CHOPIN'S PRODUCTIONS FROM THE SPRING OF 1829 TO THEEND OF 1831.--THE
CHIEF INFLUENCES THAT HELPED TO FORM HIS STYLE OF COMPOSITION.
Let us pause for a little in our biographical inquiries and critically
examine what Chopin had achieved as a composer since the spring of 1829.
At the very first glance it becomes evident that the works of the last
two years (1829-1831) are decidedly superior to those he wrote before
that time. And this advance was not due merely to the increased power
derived from practice; it was real growth, which a Greek philosopher
describes as penetration of nourishment into empty places, the
nourishment being in Chopin's case experience of life's joys and
sorrows. In most of the works of what I call his first period, the
composer luxuriates, as it were, in language. He does not regard it
solely or chiefly as the interpreter of thoughts and feelings, he loves
it for its own sake, just as children, small and tall, prattle for no
other reason than the pleasure of prattling. I closed the first period
when a new element entered Chopin's life and influenced his artistic
work. This element was his first love, his passion for Constantia
Gtadkowska. Thenceforth Chopin's compositions had in them more of
humanity and poetry, and the improved subject-matter naturally, indeed
necessarily, chastened, ennobled, and enriched the means and ways
of expression. Of course no hard line can be drawn between the two
periods--the distinctive quality of the one period appears sometimes
in the work of the other: a work of the earlier period foreshadows the
character of the later; one of the later re-echoes that of the earlier.
The compositions which we know to have been written by Chopin between
1829 and 1831 are few in number. This may be partly because Chopin was
rather idle from the autumn of 1830 to the end of 1831, partly because
no account of the production of other works has come down to us. In
fact, I have no doubt that other short pieces besides those mentioned by
Chopin in his letters were composed during those years, and subsequently
published by him. The compositions oftenest and most explicitly
mentioned in the letters are also the most important ones--namely, the
concertos. As I wish to discuss them at some length, we will keep them
to the last, and see first what allusions to other compositions we can
find, and what observations these latter give rise to.
On October 3, 1829, Chopin sends his friend Titus Woyciechowski a waltz
which, he says, was, like the Adagio of the F minor Concerto, inspired
by his ideal, Constantia Gladkowska:--
Pay attention to the passage marked with a +; nobody, except
you, knows of this. How happy would I be if I could play my
newest compositions to you! In the fifth bar of the trio the
bass melody up to E flat dominates, which, however, I need
not tell you, as you are sure to feel it without being told.
The remark about the bass melody up to E flat in the trio gives us a
clue to which of Chopin's waltzes this is. It can be no other than the
one in D flat which Fontana published among his friend's posthumous
works as Op. 70, No. 3. Although by no means equal to any of the waltzes
published by Chopin himself, one may admit that it is pretty; but its
chief claim to our attention lies in the fact that it contains germs
which reappear as fully-developed flowers in other examples of this
class of the master's works--the first half of the first part reappears
in the opening (from the ninth bar onward) of Op. 42 (Waltz in A flat
major); and the third part, in the third part (without counting the
introductory bars) of Op. 34, No. 1 (Waltz in A flat major).
On October 20, 1829, Chopin writes:--"During my visit at Prince
Radziwill's [at Antonin] I wrote an Alla Polacca. It is nothing more
than a brilliant salon piece, such as pleases ladies"; and on April 10,
1830:--
I shall play [at a soiree at the house of Lewicki] Hummel's
"La Sentinelle," and at the close my Polonaise with
violoncello, for which I have composed an Adagio as an
introduction. I have already rehearsed it, and it does not
sound badly.
Prince Radziwill, the reader will remember, played the violoncello.
