CHAPTER XXX.

DIFFERENCE OF STYLE IN CHOPIN'S WORKS.----THEIR CHARACTERISTICS

DISCUSSED, AND POPULAR PREJUDICES CONTROVERTED.----POLISH NATIONAL MUSIC

AND ITS INFLUENCE ON CHOPIN.----CHOPIN A PERSONAL AS WELL AS NATIONAL

TONE-POET.--A REVIEW OF SOME OF HIS LESS PERFECT COMPOSITIONS AND OF

HIS MASTERPIECES: BOLERO; RONDEAU; VARIATIONS; TARANTELLE; ALLEGRO DE

CONCERT; TWO SONATAS FOR PIANOFORTE (OP. 38 AND 58); SONATA (OP. 65)

AND GRAND DUO CONCERTANT FOR PIANOFORTE AND VIOLONCELLO; FANTAISIE;

MAZURKAS; POLONAISES; VALSES; ETUDES; PRELUDES; SCHERZI; IMPROMPTUS;

NOCTURNES; BERCEUSE; BARCAROLE; AND BALLADES-----THE SONGS.----VARIOUS

EDITIONS.

Before we inquire into the doings and sufferings of Chopin in England

and Scotland, let us take a general survey of his life-work as a

composer. We may fitly do so now; as at the stage of his career we have

reached, his creative activity had come to a close. The last composition

he published, the G minor Sonata for piano and violoncello, Op. 65,

appeared in October, 1847; and among his posthumous compositions

published by Fontana there are only two of later date--namely, the

mazurkas, No. 2 of Op. 67 (G minor) and No. 4 of Op. 68 (F minor),

which came into existence in 1849. Neither of these compositions can

be numbered with the master's best works, but the latter of them is

interesting, because it seems in its tonal writhings and wailings

a picture of the bodily and mental torments Chopin was at the time

enduring.

A considerable number of the master's works I have already discussed in

Chapters III., VIII., and XIII. These, if we except the two Concertos,

Op. II and 21 (although they, too, do not rank with his chefs-d'oeuvre),

are, however, for us of greater importance biographically, perhaps also

historically, than otherwise. It is true, we hear now and then of some

virtuoso playing the Variations, Op. 2, or the Fantasia on Polish airs,

Op. 13, nay, we may hear even of the performance of the Trio, Op. 8;

but such occurrences are of the rarest rarity, and, considering how

rich musical literature is in unexceptionable concert-pieces and chamber

compositions, one feels on the whole pleased that these enterprising

soloists and trio-players find neither much encouragement nor many

imitators. While in examining the earlier works, the praise bestowed on

them was often largely mixed with censure, and the admiration felt for

them tempered by dissatisfaction; we shall have little else than pure

praise and admiration for the works that remain to be considered, at

least for the vast majority of them. One thing, however, seems to me

needful before justice can be done to the composer Chopin: certain

prejudices abroad concerning him have to be combated. I shall,

therefore, preface my remarks on particular compositions and groups of

compositions by some general observations.

It is sometimes said that there are hardly any traces of a development

in the productions of Chopin, and that in this respect he is unlike

all the other great masters. Such an opinion cannot be the result of a

thorough and comprehensive study of the composer's works. So far

from agreeing with those who hold it, I am tempted to assert that the

difference of style between Chopin's early and latest works (even when

juvenile compositions like the first two Rondos are left out of account)

is as great as that between Beethoven's first and ninth Symphony. It

would be easy to classify the Polish master's works according to three

and even four (with the usual exceptions) successive styles, but I have

no taste for this cheap kind of useless ingenuity. In fact, I shall

confine myself to saying that in Chopin's works there are clearly

distinguishable two styles--the early virtuosic and the later poetic

style. The latter is in a certain sense also virtuosic, but with this

difference, that its virtuosity is not virtuosity for virtuosity's

sake. The poetic style which has thrown off the tinsel showiness of its

predecessor does not, however, remain unchanged, for its texture becomes

more and more close, and affords conclusive evidence of the increasing

influence of Johann Sebastian Bach. Of course, the grand master of

fugue does not appear here, as it were, full life-size, in peruke,

knee-breeches, and shoe-buckles, but his presence in spite of

transformation and attenuation is unmistakable. It is, however, not only

in the closeness and complexity of texture that we notice Chopin's

style changing: a striving after greater breadth and fulness of form are

likewise apparent, and, alas! also an increase in sombreness, the result

of deteriorating health. All this the reader will have to keep in mind

when he passes in review the master's works, for I shall marshal them by

groups, not chronologically.

Another prejudice, wide-spread, almost universal, is that Chopin's music

is all languor and melancholy, and, consequently, wanting in variety.

Now, there can be no greater error than this belief. As to variety,

we should be obliged to wonder at its infiniteness if he had composed

nothing but the pieces to which are really applicable the epithets

dreamy, pensive, mournful, and despondent. But what vigour, what more

than manly vigour, manifests itself in many of his creations! Think only

of the Polonaises in A major (Op. 40, No. 1) and in A flat major (Op.

53), of many of his studies, the first three of his ballades, the

scherzos, and much besides! To be sure, a great deal of this vigour is

not natural, but the outcome of despair and maddening passion. Still, it

is vigour, and such vigour as is not often to be met with. And, then, it

is not the only kind to be found in his music. There is also a healthy

vigour, which, for instance, in the A major Polonaise assumes a

brilliantly-heroic form. Nor are serene and even joyous moods so rare

that it would be permissible to ignore them. While thus controverting

the so-called vox Dei (are not popular opinions generally popular

prejudices?) and the pseudo-critics who create or follow it, I have

no intention either to deny or conceal the Polish master's excess of

languor and melancholy. I only wish to avoid vulgar exaggeration, to

keep within the bounds of the factual. In art as in life, in biography

as in history, there are not many questions that can be answered by a

plain "yea" or "nay". It was, indeed, with Chopin as has been said of

him, "his heart was sad, his mind was gay. "One day when Chopin, Liszt,

and the Comtesse d'Agoult spent the after-dinner hours together, the

lady, deeply moved by the Polish composer's playing, ventured to ask him

"by what name he called the extraordinary feeling which he enclosed

in his compositions, like unknown ashes in superb urns of most

exquisitely-chiselled alabaster? "He answered her that--

her heart had not deceived her in its melancholy saddening,

for whatever his moments of cheerfulness might be, he never

for all that got rid of a feeling which formed, as it were,

the soil of his heart, and for which he found a name only in

his mother-tongue, no other possessing an equivalent to the

Polish word zal [sadness, pain, sorrow, grief, trouble,

repentance, &c.]. Indeed, he uttered the word repeatedly, as

if his ear had been eager for this sound, which for him

comprised the whole scale of the feelings which is produced by

an intense plaint, from repentance to hatred, blessed or

poisoned fruits of this acrid root.

After a long dissertation on the meaning of the word zal, Liszt, from

whose book this quotation is taken, proceeds thus:--

Yes, truly, the zal colours with a reflection now argent, now

ardent, the whole of Chopin's works. It is not even absent

from his sweetest reveries. These impressions had so much the

more importance in the life of Chopin that they manifested

themselves distinctly in his last works. They little by little

attained a kind of sickly irascibility, reaching the point of

feverish tremulousness. This latter reveals itself in some of

his last writings by a distortion of his thought which one is

sometimes rather pained than surprised to meet. Suffocating

almost under the oppression of his repressed transports of

passion, making no longer use of the art except to rehearse to

himself his own tragedy, he began, after having sung his

feeling, to tear it to pieces.

Read together with my matter-of-fact statements, Liszt's hyperbolical

and circumlocutional poetic prose will not be misunderstood by the

reader. The case may be briefly summed up thus. Zal is not to be found

in every one of Chopin's compositions, but in the greater part of

them: sometimes it appears clearly on the surface, now as a smooth

or lightly-rippled flow, now as a wildly-coursing, fiercely-gushing

torrent; sometimes it is dimly felt only as an undercurrent whose

presence not unfrequently becomes temporarily lost to ear and eye.

We must, however, take care not to overlook that this zal is not

exclusively individual, although its width and intensity are so.

The key-note [of Polish songs] [says the editor and translator

into German of an interesting collection of Folk-songs of the

Poles][FOOTNOTE: Volkslieder der Polen. Gesammelt und

ubersetzt von W. P. (Leipzig,1833).] is melancholy--even in

playful and naive songs something may be heard which reminds

one of the pain of past sorrows; a plaintive sigh, a death-

groan, which seems to accuse the Creator, curses His

existence, and, as Tieck thinks, cries to heaven out of the

dust of annihilation:

"What sin have I committed?"

These are the after-throes of whole races; these are the pains

of whole centuries, which in these melodies entwine themselves

in an infinite sigh. One is tempted to call them sentimental,

because they seem to reflect sometimes on their own feeling;

but, on the other hand, they are not so, for the impulse to an

annihilating outpouring of feeling expresses itself too

powerfully for these musical poems to be products of conscious

creativeness. One feels when one hears these songs that the

implacable wheel of fate has only too often rolled over the

terrene happiness of this people, and life has turned to them

only its dark side. Therefore, the dark side is so

conspicuous; therefore, much pain and poetry--unhappiness and

greatness.

