Chopin's Mode of Playing--Concerts--The Elite--Fading Bouquets and
Immortal Crowns--Hospitality--Heine--Meyerbeer--Adolphe Nourrit--Eugene
Delacroix--Niemcevicz--Mickiewicz--George Sand.
AFTER having described the compositions palpitating with emotion in
which genius struggles with grief, (grief, that terrible reality which
Art must strive to reconcile with Heaven), confronting it sometimes
as conqueror, sometimes as conquered; compositions in which all the
memories of his youth, the affections of his heart, the mysteries of his
desires, the secrets of his untold passions, are collected like tears
in a lachrymatory; compositions in which, passing the limits of human
sensations--too dull for his eager fancy, too obtuse for his keen
perceptions--he makes incursions into the realms of Dryads, Oreads, and
Oceanides;--we would naturally be expected to speak of his talent
for execution. But this task we cannot assume. We cannot command the
melancholy courage to exhume emotions linked with our fondest memories,
our dearest personal recollections; we cannot force ourselves to make
the mournful effort to color the gloomy shrouds, veiling the skill we
once loved, with the brilliant hues they would exact at our hands. We
feel our loss too bitterly to attempt such an analysis. And what result
would it be possible to attain with all our efforts! We could not hope
to convey to those who have never heard him, any just conception of that
fascination so ineffably poetic, that charm subtle and penetrating
as the delicate perfume of the vervain or the Ethiopian calla, which,
shrinking and exclusive, refuses to diffuse its exquisite aroma in the
noisome breath of crowds, whose heavy air can only retain the stronger
odor of the tuberose, the incense of burning resin.
By the purity of its handling, by its relation with LA FEE AUX MIETTES
and LES LUTINS D'ARGAIL, by its rencounters with the SERAPHINS and
DIANES, who murmur in his ear their most confidential complaints, their
most secret dreams, the style and the manner of conception of Chopin
remind us of Nodier. He knew that he did not act upon the masses, that
he could not warm the multitude, which is like a sea of lead, and as
heavy to set in motion, and which, though its waves may be melted and
rendered malleable by heat, requires the powerful arm of an athletic
Cyclops to manipulate, fuse, and pour into moulds, where the dull
metal, glowing and seething under the electric fire, becomes thought and
feeling under the new form into which it has been forced. He knew he was
only perfectly appreciated in those meetings, unfortunately too few,
in which ALL his hearers were prepared to follow him into those spheres
which the ancients imagined to be entered only through a gate of ivory,
to be surrounded by pilasters of diamond, and surmounted by a dome
arched with fawn-colored crystal, upon which played the various dyes of
the prism; spheres, like the Mexican opal, whose kaleidoscopical foci
are dimmed by olive-colored mists veiling and unveiling the inner
glories; spheres, in which all is magical and supernatural, reminding
us of the marvellous worlds of realized dreams. In such spheres Chopin
delighted. He once remarked to a friend, an artist who has since been
frequently heard: "I am not suited for concert giving; the public
intimidate me; their looks, only stimulated by curiosity, paralyze me;
their strange faces oppress me; their breath stifles me: but you--you
are destined for it, for when you do not gain your public, you have the
force to assault, to overwhelm, to control, to compel them."
