1843-1847.
CHOPIN'S PECUNIARY CIRCUMSTANCES, AND BUSINESS EXPERIENCES WITH
PUBLISHERS.--LETTERS TO FRANCHOMME.--PUBLICATIONS FROM 1842-7.--SOJOURNS
AT NOHANT.--LISZT, MATTHEW ARNOLD, GEORGE SAND, CHARLES ROLLINAT,
AND EUGENE DELACROIX ON NOHANT AND LIFE AT NOHANT.--CHOPIN'S MODE OF
COMPOSITION.--CHOPIN AND GEORGE SAND TAKE UP THEIR PARIS QUARTERS IN
THE CITE D'ORLEANS.--THEIR WAY OF LIFE THERE, PARTICULARLY CHOPIN'S, AS
DESCRIBED BY HIS PUPILS LINDSAY SLOPER, MATHIAS, AND MADAME DUBOIS, AND
MORE ESPECIALLY BY LENZ, MADAME SAND HERSELF, AND PROFESSOR ALEXANDER
CHODZKO (DOMESTIC RELATIONS, APARTMENTS, MANNERS, SYMPATHIES, HIS
TALENT FOR MIMICRY, GEORGE SAND'S FRIENDS, AND HER ESTIMATE OF CHOPIN'S
CHARACTER).
Chopin's life from 1843 to 1847 was too little eventful to lend itself
to a chronologically progressive narrative. I shall, therefore, begin
this chapter with a number of letters written by the composer during
this period to his friend Franchomme, and then endeavour to describe
Chopin's mode of life, friends, character, &c.
The following fascicle of letters, although containing less about the
writer's thoughts, feelings, and doings than we could wish, affords
nevertheless matter of interest. At any rate, much additional light is
thrown on Chopin's pecuniary circumstances and his dealings with his
publishers.
Impecuniosity seems to have been a chronic state with the artist and
sometimes to have pressed hard upon him. On one occasion it even made
him write to the father of one of his pupils, and ask for the payment
of the fees for five lessons (100 francs). M. Mathias tells me that the
letter is still in his possession. One would hardly have expected such
a proceeding from a grand seigneur like Chopin, and many will, no doubt,
ask, how it was that a teacher so much sought after, who got 20 francs a
lesson, and besides had an income from his compositions, was reduced to
such straits. The riddle is easily solved. Chopin was open-handed
and not much of an economist: he spent a good deal on pretty trifles,
assisted liberally his needy countrymen, made handsome presents to
his friends, and is said to have had occasionally to pay bills of his
likewise often impecunious lady-love. Moreover, his total income was not
so large as may be supposed, for although he could have as many pupils
as he wished, he never taught more than five hours a day, and lived
every year for several months in the country. And then there is one
other point to be taken into consideration: he often gave his lessons
gratis. From Madame Rubio I learned that on one occasion when she had
placed the money for a series of lessons on the mantel-piece, the master
declined to take any of it, with the exception of a 20-franc piece, for
which sum he put her name down on a subscription list for poor Poles.
Lindsay Sloper, too, told me that Chopin declined payment for the
lessons he gave him.
Chopin's business experiences were not, for the most part, of a pleasant
nature; this is shown as much by the facts he mentions in his letters
as by the distrust with which he speaks of the publishers. Here are some
more particulars on the same subject. Gutmann says that Chopin on
his return from Majorca asked Schlesinger for better terms. But the
publisher, whilst professing the highest opinion of the composer's
merit, regretted that the sale of the compositions was not such as to
allow him to pay more than he had hitherto done. [FOOTNOTE: Chopin's
letters show that Gutmann's statement is correct. Troupenas was Chopin's
publisher for some time after his return from Majorca.] Stephen Heller
remembered hearing that Breitkopf and Hartel, of Leipzig, wrote to their
Paris agent informing him that they would go on publishing Chopin's
compositions, although, considering their by no means large sale, the
terms at which they got them were too high. Ed. Wolff related to me that
one day he drove with his countryman to the publisher Troupenas, to whom
Chopin wished to sell his Sonata (probably the one in B flat minor).
When after his negotiations with the publisher Chopin was seated again
in the carriage, he said in Polish: "The pig, he offered me 200
francs for my Sonata!" Chopin's relations with England were even less
satisfactory. At a concert at which Filtsch played, Chopin introduced
Stephen Heller to Wessel or to a representative ofthat firm, but
afterwards remarked: "You won't find them pleasant to deal with."
Chopin at any rate did not find them pleasant to deal with. Hearing that
Gutmann was going to London he asked his pupil to call at Wessel's and
try to renew the contract which had expired. The publisher on being
applied to answered that not only would he not renew the contract, but
that he would not even print Chopin's compositions if he got them for
nothing. Among the pieces offered was the Berceuse. With regard to this
story of Gutmann's it has, however, to be stated that, though it may
have some foundation of fact, it is not true as he told it; for
Wessel certainly had published the Berceuse by June 26, 1845, and also
published in the course of time the five following works. Then, however,
the connection was broken off by Wessel. Chopin's grumblings at his
English publisher brings before us only one side of the question. The
other side comes in view in the following piece of information with
which Wessel's successor, Mr. Edwin Ashdown, favoured me:--"In 1847
Mr. Wessel got tired of buying Chopin's works, which at that time had
scarcely any sale, and discontinued the agreement, his last assignment
from Chopin (of Op. 60, 61, and 62) being dated July 17, 1847." Wessel
advertised these works on September 26, 1846.
Although in the first of the following letters the day, month, and year
when it was written are not mentioned, and the second and third inform
us only of the day and month, but not of the year, internal evidence
shows that the first four letters form one group and belong to the year
1844. Chopin places the date sometimes at the head, sometimes at the
foot, and sometimes in the middle of his letters; to give it prominence
I shall place it always at the head, but indicate where he places it in
the middle.
Chateau de Nohant, near La Chatre, Indre [August 1, 1844].
Dearest [Cherissime],--I send you [FOOTNOTE: In addressing
Franchomme Chopin makes use of the pronoun of the second
person singular.] the letter from Schlesinger and another for
him. Read them. He wishes to delay the publication, and I
cannot do so. If he says NO, give my manuscripts to Maho
[FOOTNOTE: See next letter.] so that he may get M. Meissonnier
[FOOTNOTE: A Paris music-publisher. He brought out in the
following year (1845) Chopin's Op. 57, Berceuse, and Op. 58,
Sonate (B minor). The compositions spoken of in this and the
next two letters are Op. 55, Deux Nocturnes, and Op. 56, Trois
Mazurkas.] to take them for the same price, 600 francs, I
believe that he (Schlesinger) will engrave them. They must be
published on the 20th. But you know it is only necessary to
register the title on that day. I ask your pardon for
troubling you with all these things. I love you, and apply to
you as I would to my brother. Embrace your children. My
regards to Madame Franchomme.--Your devoted friend,
F. Chopin.
A thousand compliments from Madame Sand.
Chateau de Nohant, Indre, August 2 [1844].
Dearest,--I was in great haste yesterday when I wrote to you
to apply at Meissonnier's through Maho IF SCHLESINGER REFUSES
my compositions. I forgot that Henri Lemoine [FOOTNOTE: A
Paris music-publisher.] paid Schlesinger a very high price for
my studies, and that I had rather have Lemoine engrave my
manuscripts than Meissonnier. I give you much trouble, dear
friend, but here is a letter for H. Lemoine, which I send to
you. Read it, and arrange with him. He must either publish the
compositions or register the titles on the 20th of this month
(August); ask from him only 300 francs for each, which makes
600 francs for the two. Tell him he need not pay me till my
return to Paris if he likes. Give him even the two for 500
francs if you think it necessary. I had rather do that than
give them to Meissonnier for 600 francs, as I wrote to you
yesterday without reflecting. If you have in the meantime
already arranged something with M., it is a different matter.
If not, do not let them go for less than 1,000 francs. For
Maho, who is the correspondent of Haertel (who pays me well)
might, knowing that I sell my compositions for so little in
Paris, make me lower my price in Germany. I torment you much
with my affairs. It is only in case Schlesinger persists in
his intention not to publish this month. If you think Lemoine
would give 800 francs for the two works, ask them. I do not
mention THE PRICE to him so as to leave you complete freedom.
I have no time to lose before the departure of the mail. I
embrace you, dear brother--write me a line.--Yours devotedly,
Chopin.
My regards to Madame. A thousand kisses to your children.
Nohant, Monday, August 4 [1844].
Dearest,--I relied indeed on your friendship--therefore the
celerity with which you have arranged the Schlesinger affair
for me does not surprise me at all. I thank you from the
bottom of my heart, and await the moment when I shall be able
to do as much for you. I imagine all is well in your home--
that Madame Franchomme and your dear children are well--and
that you love me as I love you.--Yours devotedly,
F. CH.
Madame Sand embraces your dear big darling [fanfan], and sends
you a hearty grasp of the hand.
Chateau de Nohant, September 20, 1844.
