The Lives of Artists--Pure Fame of Chopin--Reserve--Classic and Romantic
Art-Language of the Sclaves--Chopin's Love of Home Memories.
A natural curiosity is generally felt to know something of the lives
of men who have consecrated their genius to embellish noble feelings
through works of art, through which they shine like brilliant meteors
in the eyes of the surprised and delighted crowd. The admiration and
sympathy awakened by the compositions of such men, attach immediately to
their own names, which are at once elevated as symbols of nobility and
greatness, because the world is loath to believe that those who can
express high sentiments with force, can themselves feel ignobly. The
objects of this benevolent prejudice, this favorable presumption, are
expected to justify such suppositions by the high course of life which
they are required to lead. When it is seen that the poet feels with such
exquisite delicacy all that which it is so sweet to inspire; that he
divines with such rapid intuition all that pride, timidity, or weariness
struggles to hide; that he can paint love as youth dreams it, but as
riper years despair to realize it; when such sublime situations seem
to be ruled by his genius, which raises itself so calmly above the
calamities of human destiny, always finding the leading threads by which
the most complicated knots in the tangled skein of life may be proudly
and victoriously unloosed; when the secret modulations of the most
exquisite tenderness, the most heroic courage, the most sublime
simplicity, are known to be subject to his command,--it is most natural
that the inquiry should be made if this wondrous divination springs
from a sincere faith in the reality of the noble feelings portrayed,
or whether its source is to be found in an acute perception of the
intellect, an abstract comprehension of the logical reason.
The question in what the life led by men so enamored of beauty differs
from that of the common multitude, is then earnestly asked. This high
poetic disdain,--how did it comport itself when struggling with material
interests? These ineffable emotions of ethereal love,--how were they
guarded from the bitterness of petty cares, from that rapidly growing
and corroding mould which usually stifles or poisons them? How many of
such feelings were preserved from that subtle evaporation which robs
them of their perfume, that gradually increasing inconstancy which lulls
us until we forget to call the dying emotions to account? Those who felt
such holy indignation,--were they indeed always just? Those who exalted
integrity,--were they always equitable? Those who sung of honor,--did
they never stoop? Those who so admired fortitude,--have they never
compromised with their own weakness?
A deep interest is also felt in ascertaining how those to whom the task
of sustaining our faith in the nobler sentiments through art has
been intrusted, have conducted themselves in external affairs, where
pecuniary gain is only to be acquired at the expense of delicacy,
loyalty, or honor. Many assert that the nobler feelings exist only
in the works of art. When some unfortunate occurrence seems to give a
deplorable foundation to the words of such mockers, with what avidity
they name the most exquisite conceptions of the poet, "vain phantoms!"
How they plume themselves upon their own wisdom in having advocated the
politic doctrine of an astute, yet honeyed hypocrisy; how they delight
to speak of the perpetual contradiction between words and deeds!... With
what cruel joy they detail such occurrences, and cite such examples in
the presence of those unsteady restless souls, who are incited by their
youthful aspirations and by the depression and utter loss of happy
confidence which such a conviction would entail upon them, to struggle
against a distrust so blighting! When such wavering spirits are engaged
in the bitter combat with the harsh alternatives of life, or tempted at
every turn by its insinuating seductions, what a profound discouragement
seizes upon them when they are induced to believe that the hearts
devoted to the most sublime thoughts, the most deeply initiated in
the most delicate susceptibilities, the most charmed by the beauty of
innocence, have denied, by their acts, the sincerity of their worship
for the noble themes which they have sung as poets! With what agonizing
doubts are they not filled by such flagrant contradictions! How much
is their anguish increased by the jeering mockery of those who repeat:
"Poetry is only that which might have been"--and who delight in
blaspheming it by their guilty negations! Whatever may be the human
short-comings of the gifted, believe the truths they sing! Poetry is
more than the gigantic shadow of our own imagination, immeasurably
increased, and projected upon the flying plane of the Impossible. POETRY
and REALITY are not two incompatible elements, destined to move on
together without commingling. Goethe himself confesses this. In speaking
of a contemporary writer he says: "that having lived to create poems,
he had also made his life a Poem." (Er lebte dichtend, und dichtete
lebend.) Goethe was himself too true a poet not to know that Poetry
only is, because its eternal Reality throbs in the noble impulses of the
human heart.
We have once before remarked that "genius imposes its own obligations."
[Footnote: Upon Paganini, after his death.] If the examples of cold
austerity and of rigid disinterestedness are sufficient to awaken the
admiration of calm and reflective natures, whence shall more passionate
and mobile organizations, to whom the dullness of mediocrity is insipid,
who naturally seek honor or pleasure, and who are willing to purchase
the object of their desires at any price--form their models? Such
temperaments easily free themselves from the authority of their seniors.
They do not admit their competency to decide. They accuse them of
wishing to use the world only for the profit of their own dead passions,
of striving to turn all to their own advantage, of pronouncing upon
the effects of causes which they do not understand, of desiring to
promulgate laws in spheres to which nature has denied them entrance.
