tenderness, devotion, and subtle coquetry
of their women--they were of course favorite forms with Chopin; their
national character made them dear to the national poet. The remarks of
Liszt on these dances are given with a knowledge so acute of the traits
of the nation in which they originated, with such a gorgeousness of
description and correctness of detail, that they rather resemble a
highly finished picture, than a colder work of words only. They have
all the splendor of a brilliant painting. He seizes the secrets of the
nationality of these forms, traces them through the heart of the Polish
people, follows them through their marvelous transfiguration in the
pages of the Polish artist, and reads by their light much of the
sensitive and exclusive character of Chopin, analyzing it with the skill
of love, while depicting it with romantic eloquence.
To those who can produce the compositions of Chopin in the spirit of
their author, no words are necessary. They follow with the heart the
poetic and palpitating emotions so exquisitely wrought through the
aerial tissue of the tones by this "subtle-souled Psychologist," this
bold and original explorer in the invisible world of sound;--all honor
to their genius:
"Oh, happy! and of many millions, they
The purest chosen, whom Art's service pure
Hallows and claims--whose hearts are made her throne,
Whose lips her oracle, ordained secure,
To lead a priestly life, and feed the ray
Of her eternal shrine, to them alone
Her glorious countenance unveiled is shown:
Ye, the high brotherhood she links, rejoice
In the great rank allotted by her choice!
The loftiest rank the spiritual world sublime,
Rich with its starry thrones, gives to the sons of Time!"
Schiller.
Short but glowing sketches of Heine, Meyerbeer, Adolphe Nourrit, Hiller,
Eugene Delacroix, Niemcevicz, Mickiewicz, and Madame Sand, occur in the
book. The description of the last days of poor Chopin's melancholy life,
with the untiring devotion of those around him, including the beautiful
countess, Delphine Potocka; his cherished sister, Louise; his devoted
friend and pupil, M. Gutman, with the great Liszt himself, is full of
tragic interest.
No pains have been spared by the translator to make the translation
acceptable, for the task was truly a labor of love. No motives of
interest induced the lingering over the careful rendering of the charmed
pages, but an intense desire that our people should know more of musical
art; that while acknowledging the generosity and eloquence of Liszt,
they should learn to appreciate and love the more subtle fire, the more
creative genius of the unfortunate, but honorable and honored artist,
Chopin.
Perchance Liszt may yet visit us; we may yet hear the matchless Pianist
call from their graves in the white keys, the delicate arabesques, the
undulating and varied melodies, of Chopin. We should be prepared
to appreciate the great Artist in his enthusiastic rendering of the
master-pieces of the man he loved; prepared to greet him when he
electrifies us with his wonderful Cyclopean harmonies, written for his
own Herculean grasp, sparkling with his own Promethean fire, which no
meaner hand can ever hope to master! "Hear Liszt and die," has been said
by some of his enthusiastic admirers--understand him and live, were the
wiser advice!
In gratitude then to Chopin for the multiplied sources of high and pure
pleasure which he has revealed to humanity in his creations, that human
woe and sorrow become pure beauty when his magic spell is on them, the
translator calls upon all lovers of the beautiful "to contribute a
stone to the pyramid now rapidly erecting in honor of the great modern
composer"--ay, the living stone of appreciation, crystalized in the
enlightened gratitude of the heart.
"So works this music upon earth
God so admits it, sends it forth.
To add another worth to worth--
A new creation-bloom that rounds
The old creation, and expounds
His Beautiful in tuneful sounds."
CHAPTER I.
Chopin--Style and Improvements--The Adagio of the Second
Concerto--Funeral March--Psychological Character of the Compositions of
Chopin, &c., &c.
Deeply regretted as he may be by the whole body of artists, lamented by
all who have ever known him, we must still be permitted to doubt if
the time has even yet arrived in which he, whose loss is so peculiarly
deplored by ourselves, can be appreciated in accordance with his
just value, or occupy that high rank which in all probability will be
assigned him in the future.