Dearest,--If I did not write you before, it was because I
thought I should see you again this week in Paris. My
departure being postponed, I send you a line for Schlesinger
so that he may remit to you the price of my last manuscripts,
that is to say, 600 francs (100 of which you will keep for
me). I hope he will do it without making any difficulty about
it--if not, ask him at once for a line in reply (without
getting angry), send it to me, and I shall write immediately
to M. Leo to have the 500 francs you had the kindness to lend
me remitted to you before the end of the month.
What shall I say? I often think of our last evening spent with
my dear sister. [FOOTNOTE: His sister Louise, who had been on
a visit to him.] How glad she was to hear you! She wrote to me
about it since from Strasburg, and asked me to remember her to
you and Madame Franchomme. I hope you are all well, and that I
shall find you so. Write to me, and love me as I love you.
Your old
[A scrawl.]
A thousand compliments to Madame. I embrace your dear
children. A thousand compliments from Madame Sand.
[Date.]
I send you also a receipt for Schlesinger which you will give
up to him for the money only. Once more, do not be vexed if he
makes any difficulties. I embrace you.
C.
August 30, 1845.
Very dear friend,--Here are three manuscripts for Brandus,
[FOOTNOTE: Brandus, whose name here appears for the first time
in Chopin's letters, was the successor of Schlesinger.] and
three for Maho, who will remit to you Haertel's price for them
(1,500 francs). Give the manuscripts only at the moment of
payment. Send a note for 500 francs in your next letter, and
keep the rest for me. I give you much trouble, I should like
to spare you it--but--but----.
Ask Maho not to change the manuscripts destined for Haertel,
because, as I shall not correct the Leipzig proofs, it is
important that my copy should be clear. Also ask Brandus to
send me two proofs, one of which I may keep.
Now, how are you? and Madame Franchomme and her dear children?
I know you are in the country--(if St. Germain may be called
country)--that ought to do you all infinite good in the fine
weather which we continue to have. Look at my erasures! I
should not end if I were to launch out into a chat with you,
and I have not time to resume my letter, for Eug. Delacroix,
who wishes much to take charge of my message for you, leaves
immediately. He is the most admirable artist possible--I have
spent delightful times with him. He adores Mozart--knows all
his operas by heart.
Decidedly I am only making blots to-day--pardon me for them.
Au revoir, dear friend, I love you always, and I think of you
every day.
Give my kind regards to Madame Franchomme, and embrace the
dear children.
September 22, 1845.
Very dear friend,--I thank you with all my heart for all your
journeys after Maho, and your letter which I have just
received with the money. The day of the publication seems to
me good, and I have only to ask you again not to let Brandus
fall asleep on my account or over my accounts.
Nohant, July 8, 1846.
Very dear friend,--It was not because I did not think of it
that I have not written to you sooner, but because I wished to
send you at the same time my poor manuscripts, which are not
yet finished. In the meantime here is a letter for M. Brandus.
When you deliver it to him, be so kind as to ask him for a
line in reply, which you will have the goodness to send to me;
because if any unforeseen event occurs, I shall have to apply
to Meissonnier, their offers being equal.
My good friend,--I am doing my utmost to work, but I do not
get on; and if this state of things continues, my new
productions will no longer remind people either of the
WARBLING OF LINNETS [gazouillement des fauvettes] [FOOTNOTE:
This is an allusion to a remark which somebody made on his
compositions.] or even of BROKEN CHINA [porcelaine cassee]. I
must resign myself.
Write to me. I love you as much as ever.
A thousand kind regards to Madame Franchomme, and many
compliments from my sister Louise. I embrace your dear
children.
[Date.]
Madame Sand begs to be remembered to you and Madame
Franchomme.
Chateau de Nohant, near La Chatre, September 17, 1846.
Very dear friend,--I am very sorry that Brandus is away, and
that Maho is not yet in a position to receive the manuscripts
that he has so often asked me for this winter. One must
therefore wait; meanwhile I beg you will be so kind as to go
back AS SOON as you judge it possible, for I should not now
like this to be a long business, having sent my copy to London
at the same time as to you. Do not tell them this--if they are
CLEVER tradesmen [marchands habiles] they may cheat me like
honest people [en honnetes gens]. As this is all my present
fortune I should prefer the affair to turn out differently.
Also have the kindness not to consign my manuscripts to them
without receiving the money agreed upon, and send me
immediately a note for 500 francs in your letter. You will
keep the rest for me till my arrival in Paris, which will take
place probably in the end of October. I thank you a thousand
times, dear friend, for your good heart and friendly offers.
Keep your millions for me till another time--is it not already
too much to dispose of your time as I do?
[Here follow compliments to and friendly enquiries after
Franchomme's family.]
Madame Sand sends you a thousand compliments and desires to be
remembered to Madame Franchomme.
[Date.]
I shall answer Madame Rubio. [FOOTNOTE: Nee Vera de
Kologriwof, a pupil of Chopin's and teacher of music in Paris;
she married Signor Rubio, an artist, and died in the summer of
1880 at Florence.] If Mdlle. Stirling [FOOTNOTE: A Scotch lady
and pupil of Chopin's; I shall have to say more about her by-
and-by. Madame Erskine was her elder sister.] is at St.
Germain, do not forget to remember me to her, also to Madame
Erskine.
This will be the proper place to mention the compositions of the years
1842-47, about the publication of many of which we have read so much in
the above letters. There is no new publication to be recorded in 1842.
The publications of 1843 were: in February--Op. 51, Allegro vivace,
Troisieme Impromptu (G flat major), dedicated to Madame la Comtesse
Esterhazy; in December--Op. 52, Quatrieme Ballade (F minor), dedicated
to Madame la Baronne C. de Rothschild; Op. 53, Huitieme Polonaise (A
flat major), dedicated to Mr. A. Leo; and Op. 54, Scherzo, No. 4 (E
major), dedicated to Mdlle. J. de Caraman. Those of 1844 were: in
August--Op. 55, Deux Nocturnes (F minor and E flat major), dedicated
to Mdlle. J. H. Stirling; and Op. 56, Trois Mazurkas (A minor, A flat
major, and F sharp minor), dedicated to Mdlle. C. Maberly. Those of
1845: in May--Op. 57, Berceuse (D flat major), dedicated to Mdlle. Elise
Gavard; and in June--Op. 58, Sonate (B minor), dedicated to Madame la
Comtesse E. de Perthuis. Those of 1846: in April--Op. 59, Trois Mazurkas
(A minor, A flat major, and F sharp minor); and in September--Op.
60, Barcarole (F sharp major), dedicated to Madame la Baronne de
Stockhausen; Op. 61, Polonaise-Fantaisie (A flat major), dedicated to
Madame A. Veyret; and Op. 62, Deux Nocturnes (B major and E major),
dedicated to Mdlle. R. de Konneritz. Those of 1847: in September--Op.
63, Trois Mazurkas (B major, F minor, and C sharp minor), dedicated
to Madame la Comtesse L. Czosnowska, and Op. 64, Trois Valses (D flat
major, C sharp minor, and A flat major), respectively dedicated to
Madame la Comtesse Delphine Potocka, Madame la Baronne Nathaniel de
Rothschild, and Madame la Baronne Bronicka; and lastly, in October--Op.
65, Sonate (G minor), pour piano et violoncelle, dedicated to Mr. A.
Franchomme.
From 1838 to 1846 Chopin passed regularly every year, with the exception
of 1840, three or four months at Nohant. The musical papers announced
Chopin's return to town sometimes at the beginning of October, sometimes
at the beginning of November. In 1844 he must either have made a longer
stay at Nohant than usual or paid it a visit during the winter, for in
the "Gazette musicale" of January 5, 1845, we read: "Chopin has returned
to Paris and brought with him a new grand Sonata and variantes. These
two important works will soon be published."
[FOOTNOTE: The new Sonata here mentioned is the one in B minor, Op. 58,
which was published in June, 1845. As to the other item mentioned, I
am somewhat puzzled. Has the word to be taken in its literal sense
of "various readings," i.e., new readings of works already known (the
context, however, does not favour this supposition), or does it refer to
the ever-varying evolutions of the Berceuse, Op. 57. published in May,
1845, or, lastly, is it simply a misprint?]
George Sand generally prolonged her stay at Nohant till pretty far into
the winter, much to the sorrow of her malade ordinaire (thus Chopin used
to style himself), who yearned for her return to Paris.
According to Liszt, the country and the vie de chateau pleased Chopin so
much that for the sake of enjoying them he put up with company that did
not please him at all. George Sand has a different story to tell. She
declares that the retired life and the solemnity of the country agreed
neither with Chopin's physical nor with his moral health; that he loved
the country only for a fortnight, after which he bore it only out of
attachment to her; and that he never felt regret on leaving it. Whether
Chopin loved country life or not, whether he liked George Sand's Berry
friends and her guests from elsewhere or not, we may be sure that he
missed Paris and his accustomed Paris society.
"Of all the troubles I had not to endure but to contend against, the
sufferings of my malade ordinaire were not the least," says George
Sand. "Chopin always wished for Nohant, and never could bear it."
And, speaking of the later years, when the havoc made in Chopin's
constitution by the inroads of his malady showed itself more and more,
she remarks: "Nohant had become repugnant to him. His return in the
spring still filled him with ecstatic joy for a short time. But as soon
as he began to work everything round him assumed a gloomy aspect."