It was, however, not to him but to Merk that Chopin dedicated this
composition, which, before departing from Vienna to Paris, he left with
Mechetti, who eventually published it under the title of "Introduction
et Polonaise brillante pour piano et violoncelle," dediees a Mr. Joseph
Merk. On the whole we may accept Chopin's criticism of his Op. 3 as
correct. The Polonaise is nothing but a brilliant salon piece. Indeed,
there is very little in this composition--one or two pianoforte
passages, and a finesse here and there excepted--that distinguishes
it as Chopin's. The opening theme verges even dangerously to the
commonplace. More of the Chopinesque than in the Polonaise may be
discovered in the Introduction, which was less of a piece d'occasion.
What subdued the composer's individuality was no doubt the violoncello,
which, however, is well provided with grateful cantilene.
On two occasions Chopin writes of studies. On October 20, 1829: "I have
composed a study in my own manner"; and on November 14, 1829: "I have
written some studies; in your presence I would play them well." These
studies are probably among the twelve published in the summer of 1833,
they may, however, also be among those published in the autumn of 1837.
The twelfth of the first sheaf of studies (Op. 10) Chopin composed, as
already stated, at Stuttgart, when he was under the excitement caused by
the news of the taking of Warsaw by the Russians on September 8, 1831.
The words "I intend to write a Polonaise with orchestra," contained in a
letter dated September 18, 1830, give rise to the interesting question:
"Did Chopin realise his intention, and has the work come down to us?" I
think both questions can be answered in the affirmative. At any rate, I
hold that internal evidence seems to indicate that Op. 22, the "Grande
Polonaise brillante precedee d'un Andante spianato avec orchestre,"
which was published in the summer of 1836, is the work in question.
Whether the "Andante" was composed at the same time, and what, if any,
alterations were subsequently made in the Polonaise, I do not venture to
decide. But the Polonaise has so much of Chopin's early showy virtuosic
style and so little of his later noble emotional power that my
conjecture seems reasonable. Moreover, the fact that the orchestra is
employed speaks in favour of my theory, for after the works already
discussed in the tenth chapter, and the concertos with which we shall
concern ourselves presently, Chopin did not in any other composition
(i.e., after 1830) write for the orchestra. His experiences in Warsaw,
Vienna, and Paris convinced him, no doubt, that he was not made to
contend with masses, either as an executant or as a composer. Query: Is
the Polonaise, of which Chopin says in July, 1831, that he has to leave
it to Wurfel, Op. 22 or another work?
Two other projects of Chopin, however, seem to have remained
unrealised--a Concerto for two pianos which he intended to play in
public at Vienna with his countryman Nidecki (letter of December 21,
1830), and Variations for piano and violin on a theme of Beethoven's, to
be written conjointly by himself and Slavik (letters of December 21
and 25, 1830). Fragments of the former of these projected works may,
however, have been used in the "Allegro de Concert," Op. 46, published
in 1842.
In the letter of December 21, 1830, there is also an allusion to a waltz
and mazurkas just finished, but whether they are to be found among the
master's printed compositions is more than I can tell.
The three "Ecossaises" of the year 1830, which Fontana published as Op.
72, No. 3, are the least individual of Chopin's compositions, and almost
the only dances of his which may be described as dance music pure and
simple--rhythm and melody without poetry, matter with a minimum of soul.
The posthumous Mazurka (D major) of 1829-30 is unimportant. It contains
nothing notable, except perhaps the descending chromatic successions of
chords of the sixth. In fact, we can rejoice in its preservation only
because a comparison with a remodelling of 1832 allows us to trace a
step in Chopin's development.
And now we come to the concertos, the history of which, as far as it
is traceable in the composer's letters, I will here place before the
reader. If I repeat in this chapter passages already quoted in previous
chapters, it is for the sake of completeness and convenience.
October 3, 1829.--I have--perhaps to my misfortune--already
found my ideal, whom I worship faithfully and sincerely. Six
months have elapsed and I have not yet exchanged a syllable
with her of whom I dream every night. Whilst my thoughts were
with her I composed the Adagio of my Concerto.
