TWO PUBLIC CONCERTS, ONE IN 1841 AND ANOTHER IN 1842.--CHOPIN'S STYLE OF
PLAYING: TECHNICAL QUALITIES; FAVOURABLE PHYSICAL CONDITIONS; VOLUME
OF TONE; USE OF THE PEDALS; SPIRITUAL QUALITIES; TEMPO RUBATO;
INSTRUMENTS.--HIS MUSICAL SYMPATHIES AND ANTIPATHIES.--OPINIONS ON MUSIC
AND MUSICIANS.
The concert which Chopin gave in 1841, after several years of
retirement, took place at Pleyel's rooms on Monday, the 26th of April.
It was like his subsequent concerts a semi-public rather than a public
one, for the audience consisted of a select circle of pupils, friends,
and partisans who, as Chopin told Lenz, took the tickets in advance and
divided them among themselves. As most of the pupils belonged to the
aristocracy, it followed as a matter of course that the concert was
emphatically what Liszt calls it, "un concert de fashion." The three
chief musical papers of Paris: the "Gazette Musicale," the "France
Musicale," and the "Menestrel" were unanimous in their high, unqualified
praise of the concert-giver, "the king of the fete, who was overwhelmed
with bravos." The pianoforte performances of Chopin took up by far the
greater part of the programme, which was varied by two arias from Adam's
"La Rose de Peronne," sung by Mdme. Damoreau--Cinti, who was as usual
"ravissante de perfection," and by Ernst's "Elegie," played by the
composer himself "in a grand style, with passionate feeling and a purity
worthy of the great masters." Escudier, the writer of the notice in the
"France Musicale," says of Ernst's playing: "If you wish to hear the
violin weep, go and hear Ernst; he produces such heart-rending, such
passionate sounds, that you fear every moment to see his instrument
break to pieces in his hands. It is difficult to carry farther the
expression of sadness, of suffering, and of despair."
To give the reader an idea of the character of the concert, I shall
quote largely from Liszt's notice, in which he not only sets forth the
merits of the artists, but also describes the appearance of the room
and the audience. First, however, I must tell a pretty anecdote of which
this notice reminds me. When Liszt was moving about among the audience
during the intervals of the concert, paying his respects here and there,
he came upon M. Ernest Legouve. The latter told him of his intention
to give an account of the concert in the "Gazette Musicale." Liszt
thereupon said that he had a great wish to write one himself, and M.
Legouve, although reluctantly, gave way. When it came to the ears of
Chopin that Liszt was going to report on the concert, he remarked: "Il
me donnera un petit royaume dans son empire" (He will give me a little
kingdom in his empire).
[FOOTNOTE: Since I wrote the above, M. Legouve has published his
"Soixante ans de Souvenirs," and in this book gives his version of the
story, which, it is to be hoped, is less incorrect than some other
statements of his relating to Chopin: "He [Chopin] had asked me to
write a report of the concert. Liszt claimed the honour. I hastened to
announce this good news to Chopin, who quietly said to me: "I should
have liked better if it had been you." "What are you thinking of my dear
friend! An article by Liszt, that is a fortunate thing for the public
and for you. Trust in his admiration for your talent. I promise you
qu'il vous fera un beau royaume.'--'Oui, me dit-il en souriant, dans son
empire!'""]
These few words speak volumes. But here is what Liszt wrote about the
concert in the "Gazette musicale" of May 2, 1841:--
Last Monday, at eight o'clock in the evening, M. Pleyel's
rooms were brilliantly lighted up; numerous carriages brought
incessantly to the foot of a staircase covered with carpet and
perfumed with flowers the most elegant women, the most
fashionable young men, the most celebrated artists, the
richest financiers, the most illustrious noblemen, a whole
elite of society, a whole aristocracy of birth, fortune,
talent, and beauty.
A grand piano was open on a platform; people crowded round,
eager for the seats nearest it; they prepared to listen, they
composed them-selves, they said to themselves that they must
not lose a chord, a note, an intention, a thought of him who
was going to seat himself there. And people were right in
being thus eager, attentive, and religiously moved, because he
for whom they waited, whom they wished to hear, admire, and
applaud, was not only a clever virtuoso, a pianist expert in
the art of making notes [de faire des notes], not only an
artist of great renown, he was all this and more than all
this, he was Chopin...
...If less eclat has gathered round his name, if a less bright
aureole has encircled his head, it is not because he had not in
him perhaps the same depth of feeling as the illustrious author
of "Conrad Wallenrod" and the "Pilgrims," [FOOTNOTE: Adam
Mickiewicz.] but his means of expression were too limited, his
instrument too imperfect; he could not reveal his whole self by
means of a piano. Hence, if we are not mistaken, a dull and
continual suffering, a certain repugnance to reveal himself to
the outer world, a sadness which shrinks out of sight under
apparent gaiety, in short, a whole individuality in the highest
degree remarkable and attractive.
...It was only rarely, at very distant intervals, that Chopin
played in public; but what would have been for anyone else an
almost certain cause of oblivion and obscurity was precisely what
assured to him a fame above the caprices of fashion, and kept him
from rivalries, jealousies, and injustice. Chopin, who has taken
no part in the extreme movement which for several years has
thrust one on another and one against another the executive
artists from all quarters of the world, has been constantly
surrounded by faithful adepts, enthusiastic pupils, and warm
friends, all of whom, while guarding him against disagreeable
contests and painful collisions, have not ceased to spread abroad
his works, and with them admiration for his name. Moreover, this
exquisite, altogether lofty, and eminently aristocratic celebrity
has remained unattacked. A complete silence of criticism already
reigns round it, as if posterity were come; and in the brilliant
audience which flocked together to hear the too long silent poet
there was neither reticence nor restriction, unanimous praise was
on the lips of all.
...He has known how to give to new thoughts a new form. That
element of wildness and abruptness which belongs to his country
has found its expression in bold dissonances, in strange
harmonies, while the delicacy and grace which belong to his
personality were revealed in a thousand contours, in a thousand
embellishments of an inimitable fancy.
In Monday's concert Chopin had chosen in preference those of
his works which swerve more from the classical forms. He
played neither concerto, nor sonata, nor fantasia, nor
variations, but preludes, studies, nocturnes, and mazurkas.