Before we peep into Chopin's room and watch him at work, let us see what
the chateau of Nohant and life there were like. "The railway through
the centre of France went in those days [August, 1846] no further
than Vierzon," [FOOTNOTE: The opening of the extension of the line to
Chateauroux was daily expected at that time.] writes Mr. Matthew Arnold
in an account of a visit paid by him to George Sand:--
From Vierzon to Chateauroux one travelled by an ordinary
diligence, from Chateauroux to La Chatre by a humbler
diligence, from La Chatre to Broussac by the humblest
diligence cf. all. At Broussac diligence ended, and PATACHE
began. Between Chateauroux and La Chatre, a mile or two before
reaching the latter place, the road passes by the village of
Nohant. The chateau of Nohant, in which Madame Sand lived, is
a plain house by the roadside, with a walled garden. Down in
the meadows not far off flows the Indre, bordered by trees.
The Chateau of Nohant is indeed, as Mr. Matthew Arnold says, a plain
house, only the roof with its irregularly distributed dormars and
chimney-stacks of various size giving to it a touch of picturesqueness.
On the other hand, the ground-floor, with its central door flanked
on each side by three windows, and the seven windowed story above,
impresses one with the sense of spaciousness.
Liszt, speaking of a three months' stay at Nohant made by himself and
his friend the Comtesse d'Agoult in the summer of 1837--i.e., before
the closer connection of George Sand and Chopin began--relates that the
hostess and her guests spent the days in reading good books, receiving
letters from absent friends, taking long walks on the banks of the
Indre, and in other equally simple occupations and amusements. In the
evenings they assembled on the terrace. There, where the light of
the lamps cast fantastic shadows on the neighbouring trees, they
sat listening to the murmuring of the river and the warbling of the
nightingales, and breathing in the sweet perfume of the lime-trees
and the stronger scent of the larches till the Countess would exclaim:
"There you are again dreaming, you incorrigible artists! Do you not know
that the hour for working has come?" And then George Sand would go
and write at the book on which she was engaged, and Liszt would betake
himself to the old scores which he was studying with a view to discover
some of the great masters' secrets. [FOOTNOTE: Liszt. "Essays and
Reisebriefe eines Baccalaureus der Tonkunst." Vol. II., pp. 146 and 147
of the collected works.]
Thus was Nohant in quiet days. But the days at Nohant were by no means
always quiet. For George Sand was most hospitable, kept indeed literally
open house for her friends, and did so regardless of credit and debit.
The following passage from a letter written by her in 1840 from Paris to
her half-brother Hippolyte Chatiron gives us a good idea of the state of
matters:--
If you will guarantee my being able to pass the summer at Nohant
for 4,000 francs, I will go. But I have never been there without
spending 1,500 francs per month, and as I do not spend here the
half of this, it is neither the love of work, nor that of
spending, nor that of GLORY, which makes me stay. I do not know
whether I have been pillaged; but I am at a loss how to avoid it
with my nonchalance, in so vast a house, and so easy a kind of
life as that of Nohant. Here I can see clearly; everything is
done under my eyes as I understand and wish it. At Nohant--let
this remain between us--you know that before I am up a dozen
people have often made themselves at home in the house. What can
I do? Were I to pose as a good manager [econome] they would
accuse me of stinginess; were I to let things go on, I should not
be able to provide for them. Try if you can find a remedy for
this.
In George Sand's letters many glimpses may be caught of the life at
Nohant. To some of them I have already drawn the reader's attention in
preceding chapters; now I shall point out a few more.
George Sand to Madame Marliani; Nohant, August 13, 1841:--
I have had all my nights absorbed by work and fatigue. I have
passed all my days with Pauline [Viardot] in walking, playing
at billiards, and all this makes me so entirely go out of my
indolent character and lazy habits that, at night, instead of
working quickly, I fall stupidly asleep at every
line....Viardot [Louis Viardot, the husband of Pauline] passes
his days in poaching with my brother and Papet; for the
shooting season has not yet begun, and they brave the laws,
divine and human. Pauline reads with Chopin whole scores at
the piano. She is always good-natured and charming, as you
know her.
George Sand to Mdlle. Rozieres: Nohant, October 15, 1841:--
Papet is in the depths of the forests; in "Erymanthe" at
least, hunting the wild boar. Chopin is in Paris, and he has
relapsed, as he says, into his triples croches
[demisemiquavers].
George Sand to Mdlle. Rozieres; Nohant, May 9, 1842:--
Quick to work! Your master, the great Chopin, has forgotten
(that for which he nevertheless cares a great deal) to buy a
beautiful present for Francoise, my faithful servant, whom he
adores, and he is very right.
He begs of you therefore to send him, IMMEDIATELY, four yards
of lace, two fingers broad at least, within the price of ten
francs a yard; further, a shawl of whatever material you like,
within the price of forty francs....This, then, is the superb
present which your HONOURED MASTER asks you to get for him,
with an eagerness worthy of the ardour which he carries into
his gifts, and of the impatience which he puts into little
things.
Charles Rollinat, a friend of George Sand's, the brother of one of
George Sand's most intimate and valued friends, Francois Rollinat,
published in "Le Temps" (September 1, 1874) a charming "Souvenir de
Nohant," which shows us the the chateau astir with a more numerous
company:--
The hospitality there [he writes] was comfortable, and the
freedom absolute. There were guns and dogs for those who loved
hunting, boats and nets for those who loved fishing, a
splendid garden to walk in. Everyone did as he liked. Liszt
and Chopin composed; Pauline Garcia studied her role of the
"Prophete"; the mistress of the house wrote a romance or a
drama; and it was the same with the others. At six o'clock
they assembled again to dine, and did not part company till
two or three o'clock in the morning.
Chopin rarely played. He could only be prevailed upon to play
when he was sure of perfection. Nothing in the world would
have made him consent to play indifferently. Liszt, on the
contrary, played always, well or badly.
[FOOTNOTE: Charles Rollinat, a younger brother of Francois, went
afterwards to Russia, where, according to George Sand (see letter
to Edmond Plauchut, April 8, 1874), he was for twenty-five years
"professeur de musique et haut enseignement, avec une bonne place du
gouvernement." He made a fortune and lost it, retaining only enough
to live upon quietly in Italy. He tried then to supplement his scanty
income by literary work (translations from the Russian). George Sand,
recalling the days of long ago, says: "Il chantait comme on ne chante
plus, excepte Pauline [Viardot-Garcia]!"]
Unfortunately, the greater portion of M. Rollinat's so-called Souvenir
consists of "poetry WITHOUT truth." Nevertheless, we will not altogether
ignore his pretty stories.
One evening when Liszt played a piece of Chopin's with embellishments of
his own, the composer became impatient and at last, unable to restrain
himself any longer, walked up to Liszt and said with his ENGLISH
PHLEGM:--
"I beg of you, my dear friend, if you do me the honour to play
a piece of mine, to play what is written, or to play something
else. It is only Chopin who has the right to alter Chopin."
"Well! play yourself!" said Liszt, rising from his seat a
little irritated,
"With pleasure," said Chopin.
At that moment a moth extinguished the lamp. Chopin would not
have it relighted, and played in the dark. When he had
finished his delighted auditors overwhelmed him with
compliments, and Liszt said:
"Ah, my friend, you were right! The works of a genius like you
are sacred; it is a profanation to meddle with them. You are a
true poet, and I am only a mountebank."
Whereupon Chopin replied: "We have each our genre."
M. Rollinat then proceeds to tell his readers that Chopin, believing he
had eclipsed Liszt that evening, boasted of it, and said: "How vexed he
was!" It seems that the author felt that this part of the story put a
dangerously severe strain on the credulity of his readers, for he thinks
it necessary to assure them that these were the ipsissima verba of
Chopin. Well, the words in question came to the ears of Liszt, and he
resolved at once to have his revenge.
Five days afterwards the friends were again assembled in the same place
and at the same time. Liszt asked Chopin to play, and had all the lights
put out and all the curtains drawn; but when Chopin was going to the
piano, Liszt whispered something in his ear and sat down in his stead.
He played the same composition which Chopin had played on the previous
occasion, and the audience was again enchanted. At the end of the piece
Liszt struck a match and lighted the candles which stood on the piano.
Of course general stupefaction ensued.
"What do you say to it?" said Liszt to his rival.
"I say what everyone says; I too believed it was Chopin."
"You see," said the virtuoso rising, "that Liszt can be Chopin
when he likes; but could Chopin be Liszt?"
Instead of commenting on the improbability of a generous artist thus
cruelly taunting his sensitive rival, I shall simply say that Liszt had
not the slightest recollection of ever having imitated Chopin's playing
in a darkened room. There may be some minute grains of truth mixed up
with all this chaff of fancy--Chopin's displeasure at the liberties
Liszt took with his compositions was no doubt one of them--but it is
impossible to separate them.