The remarks on Polish folk-music lead us naturally to the question of

Chopin's indebtedness to it, which, while in one respect it cannot be

too highly rated, is yet in another respect generally overrated. The

opinion that every peculiarity which distinguishes his music from that

of other masters is to be put to the account of his nationality, and may

be traced in Polish folk-music, is erroneous. But, on the other hand,

it is emphatically true that this same folk-music was to him a potent

inspirer and trainer. Generally speaking, however, Chopin has more of

the spirit than of the form of Polish folk-music. The only two classes

of his compositions where we find also something of the form are his

mazurkas and polonaises; and, what is noteworthy, more in the

former, the dance of the people, than in the latter, the dance of the

aristocracy. In Chopin's mazurkas we meet not only with many of the

most characteristic rhythms, but also with many equally characteristic

melodic and harmonic traits of this chief of all the Polish dances.

Polish national music conforms in part to the tonality prevailing

in modern art-music, that is, to our major and minor modes; in part,

however, it reminds one of other tonalities--for instance, of that of

the mediaeval church modes, and of that or those prevalent in the music

of the Hungarians, Wallachians, and other peoples of that quarter.

[FOOTNOTE: The strictly diatonic church modes (not to be confounded with

the ancient Greek modes bearing the same names) differ from each other

by the position of the two semitones: the Ionian is like our C major;

the Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian. &c., are like the

series of natural notes starting respectively from d, c, f, g, a, &c.

The characteristic interval of the Hungarian scale is the augmented

second (a, b, c, d#, e, f, g#, a).]

The melodic progression, not always immediate, of an augmented fourth

and major seventh occurs frequently, and that of an augmented second

occasionally. Skips of a third after or before one or more steps of a

second are very common. In connection with these skips of a third may be

mentioned that one meets with melodies evidently based on a scale with a

degree less than our major and minor scales, having in one place a step

of a third instead of a second. [FOOTNOTE: Connoisseurs of Scotch music,

on becoming acquainted with Polish music, will be incited by many traits

of the latter to undertake a comparative study of the two.] The opening

and the closing note stand often to each other in the relation of a

second, sometimes also of a seventh. The numerous peculiarities to be

met with in Polish folkmusic with regard to melodic progression are not

likely to be reducible to one tonality or a simple system of tonalities.

Time and district of origin have much to do with the formal character of

the melodies. And besides political, social, and local influences

direct musical ones--the mediaeval church music, eastern secular music,

&c.--have to be taken into account. Of most Polish melodies it may be

said that they are as capricious as they are piquant. Any attempt to

harmonise them according to our tonal system must end in failure.

Many of them would, indeed, be spoiled by any kind of harmony, being

essentially melodic, not outgrowths of harmony.

[FOOTNOTE: To those who wish to study this subject may be recommended

Oskar Kolberg's Piesni Ludu Polskiego (Warsaw, 1857), the best

collection of Polish folk-songs. Charles Lipinski's collection, Piesni

Polskie i Ruskie Luttu Galicyjskiego, although much less interesting, is

yet noteworthy.]

To treat, however, this subject adequately, one requires volumes, not

pages; to speak on it authoritatively, one must have studied it more

thoroughly than I have done. The following melodies and snatches of

melodies will to some extent illustrate what I have said, although they

are chosen with a view rather to illustrate Chopin's indebtedness to

Polish folk-music than Polish folk-music itself:--

[11 music score excerpts illustrated here]

Chopin, while piquantly and daringly varying the tonality prevailing in

art-music, hardly ever departs from it altogether--he keeps at least in

contact with it, however light that contact may be now and then in the

mazurkas.

[FOOTNOTE: One of the most decided exceptions is the Mazurka, Op.

24, No. 2, of which only the A fiat major part adheres frankly to our

tonality. The portion beginning with the twenty-first bar and extending

over that and the next fifteen bars displays, on the other hand, the

purest Lydian, while the other portions, although less definite as

regards tonality, keep in closer touch with the mediaeval church smode

[sic: mode] than with our major and minor.]

Further, he adopted only some of the striking peculiarities of the

national music, and added to them others which were individual. These

individual characteristics--those audacities of rhythm, melody,

and harmony (in progressions and modulations, as well as in single

chords)--may, however, be said to have been fathered by the national

ones. As to the predominating chromaticism of his style, it is not to be

found in Polish folk-music; although slight rudiments are discoverable

(see Nos. 6-12 of the musical illustrations). Of course, no one would

seek there his indescribably-exquisite and highly-elaborate workmanship,

which alone enabled him to give expression to the finest shades and most

sudden changes of gentle feelings and turbulent passions. Indeed, as I

have already said, it is rather the national spirit than the form which

manifests itself in Chopin's music. The writer of the article on Polish

music in Mendel's Conversations-Lexikon remarks:--

What Chopin has written remains for all times the highest

ideal of Polish music. Although it would be impossible to

point out in a single bar a vulgar utilisation of a national

theme, or a Slavonic aping of it, there yet hovers over the

whole the spirit of Polish melody, with its chivalrous, proud,

and dreamy accents; yea, even the spirit of the Polish

language is so pregnantly reproduced in the musical diction as

perhaps in no composition of any of his countrymen; unless it

be that Prince Oginski with his polonaises and Dobrzynski in

his happiest moments have approached him.

Liszt, as so often, has also in connection with this aspect of the

composer Chopin some excellent remarks to offer.

He neither applied himself nor exerted himself to write Polish

music; it is possible that he would have been astonished to

hear himself called a Polish musician.

[FOOTNOTE: Liszt decidedly overshoots here the mark, and does

so in a less degree in the rest of these observations. Did not

Chopin himself say to Hiller that he wished to be to his

countrymen what Uhland was to the Germans? And did he not

write in one of his letters (see p. 168): "You know how I wish

to understand, and how I have in part succeeded in

understanding, our national music"?]

Nevertheless, he was a national musician par excellence...He

summed up in his imagination, he represented in his talent, a

poetic feeling inherent in his nation and diffused there among

all his contemporaries. Like the true national poets, Chopin

sang, without a fixed design, without a preconceived choice,

what inspiration spontaneously dictated to him; it is thus

that there arose in his music, without solicitation, without

effort, the most idealised form of the emotions which had

animated his childhood, chequered his adolescence, and

embellished his youth...Without making any pretence to it, he

collected into a luminous sheaf sentiments confusedly felt by

all in his country, fragmentarily disseminated in their

hearts, vaguely perceived by some.

George Sand tells us that Chopin's works were the mysterious and vague

expression of his inner life. That they were the expression of his inner

life is indeed a fact which no attentive hearer can fail to discover

without the aid of external evidence. For the composer has hardly

written a bar in which, so to speak, the beating of his heart may not be

felt. Chopin revealed himself only in his music, but there he revealed

himself fully. And was this expression of his inner life really

"mysterious and vague"? I think not! At least, no effusion of words

could have made clearer and more distinct what he expressed. For the

communications of dreams and visions such as he dreamt and saw, of

the fluctuating emotional actualities such as his sensitive heart

experienced, musical forms are, no doubt, less clumsy than verbal and

pictorial ones. And if we know something of his history and that of his

nation, we cannot be at a loss to give names and local habitations to

the impalpable, but emotionally and intellectually-perceptible contents

of his music. We have to distinguish in Chopin the personal and the

national tone-poet, the singer of his own joys and sorrows and that of

his country's. But, while distinguishing these two aspects, we must take

care not to regard them as two separate things. They were a duality the

constitutive forces of which alternately assumed supremacy. The national

poet at no time absorbed the personal, the personal poet at no time

disowned the national. His imagination was always ready to conjure up

his native atmosphere, nay, we may even say that, wherever he might be,

he lived in it. The scene of his dreams and visions lay oftenest in the

land of his birth. And what did the national poet dream and see in these

dreams and visions? A past, present, and future which never existed and

never will exist, a Poland and a Polish people glorified. Reality passed

through the refining fires of his love and genius and reappeared in his

music sublimated as beauty and poetry. No other poet has like Chopin

embodied in art the romance of the land and people of Poland. And,

also, no other poet has like him embodied in art the romance of his own

existence. But whereas as a national poet he was a flattering idealist,

he was as a personal poet an uncompromising realist.

The masterpieces of Chopin consist of mazurkas, polonaises, waltzes,

etudes, preludes, nocturnes (with which we will class the berceuse and

barcarole), scherzos and impromptus, and ballades. They do not,

however, comprise all his notable compositions. And about these notable

compositions which do not rank with his masterpieces, either because

they are of less significance or otherwise fail to reach the standard of

requisite perfectness, I shall first say a few words.

Chopin's Bolero, Op. 19, may be described as a Bolero a la polonaise.

It is livelier in movement and more coquettish in character than

the compositions which he entitles polonaises, but for all that its

physiognomy does not on the whole strike one as particularly Spanish,

certainly not beyond the first section of the Bolero proper and

the seductive strains of the Pililento, the second tempo of the

introduction. And in saying this I am not misled by the points of

resemblance in the rhythmical accompaniment of these dances. Chopin

published the Bolero in 1834, four years before he visited Spain, but

one may doubt whether it would have turned out less Polish if he had

composed it subsequently. Although an excellent imitator in the way

of mimicry, he lacked the talent of imitating musical thought and

character; at any rate, there are no traces of it in his works. The

cause of this lack of talent lies, of course, in the strength of his

subjectivism in the first place, and of his nationalism in the second. I

said the Bolero was published four years before his visit to Spain. But

how many years before this visit was it composed? I think a good many

years earlier; for it has so much of his youthful style about it, and

not only of his youthful style, but also of his youthful character--by

which I mean that it is less intensely poetic. It is not impossible that

Chopin was instigated to write it by hearing the Bolero in Auber's "La

Muette de Portici" ("Masaniello"), which opera was first performed on

February 28, 1828. These remarks are thrown out merely as hints. The

second composition which we shall consider will show how dangerous it is

to dogmatise on the strength of internal evidence.