The Adagio here mentioned is that of the F minor Concerto, Op. 21,
which he composed before but published after the F. minor Concerto,
Op. 11--the former appearing in print in April, 1836, the latter in
September, 1833. [Footnote: The slow movements of Chopin's concertos
are marked Larglietto, the composer uses here the word Adagio
generically--i.e., in the sense of slow movement generally.] Karasowski
says mistakingly that the movement referred to is the Adagio of the E
minor Concerto. He was perhaps misled by a mistranslation of his own. In
the German version of his Chopin biography he gives the concluding words
of the above quotation as "of my new Concerto," but there is no new
in the Polish text (na ktorego pamiatke skomponowalem Adagio do mojego
Koncertu).
October 20, 1829.--Elsner has praised the Adagio of the
Concerto. He says that there is something new in it. As to
the Rondo I do not wish yet to hear a judgment, for I am not
yet satisfied with it myself. I am curious whether I shall
finish this work when I return [from a visit to Prince
Radziwill].
November 14, 1829.--I received your last letter at Antonin at
Radziwill's. I was there a week; you cannot imagine how
quickly and pleasantly the time passed to me. I left by the
last coach, and had much trouble in getting away. As for me I
should have stayed till they had turned me out; but my
occupations and, above all things, my Concerto, which is
impatiently waiting for its Finale, have compelled me to take
leave of this Paradise.
On March 17, 1830, Chopin played the F minor Concerto at the first
concert he gave in Warsaw. How it was received by the public and the
critics on this occasion and on that of a second concert has been
related in the ninth chapter (p.131).
March 27, 1830.--I hope yet to finish before the holidays the
first Allegro of my second Concerto [i.e., the one in E
minor], and therefore I should in any case wait till after
the holidays [to give a third concert], although I am
convinced that I should have this time a still larger
audience than formerly; for the haute volee has not yet heard
me.
On April 10, 1830, Chopin writes that his Concerto is not yet finished;
and on May 15, 1830:--
The Rondo for my Concerto is not yet finished, because the
right inspired mood has always beep wanting. If I have only
the Allegro and the Adagio completely finished I shall be
without anxiety about the Finale. The Adagio is in E major,
and of a romantic, calm, and partly melancholy character. It
is intended to convey the impression which one receives when
the eye rests on a beloved landscape that calls up in one's
soul beautiful memories--for instance, on a fine, moonlit
spring night. I have written violins with mutes as an
accompaniment to it. I wonder if that will have a good
effect? Well, time will show.
August 21, 1830.--Next month I leave here; first, however, I
must rehearse my Concerto, for the Rondo is now finished.
For an account of the rehearsals of the Concerto and its first public
performance at Chopin's third Warsaw concert on October u, 1830, the
reader is referred to the tenth chapter (p. 150). [FOOTNOTE: In the
following remarks on the concertos I shall draw freely from the critical
commentary on the Pianoforte Works of Chopin, which I contributed some
years ago (1879) to the Monthly Musical Record.]
Chopin, says Liszt, wrote beautiful concertos and fine sonatas, but it
is not difficult to perceive in these productions "plus de volonte que
d'inspiration." As for his inspiration it was naturally "imperieuse,
fantasque, irreflechie; ses allures ne pouvaient etre que libres."
Indeed, Liszt believes that Chopin--
did violence to his genius every time he sought to fetter it
by rules, classifications, and an arrangement that was not
his own, and could not accord with the exigencies of his
spirit, which was one of those whose grace displays itself
when they seem to drift along [alter a la derive]....The
classical attempts of Chopin nevertheless shine by a rare
refinement of style. They contain passages of great interest,
parts of surprising grandeur.