M. Rollinat relates also how in 184-, when Chopin, Liszt, the Comtesse
d'Agoult, Pauline Garcia, Eugene Delacroix, the actor Bocage, and other
celebrities were at Nohant, the piano was one moonlit night carried
out to the terrace; how Liszt played the hunting chorus from Weber's
Euryanthe, Chopin some bars from an impromptu he was then composing; how
Pauline Garcia sang Nel cor piu non mi sento, and a niece of George Sand
a popular air; how the echo answered the musicians; and how after the
music the company, which included also a number of friends from the
neighbouring town, had punch and remained together till dawn. But
here again M. Rollinat's veracity is impugned on all sides. Madame
Viardot-Garcia declares that she was never at Nohant when Liszt was
there; and Liszt did not remember having played on the terrace of the
chateau. Moreover, seeing that the first performance of the Prophete
took place on April 16, 1849, is it likely that Madame Pauline Garcia
was studying her part before or in 1846? And unless she did so she could
not meet Chopin at Nohant when she was studying it.
M. Rollinat is more trustworthy when he tells us that there was a pretty
theatre and quite an assortment of costumes at the chateau; that the
dramas and comedies played there were improvised by the actors, only
the subject and the division into scenes being given; and that on two
pianos, concealed by curtains, one on the right and one on the left
of the stage, Chopin and Liszt improvised the musical part of the
entertainment. All this is, however, so much better and so much
more fully told by George Sand (in Dernieres Pages: Le Theatre des
Marionnettes de Nohant) that we will take our information from her. It
was in the long nights of a winter that she conceived the plan of these
private theatricals in imitation of the comedia dell' arte--namely,
of "pieces the improvised dialogue of which followed a written sketch
posted up behind the scenes."
They resembled the charades which are acted in society and
which are more or less developed according to the ensemble and
the talent of the performers. We had begun with these. By
degrees the word of the charade disappeared and we played
first mad saynetes, then comedies of intrigues and adventures,
and finally dramas of incidents and emotions. The whole thing
began by pantomime, and this was of Chopin's invention; he
occupied the place at the piano and improvised, while the
young people gesticulated scenes and danced comic ballets. I
leave you to imagine whether these now wonderful, now charming
improvisations quickened the brains and made supple the legs
of our performers. He led them as he pleased and made them
pass, according to his fancy, from the droll to the severe,
from the burlesque to the solemn, from the graceful to the
passionate. We improvised costumes in order to play
successively several roles. As soon as the artist saw them
appear, he adapted his theme and his accent in a marvellous
manner to their respective characters. This went on for three
evenings, and then the master, setting out for Paris, left us
thoroughly stirred up, enthusiastic, and determined not to
suffer the spark which had electrified us to be lost.
To get away from the quicksands of Souvenirs--for George Sand's pages,
too, were written more than thirty years after the occurrences she
describes, and not published till 1877--I shall make some extracts from
the contemporaneous correspondence of George Sand's great friend,
the celebrated painter Eugene Delacroix. [FOOTNOTE: Lettres de Eugene
Delacroix (1815 a 1863) recucillies et publiees par M. Philippe Burty.
Paris, 1878.] The reader cannot fail to feel at once the fresh breeze
of reality that issues from these letters, which contain vivid sketches
full of natural beauties and free from affectation and striving after
effect:--
Nohant, June 7, 1842.
...The place is very pleasant, and the hosts do their utmost to
please me. When we are not assembled to dine, breakfast, play at
billiards, or walk, we are in our rooms, reading, or resting on
our sofas. Now and then there come to you through the window
opening on the garden, whiffs of the music of Chopin, who is
working in his room; this mingles with the song of the
nightingales and the odour of the roses. You see that so far I am
not much to be pitied, and, nevertheless, work must come to give
the grain of salt to all this. This life is too easy, I must
purchase it with a little racking of my brains; and like the
huntsman who eats with more appetite when he has got his skin
torn by bushes, one must strive a little after ideas in order to
feel the charm of doing nothing.
Nohant, June 14, 1842.
...Although I am in every respect most agreeably circumstanced,
both as regards body and mind, for I am in much better health, I
have not been able to prevent myself from thinking of work. How
strange! this work is fatiguing, and yet the species of activity
it gives to the mind is necessary to the body itself. In vain did
I try to get up a passion for billiards, in which I receive a
lesson every day, in vain have I good conversations on all the
subjects that please me, music that I seize on the wing and by
whiffs, I have felt the need of doing something. I have begun a
Sainte-Anne for the parish, and I have already set it agoing.
Nohant, June 22, 1842.
...Pen and ink certainly become more and more repugnant to me. I
have no more than you any event to record. I lead a monastic
life, and as monotonous as it well can be. No event varies the
course of it. We expected Balzac, who has not come, and I am not
sorry. He is a babbler who would have destroyed this harmony of
NONCHALANCE which I am enjoying thoroughly; at intervals a little
painting, billiards, and walking, that is more than is necessary
to fill up the days. There is not even the distraction of
neighbours and friends from the environs; in this part of the
country everyone remains at home and occupies him self with his
oxen and his land. One would become a fossil here in a very short
time.
I have interminable private interviews with Chopin, whom I
love much, and who is a man of a rare distinction; he is the
most true artist I have met. He is one of the few one can
admire and esteem. Madame Sand suffers frequently from violent
headaches and pains in her eyes, which she tries to master as
much as possible and with much strength of will, so as not to
weary us with what she suffers.
The greatest event of my stay has been a peasants' ball on the
lawn of the chateau with the best bagpipers of the place. The
people of this part of the country present a remarkable type
of gentleness and good nature; ugliness is rare here, though
beauty is not often seen, but there is not that kind of fever
which is observable in the peasants of the environs of Paris.
All the women have the appearance of those sweet faces one
sees only in the pictures of the old masters. They are all
Saint Annes.
Amidst the affectations, insincerities, and superficialities of Chopin's
social intercourse, Delacroix's friendship--we have already seen that
the musician reciprocated the painter's sentiments--stands out like a
green oasis in a barren desert. When, on October 28, 1849, a few days
after Chopin's death, Delacroix sent a friend a ticket for the funeral
service of the deceased, he speaks of him as "my poor and dear Chopin."
But the sincerity of Delacroix's esteem and the tenderness of his love
for Chopin are most fully revealed in some lines of a letter which he
wrote on January 7, 1861, to Count Czymala [Grzymala]:--
When I have finished [the labours that took up all his time],
I shall let you know, and shall see you again, with the
pleasure I have always had, and with the feelings your kind
letter has reanimated in me. With whom shall I speak of the
incomparable genius whom heaven has envied the earth, and of
whom I dream often, being no longer able to see him in this
world nor to hear his divine harmonies.
If you see sometimes the charming Princess Marcelline
[Czartoryska], another object of my respect, place at her feet
the homage of a poor man who has not ceased to be full of the
memory of her kindnesses and of admiration for her talent,
another bond of union with the seraph whom we have lost and
who, at this hour, charms the celestial spheres.
The first three of the above extracts from Delacroix's letters enable us
to form a clear idea of what the everyday life at Nohant was like, and
after reading them we can easily imagine that its monotony must have had
a depressing effect on the company-loving Chopin. But the drawback was
counterbalanced by an advantage. At Paris most of Chopin's time was
occupied with teaching and the pleasures of society, at Nohant he could
devote himself undisturbed and undistracted to composition. And there
is more than sufficient evidence to prove that in this respect Chopin
utilised well the quiet and leisure of his rural retirement.
Few things excite the curiosity of those who have a taste for art and
literature so much as an artist's or poet's mode of creation. With what
interest, for instance, do we read Schindler's account of how Beethoven
composed his Missa Solemnis--of the master's absolute detachment from
the terrestrial world during the time he was engaged on this work; of
his singing, shouting, and stamping, when he was in the act of giving
birth to the fugue of the Credo! But as regards musicians, we know,
generally speaking, very little on the subject; and had not George Sand
left us her reminiscences, I should not have much to tell the reader
about Chopin's mode of creation. From Gutmann I learned that his master
worked long before he put a composition to paper, but when it was once
in writing did not keep it long in his portfolio. The latter part
of this statement is contradicted by a remark of the better-informed
Fontana, who, in the preface to Chopin's posthumous works, says that the
composer, whether from caprice or nonchalance, had the habit of keeping
his manuscripts sometimes a very long time in his portfolio before
giving them to the public. As George Sand observed the composer with an
artist's eye and interest, and had, of course, better opportunities than
anybody else to observe him, her remarks are particularly valuable. She
writes:--
His creation was spontaneous and miraculous. He found it
without seeking it, without foreseeing it. It came on his
piano suddenly, complete, sublime, or it sang in his head
during a walk, and he was impatient to play it to himself. But
then began the most heart-rending labour I ever saw. It was a
series of efforts, of irresolutions, and of frettings to seize
again certain details of the theme he had heard; what he had
conceived as a whole he analysed too much when wishing to
write it, and his regret at not finding it again, in his
opinion, clearly defined, threw him into a kind of despair. He
shut himself up in his room for whole days, weeping, walking,
breaking his pens, repeating and altering a bar a hundred
times, writing and effacing it as many times, and recommencing
the next day with a minute and desperate perseverance. He
spent six weeks over a single page to write it at last as he
had noted it down at the very first.