They will not receive answers from their lips, but turn to others to
resolve their doubts; they question those who have drunk deeply from the
boiling springs of grief, bursting from the riven clefts in the steep
cliffs upon the top of which alone the soul seeks rest and light. They
pass in silence by the still cold gravity of those who practice the
good, without enthusiasm for the beautiful. What leisure has ardent
youth to interpret their gravity, to resolve their chill problems?
The throbbings of its impetuous heart are too rapid to allow it to
investigate the hidden sufferings, the mystic combats, the solitary
struggles, which may be detected even in the calm eye of the man who
practices only the good. Souls in continual agitation seldom interpret
aright the calm simplicity of the just, or the heroic smiles of the
stoic. For them enthusiasm and emotion are necessities. A bold image
persuades them, a metaphor leads them, tears convince them, they prefer
the conclusions of impulse, of intuition, to the fatigue of logical
argument. Thus they turn with an eager curiosity to the poets and
artists who have moved them by their images, allured them by their
metaphors, excited them by their enthusiasm. They demand from them the
explanation, the purpose of this enthusiasm, the secret of this beauty!
When distracted by heart-rending events, when tortured by intense
suffering, when feeling and enthusiasm seem to be but a heavy and
cumbersome load which may upset the life-boat if not thrown overboard
into the abyss of forgetfulness; who, when menaced with utter shipwreck
after a long struggle with peril, has not evoked the glorious shades
of those who have conquered, whose thoughts glow with noble ardor, to
inquire from them how far their aspirations were sincere, how long they
preserved their vitality and truth? Who has not exerted an ingenious
discernment to ascertain how much of the generous feeling depicted
was only for mental amusement, a mere speculation; how much had really
become incorporated with the habitual acts of life? Detraction is never
idle in such cases; it seizes eagerly upon the foibles, the neglect, the
faults of those who have been degraded by any weakness: alas, it omits
nothing! It chases its prey, it accumulates facts only to distort them,
it arrogates to itself the right of despising the inspiration to which
it will grant no authority or aim but to furnish amusement, denying
it any claim to guide our actions, our resolutions, our refusal, our
consent! Detraction knows well how to winnow history! Casting aside all
the good grain, it carefully gathers all the tares, to scatter the black
seed over the brilliant pages in which the purest desires of the heart,
the noblest dreams of the imagination are found; and with the irony of
assumed victory, demands what the grain is worth which only germinates
dearth and famine? Of what value the vain words, which only nourish
sterile feelings? Of what use are excursions into realms in which
no real fruit can ever be gathered? of what possible importance are
emotions and enthusiasm, which always end in calculations of interest,
covering only with brilliant veil the covert struggles of egotism and
venal self-interest?
With how much arrogant derision men given to such detraction, contrast
the noble thoughts of the poet, with his unworthy acts! The high
compositions of the artist, with his guilty frivolity! What a haughty
superiority they assume over the laborious merit of the men of guileless
honesty, whom they look upon as crustacea, sheltered from temptation
by the immobility of weak organizations, as well as over the pride of
those, who, believing themselves superior to such temptations, do not,
they assert, succeed even as well as themselves in repudiating the
pursuit of material well being, the gratification of vanity, or the
pleasure of immediate enjoyment! What an easy triumph they win over the
hesitation, the doubt, the repugnance of those who would fain cling to
a belief in the possibility of the union of vivid feelings, passionate
impressions, intellectual gifts, imaginative temperaments, with high
integrity, pure lives, and courses of conduct in perfect harmony with
poetic ideals!
It is therefore impossible not to feel the deepest sadness when we meet
with any fact which shows us the poet disobedient to the inspiration
of the Muses, those guardian angels of the man of genius, who would
willingly teach him to make of his own life the most beautiful of
poems. What disastrous doubts in the minds of others, what profound
discouragements, what melancholy apostasies are induced by the faltering
steps of the man of genius! And yet it would be profanity to confound
his errors in the same anathema, hurled against the base vices of
meanness, the shameless effrontery of low crime! It would be sacrilege!
If the acts of the poet have sometimes denied the spirit of his song,
have not his songs still more powerfully denied his acts? May not
the limited influence of his private actions have been far more than
counterbalanced by the germs of creative virtues, scattered profusely
through his eloquent writings? Evil is contagious, but good is truly
fruitful! The poet, even while forcing his inner convictions to give way
to his personal interest, still acknowledges and ennobles the sentiments
which condemn himself; such sentiments attain a far wider influence
through his works than can be exerted by his individual acts. Are not
the number of spirits which have been calmed, consoled, edified, through
these works, far greater than the number of those who have been injured
by the errors of his private life? Art is far more powerful than the
artist. His creations have a life independent of his vacillating will;
for they are revelations of the "immutable beauty!" More durable than
himself, they pass on from generation to generation; let us hope that
they may, through the blessings of their widely spread influence,
contain a virtual power of redemption for the frequent errors of
their gifted authors. If it be indeed true that many of those who have
immortalized their sensibility and their aspirations, by robing them in
the garb of surpassing eloquence, have, nevertheless, stifled these high
aspirations, abused these quick sensibilities,--how many have they not
confirmed, strengthened and encouraged to pursue a noble course, through
the works created by their genius! A generous indulgence towards them
would be but justice! It is hard to be forced to claim simple justice
for them; unpleasant to be constrained to defend those whom we wish to
be admired, to excuse those whom we wish to see venerated!