Addressing himself to a society rather than to a public, he
could show himself with impunity as he is, an elegiac poet,
profound, chaste, and dreamy. He did not need either to
astonish or to overwhelm, he sought for delicate sympathy
rather than for noisy enthusiasm. Let us say at once that he
had no reason to complain of want of sympathy. From the first
chords there was established a close communication between him
and his audience. Two studies and a ballade were encored, and
had it not been for the fear of adding to the already great
fatigue which betrayed itself on his pale face, people would
have asked for a repetition of the pieces of the programme one
by one...
An account of the concert in La France musicale of May 2, 1841,
contained a general characterisation of Chopin's artistic position
with regard to the public coinciding with that given by Liszt, but
the following excerpts from the other parts of the article may not be
unacceptable to the reader:--
We spoke of Schubert because there is no other nature which
has a more complete analogy with him. The one has done for the
piano what the other has done for the voice...Chopin was a
composer from conviction. He composes for himself, and what he
composes he performs for himself...Chopin is the pianist of
sentiment PAR EXCELLENCE. One may say that Chopin is the
creator of a school of pianoforte-playing and of a school of
composition. Indeed, nothing equals the lightness and
sweetness with which the artist preludes on the piano, nothing
again can be placed by the side of his works full of
originality, distinction, and grace. Chopin is an exceptional
pianist who ought not to be, and cannot be, compared with
anyone.
The words with which the critic of the Menestrel closes his remarks,
describe well the nature of the emotions which the artist excited in his
hearers:--
In order to appreciate Chopin rightly, one must love gentle
impressions, and have the feeling for poetry: to hear Chopin
is to read a strophe of Lamartine....Everyone went away full
of sweet joy and deep reverie (recueillement).
The concert, which was beyond a doubt a complete success, must have
given Chopin satisfaction in every respect. At any rate, he faced the
public again before a year had gone by. In the Gazette Musicale of
February 20, 1842, we read that on the following evening, Monday, at
Pleyel's rooms, the haute societe de Paris et tous les artistes s'y
donneront rendez-vous. The programme of the concert was to be as
follows:--
1. Andante suivi de la 3ieme Ballade, par Chopin.
2. Felice Donzella, air de Dessauer.
3. Suite de Nocturnes, Preludes et Etudes, par Chopin.
4. Divers fragments de Handel, chante par Madame Viardot-
Garcia.
5. Solo pour Violoncello, par M. Franchomme.
6. Nocturne, Preludes, Mazurkas et Impromptu.
7. Le Chene et le Roseau, chante par Madame Viardot-Garcia,
accompagne par Chopin.
Maurice Bourges, who a week later reports on the concert, states more
particularly what Chopin played. He mentions three mazurkas in A flat
major, B major, and A minor; three studies in A flat major, F minor, and
C minor; the Ballade in A flat major; four nocturnes, one of which was
that in F sharp minor; a prelude in D flat; and an impromptu in G (G
flat major?). Maurice Bourges's account is not altogether free from
strictures. He finds Chopin's ornamentations always novel, but sometimes
mannered (manierees). He says: "Trop de recherche fine et minutieuse
n'est pas quelquefois sans pretention et san froideur." But on the whole
the critique is very laudatory. "Liszt and Thalberg excite, as is well
known, violent enthusiasm; Chopin also awakens enthusiasm, but of a
less energetic, less noisy nature, precisely because he causes the most
intimate chords of the heart to vibrate."
From the report in the "France musicale" we see that the audience was
not less brilliant than that of the first concert:--
...Chopin has given in Pleyel's hall a charming soiree, a fete
peopled with adorable smiles, delicate and rosy faces, small and
well-formed white hands; a splendid fete where simplicity was
combined with grace and elegance, and where good taste served as
a pedestal to wealth. Those ugly black hats which give to men the
most unsightly appearance possible were very few in number. The
gilded ribbons, the delicate blue gauze, the chaplets of
trembling pearls, the freshest roses and mignonettes, in short, a
thousand medleys of the prettiest and gayest colours were
assembled, and intersected each other in all sorts of ways on the
perfumed heads and snowy shoulders of the most charming women for
whom the princely salons contend. The first success of the seance
was for Madame George Sand. As soon as she appeared with her two
charming daughters [daughter and cousin?], she was the observed
of all observers. Others would have been disturbed by all those
eyes turned on her like so many stars; but George Sand contented
herself with lowering her head and smiling...
This description is so graphic that one seems to see the actual scene,
and imagines one's self one of the audience. It also points out a very
characteristic feature of these concerts--namely, the preponderance of
the fair sex. As regards Chopin's playing, the writer remarks that the
genre of execution which aims at the imitation of orchestral effects
suits neither Chopin's organisation nor his ideas:--
In listening to all these sounds, all these nuances, which
follow each other, intermingle, separate, and reunite to
arrive at one and the same goal, melody, do you not think you
hear little fairy voices sighing under silver bells, or a rain
of pearls falling on crystal tables? The fingers of the
pianist seem to multiply ad infinitum; it does not appear
possible that only two hands can produce effects of rapidity
so precise and so natural...
I shall now try to give the reader a clearer idea of what Chopin's style
of playing was like than any and all of the criticisms and descriptions
I have hitherto quoted can have done. And I do this not only in order to
satisfy a natural curiosity, but also, and more especially, to furnish a
guide for the better understanding and execution of the master's works.
Some, seeing that no music reflects more clearly its author's nature
than that of Chopin, may think that it would be wiser to illustrate
the style of playing by the style of composition, and not the style of
composition by the style of playing. Two reasons determine me to
differ from them. Our musical notation is an inadequate exponent of
the conceptions of the great masters--visible signs cannot express the
subtle shades of the emotional language; and the capabilities of
Chopin the composer and of Chopin the executant were by no means
coextensive--we cannot draw conclusions as to the character of his
playing from the character of his Polonaises in A major (Op. 40) and
in A flat (Op. 53), and certain movements of the Sonata in B flat minor
(Op. 35). The information contained in the following remarks is derived
partly from printed publications, partly from private letters and
conversations; nothing is admitted which does not proceed from Chopin's
pupils, friends, and such persons as have frequently heard him.