I had for a long time been able to make him consent to trust
to this first inspiration. But when he was no longer disposed
to believe me, he reproached me gently with having spoiled him
and with not being severe enough for him. I tried to amuse
him, to take him out for walks. Sometimes, taking away all my
brood in a country char a bancs, I dragged him away in spite
of himself from this agony. I took him to the banks of the
Creuse, and after being for two or three days lost amid
sunshine and rain in frightful roads, we arrived, cheerful and
famished, at some magnificently-situated place where he seemed
to revive. These fatigues knocked him up the first day, but he
slept. The last day he was quite revived, quite rejuvenated in
returning to Nohant, and he found the solution of his work
without too much effort; but it was not always possible to
prevail upon him to leave that piano which was much oftener
his torment than his joy, and by degrees he showed temper when
I disturbed him. I dared not insist. Chopin when angry was
alarming, and as, with me, he always restrained himself, he
seemed almost to choke and die.
A critic remarks in reference to this account that Chopin's mode of
creation does not show genius, but only passion. From which we may
conclude that he would not, like Carlyle, have defined genius as the
power of taking infinite pains. To be sure, the great Scotchman's
definition is inadequate, but nothing is more false than the popular
notion that the great authors throw off their works with the
pleasantest ease, that creation is an act of pure enjoyment. Beethoven's
sketch-books tell a different story; so do also Balzac's proof-sheets
and the manuscripts of Pope's version of the Iliad and Odyssey in the
British Museum. Dr. Johnson speaking of Milton's MSS. observed truly:
"Such reliques show how excellence is acquired." Goethe in writing to
Schiller asks him to return certain books of "Wilhelm Meister" that he
may go over them A FEW TIMES before sending them to the press. And on
re-reading one of these books he cut out one third of its contents.
Moreover, if an author writes with ease, this is not necessarily a proof
that he labours little, for he may finish the work before bringing it to
paper. Mozart is a striking instance. He has himself described his mode
of composing--which was a process of accumulation, agglutination, and
crystallisation--in a letter to a friend. The constitution of the mind
determines the mode of working. Some qualities favour, others obstruct
the realisation of a first conception. Among the former are acuteness
and quickness of vision, the power of grasping complex subjects, and a
good memory. But however varied the mode of creation may be, an almost
unvarying characteristic of the production of really precious and
lasting artwork is ungrudging painstaking, such as we find described in
William Hunt's "Talks about Art":--"If you could see me dig and groan,
rub it out and start again, hate myself and feel dreadfully! The people
who do things easily, their things you look at easily, and give away
easily." Lastly and briefly, it is not the mode of working, but the
result of this working which demonstrates genius.
As Chopin disliked the pavilion in the Rue Pigalle, George Sand moved
with her household in 1842 to the quiet, aristocratic-looking Cite
(Court or Square) d'Orleans, where their friend Madame Marliani arranged
for them a vie de famille. To get to the Cite d'Orleans one has to pass
through two gateways--the first leads from the Rue Taitbout (close
to the Rue St. Lazare), into a small out-court with the lodge of the
principal concierge; the second, into the court itself. In the centre
is a grass plot with four flower-beds and a fountain; and between
this grass plot and the footpath which runs along the houses extends a
carriage drive. As to the houses which form the square, they are well
and handsomely built, the block opposite the entrance making even
some architectural pretensions. Madame Sand's, Madame Marliani's, and
Chopin's houses, which bore respectively the numbers 5, 4, and 3, were
situated on the right side, the last-mentioned being just in the first
right-hand corner on entering from the out-court. On account of the
predilection shown for it by artists and literary men as a place of
abode, the Court d'Orldans has not inaptly been called a little Athens.
Alexander Dumas was one of the many celebrities who lived there at one
time or other; and Chopin had for neighbours the famous singer Pauline
Viardot-Garcia, the distinguished pianoforte-professor Zimmermann, and
the sculptor Dantan, from whose famous gallery of caricatures, or rather
charges, the composer's portrait was not absent. Madame Marliani,
the friend of George Sand and Chopin, who has already repeatedly been
mentioned in this book, was the wife of Manuel Marliani, Spanish Consul
in Paris, author, [FOOTNOTE: Especially notable among his political and
historical publications in Spanish and French is: "Histoire politique de
l'Espagne moderne suivie d'un apercu sur les finances." 2 vols. in 8vo
(Paris, 1840).] politician, and subsequently senator. Lenz says that
Madame Marliani was a Spanish countess and a fine lady; and George Sand
describes her as good-natured and active, endowed with a passionate head
and maternal heart, but destined to be unhappy because she wished to
make the reality of life yield to the ideal of her imagination and the
exigences of her sensibility.
Some excerpts from a letter written by George Sand on November 12, 1842,
to her friend Charles Duvernet, and a passage from Ma Vie will bring
scene and actors vividly before us:--
We also cultivate billiards; I have a pretty little table,
which I hire for twenty francs a month, in my salon, and
thanks to kind friendships we approach Nohant life as much as
is possible in this melancholy Paris. What makes things
country-like also is that I live in the same square as the
family Marliani, Chopin in the next pavilion, so that without
leaving this large well-lighted and sanded Court d'Orleans, we
run in the evening from one to another like good provincial
neighbours. We have even contrived to have only one pot
[marmite], and eat all together at Madame Marliani's, which is
more economical and by far more lively than taking one's meals
at home. It is a kind of phalanstery which amuses us, and
where mutual liberty is much better guaranteed than in that of
the Fourierists...
Solange is at a boarding-school, and comes out every Saturday
to Monday morning. Maurice has resumed the studio con furia,
and I, I have resumed Consuelo like a dog that is being
whipped; for I have idled on account of my removal and the
fitting up of my apartments...
Kind regards and shakes of the hand from Viardot, Chopin, and
my children.
The passge [sic: passage] from Ma Vie, which contains some
repetitions along with a few additional touches, runs as
follows:-- She [Madame Marliani] had fine apartments between the
two we [George Sand and Chopin] occupied. We had only a large
planted and sanded and always clean court to cross in order to
meet, sometimes, in her rooms, sometimes in mine, sometimes in
Chopin's when he was inclined to give us some music. We dined
with her at common expense. It was a very good association,
economical like all associations, and enabled one to see society
at Madame Marliani's, my friends more privately in my apartments,
and to take up my work at the hour when it suited me to withdraw.
Chopin rejoiced also at having a fine, isolated salon where he
could go to compose or to dream. But he loved society, and made
little use of his sanctuary except to give lessons in it.
Although George Sand speaks only of a salon, Chopin's official
residence, as we may call it, consisted of several rooms. They were
elegantly furnished and always adorned with flowers--for he loved le
luxe and had the coquetterie des appartements.
[FOOTNOTE: When I visited in 1880 M. Kwiatkowski in Paris, he showed me
some Chopin relics: 1, a pastel drawing by Jules Coignet (representing
Les Pyramides d'Egypte), which hung always above the composer's piano;
2, a little causeuse which Chopin bought with his first Parisian
savings; 3, an embroidered easy-chair worked and presented to him by the
Princess Czartoiyska; and 4, an embroidered cushion worked and presented
to him by Madame de Rothschild. If we keep in mind Chopin's remarks
about his furniture and the papering of his rooms, and add to the
above-mentioned articles those which Karasowski mentions as having been
bought by Miss Stirling after the composer's death, left by her to his
mother, and destroyed by the Russians along with his letters in 1861
when in possession of his sister Isabella Barcinska--his portrait by Ary
Scheffer, some Sevres porcelain with the inscription "Offert par Louis
Philippe a Frederic Chopin," a fine inlaid box, a present from one of
the Rothschild family, carpets, table-cloths, easy-chairs, &c.,
worked by his pupils--we can form some sort of idea of the internal
arrangements of the pianist-composer's rooms.]
Nevertheless, they exhibited none of the splendour which was to be
found in the houses of many of the celebrities then living in Paris.
"He observed," remarks Liszt, "on this point as well as in the then so
fashionable elegancies of walking-sticks, pins, studs, and jewels, the
instinctive line of the comme il faut between the too much and the too
little." But Chopin's letters written from Nohant in 1839 to Fontana
have afforded the reader sufficient opportunities to make himself
acquainted with the master's fastidiousness and good taste in matters
of furniture and room decoration, above all, his horror of vulgar
gaudiness.
Let us try to get some glimpses of Chopin in his new home. Lindsay
Sloper, who--owing, no doubt, to a great extent at least, to the letter
of recommendation from Moscheles which he brought with him--had got
permission from Chopin to come for a lesson as often as he liked at
eight o'clock in the morning, found the master at that hour not in
deshabille, but dressed with the greatest care. Another early pupil, M.
Mathias, always fell in with the daily-attending barber. M. Mathias
told me also of Chopin's habit of leaning with his back against the
mantel-piece while he was chatting at the end of the lesson. It must
have been a pretty sight to see the master in this favourite attitude
of his, his coat buttoned up to the chin (this was his usual style),
the most elegant shoes on his small feet, faultless exquisiteness
characterising the whole of his attire, and his small eyes sparkling
with esprit and sometimes with malice.
Of all who came in contact with Chopin, however, no one made so much of
his opportunities as Lenz: some of his observations on the pianist
have already been quoted, those on the man and his surroundings
deserve likewise attention. [FOOTNOTE: W. von Lenz: "Die Grossen
Pianoforte-Virtuosen unserer Zeit."] Lenz came to Paris in the summer
or autumn of the year 1842; and as he wished to study Chopin's mazurkas
with the master himself, he awaited impatiently his return from Nohant.