If it has been often proved that "no one is a prophet in his own
country;" is it not equally true that the prophets, the men of the
future, who feel its life in advance, and prefigure it in their works,
are never recognized as prophets in their own times? It would be
presumptuous to assert that it can ever be otherwise. In vain may the
young generations of artists protest against the "Anti-progressives,"
whose invariable custom it is to assault and beat down the living with
the dead: time alone can test the real value, or reveal the hidden
beauties, either of musical compositions, or of kindred efforts in the
sister arts.
As the manifold forms of art are but different incantations, charged
with electricity from the soul of the artist, and destined to evoke
the latent emotions and passions in order to render them sensible,
intelligible, and, in some degree, tangible; so genius may be manifested
in the invention of new forms, adapted, it may be, to the expression
of feelings which have not yet surged within the limits of common
experience, and are indeed first evoked within the magic circle by the
creative power of artistic intuition. In arts in which sensation is
linked to emotion, without the intermediate assistance of thought and
reflection, the mere introduction of unaccustomed forms, of unused
modes, must present an obstacle to the immediate comprehension of any
very original composition. The surprise, nay, the fatigue, caused by
the novelty of the singular impressions which it awakens, will make it
appear to many as if written in a language of which they were ignorant,
and which that reason will in itself be sufficient to induce them to
pronounce a barbarous dialect. The trouble of accustoming the ear to it
will repel many who will, in consequence, refuse to make a study of it.
Through the more vivid and youthful organizations, less enthralled
by the chains of habit; through the more ardent spirits, won first by
curiosity, then filled with passion for the new idiom, must it penetrate
and win the resisting and opposing public, which will finally catch the
meaning, the aim, the construction, and at last render justice to its
qualities, and acknowledge whatever beauty it may contain. Musicians who
do not restrict themselves within the limits of conventional routine,
have, consequently, more need than other artists of the aid of time.
They cannot hope that death will bring that instantaneous plus-value to
their works which it gives to those of the painters. No musician could
renew, to the profit of his manuscripts, the deception practiced by one
of the great Flemish painters, who, wishing in his lifetime to benefit
by his future glory, directed his wife to spread abroad the news of his
death, in order that the pictures with which he had taken care to cover
the walls of his studio, might suddenly increase in value!
Whatever may be the present popularity of any part of the productions of
one, broken, by suffering long before taken by death, it is nevertheless
to be presumed that posterity will award to his works an estimation of
a far higher character, of a much more earnest nature, than has hitherto
been awarded them. A high rank must be assigned by the future historians
of music to one who distinguished himself in art by a genius for melody
so rare, by such graceful and remarkable enlargements of the harmonic
tissue; and his triumph will be justly preferred to many of far more
extended surface, though the works of such victors may be played and
replayed by the greatest number of instruments, and be sung and resung
by passing crowds of Prime Donne.
In confining himself exclusively to the Piano, Chopin has, in our
opinion, given proof of one of the most essential qualities of a
composer--a just appreciation of the form in which he possessed
the power to excel; yet this very fact, to which we attach so much
importance, has been injurious to the extent of his fame. It would have
been most difficult for any other writer, gifted with such high harmonic
and melodic powers, to have resisted the temptation of the SINGING of
the bow, the liquid sweetness of the flute, or the deafening swells of
the trumpet, which we still persist in believing the only fore-runner
of the antique goddess from whom we woo the sudden favors. What strong
conviction, based upon reflection, must have been requisite to have
induced him to restrict himself to a circle apparently so much more
barren; what warmth of creative genius must have been necessary to have
forced from its apparent aridity a fresh growth of luxuriant bloom,
unhoped for in such a soil! What intuitive penetration is repealed by
this exclusive choice, which, wresting the different effects of the
various instruments from their habitual domain, where the whole foam of
sound would have broken at their feet, transported them into a sphere,
more limited, indeed, but far more idealized! What confident perception
of the future powers of his instrument must have presided over his
voluntary renunciation of an empiricism, so widely spread, that another
would have thought it a mistake, a folly, to have wrested such great
thoughts from their ordinary interpreters! How sincerely should we
revere him for this devotion to the Beautiful for its own sake, which
induced him not to yield to the general propensity to scatter each light
spray of melody over a hundred orchestral desks, and enabled him to
augment the resources of art, in teaching how they may be concentrated
in a more limited space, elaborated at less expense of means, and
condensed in time!