Conscious of how much was necessary for the comprehension of his
peculiar talent, he played but rarely in public. With the exception of
some concerts given at his debut in 1831, in Vienna and Munich, he gave
no more, except in Paris, being indeed not able to travel on account of
his health, which was so precarious, that during entire months, he would
appear to be in an almost dying state. During the only excursion which
he made with a hope that the mildness of a Southern climate would be
more conducive to his health, his condition was frequently so alarming,
that more than once the hotel keepers demanded payment for the bed and
mattress he occupied, in order to have them burned, deeming him already
arrived at that stage of consumption in which it becomes so highly
contagious We believe, however, if we may be permitted to say it, that
his concerts were less fatiguing to his physical constitution, than to
his artistic susceptibility. We think that his voluntary abnegation of
popular applause veiled an internal wound. He was perfectly aware of his
own superiority; perhaps it did not receive sufficient reverberation
and echo from without to give him the tranquil assurance that he was
perfectly appreciated. No doubt, in the absence of popular acclamation,
he asked himself how far a chosen audience, through the enthusiasm
of its applause, was able to replace the great public which he
relinquished. Few understood him:--did those few indeed understand him
aright? A gnawing feeling of discontent, of which he himself scarcely
comprehended the cause, secretly undermined him. We have seen him
almost shocked by eulogy. The praise to which he was justly entitled not
reaching him EN MASSE, he looked upon isolated commendation as almost
wounding. That he felt himself not only slightly, but badly applauded,
was sufficiently evident by the polished phrases with which, like
troublesome dust, he shook such praises off, making it quite evident
that he preferred to be left undisturbed in the enjoyment of his
solitary feelings to injudicious commendation.
Too fine a connoisseur in raillery, too ingenious satirist ever to
expose himself to sarcasm, he never assumed the role of a "genius
misunderstood." With a good grace and under an apparent satisfaction, he
concealed so entirely the wound given to his just pride, that its very
existence was scarcely suspected. But not without reason, might the
gradually increasing rarity [Footnote: Sometimes he passed years without
giving a single concert. We believe the one given by him in Pleyel's
room, in 1844, was after an interval of nearly ten years] of his
concerts be attributed rather to the wish he felt to avoid occasions
which did not bring him the tribute he merited, than to physical
debility. Indeed, he put his strength to rude proofs in the many lessons
which he always gave, and the many hours he spent at his own Piano.
It is to be regretted that the indubitable advantage for the artist
resulting from the cultivation of only a select audience, should be so
sensibly diminished by the rare and cold expression of its sympathies.
The GLACE which covers the grace of the ELITE, as it does the fruit of
their desserts; the imperturbable calm of their most earnest enthusiasm,
could not be satisfactory to Chopin. The poet, torn from his solitary
inspiration, can only find it again in the interest, more than
attentive, vivid and animated of his audience. He can never hope to
regain it in the cold looks of an Areopagus assembled to judge him. He
must FEEL that he moves, that he agitates those who hear him, that his
emotions find in them the responsive sympathies of the same intuitions,
that he draws them on with him in his flight towards the infinite: as
when the leader of a winged train gives the signal of departure, he is
immediately followed by the whole flock in search of milder shores.
But had it been otherwise--had Chopin everywhere received the exalted
homage and admiration he so well deserved; had he been heard, as so
many others, by all nations and in all climates; had ho obtained those
brilliant ovations which make a Capitol every where, where the people
salute merit or honor genius had he been known and recognized by
thousands in place of the hundreds who acknowledged him--we would not
pause in this part of his career to enumerate such triumphs.
What are the dying bouquets of an hour to those whose brows claim the
laurel of immortality? Ephemeral sympathies, transitory praises, are not
to be mentioned in the presence of the august Dead, crowned with higher
glories. The joys, the consolations, the soothing emotions which the
creations of true art awaken in the weary, suffering, thirsty, or
persevering and believing hearts to whom they are dedicated, are
destined to be borne into far countries and distant years, by the sacred
works of Chopin. Thus an unbroken bond will be established between
elevated natures, enabling them to understand and appreciate each other,
in whatever part of the earth or period of time they may live. Such
natures are generally badly divined by their contemporaries when they
have been silent, often misunderstood when they have spoken the most
eloquently!
"There are different crowns," says Goethe, "there are some which may
be readily gathered during a walk." Such crowns charm for the moment
through their balmy freshness, but who would think of comparing them
with those so laboriously gained by Chopin by constant and exemplary
effort, by an earnest love of art, and by his own mournful experience of
the emotions which he has so truthfully depicted?