At last, late in October, Lenz heard from Liszt that Chopin had arrived
in town; but Liszt told him also that it was by no means an easy thing
to get lessons from Chopin, that indeed many had journeyed to Paris for
the purpose and failed even to get sight of him. To guard Lenz against
such a mishap, Liszt gave him a card with the words "Laissez passer,
Franz Liszt" on it, and advised him to call on Chopin at two o'clock.
The enthusiastic amateur was not slow in availing himself of his artist
friend's card and advice. But on reaching his destination he was met
in the anteroom by a male servant--"an article of luxury in Paris, a
rarissima avis in the house of an artist," observes Lenz--who informed
him that Chopin was not in town. The visitor, however, was not to be
put off in this way, and insisted that the card should be taken in to
Chopin. Fortune favours the brave. A moment after the servant had left
the room the great artist made his appearance holding the card in
his hand: "a young man of middle height, slim, thin, with a careworn,
speaking face and the finest Parisian tournure." Lenz does not hesitate
to declare that he hardly ever met a person so naturally elegant and
winning. But here is what took place at this interview.
Chopin did not press me to sit down [says Lenz], I stood as
before a reigning sovereign. "What do you wish? a pupil of
Liszt's, an artist?" "A friend of Liszt's. I wish to have the
happiness of making, under your guidance, acquaintance with
your mazurkas, which I regard as a literature. Some of them I
have already studied with Liszt." I felt I had been
imprudent, but it was too late. "Indeed!" replied Chopin, with
a drawl, but in the politest tone, "what do you want me for
then? Please play to me what you have played with Liszt, I
have still a few minutes at my disposal"--he drew from his
fob an elegant, small watch--"I was on the point of going out,
I had told my servant to admit nobody, pardon me!"
Lenz sat down at the piano, tried the gue of it--an expression at which
Chopin, who was leaning languidly on the piano and looking with his
intelligent eyes straight in his visitor's face, smiled--and then struck
up the Mazurka in B flat major. When he came to a passage in which
Liszt had taught him to introduce a volata through two octaves, Chopin
whispered blandly:--
"This TRAIT is not your own; am I right? HE has shown it you--
he must meddle with everything; well! he may do it, he plays
before THOUSANDS, I rarely before ONE. Well, this will do, I
will give you lessons, but only twice a week, I never give
more, it is difficult for me to find three-quarters of an
hour." He again looked at his watch. "What do you read then?
With what do you occupy yourself generally?" This was a
question for which I was well prepared. "George Sand and Jean
Jacques I prefer to all other writers," said I quickly. He
smiled, he was most beautiful at that moment. "Liszt has told
you this. I see, you are initiated, so much the better. Only
be punctual, with me things go by the clock, my house is a
pigeon-house (pigeonnier). I see already we shall become more
intimate, a recommendation from Liszt is worth something, you
are the first pupil whom he has recommended to me; we are
friends, we were comrades."
Lenz had, of course, too imaginative a turn of mind to leave facts in
their native nakedness, but this tendency of his is too apparent to need
pointing out. What betrays him is the wonderful family likeness of his
portraits, a kind of vapid esprit, not distantly related to silliness,
with which the limner endows his unfortunate sitters, Chopin as well as
Liszt and Tausig. Indeed, the portraits compared with the originals are
like Dresden china figures compared with Greek statuary. It seems to me
also very improbable that so perfect a gentleman as Chopin was should
subject a stranger to an examination as to his reading and general
occupation. These questions have very much the appearance of having
been invented by the narrator for the sake of the answers. However,
notwithstanding the many unmistakable embellishments, Lenz's account
was worth quoting, for after all it is not without a basis of fact and
truth. The following reminiscences of the lively Russian councillor,
although not wanting in exaggerations, are less open to objections:--
I always made my appearance long before my hour and waited.
One lady after another came out, one more beautiful than the
other, on one occasion Mdlle. Laure Duperre, the daughter of
the admiral, whom Chopin accompanied to the staircase, she was
the most beautiful of all, and as straight as a palm; to her
Chopin has dedicated two of his most important Nocturnes (in C
minor and F sharp minor, Op. 48); she was at that time his
favourite pupil. In the anteroom I often met little Filtsch,
who, unfortunately, died too young, at the age of thirteen, a
Hungarian and a genius. He knew how to play Chopin! Of Filtsch
Liszt said in my presence at a soiree of the Comtesse
d'Agoult: "When the little one begins to travel, I shall shut
up my shop" (Quand le petit voyagera, je fermerai boutique). I
was jealous of Filtsch, Chopin had eyes only for him.
How high an opinion the master had of this talented pupil appears from
his assertion that the boy played the E minor Concerto better than he
himself. Lenz mentions Filtsch and his playing of the E minor Concerto
only in passing in "Die grossen Pianoforte-Virtuosen unserer Zeit," but
devotes to them more of his leisure in an article which appeared in the
Berliner Musikzeitung (Vol. XXVI.), the amusing gossip of which deserves
notice here on account of the light thrown by some of its details on
Chopin's ways and the company he received in his salon. On one occasion
when Filtsch had given his master particular satisfaction by a tasteful
rendering of the second solo of the first movement of the E minor
Concerto, Chopin said: "You have played this well, my boy (mon
garcon), I must try it myself." Lenz relates that what now followed was
indescribable: the little one (der Kleine) burst into tears, and Chopin,
who indeed had been telling them the story of his artist life, said,
as if speaking to himself, "I have loved it! I have already once
played it!" Then, turning to Filtsch, he spoke these words: "Yours is a
beautiful artist nature (une belle nature d'artiste), you will become
a great artist." Whilst the youthful pianist was studying the Concerto
with Chopin, he was never allowed to play more than one solo at a time,
the work affecting too much the feelings of the composer, who, moreover,
thought that the whole was contained in every one of the solos; and
when he at last got leave to perform the whole, an event for which he
prepared himself by fasting and prayers of the Roman Catholic Church,
and by such reading as was pointed out by his master, practising being
forbidden for the time, Chopin said to him: "As you have now mastered
the movement so well, we will bring it to a hearing."
The reader must understand that I do not vouch for the strict
correctness of Lenz's somewhat melodramatic narrative; and having given
this warning I shall, to keep myself free from all responsibility,
simply translate the rest of what is yet to be told:--
Chopin invited a party of ladies, George Sand was one of them,
and was as quiet as a mouse; moreover, she knew nothing of
music. The favoured pupils from the highest aristocracy
appeared with modest demeanour and full of the most profound
devotion, they glided silently, like gold-fishes in a vase,
one after another into the salon, and sat down as far as
possible from the piano, as Chopin liked people to do. Nobody
spoke, Chopin only nodded, and shook hands with one here and
there, not with all of them. The square pianoforte, which
stood in his cabinet, he had placed beside the Pleyel concert
grand in the salon, not without the most painful embarras to
him. The most insignificant trifle affected him; he was a noli
me tangere. He had said once, or rather had thought aloud: "If
I saw a crack more in the ceiling, I should not be able to
bring out a note." Chopin poured the whole dreamy, vaporous
instrumentation of the work into his incomparable
accompaniment. He played without book. I have never heard
anything that could be compared to the first tutti, which he
played alone on the piano. The little one did wonders. The
whole was an impression for all the rest of one's life. After
Chopin had briefly dismissed the ladies (he loved praise
neither for himself nor for others, and only George Sand was
permitted to embrace Filtsch), he said to the latter, his
brother, who always accompanied the little one, and me: "We
have yet to take a walk." It was a command which we received
with the most respectful bow.
The destination of this walk was Schlesinger's music-shop, where Chopin
presented his promising young pupil with the score of Beethoven's
"Fidelio":--
"I am in your debt, you have given me much pleasure to-day. I
wrote the Concerto in happier days. Receive, my dear little
friend, this great master-work; read therein as long as you
live, and remember me also sometimes." The little one was as
if stunned, and kissed Chopin's hand. We were all deeply
moved, Chopin himself was so. He disappeared immediately
through the glass door on a level with the Rue Richelieu, into
which it leads.
A scene of a very different nature which occurred some years later was
described to me by Madame Dubois. This lady, then still Mdlle. O'Meara
and a pupil of Chopin's, had in 1847 played, accompanied on a second
piano by her master, the latter's Concerto in E minor at a party of
Madame de Courbonne's. Madame Girardin, who was among the guests,
afterwards wrote most charmingly and eulogistically about the young
girl's beauty and talent in one of her Lettres parisiennes, which
appeared in La Presse and were subsequently published in a collected
form under the title of "Le Vicomte de Launay." Made curious by Madame
Girardin's account, and probably also by remarks of Chopin and others,
George Sand wished to see the heroine of that much-talked-of letter.