With what exultant feelings of just pride may the friend and artist
remember a career in which there are no jarring dissonances; no
contradictions, for which he is forced to claim indulgence; no errors,
whose source must be found in palliation of their existence; no extreme,
to be accounted for as the consequence of "excess of cause." How sweet
it is to be able to name one who has fully proved that it is not only
apathetic beings whom no fascination can attract, no illusion betray,
who are able to limit themselves within the strict routine of honored
and honorable laws, who may justly claim that elevation of soul, which
no reverse subdues, and which is never found in contradiction with its
better self! Doubly dear and doubly honored must the memory of Chopin,
in this respect, ever remain! Dear to the friends and artists who have
known him in his lifetime, dear to the unknown friends who shall learn
to love him through his poetic song, as well as to the artists who, in
succeeding him, shall find their glory in being worthy of him!
The character of Chopin, in none of its numerous folds, concealed a
single movement, a single impulse, which was not dictated by the nicest
sense of honor, the most delicate appreciation of affection. Yet no
nature was ever more formed to justify eccentricity, whims, and abrupt
caprices. His imagination was ardent, his feelings almost violent, his
physical organization weak, irritable and sickly. Who can measure the
amount of suffering arising from such contrasts? It must have been
bitter, but he never allowed it to be seen! He kept the secret of his
torments, he veiled them from all eyes under the impenetrable serenity
of a haughty resignation.
The delicacy of his heart and constitution imposed upon him the woman's
torture, that of enduring agonies never to be confessed, thus giving to
his fate some of the darker hues of feminine destiny. Excluded, by
the infirm state of his health, from the exciting arena of ordinary
activity, without any taste for the useless buzzing, in which a few
bees, joined with many wasps, expend their superfluous strength, he
built apart from all noisy and frequented routes a secluded cell for
himself. Neither adventures, embarrassments, nor episodes, mark
his life, which he succeeded in simplifying, although surrounded by
circumstances which rendered such a result difficult of attainment. His
own feelings, his own impressions, were his events; more important in
his eyes than the chances and changes of external life. He constantly
gave lessons with regularity and assiduity; domestic and daily tasks,
they were given conscientiously and satisfactorily. As the devout in
prayer, so he poured out his soul in his compositions, expressing in
them those passions of the heart, those unexpressed sorrows, to which
the pious give vent in their communion with their Maker. What they never
say except upon their knees, he said in his palpitating compositions;
uttering in the language of the tones those mysteries of passion and of
grief which man has been permitted to understand without words, because
there are no words adequate for their expression.
The care taken by Chopin to avoid the zig-zags of life, to eliminate
from it all that was useless, to prevent its crumbling into masses
without form, has deprived his own course of incident. The vague lines
and indications surrounding his figure like misty clouds, disappear
under the touch which would strive to follow or trace their outlines. He
takes part in no actions, no drama, no entanglements, no denouements.
He exercised a decisive influence upon no human being. His will never
encroached upon the desires of another, he never constrained any
other spirit, or crashed it under the domination of his own, He never
tyrannized over another heart, he never placed a conquering hand upon
the destiny of another being. He sought nothing; he would have scorned
to have made any demands. Like Tasso, he might say:
Brama assai, poco spera, e nulla chiede. In compensation, he escaped
from all ties; from the affections which might have influenced him, or
led him into more tumultuous spheres. Ready to yield all, he never gave
himself. Perhaps he knew what exclusive devotion, what love without
limit he was worthy of inspiring, of understanding, of sharing! Like
other ardent and ambitions natures, he may have thought if love and
friendship are not all--they are nothing! Perhaps it would have been
more painful for him to have accepted a part, any thing less than
all, than to have relinquished all, and thus to have remained at least
faithful to his impossible Ideal! If these things have been so or not,
none ever knew, for he rarely spoke of love or friendship. He was not
exacting, like those whose high claims and just demands exceed all that
we possess to offer them. The most intimate of his acquaintances never
penetrated to that secluded fortress in which the soul, absent from his
common life, dwelt; a fortress which he so well succeeded in concealing,
that its very existence was scarcely suspected.
In his relations and intercourse with others, he always seemed occupied
in what interested them; he was cautions not to lead them from the
circle of their own personality, lest they should intrude into his. If
he gave up but little of his time to others, at least of that which he
did relinquish, he reserved none for himself. No one ever asked him to
give an account of his dreams, his wishes, or his hopes. No one seemed
to wish to know what he sighed for, what he might have conquered, if his
white and tapering fingers could have linked the brazen chords of life
to the golden ones of his enchanted lyre! No one had leisure to think of
this in his presence. His conversation was rarely upon subjects of any
deep interest. He glided lightly over all, and as he gave but little
of his time, it was easily filled with the details of the day. He was
careful never to allow himself to wander into digressions of which he
himself might become the subject. His individuality rarely excited the
investigations of curiosity, or awakened vivid scrutiny. He pleased
too much to excite much reflection. The ensemble of his person was
harmonious, and called for no especial commentary. His blue eye was more
spiritual than dreamy, his bland smile never writhed into bitterness.