Op. 16, a lightsome Rondeau with a dramatic Introduction, is, like the

Bolero, not without its beauties; but in spite of greater individuality,

ranks, like it, low among the master's works, being patchy, unequal, and

little poetical.

If ever Chopin is not Chopin in his music, he is so in his Variations

brillantes (in B flat major) sur le Rondeau favori: "Je vends des

Scapulaires" de Ludovic, de Herold et Halevy, Op. 12. Did we not know

that he must have composed the work about the middle of 1833, we should

be tempted to class it with the works which came into existence when his

individuality was as yet little developed. [FOOTNOTE: The opera Ludovic,

on which Herold was engaged when he died on January 19, 1833, and which

Halevy completed, was produced in Paris on May 16, 1833. From the German

publishers of Chopin's Op. 12 I learned that it appeared in November,

1833. In the Gazette musicale of January 26, 1834, may be read a review

of it.] But knowing what we do, we can only wonder at the strange

phenomenon. It is as if Chopin had here thrown overboard the Polish

part of his natal inheritance and given himself up unrestrainedly and

voluptuously to the French part. Besides various diatonic runs of an

inessential and purely ornamental character, there is in the finale

actually a plain and full-toned C flat major scale. What other work

of the composer could be pointed out exhibiting the like feature?

Of course, Chopin is as little successful in entirely hiding his

serpentining and chromaticising tendency as Mephistopheles in hiding the

limp arising from his cloven foot. Still, these fallings out of the role

are rare and transient, and, on the whole, Chopin presents himself as

a perfect homme du monde who knows how to say the most insignificant

trifles with the most exquisite grace imaginable. There can. be nothing

more amusing than the contemporary critical opinions regarding this

work, nothing more amusing than to see the at other times censorious

Philistines unwrinkle their brows, relax generally the sternness of

their features, and welcome, as it were, the return of the prodigal son.

We wiser critics of to-day, who, of course, think very differently

about this matter, can, nevertheless, enjoy and heartily applaud the

prettiness and elegance of the simple first variation, the playful

tripping second, the schwarmerische melodious third, the merry swinging

fourth, and the brilliant finale.

From Chopin's letters we see that the publication of the Tarantelle,

Op. 43, which took place in the latter part of 1841, was attended with

difficulties and annoyances. [FOOTNOTE: Herr Schuberth, of Leipzig,

informed me that a honorarium of 500 francs was paid to Chopin for this

work on July 1, 1841. The French publisher deposited the work at the

library of the Conservatoire in October, 1841.] What these difficulties

and annoyances were, is, however, only in part ascertainable. To turn

from the publication to the composition itself, I may say that it is

full of life, indeed, spirited in every respect, in movement and

in boldness of harmonic and melodic conception. The Tarantelle is a

translation from Italian into Polish, a transmutation of Rossini into

Chopin, a Neapolitan scene painted with opaque colours, the south

without its transparent sky, balmy air, and general brightness. That

this composition was inspired by impressions received from Rossini's

Tarantella, and not from impressions received in Italy (of which, as

has already been related, he had a short glimpse in 1839), is evident.

A comparison of Chopin's Op. 43 with Liszt's glowing and intoxicating

transcription of Rossini's composition may be recommended as a study

equally pleasant and instructive. Although not an enthusiastic admirer

of Chopin's Tarantelle, I protest in the interest of the composer and

for justice's sake against Schumann's dictum: "Nobody can call that

beautiful music; but we pardon the master his wild fantasies, for once

he may let us see also the dark sides of his inner life."

The Allegro de Concert, Op. 46, which was published in November, 1841,

although written for the pianoforte alone, contains, nevertheless,

passages which are more distinctly orchestral than anything Chopin

ever wrote for the orchestra. The form resembles somewhat that of the

concerto. In the first section, which occupies the place of the

opening tutti, we cannot fail to distinguish the entrances of single

instruments, groups of instruments, and the full orchestra. The soloist

starts in the eighty-seventh bar, and in the following commences a

cadenza. With the a tempo comes the first subject (A major), and the

passage-work which brings up the rear leads to the second subject (E

major), which had already appeared in the first section in A major.

The first subject, if I may dignify the matter in question with that

designation, does not recur again, nor was it introduced by the tutti.

The central and principal thought is what I called the second subject.

The second section concludes with brilliant passage-work in E major, the

time--honoured shake rousing the drowsy orchestra from its sweet

repose. The hint is not lost, and the orchestra, in the disguise of the

pianoforte, attends to its duty right vigorously. With the poco rit. the

soloist sets to work again, and in the next bar takes up the principal

subject in A minor. After that we have once more brilliant passage-work,

closing this time in A major, and then a final tutti. The Allegro de

Concert gives rise to all sorts of surmises. Was it written first for

the pianoforte and orchestra, as Schumann suspects? Or may we make even

a bolder guess, and suppose that the composer, at a more advanced age,

worked up into this Allegro de Concert a sketch for the first movement

of a concerto conceived in his younger days? Have we, perhaps, here a

fragment or fragments of the Concerto for two pianos which Chopin, in

a letter written at Vienna on December 21, 1830, said he would play in

public with his friend Nidecki, if he succeeded in writing it to his

satisfaction? And is there any significance in the fact that Chopin,

when (probably in the summer of 1841) sending the manuscript of this

work to Fontana, calls it a Concerto? Be this as it may, the principal

subject and some of the passage-work remind one of the time of the

concertos; other things, again, belong undoubtedly to a later period.

The tutti and solo parts are unmistakable, so different is the treatment

of the pianoforte: in the former the style has the heaviness of an

arrangement, in the latter it has Chopin's usual airiness. The work, as

a whole, is unsatisfactory, nay, almost indigestible. The subjects are

neither striking nor important. Of the passage-work, that which follows

the second subject contains the most interesting matter. Piquant traits

and all sorts of fragmentary beauties are scattered here and there over

the movement. But after we have considered all, we must confess that

this opus adds little or nothing to the value of our Chopin inheritance.

[FOOTNOTE: In justice to the composer I must here quote a criticism

which since I wrote the above appeared in the Athenaum (January 21,

1888):--"The last-named work [the Allegro de Concert, Op. 46] is

not often heard, and is generally regarded as one of Chopin's least

interesting and least characteristic pieces. Let us hasten to say that

these impressions are distinctly wrong; the executive difficulties of

the work are extremely great, and a mere mastery of them is far from

all that is needed. When M. de Pachmann commenced to play it was quickly

evident that his reading would be most remarkable, and in the end it

amounted to an astounding revelation. That which seemed dry and involved

became under his fingers instinct with beauty and feeling; the musicians

and amateurs present listened as if spellbound, and opinion was

unanimous that the performance was nothing short of an artistic

creation. For the sake of the composer, if not for his own reputation,

the pianist should repeat it, not once, but many times." Notwithstanding

this decided judgment of a weighty authority--for such everyone will,

without hesitation, acknowledge the critic in question to be--I am

unable, after once more examining the work, to alter my previously

formed opinion.]

As a further confirmation of the supposed origin of the Allegro de

Concert, I may mention the arrangement of it for piano and orchestra

(also for two pianos) by Jean Louis Nicode.

[FOOTNOTE: Nicode has done his work well so far as he kept close to the

text of Chopin; but his insertion of a working-out section of more than

seventy bars is not justifiable, and, moreover, though making the work

more like an orthodox first movement of a concerto, does not enhance its

beauty and artistic value.]

To the Sonata in B flat minor, Op. 35 (published in May, 1840), this

most powerful of Chopin's works in the larger forms, Liszt's remark,

"Plus de volonte que d'inspiration," is hardly applicable, although he

used the expression in speaking of Chopin's concertos and sonatas in

general; for there is no lack of inspiration here, nor are there traces

of painful, unrewarded effort. Each of the four pieces of which the

sonata consists is full of vigour, originality, and interest. But

whether they can be called a sonata is another question. Schumann, in

his playful manner, speaks of caprice and wantonness, and insinuates

that Chopin bound together four of his maddest children, and entitled

them sonata, in order that he might perhaps under this name smuggle them

in where otherwise they would not penetrate. Of course, this is a fancy

of Schumann's. Still, one cannot help wondering whether the

composer from the first intended to write a sonata and obtained this

result--amphora coepit institui; currente rota cur urceus exit?--or

whether these four movements got into existence without any

predestination, and were afterwards put under one cover. [FOOTNOTE: At

any rate, the march was finished before the rest of the work. See the

quotation from one of Chopin's letters farther on.] With all Schumann's

admiration for Chopin and praise of this sonata, it appears to me that

he does not give Chopin his due. There is something gigantic in the work

which, although it does not elevate and ennoble, being for the most

part a purposeless fuming, impresses one powerfully. The first movement

begins with four bars grave, a groan full of pain; then the composer,

in restless, breathless haste, is driven by his feelings onward, ever

onward, till he comes to the lovely, peaceful second subject (in D

flat major, a real contrast this time), which grows by-and-by more

passionate, and in the concluding portion of the first part transcends

the limits of propriety--VIDE those ugly dissonances. The connection

of the close of the first part with the repetition of this and the

beginning of the second part by means of the chord of the dominant

seventh in A flat and that in D flat with the suspended sixth, is

noteworthy. The strange second section, in which the first subject is

worked out, has the appearance rather of an improvisation than of a

composition. After this a few bars in 6/4 time, fiercely wild (stretto)