Far from being ambitious of the uproar of an orchestra, Chopin was
satisfied to see his thought integrally produced upon the ivory of the
key-board; succeeding in his aim of losing nothing in power, without
pretending to orchestral effects, or to the brush of the scene-painter.
Oh! we have not yet studied with sufficient earnestness and attention
the designs of his delicate pencil, habituated as we are, in these
days, to consider only those composers worthy of a great name, who have
written at least half-a-dozen Operas, as many Oratorios, and various
Symphonies: vainly requiring every musician to do every thing, nay, a
little more than every thing. However widely diffused this idea may be,
its justice is, to say the least, highly problematical. We are far
from contesting the glory more difficult of attainment, or the real
superiority of the Epic poets, who display their splendid creations upon
so large a plan; but we desire that material proportion in music should
be estimated by the same measure which is applied to dimension in other
branches of the fine arts; as, for example, in painting, where a canvas
of twenty inches square, as the Vision of Ezekiel, or Le Cimetiere by
Ruysdael, is placed among the chefs d'oeuvre, and is more highly valued
than pictures of a far larger size, even though they might be from the
hands of a Rubens or a Tintoret. In literature, is Beranger less a great
poet, because he has condensed his thoughts within the narrow limits
of his songs? Does not Petrarch owe his fame to his Sonnets? and among
those who most frequently repeat their soothing rhymes, how many know
any thing of the existence of his long poem on Africa? We cannot doubt
that the prejudice which would deny the superiority of an artist--though
he should have produced nothing but such Sonatas as Franz Schubert has
given us--over one who has portioned out the insipid melodies of many
Operas, which it were useless to cite, will disappear; and that in
music, also, we will yet take into account the eloquence and ability
with which the thoughts and feelings are expressed, whatever may be
the size of the composition in which they are developed, or the means
employed to interpret them.
In making an analysis of the works of Chopin, we meet with beauties of a
high order, expressions entirely new, and a harmonic tissue as original
as erudite. In his compositions, boldness is always justified; richness,
even exuberance, never interferes with clearness; singularity never
degenerates into uncouth fantasticalness; the sculpturing is never
disorderly; the luxury of ornament never overloads the chaste eloquence
of the principal lines. His best works abound in combinations which
may be said to form an epoch in the handling of musical style. Daring,
brilliant and attractive, they disguise their profundity under so much
grace, their science under so many charms, that it is with difficulty
we free ourselves sufficiently from their magical enthrallment, to judge
coldly of their theoretical value. Their worth has, however, already
been felt; but it will be more highly estimated when the time arrives
for a critical examination of the services rendered by them to art
during that period of its course traversed by Chopin.