With Chopin writing a concerto or a sonata was an effort, and the effort
was always inadequate for the attainment of the object--a perfect work
of its kind. He lacked the peculiar qualities, natural and acquired,
requisite for a successful cultivation of the larger forms. He could
not grasp and hold the threads of thought which he found flitting in his
mind, and weave them into a strong, complex web; he snatched them up one
by one, tied them together, and either knit them into light fabrics or
merely wound them into skeins. In short, Chopin was not a thinker, not
a logician--his propositions are generally good, but his arguments
are poor and the conclusions often wanting. Liszt speaks sometimes of
Chopin's science. In doing this, however, he misapplies the word. There
was nothing scientific in Chopin's mode of production, and there is
nothing scientific in his works. Substitute "ingenious" (in the sense
of quick-witted and possessed of genius, in the sense of the German
geistreich) for "scientific," and you come near to what Liszt really
meant. If the word is applicable at all to art, it can be applicable
only to works which manifest a sustained and dominating intellectual
power, such, for instance, as a fugue of Bach's, a symphony of
Beethoven's, that is, to works radically different from those of Chopin.
Strictly speaking, the word, however, is not applicable to art, for art
and science are not coextensive; nay, to some extent, are even
inimical to each other. Indeed, to call a work of art purely and simply
"scientific," is tantamount to saying that it is dry and uninspired by
the muse. In dwelling so long on this point my object was not so much to
elucidate Liszt's meaning as Chopin's character as a composer.
Notwithstanding their many shortcomings, the concertos may be said to be
the most satisfactory of Chopin's works in the larger forms, or at least
those that afford the greatest amount of enjoyment. In some respects the
concerto-form was more favourable than the sonata-form for the exercise
of Chopin's peculiar talent, in other respects it was less so. The
concerto-form admits of a far greater and freer display of the virtuosic
capabilities of the pianoforte than the sonata-form, and does not
necessitate the same strictness of logical structure, the same thorough
working-out of the subject-matter. But, on the other hand, it demands
aptitude in writing for the orchestra and appropriately solid material.
Now, Chopin lacked such aptitude entirely, and the nature of his
material accorded little with the size of the structure and the
orchestral frame. And, then, are not these confessions of intimate
experiences, these moonlight sentimentalities, these listless dreams,
&c., out of place in the gaslight glare of concert-rooms, crowded with
audiences brought together to a great extent rather by ennui, vanity,
and idle curiosity than by love of art?
The concerto is the least perfect species of the sonata genus;
practical, not ideal, reasons have determined its form, which owes its
distinctive features to the calculations of the virtuoso, not to the
inspiration of the creative artist. Romanticism does not take kindly to
it. Since Beethoven the form has been often modified, more especially
the long introductory tutti omitted or cut short. Chopin, however,
adhered to the orthodox form, taking unmistakably Hummel for his model.
Indeed, Hummel's concertos were Chopin's model not only as regards
structure, but also to a certain extent as regards the character of
the several movements. In the tutti's of the first movement, and in
the general complexion of the second (the slow) and the third (Rondo)
movement, this discipleship is most apparent. But while noting the
resemblance, let us not overlook the difference. If the bones are
Hummel's (which no doubt is an exaggeration of the fact), the flesh,
blood, and soul are Chopin's. In his case adherence to the orthodox
concerto-form was so much the more regrettable as writing for the
orchestra was one of his weakest points. Indeed, Chopin's originality
is gone as soon as he writes for another instrument than the pianoforte.
The commencement of the first solo is like the opening of a beautiful
vista after a long walk through dreary scenery, and every new entry
of the orchestra precipitates you from the delectable regions of
imagination to the joyless deserts of the actual. Chopin's inaptitude in
writing for the orchestra is, however, most conspicuous where he employs
it conjointly with the pianoforte. Carl Klindworth and Carl Tausig have
rescored the concertos: the former the one in F minor, the latter the
one in E minor. Klindworth wrote his arrangement of the F minor Concerto
in 1867-1868 in London, and published it ten years later at Moscow (P.
Jurgenson).[FOOTNOTE: The title runs: "Second Concerto de Chopin, Op.