The transparent delicacy of his complexion pleased the eye, his fair
hair was soft and silky, his nose slightly aquiline, his bearing so
distinguished, and his manners stamped with so much high breeding, that
involuntarily he was always treated EN PRINCE. His gestures were many
and graceful; the tone of his voice was veiled, often stifled; his
stature was low, and his limbs slight. He constantly reminded us of a
convolvulus balancing its heaven-colored cup upon an incredibly slight
stem, the tissue of which is so like vapor that the slightest contact
wounds and tears the misty corolla.
His manners in society possessed that serenity of mood which
distinguishes those whom no ennui annoys, because they expect no
interest. He was generally gay, his caustic spirit caught the ridiculous
rapidly and far below the surface at which it usually strikes the eye.
He displayed a rich vein of drollery in pantomime. He often amused
himself by reproducing the musical formulas and peculiar tricks of
certain virtuosi, in the most burlesque and comic improvisations, in
imitating their gestures, their movements, in counterfeiting their faces
with a talent which instantaneously depicted their whole personality.
His own features would then become scarcely recognizable, he could force
the strangest metamorphoses upon them, but while mimicking the ugly and
grotesque, he never lost his own native grace. Grimace was never carried
far enough to disfigure him; his gayety was so much the more piquant
because he always restrained it within the limits of perfect good
taste, holding at a suspicious distance all that could wound the most
fastidious delicacy. He never made use of an inelegant word, even in the
moments of the most entire familiarity; an improper merriment, a coarse
jest would have been shocking to him.
Through a strict exclusion of all subjects relating to himself from
conversation, through a constant reserve with regard to his own
feelings, he always succeeded in leaving a happy impression behind him.
People in general like those who charm them without causing them to
fear that they will be called upon to render aught in return for the
amusement given, or that the pleasurable excitement of gayety will be
followed by the sadness of melancholy confidences the sight of mournful
faces, or the inevitable reactions which occur in susceptible natures of
which we may say: Ubi mel, ibi fel. People generally like to keep such
"susceptible natures" at a distance; they dislike to be brought into
contact with their melancholy moods, though they do not refuse a kind
of respect to the mournful feelings caused by their subtle reactions;
indeed such changes possess for them the attraction of the unknown and
they are as ready to take delight in the description of such changing
caprices, as they are to avoid their reality. The presence of Chopin
was always feted. He interested himself so vividly in all that was not
himself, that his own personality remained intact, unapproached and
unapproachable, under the polished and glassy surface upon which it was
impossible to gain footing.
On some occasions, although very rarely, we have seen him deeply
agitated. We have seen him grow so pale and wan, that his appearance was
actually corpse-like. But even in moments of the most intense
emotion, he remained concentrated within himself. A single instant
for self-recovery always enabled him to veil the secret of his first
impression. However full of spontaneity his bearing afterwards might
seem to be, it was instantaneously the effect of reflection, of a will
which governed the strange conflict of emotional and moral energy with
conscious physical debility; a conflict whose strange contrasts were
forever warring vividly within. The dominion exercised over the natural
violence of his character reminds us of the melancholy force of those
beings who seek their strength in isolation and entire self-control,
conscious of the uselessness of their vivid indignation and vexation,
and too jealous of the mysteries of their passions to betray them
gratuitously.
He could pardon in the most noble manner. No rancor remained in his
heart toward those who had wounded him, though such wounds penetrated
deeply in his soul, and fermented there in vague pain and internal
suffering, so that long after the exciting cause had been effaced from
his memory, he still experienced the secret torture. By dint of constant
effort, in spite of his acute and tormenting sensibilities, he subjected
his feelings to the rule rather of what ought to be, than of what is;
thus he was grateful for services proceeding rather from good intentions
than from a knowledge of what would have been agreeable to him; from
friendship which wounded him, because not aware of his acute but
concealed susceptibility. Nevertheless the wounds caused by such awkward
miscomprehension are, of all others, the most difficult for nervous
temperaments to bear. Condemned to repress their vexation, such natures
are excited by degrees to a state of constantly gnawing irritability,
which they can never attribute to the true cause. It would be a gross
mistake to imagine that this irritation existed without provocation.
But as a dereliction from what appeared to him to be the most honorable
course of conduct was a temptation which he was never called upon to
resist, because in all probability it never presented itself to him;
so he never, in the presence of the more vigorous and therefore more
brusque and positive individualities than his own, unveiled the
shudder, if repulsion be too strong a term, caused by their contact or
association.
The reserve which marked his intercourse with others, extended to
all subjects to which the fanaticism of opinion can attach. His own
sentiments could only be estimated by that which he did not do in the
narrow limits of his activity. His patriotism was revealed in the course
taken by his genius, in the choice of his friends, in the preferences
given to his pupils, and in the frequent and great services which he
rendered to his compatriots; but we cannot remember that he took any
pleasure in the expression of this feeling. If he sometimes entered
upon the topic of politics, so vividly attacked, so warmly defended,
so frequently discussed in Prance, it was rather to point out what he
deemed dangerous or erroneous in the opinions advanced by others than to
win attention for his own. In constant connection with some of the most
brilliant politicians of the day, he knew how to limit the relations
between them to a personal attachment entirely independent of political
interests.