It is to him we owe the extension of chords, struck together in
arpeggio, or en batterie; the chromatic sinuosities of which his pages
offer such striking examples; the little groups of superadded notes,
falling like light drops of pearly dew upon the melodic figure. This
species of adornment had hitherto been modeled only upon the Fioritures
of the great Old School of Italian song; the embellishments for
the voice had been servilely copied by the Piano, although become
stereotyped and monotonous: he imparted to them the charm of novelty,
surprise and variety, unsuited for the vocalist, but in perfect keeping
with the character of the instrument. He invented the admirable harmonic
progressions which have given a serious character to pages, which, in
consequence of the lightness of their subject, made no pretension to any
importance. But of what consequence is the subject? Is it not the idea
which is developed through it, the emotion with which it vibrates,
which expands, elevates and ennobles it? What tender melancholy, what
subtlety, what sagacity in the master-pieces of La Fontaine, although
the subjects are so familiar, the titles so modest? Equally unassuming
are the titles and subjects of the Studies and Preludes; yet the
compositions of Chopin, so modestly named, are not the less types of
perfection in a mode created by himself, and stamped, like all his
other works, with the high impress of his poetic genius. Written in the
commencement of his career, they are characterized by a youthful
vigor not to be found in some of his subsequent works, even when more
elaborate, finished, and richer in combinations; a vigor, which is
entirely lost in his latest productions, marked by an over-excited
sensibility, a morbid irritability, and giving painful intimations of
his own state of suffering and exhaustion.
If it were our intention to discuss the development of Piano music in
the language of the Schools, we would dissect his magnificent pages,
which afford so rich a field for scientific observation. We would, in
the first place, analyze his Nocturnes, Ballades, Impromptus, Scherzos,
which are full of refinements of harmony never heard before; bold,
and of startling originality. We would also examine his Polonaises,
Mazourkas, Waltzes and Boleros. But this is not the time or place
for such a study, which would be interesting only to the adepts in
Counterpoint and Thoroughbass.
It is the feeling which overflows in all his works, which has rendered
them known and popular; feeling of a character eminently romantic,
subjective individual, peculiar to their author, yet awakening immediate
sympathy; appealing not alone to the heart of that country indebted
to him for yet one glory more, but to all who can be touched by the
misfortunes of exile, or moved by the tenderness of love. Not content
with success in the field in which he was free to design, with such
perfect grace, the contours chosen by himself, Chopin also wished to
fetter his ideal thoughts with classic chains. His Concertos and Sonatas
are beautiful indeed, but we may discern in them more effort than
inspiration. His creative genius was imperious, fantastic and impulsive.
His beauties were only manifested fully in entire freedom. We believe
he offered violence to the character of his genius whenever he sought to
subject it to rules, to classifications, to regulations not his own,
and which he could not force into harmony with the exactions of his own
mind. He was one of those original beings, whose graces are only fully
displayed when they have cut themselves adrift from all bondage, and
float on at their own wild will, swayed only by the ever undulating
impulses of their own mobile natures.
He was, perhaps, induced to desire this double success through the
example of his friend, Mickiewicz, who, having been the first to gift
his country with romantic poetry, forming a school in Sclavic literature
by the publication of his Dziady, and his romantic Ballads, as early
as 1818, proved afterwards, by the publication at his Grazyna and
Wallenrod, that he could triumph over the difficulties that classic
restrictions oppose to inspiration, and that, when holding the classic
lyre of the ancient poets, he was still master. In making analogous
attempts, we do not think Chopin has been equally successful. He could
not retain, within the square of an angular and rigid mould, that
floating and indeterminate contour which so fascinates us in his
graceful conceptions. He could not introduce in its unyielding lines
that shadowy and sketchy indecision, which, disguising the skeleton, the
whole frame-work of form, drapes it in the mist of floating vapors, such
as surround the white-bosomed maids of Ossian, when they permit
mortals to catch some vague, yet lovely outline, from their home in the
changing, drifting, blinding clouds.
Some of these efforts, however, are resplendent with a rare dignity of
style; and passages of exceeding interest, of surprising grandeur, may
be found among them. As an example of this, we cite the Adagio of the
Second Concerto, for which he evinced a decided preference, and which
he liked to repeat frequently. The accessory designs are in his best
manner, while the principal phrase is of an admirable breadth. It
alternates with a Recitative, which assumes a minor key, and which seems
to be its Antistrophe. The whole of this piece is of a perfection
almost ideal; its expression, now radiant with light, now full of
tender pathos. It seems as if one had chosen a happy vale of Tempe,
a magnificent landscape flooded with summer glow and lustre, as a
background for the rehearsal of some dire scene of mortal anguish. A
bitter and irreparable regret seizes the wildly-throbbing human heart,
even in the midst of the incomparable splendor of external nature. This
contrast is sustained by a fusion of tones, a softening of gloomy hues,
which prevent the intrusion of aught rude or brusque that might awaken
a dissonance in the touching impression produced, which, while saddening
joy, soothes and softens the bitterness of sorrow.