21, avec un nouvel accompagnement d'orchestre d'apres la partition
originale par Karl Klindworth. Dedie a Franz Lizt." It is now the
property of the Berlin publishers Bote and Bock.] A short quotation from
the preface will charactise his work:--
The principal pianoforte part has, notwithstanding the entire
remodelling of the score, been retained almost unchanged.
Only in some passages, which the orchestra, in consequence of
a richer instrumentation, accompanies with greater fulness,
the pianoforte part had, on that account, to be made more
effective by an increase of brilliance. By these divergences
from the original, from the so perfect and beautifully
effectuating [effectuirenden] pianoforte style of Chopin,
either the unnecessary doubling of the melody already
pregnantly represented by the orchestra was avoided, or--in
keeping with the now fuller harmonic support of the
accompaniment--some figurations of the solo instrument
received a more brilliant form.
Of Tausig's labour [FOOTNOTE: "Grosses Concert in E moll. Op. 11."
Bearberet von Carl Tausig. Score, pianoforte, and orchestral parts.
Berlin: Ries and Erler.] I shall only say that his cutting-down and
patching-up of the introductory tutti, to mention only one thing, are
not well enough done to excuse the liberty taken with a great composer's
work. Moreover, your emendations cannot reach the vital fault, which
lies in the conceptions. A musician may have mastered the mechanical
trick of instrumentation, and yet his works may not be at heart
orchestral. Instrumentation ought to be more than something that at will
can be added or withheld; it ought to be the appropriate expression of
something that appertains to the thought. The fact is, Chopin could
not think for the orchestra, his thoughts took always the form of the
pianoforte language; his thinking became paralysed when he made use of
another medium of expression. Still, there have been critics who
thought differently. The Polish composer Sowinski declared without
circumlocution that Chopin "wrote admirably for the orchestra." Other
countrymen of his dwelt at greater length, and with no less enthusiasm,
on what is generally considered a weak point in the master's equipment.
A Paris correspondent of the Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik (1834) remarked
a propos of the F minor Concerto that there was much delicacy in the
instrumentation. But what do the opinions of those critics, if they
deserve the name, amount to when weighed against that of the rest of the
world, nay, even against that of Berlioz alone, who held that "in the
compositions of Chopin all the interest is concentrated in the piano
part, the orchestra of his concertos is nothing but a cold and almost
useless accompaniment"?
All this and much more may be said against Chopin's concertos, yet such
is the charm, loveliness, delicacy, elegance, and brilliancy of
the details, that one again and again forgives and forgets their
shortcomings as wholes. But now let us look at these works a little more
closely.
The first-composed and last-published Concerto, the one in F minor,
Op. 21 (dedicated to Madame la Comtesse Delphine Potocka), opens with a
tutti of about seventy bars. When, after this, the pianoforte interrupts
the orchestra impatiently, and then takes up the first subject, it is
as if we were transported into another world and breathed a purer
atmosphere. First, there are some questions and expostulations, then the
composer unfolds a tale full of sweet melancholy in a strain of lovely,
tenderly-intertwined melody. With what inimitable grace he winds those
delicate garlands around the members of his melodic structure! How light
and airy the harmonic base on which it rests! But the contemplation of
his grief disturbs his equanimity more and more, and he begins to fret
and fume. In the second subject he seems to protest the truthfulness
and devotion of his heart, and concludes with a passage half upbraiding,
half beseeching, which is quite captivating, nay more, even bewitching
in its eloquent persuasiveness. Thus far, from the entrance of the
pianoforte, all was irreproachable. How charming if Chopin had allowed
himself to drift on the current of his fancy, and had left rules,
classifications, &c., to others! But no, he had resolved to write a
concerto, and must now put his hand to the rudder, and have done with
idle dreaming, at least for the present--unaware, alas, that the idle
dreamings of some people are worth more than their serious efforts.