Democracy presented to his view an agglomeration of elements too
heterogeneous, too restless, wielding too much savage power, to win
his sympathies. The entrance of social and political questions into the
arena of popular discussion was compared, more than twenty years ago,
to a new and bold incursion of barbarians. Chopin was peculiarly and
painfully struck by the terror which this comparison awakened. He
despaired of obtaining the safety of Rome from these modern Attilas,
he feared the destruction of art, its monuments, its refinements, its
civilization; in a word, he dreaded the loss of the elegant, cultivated
if somewhat indolent ease described by Horace. Would the graceful
elegancies of life, the high culture of the arts, indeed be safe in
the rude and devastating hands of the new barbarians? He followed at a
distance the progress of events, and an acuteness of perception, which
he would scarcely have been supposed to possess, often enabled him
to predict occurrences which were not anticipated even by the best
informed. But though such observations escaped him, he never developed
them. His concise remarks attracted no attention until time proved their
truth. His good sense, full of acuteness, had early persuaded him of
the perfect vacuity of the greater part of political orations, of
theological discussions, of philosophic digressions. He began early to
practice the favorite maxim of a man of great distinction, whom we have
often heard repeat a remark dictated by the misanthropic wisdom of age,
which was then startling to our inexperienced impetuosity, but which
has since frequently struck us by its melancholy truth: "You will be
persuaded one day as I am," (said the Marquis de Noailles to the young
people whom he honored with his attention, and who were becoming heated
in some naive discussions of differing opinions,) "that it is scarcely
possible to talk about any thing to any body." (Qu'il n'y a guere moyen
de causer de quoi que ce soit, avec qui que ce soit.)
Sincerely religious, and attached to Catholicity, Chopin never touched
upon this subject, but held his faith without attracting attention to
it. One might have been acquainted with him for a long time, without
knowing exactly what his religious opinion were. Perhaps to console his
inactive hand an reconcile it with his lute, he persuaded himself to
think: Il mondo va da se. We have frequently watched him during the
progress of long, animated, and stormy discussions, in which he would
take no part. In the excitement of the debate he was forgotten by the
speakers, but we have often neglected to follow the chain of their
reasoning, to fix our attention upon the features of Chopin, which were
almost imperceptibly contracted when subjects touching upon the most
important conditions of our existence were discussed with such eagerness
and ardor, that it might have been thought our fates were to be
instantly decided by the result of the debate. At such times, he
appeared to us like a passenger on board of a vessel, driven and tossed
by tempests upon the stormful waves, thinking of his distant country,
watching the horizon, the stars, the manoeuvres of the sailors, counting
their fatal mistakes, without possessing in himself sufficient force to
seize a rope, or the energy requisite to haul in a fluttering sail.
On one single subject he relinquished his premeditated silence, his
cherished neutrality. In the cause of art he broke through his reserve,
he never abdicated upon this topic the explicit enunciation of his
opinions. He applied himself with great perseverance to extend the
limits of his influence upon this subject. It was a tacit confession
that he considered himself legitimately possessed of the authority of
a great artist. In questions which he dignified by his competence, he
never left any doubt with regard to the nature of his opinions. During
several years his appeals were full of impassioned ardor, but later, the
triumph of his opinions having diminished the interest of his role, he
sought no further occasion to place himself as leader, as the bearer of
any banner. In the only occurrence in which he took part in the
conflict of parties, he gave proof of opinions, absolute, tenacious, and
inflexible, as those which rarely come to the light usually are.
Shortly after his arrival in Paris, in 1832, a new school was formed
both in literature and music, and youthful talent appeared, which
shook off with eclat the yoke of ancient formulas. The scarcely lulled
political effervescence of the first years of the revolution of
July, passed into questions upon art and letters, which attracted the
attention and interest of all minds. ROMANTICISM was the order of the
day; they fought with obstinacy for and against it. What truce could
there be between those who would not admit the possibility of writing
in any other than the already established manner, and those who thought
that the artist should be allowed to choose such forms as he deemed best
suited for the expression of his ideas; that the rule of form should
be found in the agreement of the chosen form with the sentiments to
be expressed, every different shade of feeling requiring of course a
different mode of expression? The former believed in the existence of
a permanent form, whose perfection represented absolute Beauty. But in
admitting that the great masters had attained the highest limits in art,
had reached supreme perfection, they left to the artists who succeeded
them no other glory than the hope of approaching these models, more or
less closely, by imitation, thus frustrating all hope of ever equalling
them, because the perfecting of any process can never rival the merit
of its invention. The latter denied that the immaterial Beautiful could
have a fixed and absolute form. The different forms which had appeared
in the history of art, seemed to them like tents spread in the
interminable route of the ideal; mere momentary halting places which
genius attains from epoch to epoch, and beyond which the inheritors of
the past should strive to advance. The former wished to restrict the
creations of times and natures the most dissimilar, within the limits
of the same symmetrical frame; the latter claimed for all writers the
liberty of creating their own mode, accepting no other rules than those
which result from the direct relation of sentiment and form, exacting
only that the form should be adequate to the expression of the
sentiment. However admirable the existing models might be, they did not
appear to them to have exhausted all the range of sentiments upon which
art might seize, or all the forms which it might advantageously use. Not
contented with the mere excellence of form, they sought it so far only
as its perfection is indispensable for the complete revelation of the
idea, for they were not ignorant that the sentiment is maimed if the
form remain imperfect, any imperfection in it, like an opaque veil,
intercepting the raying of the pure idea. Thus they elevated what had
otherwise been the mere work of the trade, into the sphere of poetic
inspiration. They enjoined upon genius and patience the task of
inventing a form which would satisfy the exactions of the inspiration.