It would be impossible to pass in silence the Funeral March inserted in
the first Sonata, which was arranged for the orchestra, and performed,
for the first time, at his own obsequies. What other accents could have
been found capable of expressing, with the same heart-breaking effect,
the emotions, the tears, which should accompany to the last long sleep,
one who had taught in a manner so sublime, how great losses should
be mourned? We once heard it remarked by a native of his own country:
"these pages could only have been written by a Pole." All that the
funeral train of an entire nation weeping its own ruin and death can
be imagined to feel of desolating woe, of majestic sorrow, wails in
the musical ringing of this passing bell, mourns in the tolling of this
solemn knell, as it accompanies the mighty escort on its way to the
still city of the Dead. The intensity of mystic hope; the devout appeal
to superhuman pity, to infinite mercy, to a dread justice, which numbers
every cradle and watches every tomb; the exalted resignation which has
wreathed so much grief with halos so luminous; the noble endurance of so
many disasters with the inspired heroism of Christian martyrs who
know not to despair;--resound in this melancholy chant, whose voice of
supplication breaks the heart. All of most pure, of most holy, of
most believing, of most hopeful in the hearts of children, women,
and priests, resounds, quivers and trembles there with irresistible
vibrations. We feel it is not the death of a single warrior we mourn,
while other heroes live to avenge him, but that a whole generation of
warriors has forever fallen, leaving the death song to be chanted but by
wailing women, weeping children and helpless priests. Yet this
Melopee so funereal, so full of desolating woe, is of such penetrating
sweetness, that we can scarcely deem it of this earth. These sounds,
in which the wild passion of human anguish seems chilled by awe and
softened by distance, impose a profound meditation, as if, chanted
by angels, they floated already in the heavens: the cry of a nation's
anguish mounting to the very throne of God! The appeal of human grief
from the lyre of seraphs! Neither cries, nor hoarse groans, nor impious
blasphemies, nor furious imprecations, trouble for a moment the sublime
sorrow of the plaint: it breathes upon the ear like the rhythmed sighs
of angels. The antique face of grief is entirely excluded. Nothing
recalls the fury of Cassandra, the prostration of Priam, the frenzy of
Hecuba, the despair of the Trojan captives. A sublime faith destroying
in the survivors of this Christian Ilion the bitterness of anguish and
the cowardice of despair, their sorrow is no longer marked by earthly
weakness. Raising itself from the soil wet with blood and tears, it
springs forward to implore God; and, having nothing more to hope from
earth, it supplicates the Supreme Judge with prayers so poignant,
that our hearts, in listening, break under the weight of an august
compassion! It would be a mistake to suppose that all the compositions
of Chopin are deprived of the feelings which he has deemed best to
suppress in this great work. Not so. Perhaps human nature is not capable
of maintaining always this mood of energetic abnegation, of courageous
submission. We meet with breathings of stifled rage, of suppressed
anger, in many passages of his writings: and many of his Studies, as
well as his Scherzos, depict a concentrated exasperation and despair,
which are sometimes manifested in bitter irony, sometimes in intolerant
hauteur. These dark apostrophes of his muse have attracted less
attention, have been less fully understood, than his poems of more
tender coloring. The personal character of Chopin had something to
do with this general misconception. Kind, courteous, and affable, of
tranquil and almost joyous manners, he would not suffer the secret
convulsions which agitated him to be even suspected.