Well, what is unpoetically called the working-out section--to call it
free fantasia in this instance would be mockery--reminds me of Goethe's
"Zauberlehrling," who said to himself in the absence of his master, "I
noted his words, works, and procedure, and, with strength of mind, I
also shall do wonders." How the apprentice conjured up the spirits, and
made them do his bidding; how, afterwards, he found he had forgotten the
formula with which to stop and banish them, and what were the consequent
sad results, the reader will, no doubt, remember. The customary
repetition of the first section of the movement calls for no remark.
Liszt cites the second movement (Larghetto, A flat major) of this work
as a specimen of the morceaux d'une surprenante grandeur to be found
in Chopin's concertos and sonatas, and mentions that the composer had
a marked predilection for it, delighting in frequently playing it. And
Schumann exclaims: "What are ten editorial crowns compared to one
such Adagio as that in the second concerto!" The beautiful deep-toned,
love-laden cantilena, which is profusely and exquisitely ornamented
in Chopin's characteristic style, is interrupted by a very impressive
recitative of some length, after which the cantilena is heard again.
But criticism had better be silent, and listen here attentively. And how
shall I describe the last movement (Allegro vivace F minor, 3-4)--its
feminine softness and rounded contours, its graceful, gyrating,
dance-like motions, its sprightliness and frolicsomeness? Unless I quote
every part and particle, I feel I cannot do justice to it. The exquisite
ease and grace, the subtle spirit that breathes through this movement,
defy description, and, more, defy the attempts of most performers to
reproduce the original. He who ventures to interpret Chopin ought to
have a soul strung with chords which the gentlest breath of feeling sets
in vibration, and a body of such a delicate and supple organisation as
to echo with equal readiness the music of the soul. As to the listener,
he is carried away in this movement from one lovely picture to another,
and no time is left him to reflect and make objections with reference to
the whole.
The Concerto in E minor, Op. 11, dedicated to Mr. Fred Kalkbrenner,
shows more of volonte and less of inspiration than the one in F minor.
One can almost read in it the words of the composer, "If I have only
the Allegro and the Adagio completely finished, I shall be in no
anxiety about the Finale." The elongated form of the first movement--the
introductory tutti alone extends to 138 bars--compares disadvantageously
with the greater compactness of the corresponding movement in the F
minor Concerto, and makes still more sensible the monotony resulting
from the key-relation of the constituent parts, the tonic being the same
in both subjects. The scheme is this:--First subject in E minor, second
subject in E major, working-out section in C major, leading through
various keys to the return of the first subject in E minor and of the
second subject in G major, followed by a close in E minor. The tonic
is not relieved till the commencement of the working-out section.
The re-entrance of the second subject brings, at last, something of a
contrast. How little Chopin understood the importance or the handling of
those powerful levers, key-relation and contrast, may also be observed
in the Sonata, Op. 4, where the last movement brings the first subject
in C minor and the second in G minor. Here the composer preserves the
same mode (minor), there the same tonic, the result being nearly the
same in both instances. But, it may be asked, was not this languid
monotony which results from the employment of these means just what
Chopin intended? The only reply that can be made to this otherwise
unanswerable objection is, so much the worse for the artist's art if
he had such intentions. Chopin's description of the Adagio quoted
above--remember the beloved landscape, the beautiful memories, the
moonlit spring night, and the muted violins--hits off its character
admirably. Although Chopin himself designates the first Allegro as
"vigorous"--which in some passages, at least from the composer's
standpoint, we may admit it to be--the fundamental mood of this movement
is one closely allied to that which he says he intended to express in
the Adagio. Look at the first movement, and judge whether there are not
in it more pale moonlight reveries than fresh morning thoughts. Indeed,
the latter, if not wholly absent, are confined to the introductory
bars of the first subject and some passage-work. Still, the movement
is certainly not without beauty, although the themes appear somewhat
bloodless, and the passages are less brilliant and piquant than those in
the F minor Concerto. Exquisite softness and tenderness distinguish
the melodious parts, and Chopin's peculiar coaxing tone is heard in the
semiquaver passage marked tranquillo of the first subject. The least
palatable portion of the movement is the working-out section. The
pianoforte part therein reminds one too much of a study, without having
the beauty of Chopin's compositions thus entitled; and the orchestra
amuses itself meanwhile with reminiscences of the principal motives.