As he sought not with a mean avidity those crowns so easily won, of
which more than one among ourselves has the modesty to be proud; as he
was a pure, generous, good and compassionate man, filled with a single
sentiment, and that one of the most noble of feelings, the love of
country; as he moved among us like a spirit consecrated by all that
Poland possesses of poetry; let us approach his sacred grave with due
reverence! Let us adorn it with no artificial wreaths! Let us cast upon
it no trivial crowns! Let us nobly elevate our thoughts before this
consecrated shroud! Let us learn from him to repulse all but the highest
ambition, let us try to concentrate our labor upon efforts which will
leave more lasting effects than the vain leading of the fashions of the
passing hour. Let us renounce the corrupt spirit of the times in which
we live, with all that is not worthy of art, all that will not endure,
all that does not contain in itself some spark of that eternal and
immaterial beauty, which it is the task of art to reveal and unveil as
the condition of its own glory! Let us remember the ancient prayer of
the Dorians whose simple formula is so full of pious poetry, asking only
of their gods: "To give them the Good, in return for the Beautiful!"
In place of laboring so constantly to attract auditors, and striving to
please them at whatever sacrifice, let us rather aim, like Chopin, to
leave a celestial and immortal echo of what we have felt, loved,
and suffered! Let us learn, from his revered memory, to demand from
ourselves works which will entitle us to some true rank in the sacred
city of art! Let us not exact from the present with out regard to the
future, those light and vain wreath which are scarcely woven before they
are faded and forgotten!...
In place of such crowns, the most glorious palms which it is possible
for an artist to receive during his lifetime, have been placed in the
hands of Chopin by ILLUSTRIOUS EQUALS. An enthusiastic admiration was
given him by a public still more limited than the musical aristocracy
which frequented his concerts. This public was formed of the most
distinguished names of men, who bowed before him as the kings of
different empires bend before a monarch whom they have assembled to
honor. Such men rendered to him, individually, due homage. How could it
have been otherwise in France, where the hospitality, so truly national,
discerns with such perfect taste the rank and claims of the guests?
The most eminent minds in Paris frequently met in Chopin's saloon. Not
in reunions of fantastic periodicity, such as the dull imaginations
of ceremonious and tiresome circles have arranged, and which they
have never succeeded in realizing in accordance with their wishes, for
enjoyment, ease, enthusiasm, animation, never come at an hour fixed upon
before hand. They can be commanded less by artists than by other
men, for they are all more or less struck by some sacred malady whose
paralyzing torpor they must shake off, whose benumbing pain they must
forget, to be joyous and amused by those pyrotechnic fires which startle
the bewildered guests, who see from time to time a Roman candle, a
rose-colored Bengal light, a cascade whose waters are of fire, or a
terrible, yet quite innocent dragon! Gayety and the strength necessary
to be joyous, are, unfortunately things only accidentally to be
encountered among poets and artists! It is true some of the more
privileged among them have the happy gift of surmounting internal pain,
so as to bear their burden always lightly, able to laugh with their
companions over the toils of the way, or at least always able to
preserve a gentle and calm serenity which, like a mute pledge of hope
and consolation, animates, elevates, and encourages their associates,
imparting to them, while they remain under the influence of this placid
atmosphere, a freedom of spirit which appears so much the more vivid,
the more strongly it contrasts with their habitual ennui, their
abstraction, their natural gloom, their usual indifference.
Chopin did not belong to either of the above mentioned classes; he
possessed the innate grace of a Polish welcome, by which the host is not
only bound to fulfill the common laws and duties of hospitality, but is
obliged to relinquish all thought of himself, to devote all his powers
to promote the enjoyment of his guests. It was a pleasant thing to visit
him; his visitors were always charmed; he knew how to put them at once
at ease, making them masters of every thing, and placing every thing at
their disposal. In doing the honors of his own cabin, even the simple
laborer of Sclavic race never departs from this munificence; more
joyously eager in his welcome than the Arab in his tent, he compensates
for the splendor which may be wanting in his reception by an adage
which he never fails to repeat, and which is also repealed by the grand
seignior after the most luxurious repasts served under gilded canopies:
CZYM BOHAT, TYM RAD--which is thus paraphrased for foreigners: "Deign
graciously to pardon all that is unworthy of you, it is all my humble
riches which I place at your feet." This formula [Footnote: All
the Polish formulas of courtesy retain the strong impress of the
hyperbolical expressions of the Eastern languages. The titles of "very
powerful and very enlightened seigniors" are still obligatory.