at first, but gradually subsiding, lead to the repeat in B flat major

of the second subject--the first subject does not appear again in its

original form. To the close, which is like that of the corresponding

section in the first part (6/4), is added a coda (2/2) introducing the

characteristic motive of the first subject. In the scherzo, the grandest

movement and the climax of the sonata, the gloom and the threatening

power which rise to a higher and higher pitch become quite weird and

fear-inspiring; it affects one like lowering clouds, rolling of thunder,

and howling and whistling of the wind--to the latter, for instance, the

chromatic successions of chords of the sixth may not inappropriately

be likened. The piu lento is certainly one of the most scherzo-like

thoughts in Chopin's scherzos--so light and joyful, yet a volcano is

murmuring under this serenity. The return of this piu lento, after the

repeat of the first section, is very fine and beneficently refreshing,

like nature after a storm. The Marche funebre ranks among Chopin's

best-known and most highly-appreciated pieces. Liszt mentions it with

particular distinction, and grows justly eloquent over it. I do not

altogether understand Schumann's objection: "It is still more gloomy

than the scherzo," he says, "and contains even much that is repulsive;

in its place an adagio, perhaps in D flat, would have had an

incomparably finer effect." Out of the dull, stupefied brooding, which

is the fundamental mood of the first section, there rises once and again

(bars 7 and 8, and 11 and 12) a pitiable wailing, and then an outburst

of passionate appealing (the forte passage in D flat major), followed

by a sinking helplessness (the two bars with the shakes in the bass),

accompanied by moans and deep breathings. The two parts of the second

section are a rapturous gaze into the beatific regions of a beyond, a

vision of reunion of what for the time is severed. The last movement

may be counted among the curiosities of composition--a presto in B flat

minor of seventy-five bars, an endless series of triplets from beginning

to end in octaves. It calls up in one's mind the solitude and dreariness

of a desert. "The last movement is more like mockery than music," says

Schumann, but adds, truly and wisely--

and yet one confesses to one's self that also out of this

unmelodious and joyless movement a peculiar dismal spirit

breathes upon us, who keeps down with a strong hand that which

would revolt, so that we obey, as if we were charmed, without

murmuring, but also without praising, for that is no music.

Thus the sonata concludes, as it began, enigmatically, like a

sphinx with a mocking smile.

J. W. Davison, in the preface to an edition of Chopin's mazurkas,

relates that Mendelssohn, on being questioned about the finale of one

of Chopin's sonatas (I think it must have been the one before us), said

briefly and bitterly, "Oh, I abhor it!" H. Barbedette remarks in his

"Chopin," a criticism without insight and originality, of this finale,

"C'est Lazare grattant de ses ongles la pierre de son tombeau et tombant

epuise de fatigue, de faim et de desespoir." And now let the reader

recall the words which Chopin wrote from Nohant to Fontana in the summer

of 1839:--

I am composing here a Sonata in B flat minor, in which will be

the funeral march which you have already. There is an Allegro,

then a Scherzo, in E flat minor, the March, and a short Finale

of about three pages. The left hand unisono with the right

hand are gossiping after the March [ogaduja po Marszu].

The meaning of which somewhat obscure interpretation seems to be, that

after the burial the good neighbours took to discussing the merits of

the departed, not without a spice of backbiting.

The Sonata in B minor, Op. 58, the second of Chopin's notable pianoforte

sonatas (the third if we take into account the unpalatable Op. 4),

made its appearance five years later, in June, 1845. Unity is as little

discernible in this sonata as in its predecessor. The four movements of

which the work consists are rather affiliated than cognate; nay, this

may be said even of many parts of the movements. The first movement

by far surpasses the other three in importance: indeed, the wealth of

beautiful and interesting matter which is here heaped up--for it is

rather an unsifted accumulation than an artistic presentation and

evolution--would have sufficed many a composer for several movements.

The ideas are very unequal and their course very jerky till we come to

the second subject (D major), which swells out into a broad stream

of impassioned melody. Farther on the matter becomes again jerky

and mosaic-like. While the close of the first part is very fine, the

beginning of the second is a comfortless waste. Things mend with the

re-entrance of the subsidiary part of the second subject (now in D

flat major), which, after being dwelt upon for some time and varied,

disappears, and is followed by a repetition of portions of the first

subject, the whole second subject (in B major), and the closing period,

which is prolonged by a coda to make the close more emphatic and

satisfying. A light and graceful quaver figure winds with now rippling,

now waving motion through the first and third sections of the scherzo;

in the contrasting second section, with the sustained accompaniment

and the melody in one of the middle parts, the entrance of the bright

A major, after the gloom of the preceding bars, is very effective. The

third movement has the character of a nocturne, and as such cannot fail

to be admired. In the visionary dreaming of the long middle section we

imagine the composer with dilated eyes and rapture in his look--it is

rather a reverie than a composition. The finale surrounds us with an

emotional atmosphere somewhat akin to that of the first movement,

but more agitated. After eight bold introductory bars with piercing

dissonances begins the first subject, which, with its rhythmically

differently-accompanied repetition, is the most important constituent

of the movement. The rest, although finely polished, is somewhat

insignificant. In short, this is the old story, plus de volonte que

d'inspiration, that is to say, inspiration of the right sort. And also,

plus de volonte que de savoir-faire.

There is one work of Chopin's to which Liszt's dictum, plus de volnte

que d'inspiratio, applies in all, and even more than all its force.

I allude to the Sonata (in G minor) for piano and violoncello, Op.

65 (published in September, 1847), in which hardly anything else but

effort, painful effort, manifests itself. The first and last movements

are immense wildernesses with only here and there a small flower. The

middle movements, a Scherzo and an Andante, do not rise to the dignity

of a sonata, and, moreover, lack distinction, especially the slow

movement, a nocturne-like dialogue between the two instruments. As to

the beauties--such as the first subject of the first movement (at the

entrance of the violoncello), the opening bars of the Scherzo, part

of the ANDANTE, &c.--they are merely beginnings, springs that lose

themselves soon in a sandy waste. Hence I have not the heart to

controvert Moscheles who, in his diary, says some cutting things about

this work: "In composition Chopin proves that he has only isolated happy

thoughts which he does not know how to work up into a rounded whole. In

the just published sonata with violoncello I find often passages which

sound as if someone were preluding on the piano and knocked at all the

keys to learn whether euphony was at home." [FOOTNOTE: Aus Moscheles'

Leben; Vol. II., p. 171.] An entry of the year 1850 runs as follows:

"But a trial of patience of another kind is imposed on me by Chopin's

Violoncello Sonata, which I am arranging for four hands. To me it is

a tangled forest, through which now and then penetrates a gleam of

the sun." [FOOTNOTE: Ibid., Vol. II., p. 216.] To take up after the

last-discussed work a composition like the Grand Duo Concertant for

piano and violoncello, on themes from "Robert le Diable," by Chopin and

A. Franchomme, is quite a relief, although it is really of no artistic

importance. Schumann is right when he says of this DUO, which saw the

light of publicity (without OPUS number) in 1833:14 [FOOTNOTE: The first

performance of Meyerbeer's "Robert le Diable" took place at the Paris

Opera on November 21, 1831.] "A piece for a SALON where behind the

shoulders of counts and countesses now and then rises the head of a

celebrated artist." And he may also be right when he says:--

It seems to me that Chopin sketched the whole of it, and that

Franchomme said "yes" to everything; for what Chopin touches

takes his form and spirit, and in this minor salon-style he

expresses himself with grace and distinction, compared with

which all the gentility of other brilliant composers together

with all their elegance vanish into thin air.

The mention of the DUO is somewhat out of place here, but the Sonata,

Op. 65, in which the violoncello is employed, naturally suggested it.

We have only one more work to consider before we come to the groups of

masterpieces in the smaller forms above enumerated. But this last

work is one of Chopin's best compositions, and in its way no less a

masterpiece than these. Unfettered by the scheme of a definite form such

as the sonata or concerto, the composer develops in the Fantaisie, Op.

49 (published in November, 1841), his thought with masterly freedom.

There is an enthralling weirdness about this work, a weirdness made up

of force of passion and an indescribable fantastic waywardness. Nothing

more common than the name of Fantasia, here we have the thing! The music

falls on our ears like the insuppressible outpouring of a being stirred

to its heart's core, and full of immeasurable love and longing. Who

would suspect the composer's fragility and sickliness in this work?

Does it not rather suggest a Titan in commotion? There was a time when

I spoke of the Fantasia in a less complimentary tone, now I bow down my

head regretfully and exclaim peccavi. The disposition of the composition

may be thus briefly indicated. A tempo di marcia opens the Fantasia--it

forms the porch of the edifice. The dreamy triplet passages of the poco

a poco piu mosso are comparable to galleries that connect the various

blocks of buildings. The principal subject, or accumulation of themes,

recurs again and again in different keys, whilst other subjects appear

only once or twice between the repetitions of the principal subject.