Thus it came to pass that one day when Miss O'Meara was having her
lesson, George Sand crossed the Square d'Orleans and paid Chopin a
visit in his apartments. The master received her with all the grace
and amiability he was capable of. Noticing that her pardessus
was bespattered with mud, he seemed to be much vexed, and the
exquisitely-elegant gentleman (l'homme de toutes les elegances ) began
to rub off with his small, white hands the stains which on any other
person would have caused him disgust. And Mdlle. O'Meara, child as she
still was, watched what was going on from the corner of her eye and
thought: "Comme il aime cette femme!" [FOOTNOTE: Madame A. Audley gives
an altogether incorrect account of this incident in her FREDERIC CHOPIN.
Madame Girardin was not one of the actors, and Mdlle. O'Meara did not
think the thoughts attributed to her.]
Whenever Chopin's connection with George Sand is mentioned, one hears
a great deal of the misery and nothing or little of the happiness which
accrued to him out of it. The years of tenderness and devotion are
slurred over and her infidelities, growing indifference, and final
desertion are dwelt upon with undue emphasis. Whatever those of Chopin's
friends who were not also George Sand's friends may say, we may be sure
that his joys outweighed his sorrows. Her resoluteness must have been an
invaluable support to so vacillating a character as Chopin's was; and,
although their natures were in many respects discordant, the poetic
element of hers cannot but have found sympathetic chords in his. Every
character has many aspects, but the world is little disposed to see more
than one side of George Sand's--namely, that which is most conspicuous
by its defiance of law and custom, and finds expression in loud
declamation and denunciation. To observe her in one of her more lovable
attitudes of mind, we will transport ourselves from Chopin's to her
salon.
Louis Enault relates how one evening George Sand, who sometimes thought
aloud when with Chopin--this being her way of chatting--spoke of
the peacefulness of the country and unfolded a picture of the rural
harmonies that had all the charming and negligent grace of a village
idyl, bringing, in fact, her beloved Berry to the fireside of the room
in the Square d'Orleans.
"How well you have spoken!" said Chopin naively.
"You think so?" she replied. "Well, then, set me to music!"
Hereupon Chopin improvised a veritable pastoral symphony, and
George Sand placing herself beside him and laying her hand
gently on his shoulder said: "Go on, velvet fingers [courage,
doigts de velour]!"
Here is another anecdote of quiet home-life. George Sand had a little
dog which was in the habit of turning round and round in the endeavour
to catch its tail. One evening when it was thus engaged, she said to
Chopin: "If I had your talent, I would compose a pianoforte piece for
this dog." Chopin at once sat down at the piano, and improvised the
charming Waltz in D flat (Op. 64), which hence has obtained the name
of Valse du petit chien. This story is well known among the pupils and
friends of the master, but not always told in exactly the same way.
According to another version, Chopin improvised the waltz when the
little dog was playing with a ball of wool. This variation, however,
does not affect the pith of the story.
The following two extracts tell us more about the intimate home-life at
Nohant and in the Court d'Orleans than anything we have as yet met with.
Madame Sand to her son; October 17, 1843:--
Tell me if Chopin is ill; his letters are short and sad. Take
care of him if he is ailing. Take a little my place. He would
take my place with so much zeal if you were ill.
Madame Sand to her son; November 16, 1843:--
If you care for the letter which I have written you about her
[Solange], ask Chopin for it. It was for both of you, and it
has not given him much pleasure. He has taken it amiss, and
yet I did not wish to annoy him, God forbid! We shall all see
each other soon again, and hearty embraces [de bonnes
bigeades] [FOOTNOTE: Biger is in the Berry dialect "to kiss."]
all round shall efface all my sermons.
In another of George Sand's letters to her son--it is dated November 28,
1843--we read about Chopin's already often-mentioned valet. Speaking
of the foundation of a provincial journal, "L'Eclaireur de l'Indre," by
herself and a number of her friends, and of their being on the look-out
for an editor who would be content with the modest salary of 2,000
francs, she says:--
This is hardly more than the wages of Chopin's domestic, and
to imagine that for this it is possible to find a man of
talent! First measure of the Committee of Public Safety: we
shall outlaw Chopin if he allows himself to have lackeys
salaried like publicists.
Chopin treated George Sand with the greatest respect and devotion; he
was always aux petits soins with her. It is characteristic of the man
and exemplifies strikingly the delicacy of his taste and feeling that
his demeanour in her house showed in no way the intimate relation in
which he stood to the mistress of it: he seemed to be a guest like any
other occasional visitor. Lenz wishes to make us believe that George
Sand's treatment of Chopin was unworthy of the great artist, but his
statements are emphatically contradicted by Gutmann, who says that
her behaviour towards him was always respectful. If the lively Russian
councillor in the passages I am going to translate describes correctly
what he heard and saw, he must have witnessed an exceptional occurrence;
it is, however, more likely that the bad reception he received from the
lady prejudiced him against her.
Lenz relates that one day Chopin took him to the salon of Madame
Marliani, where there was in the evening always a gathering of friends.
George Sand [thus runs his account of his first meeting with
the great novelist] did not say a word when Chopin introduced
me. This was rude. Just for that reason I seated myself beside
her. Chopin fluttered about like a little frightened bird in
its cage, he saw something was going to happen. What had he
not always feared on this terrain? At the first pause in the
conversation, which was led by Madame Sand's friend, Madame
Viardot, the great singer whose acquaintance I was later to
make in St. Petersburg, Chopin put his arm through mine and
led me to the piano. Reader! if you play the piano you will
imagine how I felt! It was an upright or cottage piano [Steh-
oder Stutzflugel] of Pleyel's, which people in Paris regard as
a pianoforte. I played the Invitation in a fragmentary
fashion, Chopin gave me his hand in the most friendly manner,
George Sand did not say a word. I seated myself once more
beside her. I had obviously a purpose. Chopin looked anxiously
at us across the table, on which was burning the inevitable
carcel.
"Are you not coming sometime to St. Petersburg," said I to
George Sand in the most polite tone, "where you are so much
read, so highly admired?"
"I shall never lower myself by visiting a country of slaves!"
answered George Sand shortly.
This was indecorous [unanstandig] after she had been uncivil.
"After all, you are right NOT to come," I replied in the same
tone; "you might find the door closed! I was thinking of the
Emperor Nicholas."
George Sand looked at me in astonishment, I plunged boldly
into her large, beautiful, brown, cow-like eyes. Chopin did
not seem displeased, I knew the movements of his head.
Instead of giving any answer George Sand rose in a theatrical
fashion, and strode in the most manly way through the salon to
the blazing fire. I followed her closely, and seated myself
for the third time beside her, ready for another attack.
She would be obliged at last to say something.
George Sand drew an enormously thick Trabucco cigar out of her
apron pocket, and called out "Frederic! un fidibus!"
This offended me for him, that perfect gentleman, my master; I
understood Liszt's words: "Pauvre Frederic!" in all their
significance.
Chopin immediately came up with a fidibus.
As she was sending forth the first terrible cloud of smoke,
George Sand honoured me with a word:
"In St. Petersburg," she began, "I could not even smoke a
cigar in a drawing-room?"
"In NO drawing-room have I ever seen anyone smoke a cigar,
Madame," I answered, not without emphasis, with a bow!
George Sand fixed her eyes sharply upon me--the thrust had
gone home! I looked calmly around me at the good pictures in
the salon, each of which was lighted up by a separate lamp.
Chopin had probably heard nothing; he had returned to the
hostess at the table.
Pauvre Frederic! How sorry I was for him, the great artist!
The next day the Suisse [hall-porter] in the hotel, Mr.
Armand, said to me: "A gentleman and a lady have been here, I
said you were not at home, you had not said you would receive
visitors; the gentleman left his name, he had no card with
him." I read: Chopin et Madame Sand. After this I quarrelled
for two months with Mr. Armand.
George Sand was probably out of humour on the evening in question; that
it was not her usual manner of receiving visitors may be gathered from
what Chopin said soon after to Lenz when the latter came to him for a
lesson. "George Sand," he said, "called with me on you. What a pity you
were not at home! I regretted it very much. George Sand thought she had
been uncivil to you. You would have seen how amiable she can be. You
have pleased her."
Alexander Chodzko, the learned professor of Slavonic literature at the
College de France, told me that he was half-a-dozen times at George
Sand's house. Her apartments were furnished in a style in favour with
young men. First you came into a vestibule where hats, coats, and
sticks were left, then into a large salon with a billiard-table. On
the mantel-piece were to be found the materials requisite for smoking.
George Sand set her guests an example by lighting a cigar. M. Chodzko
met there among others the historian and statesman Guizot, the
litterateur Francois, and Madame Marliani. If Chopin was not present,
George Sand would often ask the servant what he was doing, whether he
was working or sleeping, whether he was in good or bad humour. And when
he came in all eyes were directed towards him. If he happened to be in
good humour George Sand would lead him to the piano, which stood in
one of the two smaller apartments adjoining the salon. These smaller
apartments were provided with couches for those who wished to talk.
Chopin began generally to prelude apathetically and only gradually grew
warm, but then his playing was really grand. If, however, he was not in
a playing mood, he was often asked to give some of his wonderful mimetic
imitations. On such occasions Chopin retired to one of the side-rooms,
and when he returned he was irrecognisable. Professor Chodzko remembers
seeing him as Frederick the Great.