The Poles, in conversation, constantly name each other Benefactor
(DOBRODZIJ). The common salutation between men, and of men to women,
is PADAM DO NOG: "I fall at your feet." The greeting of the people
possesses a character of ancient solemnity and simplicity: SLAWA BOHU:
"Glory to God."] is still pronounced with a national grace and dignity
by all masters of families who preserve the picturesque customs which
distinguished the ancient manners of Poland.
Having thus described something of the habits of hospitality common in
his country, the ease which presided over our reunions with Chopin will
be readily understood. The flow of thought, the entire freedom from
restraint, were of a character so pure that no insipidity or bitterness
ever ensued, no ill humor was ever provoked. Though he avoided society,
yet when his saloon was invaded, the kindness of his attention was
delightful; without appearing to occupy himself with any one, he
succeeded in finding for all that which was most agreeable; neglecting
none, he extended to all the most graceful courtesy.
It was not without a struggle, without a repugnance slightly
misanthropic, that Chopin could be induced to open his doors and piano,
even to those whose friendship, as respectful as faithful, gave them a
claim to urge such a request with eagerness. Without doubt more than one
of us can still remember our first improvised evening with him, in spite
of his refusal, when he lived at Chaussee d'Antin.
His apartment, invaded by surprise, was only lighted by some wax
candles, grouped round one of Pleyel's pianos, which he particularly
liked for their slightly veiled, yet silvery sonorousness, and easy
touch, permitting him to elicit tones which one might think proceeded
from one of those harmonicas of which romantic Germany has preserved
the monopoly, and which were so ingeniously constructed by its ancient
masters, by the union of crystal and water.
As the corners of the room were left in obscurity, all idea of limit was
lost, so that there seemed no boundary save the darkness of space. Some
tall piece of furniture, with its white cover, would reveal itself in
the dim light; an indistinct form, raising itself like a spectre to
listen to the sounds which had evoked it. The light, concentrated round
the piano and falling on the floor, glided on like a spreading wave
until it mingled with the broken flashes from the fire, from which
orange colored plumes rose and fell, like fitful gnomes, attracted there
by mystic incantations in their own tongue. A single portrait, that of
a pianist, an admiring and sympathetic friend, seemed invited to be the
constant auditor of the ebb and flow of tones, which sighed, moaned,
murmured, broke and died upon the instrument near which it always hung.
By a strange accident, the polished surface of the mirror only reflected
so as to double it for our eyes, the beautiful oval with silky curls
which so many pencils have copied, and which the engraver has just
reproduced for all who are charmed by works of such peculiar eloquence.
Several men, of brilliant renown, were grouped in the luminous zone
immediately around the piano: Heine, the saddest of humorists, listened
with the interest of a fellow countryman to the narrations made him by
Chopin of the mysterious country which haunted his ethereal fancy also,
and of which he too had explored the beautiful shores. At a glance,
a word, a tone, Chopin and Heine understood each other; the musician
replied to the questions murmured in his ear by the poet, giving in
tones the most surprising revelations from those unknown regions, about
that "laughing nymph" [Footnote: Heine. SALOON-CHOPIN.] of whom he
demanded news: "If she still continued to drape her silvery veil around
the flowing locks of her green hair, with a coquetry so enticing?"