What struck everyone who had the good fortune to hear Chopin was the
fact that he was a pianist sui generis. Moscheles calls him an unicum;
Mendelssohn describes him as "radically original" (Gruneigentumlich);
Meyerbeer said of him that he knew no pianist, no composer for the
piano, like him; and thus I could go on quoting ad infinitum. A writer
in the "Gazette musicale" (of the year 1835, I think), who, although
he places at the head of his article side by side the names of Liszt,
Hiller, Chopin, and--Bertini, proved himself in the characterisation
of these pianists a man of some insight, remarks of Chopin: "Thought,
style, conception, even the fingering, everything, in fact, appears
individual, but of a communicative, expansive individuality, an
individuality of which superficial organisations alone fail to recognise
the magnetic influence." Chopin's place among the great pianists of the
second quarter of this century has been felicitously characterised by an
anonymous contemporary: Thalberg, he said, is a king, Liszt a prophet,
Chopin a poet, Herz an advocate, Kalkbrenner a minstrel, Madame Pleyel a
sibyl, and Doehler a pianist.
But if our investigation is to be profitable, we must proceed
analytically. It will be best to begin with the fundamental technical
qualities. First of all, then, we have to note the suppleness and
equality of Chopin's fingers and the perfect independence of his hands.
"The evenness of his scales and passages in all kinds of touch," writes
Mikuli, "was unsurpassed, nay, prodigious." Gutmann told me that his
master's playing was particularly smooth, and his fingering calculated
to attain this result. A great lady who was present at Chopin's last
concert in Paris (1848), when he played among other works his Valse in
D flat (Op. 64, No. 1), wished to know "le secret de Chopin pour que les
gammes fussent si COULEES sur le piano." Madame Dubois, who related
this incident to me, added that the expression was felicitous, for
this "limpidite delicate" had never been equalled. Such indeed were the
lightness, delicacy, neatness, elegance, and gracefulness of Chopin's
playing that they won for him the name of Ariel of the piano. The reader
will remember how much Chopin admired these qualities in other artists,
notably in Mdlle. Sontag and in Kalkbrenner.
So high a degree and so peculiar a kind of excellence was of course
attainable only under exceptionally favourable conditions, physical
as well as mental. The first and chief condition was a suitably formed
hand. Now, no one can look at Chopin's hand, of which there exists a
cast, without perceiving at once its capabilities. It was indeed small,
but at the same time it was thin, light, delicately articulated, and, if
I may say so, highly expressive. Chopin's whole body was extraordinarily
flexible. According to Gutmann, he could, like a clown, throw his legs
over his shoulders. After this we may easily imagine how great must have
been the flexibility of his hands, those members of his body which he
had specially trained all his life. Indeed, the startlingly wide-spread
chords, arpeggios, &c., which constantly occur in his compositions, and
which until he introduced them had been undreamt-of and still are far
from being common, seemed to offer him no difficulty, for he executed
them not only without any visible effort, but even with a pleasing ease
and freedom. Stephen Heller told me that it was a wonderful sight to see
one of those small hands expand and cover a third of the keyboard. It
was like the opening of the mouth of a serpent which is going to swallow
a rabbit whole. In fact, Chopin appeared to be made of caoutchouc.
In the criticisms on Chopin's public performances we have met again and
again with the statement that he brought little tone out of the piano.
Now, although it is no doubt true that Chopin could neither subdue to
his sway large audiences nor successfully battle with a full orchestra,
it would be a mistake to infer from this that he was always a weak and
languid player. Stephen Heller, who declared that Chopin's tone was
rich, remembered hearing him play a duet with Moscheles (the latter's
duet, of which Chopin was so fond), and on this occasion the Polish
pianist, who insisted on playing the bass, drowned the treble of his
partner, a virtuoso well known for his vigour and brilliancy. Were we,
however, to form our judgment on this single item of evidence, we should
again arrive at a wrong conclusion. Where musical matters--i.e.,
matters generally estimated according to individual taste and momentary
impressibility alone--are concerned, there is safety only in the
multitude of witnesses. Let us, therefore, hear first what Chopin's
pupils have got to say on this point, and then go and inquire further.
Gutmann said that Chopin played generally very quietly, and rarely,
indeed hardly ever, fortissimo. The A flat major Polonaise (Op. 53),
for instance, he could not thunder forth in the way we are accustomed to
hear it. As for the famous octave passages which occur in it, he began
them pianissimo and continued thus without much increase in loudness.
And, then, Chopin never thumped. M. Mathias remarks that his master
had extraordinary vigour, but only in flashes. Mikuli's preface to his
edition of the works of Chopin affords more explicit information. We
read there:--
The tone which Chopin brought out of the instrument was
always, especially in the cantabiles, immense (riesengross),
only Field could perhaps in this respect be compared to him. A
manly energy gave to appropriate passages overpowering effect--
energy without roughness (Rohheit); but, on the other hand,
he knew how by delicacy--delicacy without affectation--to
captivate the hearer.
We may summarise these various depositions by saying with Lenz that,
being deficient in physical strength, Chopin put his all in the
cantabile style, in the connections and combinations, in the detail. But
two things are evident, and they ought to be noted: (1) The volume of
tone, of pure tone, which Chopin was capable of producing was by no
means inconsiderable; (2) he had learnt the art of economising his means
so as to cover his shortcomings. This last statement is confirmed by
some remarks of Moscheles which have already been quoted--namely, that
Chopin's piano was breathed forth so softly that he required no vigorous
forte to produce the desired contrasts; and that one did not miss the
orchestral effects which the German school demanded from a pianist, but
allowed one's self to be carried away as by a singer who takes little
heed of the accompaniment and follows his own feelings.
In listening to accounts of Chopin's style of playing, we must not leave
out of consideration the time to which they refer. What is true of the
Chopin of 1848 is not true of the Chopin of 1831 nor of 1841. In the
last years of his life he became so weak that sometimes, as Stephen
Heller told me, his playing was hardly audible. He then made use of
all sorts of devices to hide the want of vigour, often modifying the
original conception of his compositions, but always producing beautiful
effects. Thus, to give only one example (for which and much other
interesting information I am indebted to Mr. Charles Halle), Chopin
played at his last concert in Paris (February, 1848) the two forte
passages towards the end of the Barcarole, not as they are printed,
but pianissimo and with all sorts of dynamic finesses. Having possessed
himself of the most recondite mysteries of touch, and mastered as no
other pianist had done the subtlest gradations of tone, he even then,
reduced by disease as he was, did not give the hearer the impression
of weakness. At least this is what Mr. Otto Goldschmidt relates, who
likewise was present at this concert. There can be no doubt that what
Chopin aimed at chiefly, or rather, let us say, what his physical
constitution permitted him to aim at, was quality not quantity of tone.
A writer in the "Menestrel" (October 21, 1849) remarks that for Chopin,
who in this was unlike all other pianists, the piano had always too much
tone; and that his constant endeavour was to SENTIMENTALISE the timbre,
his greatest care to avoid everything which approached the fracas
pianistique of the time.