The mazurkas of Chopin are a literature in themselves, said Lenz,

and there is some truth in his saying. They may, indeed, be called

a literature in themselves for two reasons--first, because of their

originality, which makes them things sui generis; and secondly, because

of the poetical and musical wealth of their contents. Chopin, as I have

already said, is most national in the mazurkas and polonaises, for

the former of which he draws not only inspiration, but even rhythmic,

melodic, and harmonic motives from his country's folk-music. Liszt told

me, in a conversation I had with him, that he did not care much for

Chopin's mazurkas. "One often meets in them with bars which might just

as well be in another place." But he added, "And yet as Chopin puts

them, perhaps nobody else could have put them." And mark, those are the

words of one who also told me that when he sometimes played half-an-hour

for his amusement, he liked to resort to Chopin. Moscheles, I suspect,

had especially the mazurkas in his mind when, in 1833, [FOOTNOTE: At

this time the published compositions of Chopin were, of course, not

numerous, but they included the first two books of Mazurkas, Op. 6 and

7.] he said of the Polish master's compositions that he found "much

charm in their originality and national colouring," and that "his

thoughts and through them the fingers stumbled over certain hard,

inartistic modulations." Startling progressions, unreconciled contrasts,

and abrupt changes of mood are characteristic of Slavonic music and

expressive of the Slavonic character. Whether they ought to be called

inartistic or not, we will leave time to decide, if it has not done so

already; the Russian and other Slavonic composers, who are now coming

more and more to the front, seem to be little in doubt as to their

legitimacy. I neither regard Chopin's mazurkas as his most artistic

achievements nor recommend their capriciousness and fragmentariness for

general imitation. But if we view them from the right stand-point, which

is not that of classicism, we cannot help admiring them. The musical

idiom which the composer uses in these, notwithstanding their

capriciousness and fragmentariness, exquisitely-finished miniatures, has

a truly delightful piquancy. Yet delightful as their language is,

the mazurkas have a far higher claim to our admiration. They are

poems--social poems, poems of private life, in distinction from the

polonaises, which are political poems. Although Chopin's mazurkas and

polonaises are no less individual than the other compositions of this

most subjective of subjective poets, they incorporate, nevertheless, a

good deal of the poetry of which the national dances of those names

are the expression or vehicle. And let it be noted, in Poland so-called

civilisation did not do its work so fast and effectually as in Western

Europe; there dancing had not yet become in Chopin's days a merely

formal and conventional affair, a matter of sinew and muscle.

It is, therefore, advisable that we should make ourselves acquainted

with the principal Polish dances; such an acquaintance, moreover, will

not only help us to interpret aright Chopin's mazurkas and polonaises,

but also to gain a deeper insight into his ways of feeling and seeing

generally. Now the reader will become aware that the long disquisitions

on Poland and the Poles at the commencement of this biography were not

superfluous accessories. For completeness' sake I shall preface the

description of the mazurka by a short one of the krakowiak, the third

of the triad of principal Polish dances. The informants on whom I

shall chiefly rely when I am not guided by my own observations are the

musician Sowinski and the poet Brodzinski, both Poles:

The krakowiak [says Albert Sowinski in chant polonais] bubbles

over with esprit and gaiety; its name indicates its origin. It

is the delight of the salons, and especially of the huts. The

Cracovians dance it in a very agitated and expressive manner,

singing at the same time words made for the occasion of which

they multiply the stanzas and which they often improvise.

These words are of an easy gaiety which remind one strangely

of the rather loose [semi-grivoises] songs so popular in

France; others again are connected with the glorious epochs of

history, with the sweet or sad memories which it calls up, and

are a faithful expression of the character and manners of the

nation.

Casimir Brodzinski describes the dance as follows:--

The krakowiak resembles in its figures a simplified polonaise;

it represents, compared with the latter, a less advanced

social state. The boldest and strongest takes the position of

leader and conducts the dance; he sings, the others join in

chorus; he dances, they imitate him. Often also the krakowiak

represents, in a kind of little ballet, the simple course of a

love-affair: one sees a couple of young people place

themselves before the orchestra; the young man looks proud,

presumptuous, preoccupied with his costume and beauty. Before

long he becomes meditative, and seeks inspiration to improvise

verses which the cries of his companions ask for, and which

the time beaten by them provoke, as well as the manoeuvre of

the young girl, who is impatient to dance. Arriving before the

orchestra after making a round, the dancer generally takes the

liberty of singing a refrain which makes the young girl blush;

she runs away, and it is in pursuing her that the young man

displays all his agility. At the last round it is the young

man who pretends to run away from his partner; she tries to

seize his arm, after which they dance together until the

ritornello puts an end to their pleasure.

As a technical supplement to the above, I may say that this lively

dance is in 2/4 time, and like other Polish dances has the rhythmical

peculiarity of having frequently the accent on a usually unaccented

part of the bar, especially at the end of a section or a phrase, for

instance, on the second quaver of the second and the fourth bar, thus:--

[Here, the author illustrates with a rhythm diagram consisting of a line

of notes divided in measures: 1/8 1/16 1/16 1/8 1/8 | 1/8 1/4 1/8 | 1/8

1/16 1/16 1/8 1/8 | 1/8 1/4 dot]

Chopin has only once been inspired by the krakowiak--namely, in his Op.

14, entitled Krakowiak, Grand Rondeau de Concert, a composition which

was discussed in Chapter VIII. Thus much of the krakowiak; now to the

more interesting second of the triad.

The mazurek [or mazurka], whose name comes from Mazovia, one

of our finest provinces, is the most characteristic dance-tune

--it is the model of all our new tunes. One distinguishes,

however, these latter easily from the ancient ones on account

of their less original and less cantabile form. There are two

kinds of mazureks: one, of which the first portion is always

in minor and the second in major, has a romance-like

colouring, it is made to be sung, in Polish one says "to be

heard" (do sludninin); the other serves as an accompaniment to

a dance, of which the figures are multiplied passes and

coiuluiles. Its movement is in time, and yet less quick than

the waltz. The motive is in dotted notes, which must be

executed with energy and warmth, but not without a certain

dignity.

Now the mazurka is generally written in 3/4-time; Chopin's are all

written thus. The dotted rhythmical motive alluded to by Sowinski is

this, or similar to this--

[Another rhythm diagram: 1/8 dot 1/16 1/4 1/4 | 1/8 dot 1/16 1/2]

But the dotted notes are by no means de rigueur. As motives like the

following--

[Another rhythm diagram: 1/4 1/2 | 1/8 1/8 1/4 1/4 | triplet 1/4 1/4 |

triple 1/8 1/8 1/8 1/8]

are of frequent occurrence, I would propose a more comprehensive

definition--namely, that the first part of the bar consists mostly of

quicker notes than the latter part. But even this more comprehensive

definition does not comprehend all; it is a rule which has many

exceptions. [FOOTNOTE: See the musical illustrations on pp. 217-218.] Le

Sowinski mentions only one classification of mazurkas. Several others,

however, exist. First, according to the district from which they

derive--mazurkas of Kujavia, of Podlachia, of Lublin, &c.; or, secondly,

according to their character, or to the purpose or occasion for which

they were composed: wedding, village, historical, martial, and political

mazurkas. And now let us hear what the poet Brodzinski has to say about

the nature of this dance:-- The mazurek in its primitive form and as the

common people dance is only a kind of krakowiak, only less lively and

less sautillant. The agile Cracovians and the mountaineers of the

Carpathians call the mazurek danced by the inhabitants of the plain but

a dwarfed krakowiak. The proximity of the Germans, or rather the sojourn

of the German troops, has caused the true character of the mazurek among

the people to be lost; this dance hap become a kind of awkward waltz.

With the people of the capital the real dances of the country

are disfigured not only by the influx of foreigners, but

especially also by the unfortunate employment of barrel-

organs....It is this instrument which crushes among the people

the practice of music, and takes the means of subsistence from

the village fiddler, who becomes more and more rare since

every tavern-keeper, in buying a barrel-organ, easily puts an

end to all competition. We see already more and more disappear

from our country sides these sweet songs and improvised

refrains which the rustic minstrels remembered and repeated,

and the truly national music gives way, alas! to the themes

borrowed from the operas most in vogue.

The mazurek, thus degenerated among the people, has been

adopted by the upper classes who, in preserving the national

allures, perfected it to the extent of rendering it, beyond

doubt, one of the most graceful dances in Europe. This dance

has much resemblance with the French quadrille, according to

what is analogous in the characters of the two nations; in

seeing these two dances one might say that a French woman

dances only to please, and that a Polish woman pleases by

abandoning herself to a kind of maiden gaiety--the graces

which she displays come rather from nature than from art. A

French female dancer recalls the ideal of Greek statues; a

Polish female dancer has something which recalls the

shepherdesses created by the imagination of the poets; if the

former charms us, the latter attaches us.

As modern dances lend themselves especially to the triumph of

the women, because the costume of the men is so little

favourable, it is noteworthy that the mazurek forms here an

exception; for a young man, and especially a young Pole,

remarkable by a certain amiable boldness, becomes soon the

soul and hero of this dance. A light and in some sort pastoral

dress for the women, and the Polish military costume so

advantageous for the men, add to the charm of the picture

which the mazurek presents to the eye of the painter. This

dance permits to the whole body the most lively and varied

movements, leaves the shoulders full liberty to bend with that

ABANDON which, accompanied by a joyous laisser-aller and a

certain movement of the foot striking the floor, is

exceedingly graceful.