Familiar with the tittle-tattle and love tales of those distant lands he
asked: "If the old marine god, with the long white beard, still pursued
this mischievous naiad with his ridiculous love?" Fully informed, too,
about all the exquisite fairy scenes to be seen DOWN THERE--DOWN THERE,
he asked "if the roses always glowed there with a flame so triumphant?
if the trees at moonlight sang always so harmoniously?" When Chopin had
answered, and they had for a long time conversed together about that
aerial clime, they would remain in gloomy silence, seized with that mal
du pays from which Heine suffered when he compared himself to that Dutch
captain of the phantom ship, with his crew eternally driven about upon
the chill waves, and "sighing in vain for the spices, the tulips,
the hyacinths, the pipes of sea-foam, the porcelain cups of
Holland... 'Amsterdam! Amsterdam! when shall we again see Amsterdam!'
they cry from on board, while the tempest howls in the cordage,
beating them forever about in their watery hell." Heine adds: "I
fully understand the passion with which the unfortunate captain once
exclaimed: 'Oh if I should EVER again see Amsterdam! I would rather be
chained forever at the corner of one of its streets, than be forced to
leave it again!' Poor Van der Decken!"
Heine well knew what poor Van der Decken had suffered in his terrible
and eternal course upon the ocean, which had fastened its fangs in the
wood of his incorruptible vessel, and by an invisible anchor, whose
chain he could not break because it could never be found, held it firmly
linked upon the waves of its restless bosom. He could describe to us
when he chose, the hope, the despair, the torture of the miserable
beings peopling this unfortunate ship, for he had mounted its accursed
timbers, led on and guided by the hand of some enamored Undine, who,
when the guest of her forest of coral and palace of pearl rose more
morose, more satirical, more bitter than usual, offered for the
amusement of his ill humor between the repasts, some spectacle worthy
of a lover who could create more wonders in his dreams than her whole
kingdom contained.
Heine had traveled round the poles of the earth in this imperishable
vessel; he had seen the brilliant visitor of the long nights, the aurora
borealis, mirror herself in the immense stalactites of eternal ice,
rejoicing in the play of colors alternating with each other in the
varying folds of her glowing scarf. He had visited the tropics, where
the zodiacal triangle, with its celestial light, replaces, during the
short nights, the burning rays of an oppressive sun. He had crossed the
latitudes where life becomes pain, and advanced into those in which it
is a living death, making himself familiar, on the long way, with the
heavenly miracles in the wild path of sailors who make for no port!
Seated on a poop without a helm, his eye had ranged from the two Bears
majestically overhanging the North, to the brilliant Southern Cross,
through the blank Antarctic deserts extending through the empty space of
the heavens overhead, as well as over the dreary waves below, where the
despairing eye finds nothing to contemplate in the sombre depths of a
sky without a star, vainly arching over a shoreless and bottomless sea!
He had long followed the glittering yet fleeting traces left by the
meteors through the blue depths of space; he had tracked the mystic and
incalculable orbits of the comets as they flash through their wandering
paths, solitary and incomprehensible, everywhere dreaded for their
ominous splendor, yet inoffensive and harmless. He had gazed upon the
shining of that distant star, Aldebaran, which, like the glitter and
sullen glow in the eye of a vengeful enemy, glares fiercely upon our
globe, without daring to approach it. He had watched the radiant planets
shedding upon the restless eye which seeks them a consoling and friendly
light, like the weird cabala of an enigmatic yet hopeful promise.
Heine had seen all these things, under the varying appearances which
they assume in different latitudes; he had seen much more also with
which he would entertain us under strange similitudes. He had assisted
at the furious cavalcade of "Herodiade;" he had also an entrance at the
court of the king of "Aulnes" in the gardens of the "Hesperides"; and
indeed into all those places inaccessible to mortals who have not had
a fairy as godmother, who would take upon herself the task of
counterbalancing all the evil experienced in life, by showering upon the
adopted the whole store of fairy treasures.
Upon that evening which we are now describing, Meyerbeer was seated
next to Heine;--Meyerbeer, for whom the whole catalogue of admiring
interjections has long since been exhausted! Creator of Cyclopean
harmonics as he was, he passed the time in delight when following the
detailed arabesques, which, woven in transparent gauze, wound in filmy
veils around the delicate conceptions of Chopin.
Adolphe Nourrit, a noble artist, at once ascetic and passionate, was
also there. He was a sincere, almost a devout Catholic, dreaming of the
future with the fervor of the Middle Ages, who, during the latter part
of his life, refused the assistance of his talent to any scene of
merely superficial sentiment. He served Art with a high and enthusiastic
respect; he considered it, in all its divers manifestations, only a
holy tabernacle, "the Beauty of which formed the splendor of the True."