They reproached their adversaries with attempting to reduce inspiration
to the bed of Procrustes, because they refused to admit that there are
sentiments which cannot be expressed in forms which have been determined
upon beforehand, and of thus robbing art, in advance even of their
creation, of all works which might attempt the introduction of newly
awakened ideas, newly clad in new forms; forms and ideas both naturally
arising from the naturally progressive development of the human spirit,
the improvement of the instruments, and the consequent increase of the
material resources of art.
Those who saw the flames of Genius devour the old worm-eaten crumbling
skeletons, attached themselves to the musical school of which the most
gifted, the most brilliant, the most daring representative, was Berlioz.
Chopin joined this school. He persisted most strenuously in freeing
himself from the servile formulas of conventional style, while he
earnestly repudiated the charlatanism which sought to replace the old
abuses only by the introduction of new ones.
During the years which this campaign of Romanticism lasted, in which
some of the trial blows were master-strokes, Chopin remained invariable
in his predilections, as well as in his repulsions. He did not admit the
least compromise with those who, in his opinion, did not sufficiently
represent progress, and who, in their refusal to relinquish the desire
of displaying art for the profit of the trade, in their pursuit of
transitory effects, of success won only from the astonishment of the
audience, gave no proof of sincere devotion to progress. He broke the
ties which he had contracted with respect when he felt restricted by
them, or bound too closely to the shore by cordage which he knew to be
decayed. He obstinately refused, on the other hand, to form ties with
the young artists whose success, which he deemed exaggerated, elevated a
certain kind of merit too highly. He never gave the least praise to any
thing which he did not believe to be a real conquest for art, or which
did not evince a serious conception of the task of an artist. He did
not wish to be lauded by any party, to be aided by the manoeuvres of
any faction, or by the concessions made by any schools in the persons
of their chiefs. In the midst of jealousies, encroachments, forfeitures,
and invasions of the different branches of art, negotiations, treaties,
and contracts have been introduced, like the means and appliances of
diplomacy, with all the artifices inseparable from such a course. In
refusing the support of any accessory aid for his productions, he proved
that he confidently believed that their own beauty would ensure their
appreciation, and that he did not struggle to facilitate their immediate
reception.
He supported our struggles, at that time so full of uncertainty, when we
met more sages shaking their heads, than glorious adversaries, with his
calm and unalterable conviction. He aided us with opinions so fixed
that neither weariness nor artifice could shake them, with a rare
immutability of will, and that efficacious assistance which the creation
of meritorious works always brings to a struggling cause, when it can
claim them as its own. He mingled so many charms, so much moderation, so
much knowledge with his daring innovations, that the prompt admiration
he inspired fully justified the confidence he placed in his own genius.
The solid studies which he had made, the reflective habits of his youth,
the worship for classic models in which he had been educated, preserved
him from losing his strength in blind gropings, in doubtful triumphs,
as has happened to more than one partisan of the new ideas. His studious
patience in the elaboration of his works sheltered him from the
critics, who envenomed the dissensions by seizing upon those easy
and insignificant victories due to omissions, and the negligence of
inadvertence. Early trained to the exactions and restrictions of rules,
having produced compositions filled with beauty when subjected to all
their fetters, he never shook them off without an appropriate cause and
after due reflection. In virtue of his principles he always progressed,
but without being led into exaggeration or lured by compromise; he
willingly relinquished theoretic formulas to pursue their results.
Less occupied with the disputes of the schools and their terms, than in
producing himself the best argument, a finished work, he was fortunate
enough to avoid personal enmities and vexatious accommodations.
Chopin had that reverential worship for art which characterized the
first masters of the middle ages, but in expression and bearing he was
more simple, modern, and less ecstatic. As for them, so art was for him,
a high and holy vocation. Like them he was proud of his election for it,
and honored it with devout piety. This feeling was revealed at the hour
of his death through an occurrence, the significance of which is more
fully explained by a knowledge of the manners prevalent in Poland. By a
custom which still exists, although it is now falling into disuse, the
Poles often chose the garments in which they wished to be buried,
and which were frequently prepared a long time in advance. [Footnote:
General K----, the author of Julie and Adolphe, a romance imitated from
the New Heloise which was much in vogue at the time of its publication,
and who was still living in Volhynia at the date of our visit to Poland,
though more than eighty years of age, in conformity with the custom
spoken of above, had caused his coffin to be made, and for more than
thirty years it had always stood at the door of his chamber.] Their
dearest wishes were thus expressed for the last time, their inmost
feelings were thus at the hour of death betrayed. Monastic robes were
frequently chosen by worldly men, the costumes of official charges
were selected or refused as the remembrances connected with them
were glorious or painful. Chopin, who, although among the first
of contemporary artists, had given the fewest concerts, wished,
notwithstanding, to be borne to the grave in the clothes which he had
worn on such occasions. A natural and profound feeling springing from
the inexhaustible sources of art, without doubt dictated this dying
request, when having scrupulously fulfilled the last duties of a
Christian, he left all of earth which he could not bear with him to
the skies. He had linked his love for art and his faith in it with
immortality long before the approach of death, and as he robed himself
for his long sleep in the grave, he gave, as was customary with him,
by a mute symbol, the last touching proof of the conviction he had
preserved intact during the whole course of his life. Faithful to
himself, he died adoring art in its mystic greatness, its highest
revelations.