One finds often a magic effect in the animated enthusiasm

which characterises the different movements of the head--now

proudly erect, now tenderly sunk on the bosom, now lightly

inclined towards the shoulder, and always depicting in large

traits the abundance of life and joy, shaded with simple,

graceful, and delicate sentiments. Seeing in the mazurek the

female dancer almost carried away in the arms and on the

shoulders of her cavalier, abandoning herself entirely to his

guidance, one thinks one sees two beings intoxicated with

happiness and flying towards the celestial regions. The female

dancer, lightly dressed, scarcely skimming the earth with her

dainty foot, holding on by the hand of her partner, in the

twinkling of an eye carried away by several others, and then,

like lightning, precipitating herself again into the arms of

the first, offers the image of the most happy and delightful

creature. The music of the mazurek is altogether national and

original; through its gaiety breathes usually something of

melancholy--one might say that it is destined to direct the

steps of lovers, whose passing sorrows are not without charm.

Chopin himself published forty-one mazurkas of his composition in eleven

sets of four, five, or three numbers--Op. 6, Quatre Mazurkas, and Op. 7,

Cinq Mazurkas, in December, 1832; Op. 17, Quatre Mazurkas, in May, 1834;

Op. 24, Quatre Mazurkas, in November, 1835; Op. 30, Quatre Maazurkas,

in December, 1837; Op. 33, Quatre Mazurkas, in October, 1838; Op. 41,

Quatre Mazurkas, in December, 1840; Op. 50, Trois Mazurkas, in November,

1841; Op, 56, Trois Mazurkas, in August, 1844; Op. 59, Trois Mazurkas,

in April, 1846; and Op. 63, Trois Mazurkas, in September, 1847. In the

posthumous works published by Fontana there are two more sets, each of

four numbers, and respectively marked as Op. 67 and 68. Lastly, several

other mazurkas composed by or attributed to Chopin have been published

without any opus number. Two mazurkas, both in A minor, although very

feeble compositions, are included in the editions by Klindworth and

Mikuli. The Breitkopf and Hartel edition, which includes only one of

these two mazurkas, comprises further a mazurka in G major and one in B

flat major of 1825, one in D major of 1829-30, a remodelling of the

same of 1832--these have already been discussed--and a somewhat more

interesting one in C major of 1833. Of one of the two mazurkas in A

minor, a poor thing and for the most part little Chopinesque, only the

dedication (a son ami Rmile Gaillard) is known, but not the date of

composition. The other (the one not included in Breitkopf and Hartel's,

No. 50 of Mikuli's and Klindworth's edition) appeared first as No. 2 of

Noire Temps, a publication by Schott's Sohne. On inquiry I learned that

Notre Temps was the general title of a series of 12 pieces by Czerny,

Chopin, Kalliwoda, Rosenhain, Thalberg, Kalkbrenner, Mendelssohn,

Bertini, Wolff, Kontski, Osborne, and Herz, which appeared in 1842 or

1843 as a Christmas Album. [FOONOTE: I find, however, that Chopin's

Mazurka was already separately announced as "Notre Temps, No. 2," in

the Monatsberichte of February, 1842.] Whether a Mazurka elegante by Fr,

Chopin, advertised in La France Musicale of April 6, 1845, as en vente

au Bureau de musique, 29, Place de la Bourse, is identical with one of

the above-enumerated mazurkas I have not been able to discover. In the

Klindworth edition [FOOTNOTE: That is to say, in the original Russian,

not in the English (Augener and Co.'s) edition; and there only by the

desire of the publishers and against the better judgment of the editor.]

is also to be found a very un-Chopinesque Mazurka in F sharp major,

previously published by J. P. Gotthard, in Vienna, the authorship of

which Mr. E. Pauer has shown to belong to Charles Mayer.

[FOOTNOTE: In an article, entitled Musical Plagiarism in the Monthly

Musical Record of July 1, 1882 (where also the mazurka in question is

reprinted), we read as follows:--"In 1877 Mr. E. Pauer, whilst preparing

a comprehensive guide through the entire literature of the piano, looked

through many thousand pieces for that instrument published by German

firms, and came across a mazurka by Charles Mayer, published by Pietro

Mechetti (afterwards C. A. Spinal, and entitled Souvenirs de la Pologne.

A few weeks later a mazurka, a posthumous work of F. Chopin, published

by J. Gotthard, came into his hands. At first, although the piece

'struck him as being an old acquaintance,' he could not fix the time

when and the place where he had heard it; but at last the Mayer mazurka

mentioned above returned to his remembrance, and on comparing the two,

he found that they were one and the same piece. From the appearance

of the title-page and the size of the notes, Mr. Pauer, who has had

considerable experience in these matters, concluded that the Mayer copy

must have been published between the years 1840 and 1845, and wrote to

Mr. Gotthard pointing out the similarity of Chopin's posthumous work,

and asking how he came into possession of the Chopin manuscript. Mr.

Gotthard replied,'that he had bought the mazurka as Chopin's autograph

from a Polish countess, who, being in sad distress, parted, though

with the greatest sorrow, with the composition of her illustrious

compatriot.' Mr. Pauer naturally concludes that Mr. Gotthard had been

deceived, that the manuscript was not a genuine autograph, and 'that

the honour of having composed the mazurka in question belongs to Charles

Mayer.' Mr. Pauer further adds: 'It is not likely that C. Mayer, even if

Chopin had made him a present of this mazurka, would have published it

during Chopin's lifetime as a work of his own, or have sold or given it

to the Polish countess. It is much more likely that Mayer's mazurka was

copied in the style of Chopin's handwriting, and after Mayer's death in

1862 sold as Chopin's autograph to Mr. Gotthard.'"]

Surveying the mazurkas in their totality, we cannot but notice that

there is a marked difference between those up to and those above Op. 41.

In the later ones we look in vain for the beautes sauvages which charm

us in the earlier ones--they strike us rather by their propriety of

manner and scholarly elaboration; in short, they have more of reflective

composition and less of spontaneous effusion about them. This, however,

must not be taken too literally. There are exceptions, partial and

total. The "native wood-notes wild" make themselves often heard, only

they are almost as often stifled in the close air of the study. Strange

to say, the last opus (63) of mazurkas published by Chopin has again

something of the early freshness and poetry. Schumann spoke truly when

he said that some poetical trait, something new, was to be found in

every one of Chopin's mazurkas. They are indeed teeming with interesting

matter. Looked at from the musician's point of view, how much do we not

see that is novel and strange, and beautiful and fascinating

withal? Sharp dissonances, chromatic passing notes, suspensions and

anticipations, displacements of accent, progressions of perfect fifths

(the horror of schoolmen), [FOOTNOTE: See especially the passage near

the close of Op. 30, No. 4, where there are four bars of simultaneous

consecutive fifths and sevenths.] sudden turns and unexpected

digressions that are so unaccountable, so out of the line of logical

sequence, that one's following the composer is beset with difficulties,

marked rhythm picture to us the graceful motions of the dancers, and

suggest the clashing of the spurs and the striking of heels against the

ground. The second mazurka might be called "the request." All the arts

of persuasion are tried, from the pathetic to the playful, and a vein

of longing, not unmixed with sadness, runs through the whole, or rather

forms the basis of it. The tender commencement of the second part is

followed, as it were, by the several times repeated questions--Yes? No?

(Bright sunshine? Dark clouds?) But there comes no answer, and the

poor wretch has to begin anew. A helpless, questioning uncertainty and

indecision characterise the third mazurka. For a while the composer

gives way (at the beginning of the second part) to anger, and speaks

in a defiant tone; but, as if perceiving the unprofitableness of

it, returns soon to his first strain. Syncopations, suspensions, and

chromatic passing notes form here the composer's chief stock in trade,

displacement of everything in melody, harmony, and rhythm is the rule.

Nobody did anything like this before Chopin, and, as far as I

know, nobody has given to the world an equally minute and distinct

representation of the same intimate emotional experiences. My last

remarks hold good with the fourth mazurka, which is bleak and joyless

till, with the entrance of A major, a fairer prospect opens. But

those jarring tones that strike in wake the dreamer pitilessly. The

commencement of the mazurka, as well as the close on the chord of the

sixth, the chromatic glidings of the harmonies, the strange twirls and

skips, give a weird character to this piece.

The origin of the polonaise (Taniec Polski, Polish dance), like that of

the, no doubt, older mazurka, is lost in the dim past. For much credit

can hardly be given to the popular belief that it developed out of the

measured procession, to the sound of music, of the nobles and their

ladies, which is said to have first taken place in 1574, the year after

his election to the Polish throne, when Henry of Anjou received the

grandees of his realm. The ancient polonaises were without words, and

thus they were still in the time of King Sobieski (1674-96). Under

the subsequent kings of the house of Saxony, however, they were often

adapted to words or words were adapted to them. Celebrated polonaises of

political significance are: the Polonaise of the 3rd of May, adapted to

words relative to the promulgation of the famous constitution of the 3rd

of May, 1791; the Kosciuszko Polonaise, with words adapted to already

existing music, dedicated to the great patriot and general when, in

1792, the nation rose in defence of the constitution; the Oginski

Polonaise, also called the Swan's song and the Partition of Poland, a

composition without words, of the year 1793 (at the time of the second

partition), by Prince Michael Cleophas Oginski. Among the Polish

composers of the second half of the last century and the beginning of

the present whose polonaises enjoyed in their day, and partly enjoy

still, a high reputation, are especially notable Kozlowski, Kamienski,

Elsner, Deszczynski, Bracicki, Wanski, Prince Oginski, Kurpinski, and

Dobrzynski. Outside Poland the polonaise, both as an instrumental and

vocal composition, both as an independent piece and part of larger

works, had during the same period quite an extraordinary popularity.