Of course, a true artist's touch has besides its mechanical also its
spiritual aspect. With regard to this it is impossible to overlook the
personal element which pervaded and characterised Chopin's touch. M.
Marmontel does not forget to note it in his "Pianistes Celebres." He
writes:--
In the marvellous art of carrying and modulating the tone, in
the expressive, melancholy manner of shading it off, Chopin
was entirely himself. He had quite an individual way of
attacking the keyboard, a supple, mellow touch, sonorous
effects of a vaporous fluidity of which only he knew the
secret.
In connection with Chopin's production of tone, I must not omit to
mention his felicitous utilisation of the loud and soft pedals. It was
not till the time of Liszt, Thalberg, and Chopin that the pedals
became a power in pianoforte-playing. Hummel did not understand their
importance, and failed to take advantage of them. The few indications
we find in Beethoven's works prove that this genius began to see some of
the as yet latent possibilities. Of the virtuosi,
Moscheles was the first who made a more extensive and artistic use of
the pedals, although also he employed them sparingly compared with
his above-named younger contemporaries. Every pianist of note has,
of course, his own style of pedalling. Unfortunately, there are no
particulars forthcoming with regard to Chopin's peculiar style; and this
is the more to be regretted as the composer was very careless in his
notation of the pedals. Rubinstein declares that most of the pedal marks
in Chopin's compositions are wrongly placed. If nothing more, we know at
least thus much: "No pianist before him [Chopin] has employed the pedals
alternately or simultaneously with so much tact and ability," and
"in making constantly use of the pedal he obtained des harmonies
ravissantes, des bruissements melodiques qui etonnaient et charmaient."
[FOOTNOTE: Marmontel: "Les Pianistes celebres."]
The poetical qualities of Chopin's playingare not so easily defined as
the technical ones. Indeed, if they are definable at all they are so
only by one who, like Liszt, is a poet as well as a great pianist. I
shall, therefore, transcribe from his book some of the most important
remarks bearing on this matter.
After saying that Chopin idealised the fugitive poesy inspired by
fugitive apparitions like "La Fee aux Miettes," "Le Lutin d'Argail,"
&c., to such an extent as to render its fibres so thin and friable that
they seemed no longer to belong to our nature, but to reveal to us the
indiscreet confidences of the Undines, Titanias, Ariels, Queen Mabs, and
Oberons, Liszt proceeds thus:--
When this kind of inspiration laid hold of Chopin his playing
assumed a distinctive character, whatever the kind of music he
executed might be--dance-music or dreamy music, mazurkas or
nocturnes, preludes or scherzos, waltzes or tarantellas,
studies or ballades. He imprinted on them all one knows not
what nameless colour, what vague appearance, what pulsations
akin to vibration, that had almost no longer anything material
about them, and, like the imponderables, seemed to act on
one's being without passing through the senses. Sometimes one
thought one heard the joyous tripping of some amorously-
teasing Peri; sometimes there were modulations velvety and
iridescent as the robe of a salamander; sometimes one heard
accents of deep despondency, as if souls in torment did not
find the loving prayers necessary for their final deliverance.
At other times there breathed forth from his fingers a despair
so mournful, so inconsolable, that one thought one saw Byron's
Jacopo Foscari come to life again, and contemplated the
extreme dejection of him who, dying of love for his country,
preferred death to exile, being unable to endure the pain of
leaving Venezia la bella!
It is interesting to compare this description with that of another poet,
a poet who sent forth his poetry daintily dressed in verse as well
as carelessly wrapped in prose. Liszt tells us that Chopin had in his
imagination and talent something "qui, par la purete de sa diction, par
ses accointances avec La Fee aux Miettes et Le Lutin d'Argail, par ses
rencon-tres de Seraphine et de Diane, murmurant a son oreille leurs plus
confidentielles plaintes, leurs reves les plus innommes," [FOOTNOTE: The
allusions are to stories by Charles Nodier. According to Sainte-Beuve,
"La Fee aux Miettes" was one of those stories in which the author was
influenced by Hoffmann's creations.] reminded him of Nodier. Now, what
thoughts did Chopin's playing call up in Heine?
Yes, one must admit that Chopin has genius in the full sense
of the word; he is not only a virtuoso, he is also a poet; he
can embody for us the poesy which lives within his soul, he is
a tone-poet, and nothing can be compared to the pleasure which
he gives us when he sits at the piano and improvises. He is
then neither a Pole, nor a Frenchman, nor a German, he reveals
then a higher origin, one perceives then that he comes from
the land of Mozart, Raphael, and Goethe, his true fatherland
is the dream-realm of poesy. When he sits at the piano and
improvises I feel as though a countryman from my beloved
native land were visiting me and telling me the most curious
things which have taken place there during my
absence...Sometimes I should like to interrupt him with
questions: And how is the beautiful little water-nymph who
knows how to fasten her silvery veil so coquettishly round her
green locks? Does the white-bearded sea-god still persecute
her with his foolish, stale love? Are the roses at home still
in their flame-hued pride? Do the trees still sing as
beautifully in the moonlight?
But to return to Liszt. A little farther on than the passage I quoted
above he says:--
In his playing the great artist rendered exquisitely that kind
of agitated trepidation, timid or breathless, which seizes the
heart when one believes one's self in the vicinity of
supernatural beings, in presence of those whom one does not
know either how to divine or to lay hold of, to embrace or to
charm. He always made the melody undulate like a skiff borne
on the bosom of a powerful wave; or he made it move vaguely
like an aerial apparition suddenly sprung up in this tangible
and palpable world. In his writings he at first indicated this
manner which gave so individual an impress to his virtuosity
by the term tempo rubato: stolen, broken time--a measure at
once supple, abrupt, and languid, vacillating like the flame
under the breath which agitates it, like the corn in a field
swayed by the soft pressure of a warm air, like the top of
trees bent hither and thither by a keen breeze.
But as the term taught nothing to him who knew, said nothing
to him who did not know, understand, and feel, Chopin
afterwards ceased to add this explanation to his music, being
persuaded that if one understood it, it was impossible not to
divine this rule of irregularity. Accordingly, all his
compositions ought to be played with that kind of accented,
rhythmical balancement, that morbidezza, the secret of which
it was difficult to seize if one had not often heard him play.