Chopin's talent for mimicry, which even such distinguished actors as
Bocage and Madame Dorval regarded with admiration, is alluded to by
Balzac in his novel "Un Homme d'affaires," where he says of one of the
characters that "he is endowed with the same talent for imitating people
which Chopin, the pianist, possesses in so high a degree; he represents
a personage instantly and with astounding truth." Liszt remarks that
Chopin displayed in pantomime an inexhaustible verve drolatique, and
often amused himself with reproducing in comical improvisations the
musical formulas and peculiar ways of certain virtuosos, whose faces and
gestures he at the same time imitated in the most striking manner.
These statements are corroborated by the accounts of innumerable eye
and ear-witnesses of such performances. One of the most illustrative of
these accounts is the following very amusing anecdote. When the Polish
musician Nowakowski [FOOTNOTE: He visited Paris in 1838, 1841, and 1846,
partly for the purpose of making arrangements for the publication of
his compositions, among which are Etudes dedicated to Chopin.]
visited Paris, he begged his countryman to bring him in contact with
Kalkbrenner, Liszt, and Pixis. Chopin, replying that he need not put
himself to the trouble of going in search of these artists if he wished
to make their acquaintance, forthwith sat down at the piano and assumed
the attitude, imitated the style of playing, and mimicked the mien and
gestures, first of Liszt and then of Pixis. Next evening Chopin and
Nowakowski went together to the theatre. The former having left the box
during one of the intervals, the latter looked round after awhile and
saw Pixis sitting beside him. Nowakowski, thinking Chopin was at his
favourite game, clapped Pixis familiarly on the shoulder and said:
"Leave off, don't imitate now!" The surprise of Pixis and the subsequent
confusion of Nowakowski may be easily imagined. When Chopin, who at this
moment returned, had been made to understand what had taken place, he
laughed heartily, and with the grace peculiar to him knew how to make
his friend's and his own excuses. One thing in connection with Chopin's
mimicry has to be particularly noted--it is very characteristic of the
man. Chopin, we learn from Liszt, while subjecting his features to all
kinds of metamorphoses and imitating even the ugly and grotesque, never
lost his native grace, "la grimace ne parvenait meme pas a l'enlaidir."
We shall see presently what George Sand has to say about her lover's
imitative talent; first, however, we will make ourselves acquainted with
the friends with whom she especially associated. Besides Pierre Leroux,
Balzac, Pauline Viardot-Garcia, and others who have already been
mentioned in the foregoing chapters, she numbered among her most
intimate friends the Republican politician and historian Louis Blanc,
the Republican litterateur Godefroy Cavaignac, the historian Henri
Martin, and the litterateur Louis Viardot, the husband of Pauline
Garcia.
[FOOTNOTE: This name reminds me of a passage in Louis Blanc's "Histoire
de la Revolution de 1840" (p. 210 of Fifth Edition. Paris, 1880). "A
short time before his [Godefroy Cavaignac's] end, he was seized by an
extraordinary desire to hear music once more. I knew Chopin. I offered
to go to him, and to bring him with me, if the doctor did not oppose it.
The entreaties thereupon took the character of a supplication. With the
consent, or rather at the urgent prayer, of Madame Cavaignac, I betook
myself to Chopin. Madame George Sand was there. She expressed in a
touching manner the lively interest with which the invalid inspired her;
and Chopin placed himself at my service with much readiness and grace. I
conducted him then into the chamber of the dying man, where there was a
bad piano. The great artist begins...Suddenly he is interrupted by
sobs. Godefroy, in a transport of sensibility which gave him a moment's
physical strength, had quite unexpectedly raised himself in his bed of
suffering, his face bathed in tears. Chopin stopped, much disturbed;
Madame Cavaignac, leaning towards her son, anxiously interrogated him
with her eyes. He made an effort to become self-possessed; he attempted
to smile, and with a feeble voice said, 'Do not be uneasy, mamma, it
is nothing; real childishness...Ah! how beautiful music is, understood
thus!' His thought was--we had no difficulty in divining it--that he
would no longer hear anything like it in this world, but he refrained
from saying so."]
Friends not less esteemed by her than these, but with whom she was
less intimate, were the Polish poet Mickiewicz, the famous bass singer
Lablache, the excellent pianist and composer Alkan aine, the Italian
composer and singing-master Soliva (whom we met already in Warsaw),
the philosopher and poet Edgar Quinet, General Guglielmo Pepe
(commander-in-chief of the Neapolitan insurrectionary army in 1820-21),
and likewise the actor Bocage, the litterateur Ferdinand Francois,
the German musician Dessauer, the Spanish politician Mendizabal, the
dramatist and journalist Etienne Arago, [FOOTNOTE: The name of Etienne
Arago is mentioned in "Ma Vie," but it is that of Emmanuel Arago which
occurs frequently in the "Corrcspcndance."] and a number of literary
and other personages of less note, of whom I shall mention only Agricol
Perdiguier and Gilland, the noble artisan and the ecrivain proletaire,
as George Sand calls them.
Although some of George Sand's friends were also Chopin's, there can be
no doubt that the society which gathered around her was on the whole not
congenial to him. Some remarks which Liszt makes with regard to George
Sand's salon at Nohant are even more applicable to her salon in Paris.
An author's relations with the representatives of publicity
and his dramatic executants, actors and actresses, and with
those whom he treats with marked attention on account of their
merits or because they please him; the crossing of incidents,
the clash and rebound of the infatuations and disagreements
which result therefrom; were naturally hateful to him [to
Chopin]. For a long time he endeavoured to escape from them by
shutting his eyes, by making up his mind not to see anything.
There happened, however, such things, such catastrophes
[denouements], as, by shocking too much his delicacy,
offending too much his habits of the moral and social comme-il-
faut, ended in rendering his presence at Nohant impossible,
although he seemed at first to have felt more content [plus de
repif] there than elsewhere.
These are, of course, only mere surmises, but Liszt, although often
wrong as to incidents, is, thanks to his penetrative genius, generally
right as to essences. Indeed, if George Sand's surroundings and Chopin's
character and tastes are kept in view nothing seems to be more probable
than that his over-delicate susceptibilities may have occasionally been
shocked by unrestrained vivacity, loud laughter, and perhaps even coarse
words; that his uncompromising idealism may have been disturbed by the
discordance of literary squabbles, intrigues, and business transactions;
that his peaceable, non-speculative, and non-argumentative disposition
may have been vexed and wearied by discussions of political, social,
religious, literary, and artistic problems. Unless his own art was the
subject, Chopin did not take part in discussions. And Liszt tells us
that Chopin not only, like most artists, lacked a generalising
mind [esprit generalisateur], but showed hardly any inclination for
aesthetics, of which he had not even heard much. We may be sure that
to Chopin to whom discussions of any kind were distasteful, those of a
circle in which, as in that of George Sand, democratic and socialistic,
theistic and atheistic views prevailed, were particularly so. For,
notwithstanding his bourgeois birth, his sympathies were with the
aristocracy; and notwithstanding his neglect of ritual observances, his
attachment to the Church of Rome remained unbroken. Chopin does not seem
to have concealed his dislike to George Sand's circle; if he did not
give audible expression to it, he made it sufficiently manifest by
seeking other company. That she was aware of the fact and displeased
with it, is evident from what she says of her lover's social habits
in Ma Vie. The following excerpt from that work is an important
biographical contribution; it is written not without bitterness, but
with hardly any exaggeration:--
He was a man of the world par excellence, not of the too
formal and too numerous world, but of the intimate world, of
the salons of twenty persons, of the hour when the crowd goes
away and the habitues crowd round the artist to wrest from him
by amiable importunity his purest inspiration. It was then
only that he exhibited all his genius and all his talent. It
was then also that after having plunged his audience into a
profound recueillement or into a painful sadness, for his
music sometimes discouraged one's soul terribly, especially
when he improvised, he would suddenly, as if to take away the
impression and remembrance of his sorrow from others and from
himself, turn stealthily to a glass, arrange his hair and his
cravat, and show himself suddenly transformed into a
phlegmatic Englishman, into an impertinent old man, into a
sentimental and ridiculous Englishwoman, into a sordid Jew.
The types were always sad, however comical they might be, but
perfectly conceived and so delicately rendered that one could
not grow weary of admiring them.
All these sublime, charming, or bizarre things that he knew
how to evolve out of himself made him the soul of select
society, and there was literally a contest for his company,
his noble character, his disinterestedness, his self-respect,
his proper pride, enemy of every vanity of bad taste and of
every insolent reclame, the security of intercourse with him,
and the exquisite delicacy of his manners, making him a friend
equally serious and agreeable.
To tear Chopin away from so many gdteries, to associate him
with a simple, uniform, and constantly studious life, him who
had been brought up on the knees of princesses, was to deprive
him of that which made him live, of a factitious life, it is
true, for, like a painted woman, he laid aside in the evening,
in returning to his home, his verve and his energy, to give
the night to fever and sleeplessness; but of a life which
would have been shorter and more animated than that of the
retirement and of the intimacy restricted to the uniform
circle of a single family. In Paris he visited several salons
every day, or he chose at least every evening a different one
as a milieu. He had thus by turns twenty or thirty salons to
intoxicate or to charm with his presence.