Whether we examine the productions of the classics or those of the

inferior virtuosic and drawing-room composers, [FOOTNOTE: I should

have added "operatic composers."] everywhere we find specimens of the

polonaise. Pre-eminence among the most successful foreign cultivators of

this Polish dance has, however, been accorded to Spohr and Weber. I said

just now "this dance," but, strictly speaking, the polonaise, which has

been called a marche dansante, is not so much a dance as a figured walk,

or procession, full of gravity and a certain courtly etiquette. As

to the music of the polonaise, it is in 3/4 time, and of a moderate

movement (rather slow than quick). The flowing and more or less florid

melody has rhythmically a tendency to lean on the second crotchet and

even on the second quaver of the bar (see illustration No. 1, a and

b), and generally concludes each of its parts with one of certain

stereotyped formulas of a similar rhythmical cast (see illustration No.

2, a, b, c, and d). The usual accompaniment consists of a bass note

at the beginning of the bar followed, except at the cadences, by five

quavers, of which the first may be divided into semiquavers. Chopin,

however, emancipated himself more and more from these conventionalities

in his later poetic polonaises.

[Two music score excerpts here, labeled No. 1 and No. 2]

The polonaise [writes Brodzinski] is the only dance which

suits mature age, and is not unbecoming to persons of elevated

rank; it is the dance of kings, heroes, and even old men; it

alone suits the martial dress. It does not breathe any

passion, but seems to be only a triumphal march, an expression

of chivalrous and polite manners. A solemn gravity presides

always at the polonaise, which, perhaps, alone recalls neither

the fire of primitive manners nor the gallantry of more

civilised but more enervated ages. Besides these principal

characteristics, the polonaise bears a singularly national and

historical impress; for its laws recall an aristocratic

republic with a disposition to anarchy, flowing less from the

character of the people than from its particular legislation.

In the olden times the polonaise was a kind of solemn

ceremony. The king, holding by the hand the most distinguished

personage of the assembly, marched at the head of a numerous

train of couples composed of men alone: this dance, made more

effective by the splendour of the chivalrous costumes, was

only, strictly speaking, a triumphal march.

If a lady was the object of the festival, it was her privilege

to open the march, holding by the hand another lady. All the

others followed until the queen of the ball, having offered

her hand to one of the men standing round the room, induced

the other ladies to follow her example.

The ordinary polonaise is opened by the most distinguished

person of the gathering, whose privilege it is to conduct the

whole file of the dancers or to break it up. This is called in

Polish rey wodzic, figuratively, to be the leader, in some

sort the king (from the Latin rex). To dance at the head was

also called to be the marshal, on account of the privileges of

a marshal at the Diets. The whole of this form is connected

with the memories and customs of raising the militia

(pospolite), or rather of the gathering of the national

assemblies in Poland. Hence, notwithstanding the deference

paid to the leaders, who have the privilege of conducting at

will the chain of dancers, it is allowable, by a singular

practice made into a law, to dethrone a leader every time any

bold person calls out odbiianego, which means retaken by force

or reconquered; he who pronounces this word is supposed to

wish to reconquer the hand of the first lady and the direction

of the dance; it is a kind of act of liberum veto, to which

everyone is obliged to give way. The leader then abandons the

hand of his lady to the new pretender; every cavalier dances

with the lady of the following couple, and it is only the

cavalier of the last couple who finds himself definitively

ousted if he has not the boldness to insist likewise upon his

privilege of equality by demanding odbiianego, and placing

himself at the head.

But as a privilege of this nature too often employed would

throw the whole ball into complete anarchy, two means are

established to obviate this abuse--namely, the leader makes

use of his right to terminate the polonaise, in imitation of a

king or marshal dissolving a Diet, or else, according to the

predominating wish, all the cavaliers leave the ladies alone

in the middle, who then choose new partners and continue the

dance, excluding the disturbers and discontented, which

recalls the confederations employed for the purpose of making

the will of the majority prevail.

The polonaise breathes and paints the whole national

character; the music of this dance, while admitting much art,

combines something martial with a sweetness marked by the

simplicity of manners of an agricultural people. Foreigners

have distorted this character of the polonaises; the natives

themselves preserve it less in our day in consequence of the

frequent employment of motives drawn from modern operas. As to

the dance itself, the polonaise has become in our day a kind

of promenade which has little charm for the young, and is but

a scene of etiquette for those of a riper age. Our fathers

danced it with a marvellous ability and a gravity full of

nobleness; the dancer, making gliding steps with energy, but

without skips, and caressing his moustache, varied his

movements by the position of his sabre, of his cap, and of

his tucked-up coat-sleeves, distinctive signs of a free man

and warlike citizen. Whoever has seen a Pole of the old school

dance the polonaise in the national costume will confess

without hesitation that this dance is the triumph of a well-

made man, with a noble and proud tournure, and with an air at

once manly and gay.

After this Brodzinski goes on to describe the way in which the polonaise

used to be danced. But instead of his description I shall quote a not

less true and more picturesque one from the last canto of Mickiewicz's

"Pan Tadeusz":--

It is time to dance the polonaise. The President comes

forward; he lightly throws back the fausses manches of his

overcoat, caresses his moustache, presents his hand to Sophia:

and, by a respectful salute, invites her for the first couple.

Behind them range themselves the other dancers, two and two;

the signal is given, the dance is begun, the President directs

it.

His red boots move over the green sward, his belt sends forth

flashes of light; he proceeds slowly, as if at random: but in

every one of his steps, in every one of his movements, one can

read the feelings and the thoughts of the dancer. He stops as

if to question his partner; he leans towards her, wishes to

speak to her in an undertone. The lady turns away, does not

listen, blushes. He takes off his cap, and salutes her

respectfully. The lady is not disinclined to look at him, but

persists in being silent. He slackens his pace, seeks to read

in her eyes, and smiles. Happy in her mute answer, he walks

more quickly, looking proudly at his rivals; now he draws his

cap with the heron-feathers forward, now he pushes it back. At

last he puts it on one side and turns up his moustaches. He

withdraws; all envy him, all follow his footsteps. He would

like to disappear with his lady. Sometimes he stops, raises

politely his hand, and begs the dancers to pass by him.

Sometimes he tries to slip dexterously away, changing the

direction. He would like to deceive his companions; but the

troublesome individuals follow him with a nimble step, entwine

him with more and more tightened loops. He becomes angry; lays

his right hand on his sword as if he wished to say: "Woe to

the jealous!" He turns, pride on his countenance, a challenge

in his air, and marches straight on the company, who give way

at his approach, open to him a passage, and soon, by a rapid

evolution, are off again in pursuit of him.

On all sides one hears the exclamation: "Ah! this is perhaps

the last. Look, young people, perhaps this is the last who

will know how to conduct thus the polonaise!"

Among those of Chopin's compositions which he himself published are,

exclusive of the "Introduction et Polonaise brillante" for piano

and violoncello, Op. 3, eight polonaises--namely: "Grande Polonaise

brillante" (in E flat major), "precedee d'un Andante spianato" (in G

major), "pour le piano avec orchestre," Op. 22; "Deux Polonaises" (in C

sharp minor and E flat minor), Op. 26; "Deux Polonaises" (in A major and

C minor), Op. 40; "Polonaise" (F sharp minor), Op. 44; "Polonaise" (in A

flat major), Op. 53; [FOOTNOTE: This polonaise is called the "eighth"

on the title-page, which, of course, it is only by including

the "Polonaise," Op. 3, for piano and violoncello.] and

"Polonaise-Fantaisie" (in A flat major), Op. 61. The three early

polonaises posthumously-published by Fontana as Op. 71 have already been

discussed in Chapter VIII. Other posthumously-published polonaises--such

as the Polonaise in G sharp minor, to be found in Mikuli's edition, and

one in B flat minor of the year 1826, first published in the supplement

of the journal "Echo Muzyczne"--need not be considered by us. [FOOTNOTE:

Both polonaises are included in the Breitkopf and Hartel edition, where

the one in G sharp minor bears the unlikely date 1822. The internal

evidence speaks against this statement.]

Chopin's Polonaises Op. 26, 40, 53, and 61 are pre-eminently political,

they are the composer's expression of his patriotic feelings. It is not

difficult to recognise in them proud memories of past splendours,

sad broodings over present humiliations, bright visions of a future

resurrection. They are full of martial chivalry, of wailing

dejection, of conspiracy and sedition, of glorious victories. The

poetically-inferior Polonaise, Op. 22, on the other hand, while

unquestionably Polish in spirit, is not political. Chopin played this

work, which was probably composed, or at least sketched, in 1830,

[FOOTNOTE: See Vol. I., Chapter xiii., pp. 201, 202.] and certainly

published in July, 1836, for the first time in public at a Paris

Conservatoire concert for the benefit of Habeneck on April 26, 1835;

and this was the only occasion on which he played it with orchestral

accompaniments. The introductory Andante (in G major, and 6/8 time), as

the accompanying adjective indicates, is smooth and even. It makes one

think of a lake on a calm, bright summer day. A boat glides over the

pellucid, unruffled surface of the water, by-and-by halts at a shady

spot by the shore, or by the side of some island (3/4 time), then

continues its course (f time), and finally returns to its moorings

(3/4). I can perceive no connection between the Andante and the

following Polonaise (in E flat major) except the factitious one of a

formal and forced transition, with which the orchestra enters on the

scene of action (Allegro molto, 3/4). After sixteen bars of tutti, the

pianoforte commences, unaccompanied, the polonaise. Barring the short

and in no way attractive and remarkable test's, the orchestra plays a

very subordinate and often silent role, being, indeed, hardly missed

when the pianoforte part is played alone. The pronounced bravura

character of the piece would warrant the supposition that it was written

expressly for the concert-room, even if the orchestral accompaniments

were not there to prove the fact. A proud bearing, healthful vigour,

and sprightly vivacity distinguish Chopin on this occasion. But

notwithstanding the brave appearance, one misses his best qualities.