Chopin's procedure in this and similar cases is pretty much the same (F
minor Concerto, Krakowiak, &c.), and recalls to my mind--may the manes
of the composer forgive me--a malicious remark of Rellstab's. Speaking
of the introduction to the Variations, Op. 2, he says: "The composer
pretends to be going to work out the theme." It is curious, and sad
at the same time, to behold with what distinction Chopin treats the
bassoon, and how he is repaid with mocking ingratitude. But enough of
the orchestral rabble. The Adagio is very fine in its way, but such is
its cloying sweetness that one longs for something bracing and active.
This desire the composer satisfies only partially in the last movement
(Rondo vivace, 2-4, E major). Nevertheless, he succeeds in putting us
in good humour by his gaiety, pretty ways, and tricksy surprises (for
instance, the modulations from E major to E flat major, and back again
to E major). We seem, however, rather to look on the play of fantoccini
than the doings of men; in short, we feel here what we have felt more or
less strongly throughout the whole work--there is less intensity of
life and consequently less of human interest in this than in the F minor
Concerto.
Almost all my remarks on the concertos run counter to those made by W.
von Lenz. The F minor Concerto he holds to be an uninteresting
work, immature and fragmentary in plan, and, excepting some delicate
ornamentation, without originality. Nay, he goes even so far as to say
that the passage-work is of the usual kind met with in the compositions
of Hummel and his successors, and that the cantilena in the larghetto
is in the jejune style of Hummel; the last movement also receives but
scanty and qualified praise. On the other hand, he raves about the E
minor Concerto, confining himself, however, to the first movement. The
second movement he calls a "tiresome nocturne," the Rondo "a Hummel."
A tincture of classical soberness and self-possession in the first
movement explains Lenz's admiration of this composition, but I fail to
understand the rest of his predilections and critical utterances.
In considering these concertos one cannot help exclaiming--What a pity
that Chopin should have set so many beautiful thoughts and fancies in
such a frame and thereby marred them! They contain passages which are
not surpassed in any of his most perfect compositions, yet among them
these concertos cannot be reckoned. It is difficult to determine their
rank in concerto literature. The loveliness, brilliancy, and piquancy
of the details bribe us to overlook, and by dazzling us even prevent
us from seeing, the formal shortcomings of the whole. But be their
shortcomings ever so great and many, who would dispense with these
works? Therefore, let us be thankful, and enjoy them without much
grumbling.
Schumann in writing of the concertos said that Chopin introduced
Beethoven spirit [Beethovenischen Geist] into the concert-room, dressing
the master's thoughts, as Hummel had done Mozart's, in brilliant,
flowing drapery; and also, that Chopin had instruction from the best,
from Beethoven, Schubert, and Field--that the first might be supposed to
have educated his mind to boldness, the second his heart to tenderness,
the third his fingers to dexterity. Although as a rule a wonderfully
acute observer, Schumann was not on this occasion very happy in the few
critical utterances which he vouchsafed in the course of the general
remarks of which his notice mainly consists. Without congeniality there
cannot be much influence, at least not in the case of so exclusive and
fastidious a nature as Chopin's. Now, what congeniality could there be
between the rugged German and the delicate Pole? All accounts agree
in that Chopin was far from being a thorough-going worshipper of
Beethoven--he objected to much in his matter and manner, and, moreover,
could not by any means boast an exhaustive acquaintance with his works.