Let us try if it is not possible to obtain a clearer notion of this
mysterious tempo rubato. Among instrumentalists the "stolen time" was
brought into vogue especially by Chopin and Liszt. But it is not
an invention of theirs or their time. Quanz, the great flutist (see
Marpurg: "Kritische Beitrage." Vol. I.), said that he heard it for
the first time from the celebrated singer Santa Stella Lotti, who was
engaged in 1717 at the Dresden Opera, and died in 1759 at Venice. Above
all, however, we have to keep in mind that the tempo rubato is a genus
which comprehends numerous species. In short, the tempo rubato of Chopin
is not that of Liszt, that of Liszt is not that of Henselt, and so on.
As for the general definitions we find in dictionaries, they can afford
us no particular enlightenment. But help comes to us from elsewhere.
Liszt explained Chopin's tempo rubato in a very poetical and graphic
manner to his pupil the Russian pianist Neilissow:--"Look at these
trees!" he said, "the wind plays in the leaves, stirs up life among
them, the tree remains the same, that is Chopinesque rubato." But how
did the composer himself describe it? From Madame Dubois and other
pupils of Chopin we learn that he was in the habit of saying to them:
"Que votre main gauche soit votre maitre de chapelle et garde toujours
la mesure" (Let your left hand be your conductor and always keep time).
According to Lenz Chopin taught also: "Angenommen, ein Stuck dauert
so und so viel Minuten, wenn das Ganze nur so lange gedauert hat, im
Einzelnen kann's anders sein!" (Suppose a piece lasts so and so many
minutes, if only the whole lasts so long, the differences in the details
do not matter). This is somewhat ambiguous teaching, and seems to be
in contradiction to the preceding precept. Mikuli, another pupil of
Chopin's, explains his master's tempo rubato thus:--"While the singing
hand, either irresolutely lingering or as in passionate speech eagerly
anticipating with a certain impatient vehemence, freed the truth of
the musical expression from all rhythmical fetters, the other, the
accompanying hand, continued to play strictly in time." We get a very
lucid description of Chopin's tempo rubato from the critic of the
Athenaeum who after hearing the pianist-composer at a London matinee in
1848 wrote:--"He makes free use of tempo rubato; leaning about within
his bars more than any player we recollect, but still subject to a
presiding measure such as presently habituates the ear to the liberties
taken." Often, no doubt, people mistook for tempo rubato what in reality
was a suppression or displacement of accent, to which kind of playing
the term is indeed sometimes applied. The reader will remember the
following passage from a criticism in the "Wiener Theaterzeitung" of
1829:--"There are defects noticeable in the young man's [Chopin's]
playing, among which is perhaps especially to be mentioned the
non-observance of the indication by accent of the commencement of
musical phrases." Mr. Halle related to me an interesting dispute bearing
on this matter. The German pianist told Chopin one day that he played in
his mazurkas often 4/4 instead of 3/4 time. Chopin would not admit it
at first, but when Mr. Halle proved his case by counting to Chopin's
playing, the latter admitted the correctness of the observation, and
laughing said that this was national. Lenz reports a similar dispute
between Chopin and Meyerbeer. In short, we may sum up in Moscheles'
words, Chopin's playing did not degenerate into Tactlosigkeit [lit.,
timelessness], but it was of the most charming originality. Along with
the above testimony we have, however, to take note of what Berlioz
said on the subject: "Chopin supportait mal le frein de la mesure; il
a pousse beaucoup trap loin, selon moi, l'independance rhythmique."
Berlioz even went so far as to say that "Chopin could not play strictly
in time [ne pouvait pas jouer regulierement]."
Indeed, so strange was Chopin's style that when Mr. Charles Halle first
heard him play his compositions he could not imagine how what he heard
was represented by musical signs. But strange as Chopin's style of
playing was he thinks that its peculiarities are generally exaggerated.
The Parisians said of Rubinstein's playing of compositions of Chopin:
"Ce n'est pas ca!" Mr. Halle himself thinks that Rubinstein's rendering
of Chopin is clever, but not Chopinesque. Nor do Von Bulow's readings
come near the original. As for Chopin's pupils, they are even less
successful than others in imitating their master's style. The opinion of
one who is so distinguished a pianist and at the same time was so well
acquainted with Chopin as Mr. Halle is worth having. Hearing Chopin
often play his compositions he got so familiar with that master's music
and felt so much in sympathy with it that the composer liked to have it
played by him, and told him that when he was in the adjoining room he
could imagine he was playing himself.
But it is time that we got off the shoals on which we have been lying so
long. Well, Lenz shall set us afloat:--
In the undulation of the motion, in that suspension and unrest
[Hangen und Bangen], in the rubato as he understood it, Chopin
was captivating, every note was the outcome of the best taste
in the best sense of the word. If he introduced an
embellishment, which happened only rarely, it was always a
kind of miracle of good taste. Chopin was by his whole nature
unfitted to render Beethoven or Weber, who paint on a large
scale and with a big brush. Chopin was an artist in crayons
[Pastellmaler], but an INCOMPARABLE one! By the side of Liszt
he might pass with honour for that master's well-matched wife
[ebenburtige Frau, i.e., wife of equal rank]. Beethoven's B
flat major Sonata, Op. 106, and Chopin exclude each other.
One day Chopin took Lenz with him to the Baronne Krudner and her friend
the Countess Scheremetjew to whom he had promised to play the variations
of Beethoven's Sonata in A flat major (Op. 26). And how did he play
them?
Beautifully [says Lenz], but not so beautifully as his own
things, not enthrallingly [packend], not en relief, not as a
romance increasing in interest from variation to variation. He
whispered it mezza voce, but it was incomparable in the
cantilena, infinitely perfect in the phrasing of the
structure, ideally beautiful, but FEMININE! Beethoven is a man
and never ceases to be one!
Chopin played on a Pleyel, he made it a point never to give
lessons on another instrument; they were obliged to get a
Pleyel. All were charmed, I also was charmed, but only with
the tone of Chopin, with his touch, with his sweetness and
grace, with the purity of his style.
Chopin's purity of style, self-command, and aristocratic reserve have to
be quite especially noted by us who are accustomed to hear the master's
compositions played wildly, deliriously, ostentatiously. J. B. Cramer's
remarks on Chopin are significant. The master of a bygone age said of
the master of the then flourishing generation:--
I do not understand him, but he plays beautifully and
correctly, oh! very correctly, he does not give way to his
passion like other young men, but I do not understand him.