Already undermined by a melancholy passion for the Beautiful, his brow
seemed to be turning into stone under the dominion of this haunting
feeling: a feeling always explained by the outbreak of despair, too late
for remedy from man--man, alas! so eager to explore the secrets of the
heart--so dull to divine them!
Hiller, whose talent was allied to Chopin's, and who was one of his most
intimate friends, was there also. In advance of the great compositions
which he afterwards published, of which the first was his remarkable
Oratorio, "The Destruction of Jerusalem," he wrote some pieces for the
Piano. Among these, those known under the title of Etudes, (vigorous
sketches of the most finished design), recall those studies of foliage,
in which the landscape painter gives us an entire little poem of light
and shade, with only one tree, one branch, a single "motif," happily and
boldly handled.
In the presence of the spectres which filled the air, and whose rustling
might almost be heard, Eugene Delacroix remained absorbed and silent.
Was he considering what pallet, what brushes, what canvas he must use,
to introduce them into visible life through his art? Did he task
himself to discover canvas woven by Arachne, brushes made from the long
eyelashes of the fairies, and a pallet covered with the vaporous tints
of the rainbow, in order to make such a sketch possible? Did he then
smile at these fancies, yet gladly yield to the impressions from which
they sprung, because great talent is always attracted by that power in
direct contrast to its own?
The aged Niemcevicz, who appeared to be the nearest to the grave among
us, listened to the "Historic Songs" which Chopin translated into
dramatic execution for this survivor of times long past. Under the
fingers of the Polish artist, again were heard, side by side with the
descriptions, so popular, of the Polish bard, the shock of arms, the
songs of conquerors, the hymns of triumph, the complaints of illustrious
prisoners, and the wail over dead heroes. They memorized together the
long course of national glory, of victory, of kings, of queens, of
warriors; and so much life had these phantoms, that the old man, deeming
the present an illusion, believed the olden times fully resuscitated.
Dark and silent, apart from all others, fell the motionless profile of
Mickiewicz: the Dante of the North, he seemed always to find "the salt
of the stranger bitter, and his steps hard to mount."
Buried in a fauteuil, with her arms resting upon a table, sat Madame
Sand, curiously attentive, gracefully subdued. Endowed with that rare
faculty only given to a few elect, of recognizing the Beautiful under
whatever form of nature or of art it may assume, she listened with
the whole force of her ardent genius. The faculty of instantaneously
recognizing Beauty may perhaps be the "second sight," of which all
nations have acknowledged the existence in highly gifted women. It is a
kind of magical gaze which causes the bark, the mask, the gross envelope
of form, to fall off; so that the invisible essence, the soul which is
incarnated within, may be clearly contemplated; so that the ideal which
the poet or artist may have vivified under the torrent of notes, the
passionate veil of coloring, the cold chiseling of marble, or the
mysterious rhythms of strophes, may be fully discerned. This faculty is
much rarer than is generally supposed. It is usually felt but vaguely,
yet--in its highest manifestations, it reveals itself as a "divining
oracle," knowing the Past and prophesying the Future. It is a power
which exempts the blessed organization which it illumes, from the
bearing of the heavy burden of technicalities, with which the merely
scientific drag on toward that mystic region of inner life, which the
gifted attain with a single bound. It is a faculty which springs less
from an acquaintance with the sciences, than from a familiarity with
nature.