His character was indeed not easily understood. A thousand subtle
shades, mingling, crossing, contradicting and disguising each other,
rendered it almost undecipherable at a first view. As is usually the
case with the Sclaves, it was difficult to read the recesses of
his mind. With them, loyalty and candor, familiarity and the most
captivating ease of manner, by no means imply confidence, or impulsive
frankness. Like the twisted folds of a serpent rolled upon itself, their
feelings are half hidden, half revealed. It requires a most attentive
examination to follow the coiled linking of the glittering rings. It
would be naive to interpret literally their courtesy full of compliment,
their assumed humility. The forms of this politeness, this modesty, have
their solution in their manners, in which their ancient connection with
the East may be strangely traced. Without having in the least degree
acquired the taciturnity of the Mussulman, they have yet learned from
it a distrustful reserve upon all subjects which touch upon the
more delicate and personal chords of the heart. When they speak
of themselves, we may almost always be certain that they keep some
concealment in reserve, which assures them the advantage in intellect,
or feeling. They suffer their interrogator to remain in ignorance of
some circumstance, some mobile secret, through the unveiling of which
they would be more admired, or less esteemed, and which they well know
how to hide under the subtle smile of an almost imperceptible mockery.
Delighting in the pleasure of mystification, from the most spiritual or
comic to the most bitter and melancholy, they may perhaps find in
this deceptive raillery an external formula of disdain for the veiled
expression of the superiority which they internally claim, but
which claim they veil with the caution and astuteness natural to the
oppressed.
The frail and sickly organization of Chopin, not permitting him the
energetic expression of his passions, he gave to his friends only the
gentle and affectionate phase of his nature. In the busy, eager life
of large cities, where no one has time to study the destiny of another,
where every one is judged by his external activity, very few think it
worth while to attempt to penetrate the enigma of individual character.
Those who enjoyed familiar intercourse with Chopin, could not be blind
to the impatience and ennui he experienced in being, upon the calm
character of his manners, so promptly believed. And may not the artist
revenge the man? As his health was too frail to permit him to give vent
to his impatience through the vehemence of his execution, he sought to
compensate himself by pouring this bitterness over those pages which he
loved to hear performed with a vigor [Footnote: It was his delight to
hear them executed by the great Liszt himself.--Translator.] which he
could not himself always command: pages which are indeed full of the
impassioned feelings of a man suffering deeply from wounds which he does
not choose to avow. Thus around a gaily flagged, yet sinking ship, float
the fallen spars and scattered fragments, torn by warring winds and
surging waves from its shattered sides.
Such emotions have been of so much the more importance in the life
of Chopin, because they have deeply influenced the character of his
compositions. Among the pages published under such influences, may be
traced much analogous to the wire-drawn subtleties of Jean Paul, who
found it necessary, in order to move hearts macerated by passion, blazes
through suffering, to make use of the surprises caused by natural and
physical phenomena; to evoke the sensations of luxurious terrors arising
from occurrences not to be foreseen in the natural order of things;
to awaken the morbid excitements of a dreamy brain. Step by step the
tortured mind of Chopin arrived at a state of sickly irritability; his
emotions increased to a feverish tremor, producing that involution, that
tortuosity of thought, which mark his latest works. Almost suffocating
under the oppression of repressed feelings, using art only to repeat
and rehearse for himself his own internal tragedy, after having wearied
emotion, he began to subtilize it. His melodies are actually tormented;
a nervous and restless sensibility leads to an obstinate persistence
in the handling and rehandling and a reiterated pursuit of the tortured
motifs, which impress us as painfully as the sight of those physical or
mental agonies which we know can find relief only in death. Chopin was a
victim to a disease without hope, which growing more envenomed from year
to year, took him, while yet young, from those who loved him, and laid
him in his still grave. As in the fair form of some beautiful victim,
the marks of the grasping claws of the fierce bird of prey which has
destroyed it, may be found; so, in the productions of which we have just
spoken, the traces of the bitter sufferings which devoured his heart,
are painfully visible.