What one reads and hears of Chopin's playing agrees with the account
of his pupil Mikuli, who remarks that, with all the warmth which Chopin
possessed in so high a degree, his rendering was nevertheless temperate
[massvoll], chaste, nay, aristocratic, and sometimes even severely
reserved. When, on returning home from the above-mentioned visit to the
Russian ladies, Lenz expressed his sincere opinion of Chopin's playing
of Beethoven's variations, the master replied testily: "I indicate
(j'indique); the hearer must complete (parachever) the picture." And
when afterwards, while Chopin was changing his clothes in an adjoining
room, Lenz committed the impertinence of playing Beethoven's theme as he
understood it, the master came in in his shirt-sleeves, sat down beside
him, and at the end of the theme laid his hand on Lenz's shoulder and
said: "I shall tell Liszt of it; this has never happened to me
before; but it is beautiful--well, BUT MUST ONE THEN ALWAYS SPEAK SO
PASSIONATELY (si declamatoirement)?" The italics in the text, not those
in parentheses, are mine. I marked some of Chopin's words thus that they
might get the attention they deserve. "Tell me with whom you associate,
and I will tell you who you are." Parodying this aphorism one might say,
not without a good deal of truth: Tell me what piano you use, and I
will tell you what sort of a pianist you are. Liszt gives us all the
desirable information as to Chopin's predilection in this respect. But
Lenz too has, as we have seen, touched on this point. Liszt writes:--
While Chopin was strong and healthy, as during the first years
of his residence in Paris, he used to play on an Erard piano;
but after his friend Camille Pleyel had made him a present of
one of his splendid instruments, remarkable for their metallic
ring and very light touch, he would play on no other maker's.
If he was engaged for a soiree at the house of one of his
Polish or French friends, he would often send his own
instrument, if there did not happen to be a Pleyel in the
house.
Chopin was very partial to [affectionnait] Pleyel's pianos,
particularly on account of their silvery and somewhat veiled
sonority, and of the easy touch which permitted him to draw
from them sounds which one might have believed to belong to
those harmonicas of which romantic Germany has kept the
monopoly, and which her ancient masters constructed so
ingeniously, marrying crystal to water.
Chopin himself said:--
When I am indisposed, I play on one of Erard's pianos and
there I easily find a ready-made tone. But when I feel in the
right mood and strong enough to find my own tone for myself, I
must have one of Pleyel's pianos.
From the fact that Chopin played during his visit to Great Britain in
1848 at public concerts as well as at private parties on instruments of
Broadwood's, we may conclude that he also appreciated the pianos of this
firm. In a letter dated London, 48, Dover Street, May 6, 1848, he writes
to Gutmann: "Erard a ete charmant, il m'a fait poser un piano. J'ai un
de Broadwood et un de Pleyel, ce qui fait 3, et je ne trouve pas encore
le temps pour les jouer." And in a letter dated Edinburgh, August 6, and
Calder House, August 11, he writes to Franchomme: "I have a Broadwood
piano in my room, and the Pleyel of Miss Stirling in the salon."
Here, I think, will be the fittest place to record what I have learnt
regarding Chopin's musical taste and opinions on music and musicians,
and what will perhaps illustrate better than any other part of this
book the character of the man and artist. His opinions of composers
and musical works show that he had in a high degree les vices de ses
qualites. The delicacy of his constitution and the super-refinement
of his breeding, which put within his reach the inimitable beauties
of subtlest tenderness and grace that distinguish his compositions
and distinguished his playing, were disqualifications as well as
qualifications. "Every kind of uncouth roughness [toutes les rudesses
sauvages] inspired him with aversion," says Liszt. "In music as in
literature and in every-day life everything which bordered on melodrama
was torture to him." In short, Chopin was an aristocrat with all the
exclusiveness of an aristocrat.
The inability of men of genius to appreciate the merit of one or
the other of their great predecessors and more especially of their
contemporaries has often been commented on and wondered at, but I doubt
very much whether a musician could be instanced whose sympathies were
narrower than those of Chopin. Besides being biographically important,
the record of the master's likings and dislikings will teach a
useful lesson to the critic and furnish some curious material for the
psychological student.
Highest among all the composers, living and dead, Chopin esteemed
Mozart. Him he regarded as "the ideal type, the poet par excellence."
It is related of Chopin--with what truth I do not know--that he never
travelled without having either the score of "Don Giovanni" or that of
the "Requiem" in his portmanteau. Significant, although not founded on
fact, is the story according to which he expressed the wish that the
"Requiem" should be performed at his funeral service. Nothing, however,
shows his love for the great German master more unmistakably and more
touchingly than the words which on his death-bed he addressed to his
dear friends the Princess Czartoryska and M. Franchomme: "You will play
Mozart together, and I shall hear you." And why did Chopin regard Mozart
as the ideal type, the poet par excellence? Liszt answers: "Because
Mozart condescended more rarely than any other composer to cross the
steps which separate refinement from vulgarity." But what no doubt
more especially stirred sympathetic chords in the heart of Chopin, and
inspired him with that loving admiration for the earlier master, was
the sweetness, the grace, and the harmoniousness which in Mozart's works
reign supreme and undisturbed--the unsurpassed and unsurpassable perfect
loveliness and lovely perfection which result from a complete absence of
everything that is harsh, hard, awkward, unhealthy, and eccentric. And
yet, says Liszt of Chopin:--
His sybaritism of purity, his apprehension of what was
commonplace, were such that even in "Don Giovanni," even in
this immortal chef-d'oeuvre, he discovered passages the
presence of which we have heard him regret. His worship of
Mozart was not thereby diminished, but as it were saddened.
The composer who next to Mozart stood highest in Chopin's esteem was
Bach. "It was difficult to say," remarks Mikuli, "which of the two he
loved most." Chopin not only, as has already been mentioned, had works
of Bach on his writing-table at Valdemosa, corrected the Parisian
edition for his own use, and prepared himself for his concerts by
playing Bach, but also set his pupils to study the immortal cantor's
suites, partitas, and preludes and fugues. Madame Dubois told me that
at her last meeting with him (in 1848) he recommended her "de toujours
travailler Bach," adding that that was the best means of making
progress.