The fascination and value of a country life consist in the long
tete-a-tete with nature. The words of revelation hidden under the
infinite harmonies of form, of sounds, of lights and shadows, of tones
and warblings, of terror and delight, may best be caught in these
long solitary interviews. Such infinite variety may appear crushing or
distracting on a first view, but if faced with a courage that no mystery
can appal, if sounded with a resolution that no length of time can
abate, may give the clue to analogies, conformities, relations between
our senses and our sentiments, and aid us in tracing the hidden
links which bind apparent dissimilarities, identical oppositions and
equivalent antitheses, and teach us the secrets of the chasms separating
with narrow but impassable space, that which is destined to approach
forever, yet never mingle; to resemble ever, yet never blend. To have
awakened early, as did Madame Sand, to the dim whispering with which
nature initiates her chosen to her mystic rites, is a necessary appanage
of the poet. To have learned from her to penetrate the dreams of man
when he, in his turn, creates, and uses in his works the tones, the
warblings, the terrors, the delights, requires a still more subtle
power; a power which Madame Sand possesses by a double right, by the
intuitions of her heart, and the vigor of her genius. After having named
Madame Sand, whose energetic personality and electric genius inspired
the frail and delicate organization of Chopin with an intensity of
admiration which consumed him, as a wine too spirituous shatters the
fragile vase; we cannot now call up other names from the dim limbus of
the past, in which so many indistinct images, such doubtful sympathies,
such indefinite projects and uncertain beliefs, are forever surging and
hurtling. Perhaps there is no one among us, who, in looking through the
long vista, would not meet the ghost of some feeling whose shadowy
form he would find impossible to pass! Among the varied interests, the
burning desires, the restless tendencies surging through the epoch in
which so many high hearts and brilliant intellects were fortuitously
thrown together, how few of them, alas! possessed sufficient vitality to
enable them to resist the numberless causes of death, surrounding every
idea, every feeling, as well as every individual life, from the cradle
to the grave! Even during the moments of the troubled existence of the
emotions now past, how many of them escaped that saddest of all human
judgments: "Happy, oh, happy were it dead! Far happier had it never
been born!" Among the varied feelings with which so many noble hearts
throbbed high, were there indeed many which never incurred this fearful
malediction? Like the suicide lover in Mickiewicz's poem, who returns to
life in the land of the Dead only to renew the dreadful suffering of his
earth life, perhaps among all the emotions then so vividly felt there is
not a single one which, could it again live, would reappear without the
disfigurements, the brandings, the bruises, the mutilations, which
were inflicted on its early beauty, which so deeply sullied its primal
innocence! And if we should persist in recalling these melancholy ghosts
of dead thoughts and buried feelings from the heavy folds of the shroud,
would they not actually appal us, because so few of them possessed
sufficient purity and celestial radiance to redeem them from the shame
of being utterly disowned, entirely repudiated, by those whose bliss or
torment they formed during the passionate hours of their absolute rule?
In very pity ask us not to call from the Dead, ghosts whose resurrection
would be so painful! Who could bear the sepulchral ghastly array?
Who would willingly call them from their sheeted sleep? If our ideas,
thoughts, and feelings were indeed to be suddenly aroused from the
unquiet grave in which they lie buried, and an account demanded from
them of the good and evil which they have severally produced in the
hearts in which they found so generous an asylum, and which they have
confused, overwhelmed, illumined, devastated, ruined, broken, as chance
or destiny willed,--who could hope to endure the replies that would be
made to questions so searching?
If among the group of which we have spoken, every member of which has
won the attention of many human souls, and must, in consequence, bear
in his conscience the sharp sting of multiplied responsibilities, there
should be found ONE who has not suffered aught, that was pure in the
natural attraction which bound them together in this chain of glittering
links, to fall into dull forgetfulness; one who allowed no breath of
the fermentation lingering even around the most delicate perfumes,
to embitter his memories; one who has transfigured and left to the
immortality of art, only the unblemished inheritance of all that was
noblest in their enthusiasm, all that was purest and most lasting of
their joys; let us bow before him as before one of the Elect! Let us
regard him as one of those whom the belief of the people marks as "Good
Genii!" The attribution of superior power to beings believed to be
beneficent to man, has received a sublime conformation from a great
Italian poet, who defines genius as a "stronger impress of Divinity!"
Let us bow before all who are marked with this mystic seal; but let us
venerate with the deepest, truest tenderness those who have only used
their wondrous supremacy to give life and expression to the highest
and most exquisite feelings! and among the pure and beneficent genii of
earth must indubitably be ranked the artist Chopin!