That Chopin assimilated something of Beethoven is of course more likely
than not; but, if a fact, it is a latent one. As to Schubert, I think
Chopin knew too little of his music to be appreciably influenced by
him. At any rate, I fail to perceive how and where the influence reveals
itself. Of Field, on the other hand, traces are discoverable, and even
more distinct ones of Hummel. The idyllic serenity of the former and the
Mozartian sweetness of the latter were truly congenial to him; but no
less, if not more, so was Spohr's elegiac morbidezza. Chopin's affection
for Spohr is proved by several remarks in his letters: thus on one
occasion (October 3, 1829) he calls the master's Octet a wonderful work;
and on another occasion (September 18, 1830) he says that the Quintet
for pianoforte, flute, clarinet, bassoon, and horn (Op. 52) is a
wonderfully beautiful work, but not suitable for the pianoforte. How
the gliding cantilena in sixths and thirds of the minuet and
the serpentining chromatic passages in the last movement of the
last-mentioned work must have flattered his inmost soul! There can be no
doubt that Spohr was a composer who made a considerable impression
upon Chopin. In his music there is nothing to hurt the most fastidious
sensibility, and much to feed on for one who, like Jaques in "As you
like it", could "suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel eggs."
Many other composers, notably the supremely-loved and
enthusiastically-admired Mozart and Bach, must have had a share in
Chopin's development; but it cannot be said that they left a striking
mark on his music, with regard to which, however, it has to be
remembered that the degree of external resemblance does not always
accurately indicate the degree of internal indebtedness. Bach's
influence on Mendelssohn, Schumann, Chopin, and others of their
contemporaries, and its various effects on their styles, is one of the
curiosities of nineteenth century musical history; a curiosity, however,
which is fully disclosed only by subtle analysis. Field and especially
Hummel are those musicians who--more, however, as pianists than as
composers (i.e., more by their pianoforte language than by their musical
thoughts)--set the most distinct impress on Chopin's early virtuosic
style, of which we see almost the last in the concertos, where it
appears in a chastened and spiritualised form very different from the
materialism of the Fantasia (Op. 13) and the Krakowiak (Op. 14). Indeed,
we may say of this style that the germ, and much more than the germ, of
almost every one of its peculiarities is to be found in the pianoforte
works of Hummel and Field; and this statement the concertos of these
masters, more especially those of the former, and their shorter pieces,
more especially the nocturnes of the latter, bear out in its entirety.
The wide-spread broken chords, great skips, wreaths of rhythmically
unmeasured ornamental notes, simultaneous combinations of unequal
numbers of notes (five or seven against four, for instance), &c.,
are all to be found in the compositions of the two above-named
pianist-composers. Chopin's style, then, was not original? Most
decidedly it was. But it is not so much new elements as the development
and the different commixture, in degree and kind, of known elements
which make an individual style--the absolutely new being, generally
speaking, insignificant compared with the acquired and evolved. The
opinion that individuality is a spontaneous generation is an error of
the same kind as that imagination has nothing to do with memory. Ex
nihilo nihil fit. Individuality should rather be regarded as a feminine
organisation which conceives and brings forth; or, better still, as
a growing thing which feeds on what is germane to it, a thing with
self-acting suctorial organs that operate whenever they come in contact
with suitable food. A nucleus is of course necessary for the development
of an individuality, and this nucleus is the physical and intellectual
constitution of the individual. Let us note in passing that the
development of the individuality of an artistic style presupposes the
development of the individuality of the man's character. But not only
natural dispositions, also acquired dexterities affect the development
of the individuality of an artistic style. Beethoven is orchestral
even in his pianoforte works. Weber rarely ceases to be operatic. Spohr
cannot help betraying the violinist, nor Schubert the song-composer. The
more Schumann got under his command the orchestral forces, the more he
impressed on them the style which he had formed previously by many years
of playing and writing for the pianoforte. Bach would have been another
Bach if he had not been an organist. Clementi was and remained all his
life a pianist. Like Clementi, so was also Chopin under the dominion
of his instrument. How the character of the man expressed itself in
the style of the artist will become evident when we examine Chopin's
masterpieces. Then will also be discussed the influence on his style of
the Polish national music.