Hummel, Field, and Moscheles were the pianoforte composers who seem to
have given Chopin most satisfaction. Mozart and Bach were his gods, but
these were his friends. Gutmann informed me that Chopin was particularly
fond of Hummel; Liszt writes that Hummel was one of the composers Chopin
played again and again with the greatest pleasure; and from Mikuli we
learn that of Hummel's compositions his master liked best the Fantasia,
the Septet, and the Concertos. Liszt's statement that the Nocturnes of
Field were regarded by Chopin as "insuffisants" seems to me disproved
by unexceptionable evidence. Chopin schooled his pupils most assiduously
and carefully in the Nocturnes as well as in the Concertos of Field, who
was, to use Madame Dubois's words, "an author very sympathetic to
him." Mikuli relates that Chopin had a predilection for Field's A flat
Concerto and the Nocturnes, and that, when playing the latter, he used
to improvise the most charming embellishments. To take liberties with
another artist's works and complain when another artist takes liberties
with your own works is very inconsistent, is it not? But it is also
thoroughly human, and Chopin was not exempt from the common failing. One
day when Liszt did with some composition of Chopin's what the latter was
in the habit of doing with Field's Nocturnes, the enraged composer
is said to have told his friend to play his compositions as they were
written or to let them alone. M. Marmontel writes:--
Either from a profound love of the art or from an excess of
conscience personelle, Chopin could not bear any one to touch
the text of his works. The slightest modification seemed to
him a grave fault which he did not even forgive his intimate
friends, his fervent admirers, Liszt not excepted. I have many
a time, as well as my master, Zimmermann, caused Chopin's
sonatas, concertos, ballades, and allegros to be played as
examination pieces; but restricted as I was to a fragment of
the work, I was pained by the thought of hurting the composer,
who considered these alterations a veritable sacrilege.
This, however, is a digression. Little need be added to what has already
been said in another chapter of the third composer of the group we were
speaking of. Chopin, the reader will remember, told Moscheles that he
loved his music, and Moscheles admitted that he who thus complimented
him was intimately acquainted with it. From Mikuli we learn that
Moscheles' studies were very sympathetic to his master. As to Moscheles'
duets, they were played by Chopin probably more frequently than the
works of any other composer, excepting of course his own works. We hear
of his playing them not only with his pupils, but with Osborne, with
Moscheles himself, and with Liszt, who told me that Chopin was fond of
playing with him the duets of Moscheles and Hummel.
Speaking of playing duets reminds me of Schubert, who, Gutmann informed
me, was a favourite of Chopin's. The Viennese master's "Divertissement
hongrois" he admired without reserve. Also the marches and polonaises
a quatre mains he played with his pupils. But his teaching repertoire
seems to have contained, with the exception of the waltzes, none of the
works a deux mains, neither the sonatas, nor the impromptus, nor the
"Moments musicals." This shows that if Schubert was a favourite of
Chopin's, he was so only to a certain extent. Indeed, Chopin even
found fault with the master where he is universally regarded as facile
princeps. Liszt remarks:--
In spite of the charm which he recognised in some of
Schubert's melodies, he did not care to hear those whose
contours were too sharp for his ear, where feeling is as it
were denuded, where one feels, so to speak, the flesh
palpitate and the bones crack under the grasp of anguish. A
propos of Schubert, Chopin is reported to have said: "The
sublime is dimmed when it is followed by the common or the
trivial."
I shall now mention some of those composers with whom Chopin was less
in sympathy. In the case of Weber his approval, however, seems to have
outweighed his censure. At least Mikuli relates that the E minor and
A flat major Sonatas and the "Concertstuck" were among those works for
which his master had a predilection, and Madame Dubois says that he made
his pupils play the Sonatas in C and in A flat major with extreme care.
Now let us hear Lenz:-- He could not appreciate Weber; he spoke of
"opera," "unsuitable for the piano" [unklaviermassig]! On the whole,
Chopin was little in sympathy with the GERMAN spirit in music,
although I heard him say: "There is only ONE SCHOOL, the
German!"
Gutmann informed me that he brought the A flat major Sonata with him
from Germany in 1836 or 1837, and that Chopin did not know it then. It
is hard enough to believe that Liszt asked Lenz in 1828 if the composer
of the "Freischutz" had also written for the piano, but Chopin's
ignorance in 1836 is much more startling. Did fame and publications
travel so slowly in the earlier part of the century? Had genius to wait
so long for recognition? If the statement, for the correctness of which
Gutmann alone is responsible, rests on fact and not on some delusion
of memory, this most characteristic work of Weber and one of the most
important items of the pianoforte literature did not reach Chopin,
one of the foremost European pianists, till twenty years after its
publication, which took place in December, 1816.
That Chopin had a high opinion of Beethoven may be gathered from a story
which Lenz relates in an article written for the "Berliner Musikzeitung"
(Vol. XXVI). Little Filtsch--the talented young Hungarian who made Liszt
say: "I shall shut my shop when he begins to travel"--having played to
a select company invited by his master the latter's Concerto in E minor,
Chopin was so pleased with his pupil's performance that he went with
him to Schlesinger's music-shop, asked for the score of "Fidelio," and
presented it to him with the words:--"I am in your debt, you have given
me great pleasure to-day, I wrote the concerto in a happy time, accept,
my dear young friend, the great master work! read in it as long as
you live and remember me also sometimes." But Chopin's high opinion of
Beethoven was neither unlimited nor unqualified. His attitude as regards
this master, which Franchomme briefly indicated by saying that his
friend loved Beethoven, but had his dislikes in connection with him, is
more fully explained by Liszt.
However great his admiration for the works of Beethoven might
be, certain parts of them seemed to him too rudely fashioned.
Their structure was too athletic to please him; their wraths
seemed to him too violent [leurs courroux lui semblaient trop
rugissants]. He held that in them passion too closely
approaches cataclysm; the lion's marrow which is found in
every member of his phrases was in his opinion a too
substantial matter, and the seraphic accents, the Raphaelesque
profiles, which appear in the midst of the powerful creations
of this genius, became at times almost painful to him in so
violent a contrast.
I am able to illustrate this most excellent general description by some
examples. Chopin said that Beethoven raised him one moment up to the
heavens and the next moment precipitated him to the earth, nay, into the
very mire. Such a fall Chopin experienced always at the commencement of
the last movement of the C minor Symphony. Gutmann, who informed me
of this, added that pieces such as the first movement of the Moonlight
Sonata (C sharp minor) were most highly appreciated by his master. One
day when Mr. Halle played to Chopin one of the three Sonatas, Op. 31
(I am not sure which it was), the latter remarked that he had formerly
thought the last movement VULGAR. From this Mr. Halle naturally
concluded that Chopin could not have studied the works of Beethoven
thoroughly. This conjecture is confirmed by what we learn from Lenz,
who in 1842 saw a good deal of Chopin, and thanks to his Boswellian
inquisitiveness, persistence, and forwardness, made himself acquainted
with a number of interesting facts. Lenz and Chopin spoke a great deal
about Beethoven after that visit to the Russian ladies mentioned in
a foregoing part of this chapter. They had never spoken of the great
master before. Lenz says of Chopin:--
He did not take a very serious interest in Beethoven; he knew
only his principal compositions, the last works not at all.