In retiring from the turmoil of society, Chopin concentrated his
cares and affections upon the circle of his own family and his early
acquaintances. Without any interruption he preserved close relations
with them; never ceasing to keep them up with the greatest care. His
sister Louise was especially dear to him, a resemblance in the character
of their minds, the bent of their feelings, bound them closely to each
other. Louise frequently came from Warsaw to Paris to see him. She spent
the last three months of his life with the brother she loved, watching
over him with undying affection. Chopin kept up a regular correspondence
with the members of his own family, but only with them. It was one of
his peculiarities to write letters to no others; it might almost have
been thought that he had made a vow to write to no strangers. It was
curious enough to see him resort to all kinds of expedients to escape
the necessity of tracing the most insignificant note. Many times he has
traversed Paris from one end to the other, to decline an invitation to
dinner, or to give some trivial information, rather than write a few
lines which would have spared him all this trouble and loss of time. His
handwriting was quite unknown to the greatest number of his friends. It
is said he sometimes departed from this custom in favor of his beautiful
countrywomen, some of whom possess several of his notes written in
Polish. This infraction of what seemed to be a law with him, may be
attributed to the pleasure he took in the use of this language.
He always used it with the people of his own country, and loved to
translate its most expressive phrases. He was a good French scholar,
as the Sclaves generally are. In consequence of his French origin, the
language had been taught him with peculiar care. But he did not like
it, he did not think it sufficiently sonorous, and he deemed its genius
cold. This opinion is very prevalent among the Poles, who, although
speaking it with great facility, often better than their native tongue,
and frequently using it in their intercourse with each other, yet
complain to those who do not speak Polish of the impossibility of
rendering the thousand ethereal and shifting modes of thought in any
other idiom. In their opinion it is sometimes dignity, sometimes grace,
sometimes passion, which is wanting in the French language. If they are
asked the meaning of a word or a phrase which they may have cited in
Polish, the reply invariably is: "Oh, that cannot be translated!" Then
follow explanations, serving as comments to the exclamation, of all the
subtleties, all the shades of meaning, all the delicacies contained
in THE NOT TO BE TRANSLATED words. We have cited some examples which,
joined to others, induce us to believe that this language has the
advantage of making images of abstract nouns, and that in the course of
its development, through the poetic genius of the nation, it has been
enabled to establish striking and just relations between ideas by
etymologies, derivations, and synonymes. Colored reflections of light
and shade are thus thrown upon all expressions, so that they necessarily
call into vibration through the mind the correspondent tone of a third,
which modulates the thought into a major or minor mode. The richness
of the language always permits the choice of the mode, but this very
richness may become a difficulty. It is not impossible that the general
use of foreign tongues in Poland may be attributed to indolence of
mind or want of application; may be traced to a desire to escape the
necessary labor of acquiring that mastery of diction indispensable in
a language so full of sudden depths, of laconic energy, that it is very
difficult, if not quite impossible, to support in it the commonplace.
The vague agreements of badly defined ideas cannot be compressed in the
nervous strength of its grammatical forms; the thought, if it be really
low, cannot be elevated from its debasement or poverty; if it really
soar above the commonplace, it requires a rare precision of terms not
to appear uncouth or fantastic. In consequence of this, in proportion
to the works published, the Polish literature should be able to show a
greater number of chefs-d'oeuvre than can be done in any other language.
He who ventures to use this tongue, must feel himself already master.