This was in the Paris air! People knew the symphonies, the
quartets of the middle period but little, the last ones not at
all.
Chopin, on being told by Lenz that Beethoven had in the F minor Quartet
anticipated Mendelssohn, Schumann, and him; and that the scherzo
prepared the way for his mazurka-fantasias, said: "Bring me this
quartet, I do not know it." According to Mikuli Chopin was a regular
frequenter of the concerts of the Societe des Concerts du Conservatoire
and of the Alard, Franchomme, &c., quartet party. But one of the most
distinguished musicians living in Paris, who knew Chopin's opinion
of Beethoven, suspects that the music was for him not the greatest
attraction of the Conservatoire concerts, that in fact, like most of
those who went there, he considered them a fashionable resort. True or
not, the suspicion is undeniably significant. "But Mendelssohn," the
reader will say, "surely Chopin must have admired and felt in sympathy
with this sweet-voiced, well-mannered musician?" Nothing, however, could
be farther from the truth. Chopin hated Mendelssohn's D minor Trio, and
told Halle that that composer had never written anything better than the
first Song without Words. Franchomme, stating the case mildly, says
that Chopin did not care much for Mendelssohn's music; Gutmann, however,
declared stoutly that his master positively disliked it and thought it
COMMON. This word and the mention of the Trio remind me of a passage in
Hiller's "Mendelssohn: Letters and Recollections," in which the author
relates how, when his friend played to him the D minor Trio after its
completion, he was favourably impressed by the fire, spirit, and flow,
in one word, the masterly character of the work, but had some misgivings
about certain pianoforte passages, especially those based on broken
chords, which, accustomed as he was by his constant intercourse with
Liszt and Chopin during his stay of several years in Paris to the
rich passage work of the new school, appeared to him old-fashioned.
Mendelssohn, who in his letters repeatedly alludes to his sterility in
the matter of new pianoforte passages, allowed himself to be persuaded
by Hiller to rewrite the pianoforte part, and was pleased with the
result. It is clear from the above that if Mendelssohn failed to give
Chopin his due, Chopin did more than apply the jus talionis.
Schumann, however, found still less favour in the eyes of Chopin than
Mendelssohn; for whilst among the works which, for instance, Madame
Dubois, who was Chopin's pupil for five years, studied under her master,
Mendelssohn was represented at least by the Songs without Words and the
G minor Concerto, Schumann was conspicuous by his total absence. And let
it be remarked that this was in the last years of Chopin's life, when
Schumann had composed and published almost all his important works for
pianoforte alone and many of his finest works for pianoforte with other
instruments. M. Mathias, Chopin's pupil during the years 1839-1844,
wrote to me: "I think I recollect that he had no great opinion of
Schumann. I remember seeing the "Carnaval," Op. 9, on his table; he did
not speak very highly of it." In 1838, when Stephen Heller was about
to leave Augsburg for Paris, Schumann sent him a copy of his "Carnaval"
(published in September, 1837), to be presented to Chopin. This copy had
a title-page printed in various colours and was most tastefully bound;
for Schumann knew Chopin's love of elegance, and wished to please him.
Soon after his arrival in Paris, Heller called on the Polish musician
and found him sitting for his portrait. On receiving the copy of the
"Carnaval" Chopin said: "How beautifully they get up these things in
Germany!" but uttered not a word about the music. However, we shall see
presently what his opinion of it was. Some time, perhaps some years,
after this first meeting with Chopin, Heller was asked by Schlesinger
whether he would advise him to publish Schumann's "Carnaval." Heller
answered that it would be a good speculation, for although the work
would probably not sell well at first, it was sure to pay in the long
run. Thereupon Schlesinger confided to Heller what Chopin had told
him--namely, that the "Carnaval" was not music at all. The contemplation
of this indifference and more than indifference of a great artist to the
creations of one of his most distinguished contemporaries is saddening,
especially if we remember how devoted Schumann was to Chopin, how he
admired him, loved him, upheld him, and idolised him. Had it not been
for Schumann's enthusiastic praise and valiant defence Chopin's fame
would have risen and spread, more slowly in Germany.
"Of virtuoso music of any kind I never saw anything on his desk, nor do
I think anybody else ever did," says Mikuli.. This, although true in
the main, is somewhat too strongly stated. Kalkbrenner, whose "noisy
virtuosities [virtuosites tapageuses] and decorative expressivities
[expressivites decoratives]" Chopin regarded with antipathy, and
Thalberg, whose shallow elegancies and brilliancies he despised, were
no doubt altogether banished from his desk; this, however, seems not
to have been the case with Liszt, who occasionally made his appearance
there. Thus Madame Dubois studied under Chopin Liszt's transcription
of Rossini's "Tarantella" and of the Septet from Donizetti's "Lucia di
Lammermoor." But the compositions of Liszt that had Chopin's approval
were very limited in number. Chopin, who viewed making concessions to
bad taste at the cost of true art and for the sake of success with the
greatest indignation, found his former friend often guilty of this sin.
In 1840 Liszt's transcription of Beethoven's "Adelaide" was published
in a supplement to the Gazette musicale. M. Mathias happened to come to
Chopin on the day when the latter had received the number of the journal
which contained the piece in question, and found his master furious,
outre, on account of certain cadenzas which he considered out of place
and out of keeping.
We have seen in one of the earlier chapters how little Chopin approved
of Berlioz's matter and manner; some of the ultra-romanticist's
antipodes did not fare much better. As for Halevy, Chopin had no great
opinion of him; Meyerbeer's music he heartily disliked; and, although
not insensible to Auber's French esprit and liveliness, he did not prize
this master's works very highly. Indeed, at the Italian opera-house
he found more that was to his taste than at the French opera-houses.
Bellini's music had a particular charm for Chopin, and he was also an
admirer of Rossini.
The above notes exemplify and show the truth of Liszt's remark:--
In the great models and the master-works of art Chopin sought
only what corresponded with his nature. What resembled it
pleased him; what differed from it hardly received justice
from him.