[Footnote: It cannot be reproached with a want of harmony or musical
charm. The harshness of a language does not always and absolutely depend
upon the number of consonants, but rather upon the manner of their
association. We might even assert, that in consequence of the absence of
well-determined and strongly marked sounds, some languages have a dull
and cold coloring. It is the frequent repetition of certain consonants
which gives shadow, rhythm, and vigor to a tongue; the vowels imparting
only a kind of light clear hue, which requires to be brought out by
deeper shades. It is the sharp, uncouth, or unharmonious clashing of
heterogeneous consonants which strikes the ear painfully. It is true the
Sclavic languages make use of many consonants, but their connection is
generally sonorous, sometimes pleasant to the ear, and scarcely ever
entirely discordant, even when the combinations are more striking than
agreeable. The quality of the sounds is rich, full, and varied. They
are not straitened and contracted as if produced in a narrow medium, but
extending through a considerable register, range through a variety of
intonations. The letter L, almost impossible for those to pronounce, who
have not acquired the pronunciation in their infancy, has nothing harsh
in its sound. The ear receives from it an impression similar to that
which is made upon the fingers by the touch of a thick woolen velvet,
rough, but at the same time, yielding. The union of jarring consonants
being rare, and the assonances easily multiplied, the same comparison
might be employed to the ensemble of the effect produced by these idioms
upon foreigners. Many words occur in Polish which imitate the sound
of the thing designated by them. The frequent repetition of CH, (h
aspirated,) of SZ, (CH in French,) of RZ, of CZ, so frightful to a
profane eye, have however nothing barbaric in their sounds, being
pronounced nearly like GEAI, and TCHE, and greatly facilitate imitations
of the sense by the sound. The word DZWIEK, (read DZWIINQUE,) meaning
sound, offers a characteristic example of this; it would be difficult to
find a word which would reproduce more accurately the sensation which a
diapason makes upon the ear. Among the consonants accumulated in groups,
producing very different sounds, sometimes metallic, sometimes buzzing,
hissing or rumbling, many diphthongs and vowels are mingled, which
sometimes become slightly nasal, the A and E being sounded as ON and IN,
(in French,) when they are accompanied by a cedilla. In juxtaposition
with the E, (TSE,) which is pronounced with great softness, sometimes C,
(TSIE,) the accented S is almost warbled. The Z has three sounds: the
Z, (JAIS,) the Z, (ZED,) and the Z, (ZIED). The Y forms a vowel of a
muffled tone, which, as the L, cannot be represented by any equivalent
sound in French, and which like it gives a variety of ineffable shades
to the language. These fine and light elements enable the Polish women
to assume a lingering and singing accent, which they usually transport
into other tongues. When the subjects are serious or melancholy, after
such recitatives or improvised lamentations, they have a sort of lisping
infantile manner of speaking, which they vary by light silvery laughs,
little interjectional cries, short musical pauses upon the higher notes,
from which they descend by one knows not what chromatic scale of demi
and quarter tones to rest upon some low note; and again pursue the
varied, brusque and original modulations which astonish the ear not
accustomed to such lovely warblings, to which they sometimes give that
air of caressing irony, of cunning mockery, peculiar to the song of some
birds. They love to ZINZILYLER, and charming changes, piquant intervals,
unexpected cadences naturally find place in this fondling prattle,
making the language far more sweet and caressing when spoken by the
women, than it is in the mouths of the men. The men indeed pride
themselves upon speaking it with elegance, impressing upon it a
masculine sonorousness, which is peculiarly adapted to the energetic
movements of manly eloquence, formerly so much cultivated in Poland.
Poetry commands such a diversity of prosodies, of rhymes, of rhythms,
such an abundance of assonances from these rich and varied materials,
that it is almost possible to follow MUSICALLY the feelings and scenes
which it depicts, not only in mere expressions in which the sound
repeats the sense, but also in long declamations. The analogy between
the Polish and Russian, has been compared to that which obtains between
the Latin and Italian. The Russian language is indeed more mellifluous,
more lingering, more caressing, fuller of sighs than the Polish. Its
cadencing is peculiarly fitted for song. The finer poems, such as those
of Zukowski and Pouchkin, seem to contain a melody already designated in
the metre of the verses; for example, it would appear quite possible
to detach an ARIOSO or a sweet CANTIABLE from some of the stanzas of
LE CHALE NOIR, or the TALISMAN. The ancient Sclavonic, which is the
language of the Eastern Church, possesses great majesty. More guttural
than the idioms which have arisen from it, it is severe and monotonous
yet of great dignity, like the Byzantine paintings preserved in
the worship to which it is consecrated. It has throughout the
characteristics of a sacred language which has only been used for the
expression of one feeling and has never been modulated or fashioned by
profane wants.]
Chopin mingled a charming grace with all the intercourse which he held
with his relatives. Not satisfied with limiting his whole correspondence
to them alone, he profited by his stay in Paris to procure for them the
thousand agreeable surprises given by the novelties, the bagatelles, the
little gifts which charm through their beauty, or attract as being
the first seen of their kind. He sought for all that he had reason to
believe would please his friends in Warsaw, adding constant presents to
his many letters. It was his wish that his gifts should be preserved,
that through the memories linked with them he might be often remembered
by those to whom they were sent. He attached the greatest importance,
on his side, to all the evidences of their affection for him. To receive
news or some mark of their remembrance, was always a festival for him.
He never shared this pleasure with any one, but it was plainly visible
in his conduct. He took the greatest care of every thing that came from
his distant friends, the least of their gifts was precious to him, he
never allowed others to make use of them, indeed he was visibly uneasy
if they touched them.
Material elegance was as natural to him as mental; this was evinced
in the objects with which he surrounded himself, as well as in the
aristocratic grace of his manners. He was passionately fond of flowers.
Without aiming at the brilliant luxury with which, at that epoch, some
of the celebrities in Paris decorated their apartments, he knew how to
keep upon this point, as well as in his style of dress, the instinctive
line of perfect propriety.
Not wishing the course of his life, his thoughts, his time, to be
associated or shackled in any way by the pursuits of others, he
preferred the society of ladies, as less apt to force him into
subsequent relations. He willingly spent whole evenings in playing blind
man's buff with the young people, telling them little stories to make
them break into the silvery laughs of youth, sweeter than the song of
the nightingale. He was fond of a life in the country, or the life of
the chateau. He was ingenious in varying its amusements, in multiplying
its enjoyments. He also loved to compose there. Many of his best works
written in such moments, perhaps embalm and hallow the memories of his
happiest days.