This polonaise illustrates not only the most brilliant, but also the

least lovable features of the Polish character--ostentatiousness and

exaggerated rhetoric. In it Chopin is discovered posturing, dealing in

phrases, and coquetting with sentimental affectations. In short, the

composer comes before us as a man of the world, intent on pleasing,

and sure of himself and success. The general airiness of the style is

a particularly-noticeable feature of this piece of Chopin's virtuosic

period.

The first bars of the first (in C sharp minor) of the two Polonaises,

Op. 26 (published in July, 1836), fall upon one's ear like a decision of

irresistible, inexorable fate. Indignation flares up for a moment,

and then dies away, leaving behind sufficient strength only for a dull

stupor (beginning of the second part), deprecation, melting tenderness

(the E major in the second part, and the closing bars of the first and

second parts), and declarations of devotion (meno mosso). While the

first polonaise expresses weak timidity, sweet plaintiveness, and a

looking for help from above, the second one (in E flat minor) speaks of

physical force and self-reliance--it is full of conspiracy and sedition.

The ill-suppressed murmurs of discontent, which may be compared to the

ominous growls of a volcano, grow in loudness and intensity, till at

last, with a rush and a wild shriek, there follows an explosion. The

thoughts flutter hither and thither, in anxious, helpless agitation.

Then martial sounds are heard--a secret gathering of a few, which soon

grows in number and in boldness. Now they draw nearer; you distinguish

the clatter of spurs and weapons, the clang of trumpets (D flat major).

Revenge and death are their watchwords, and with sullen determination

they stare desolation in the face (the pedal F with the trebled part

above). After an interesting transition the first section returns. In

the meno mosso (B major) again a martial rhythm is heard; this time,

however, the gathering is not one for revenge and death, but for battle

and victory. From the far-off distance the winds carry the message that

tells of freedom and glory. But what is this (the four bars before the

tempo I.)? Alas! the awakening from a dream. Once more we hear

those sombre sounds, the shriek and explosion, and so on. Of the two

Polonaises, Op. 26, the second is the grander, and the definiteness

which distinguishes it from the vague first shows itself also in the

form.

A greater contrast than the two Polonaises, Op. 40 (published in

November, 1840), can hardly be imagined. In the first (in A major)

the mind of the composer is fixed on one elating thought--he sees the

gallantly-advancing chivalry of Poland, determination in every look

and gesture; he hears rising above the noise of stamping horses and the

clash of arms their bold challenge scornfully hurled at the enemy. In

the second (in C minor), on the other hand, the mind of the composer

turns from one depressing or exasperating thought to another--he seems

to review the different aspects of his country's unhappy state, its

sullen discontent, fretful agitation, and uncertain hopes. The manly

Polonaise in A major, one of the simplest (not easiest) compositions

of Chopin, is the most popular of his polonaises. The second polonaise,

however, although not so often heard, is the more interesting one, the

emotional contents being more varied, and engaging more our sympathy.

Further, the pianoforte, however fully and effectively employed, cannot

do justice to the martial music of the one, while its capacities are

well suited for the rendering of the less material effect of the other.

In conclusion, let me point out in the C minor Polonaise the chafing

agitation of the second part, the fitful play between light and shade of

the trio-like part in A flat major, and the added wailing voice in

the recurring first portion at the end of the piece. [FOOTNOTE: In

connection with the A major Polonaise, see last paragraph on next page.]

If Schiller is right in saying "Ernst ist das Leben, heiter ist die

Kunst," then what we find in the Polonaise (in F sharp minor), Op. 44

(published in November, 1841), cannot be art. We look in vain for

beauty of melody and harmony; dreary unisons, querulous melodic phrases,

hollow-eyed chords, hard progressions and modulations throughout every

part of the polonaise proper. We receive a pathological rather than

aesthetical impression. Nevertheless, no one can deny the grandeur

and originality that shine through this gloom. The intervening

Doppio movimento, tempo di Mazurka, sends forth soft beneficent

rays--reminiscences of long ago, vague and vanishing, sweet and

melancholy. But there is an end to this as to all such dreams. Those

harassing, exasperating gloomy thoughts (Tempo di Polacca) return.

The sharp corners which we round so pleasantly and beautifully in our

reconstructions of the past make themselves only too soon felt in the

things of the present, and cruelly waken us to reality and its miseries.

The Polonaise, Op. 53 (in A flat major; published in December, 1843),

is one of the most stirring compositions of Chopin, manifesting an

overmastering power and consuming fire. But is it really the same

Chopin, is it the composer of the dreamy nocturnes, the elegant waltzes,

who here fumes and frets, struggling with a fierce, suffocating rage

(mark the rushing succession of chords of the sixth, the growling

semiquaver figures, and the crashing dissonances of the sixteen

introductory bars), and then shouts forth, sure of victory, his bold and

scornful challenge? And farther on, in the part of the polonaise where

the ostinato semiquaver figure in octaves for the left hand begins, do

we not hear the trampling of horses, the clatter of arms and spurs, and

the sound of trumpets? Do we not hear--yea, and see too--a high-spirited

chivalry approaching and passing? Only pianoforte giants can do justice

to this martial tone-picture, the physical strength of the composer

certainly did not suffice.

The story goes that when Chopin played one of his polonaises in the

night-time, just after finishing its composition, he saw the door

open, and a long train of Polish knights and ladies, dressed in antique

costumes, enter through it and defile past him. This vision filled the

composer with such terror that he fled through the opposite door, and

dared not return to the room the whole night. Karasowski says that the

polonaise in question is the last-mentioned one, in A flat major; but

from M. Kwiatkowski, who depicted the scene three times, [FOOTNOTE: "Le

Reve de Chopin," a water-colour, and two sketches in oils representing,

according to Chopin's indication (d'apres l'avis de Chopin), the

polonaise.] learned that it is the one in A major, No. 1 of Op. 40,

dedicated to Fontana.

I know of no more affecting composition among all the productions

of Chopin than the "Polonaise-Fantaisie" (in A flat major), Op. 61

(published in September, 1846). What an unspeakable, unfathomable

wretchedness reveals itself in these sounds! We gaze on a boundless

desolation. These lamentations and cries of despair rend our heart,

these strange, troubled wanderings from thought to thought fill us with

intensest pity. There are thoughts of sweet resignation, but the absence

of hope makes them perhaps the saddest of all. The martial strains, the

bold challenges, the shouts of triumph, which we heard so often in the

composer's polonaises, are silenced.

An elegiac sadness [says Liszt] predominates, intersected by

wild movements, melancholy smiles, unexpected starts, and

intervals of rest full of dread such as those experience who

have been surprised by an ambuscade, who are surrounded on all

sides, for whom there dawns no hope upon the vast horizon, and

to whose brain despair has gone like a deep draught of Cyprian

wine, which gives a more instinctive rapidity to every

gesture, a sharper point to every emotion, causing the mind to

arrive at a pitch of irritability bordering on madness.

Thus, although comprising thoughts that in beauty and grandeur equal--I

would almost say surpass-anything Chopin has written, the work stands,

on account of its pathological contents, outside the sphere of art.

Chopin's waltzes, the most popular of his compositions, are not poesie

intime like the greater number of his works. [FOOTNOTE: Op. 34, No.

2, and Op. 64, No. 2, however, have to be excepted, to some extent at

least.] In them the composer mixes with the world-looks without him

rather than within--and as a man of the world conceals his sorrows and

discontents under smiles and graceful manners. The bright brilliancy and

light pleasantness of the earlier years of his artistic career, which

are almost entirely lost in the later years, rise to the surface in the

waltzes. These waltzes are salon music of the most aristocratic kind.

Schumann makes Florestan say of one of them, and he might have said it

of all, that he would not play it unless one half of the female dancers

were countesses. But the aristocraticalness of Chopin's waltzes is

real, not conventional; their exquisite gracefulness and distinction are

natural, not affected. They are, indeed, dance-poems whose content is

the poetry of waltz-rhythm and movement, and the feelings these indicate

and call forth. In one of his most extravagantly-romantic critical

productions Schumann speaks, in connection with Chopin's Op. 18, "Grande

Valse brillante," the first-published (in June, 1834) of his waltzes, of

"Chopin's body and mind elevating waltz," and its "enveloping the dancer

deeper and deeper in its floods." This language is altogether out

of proportion with the thing spoken of; for Op. 18 differs from the

master's best waltzes in being, not a dance-poem, but simply a dance,

although it must be admitted that it is an exceedingly spirited one,

both as regards piquancy and dash. When, however, we come to Op. 34,

"Trois Valses brillantes" (published in December, 1838), Op. 42, "Valse"

(published in July, 1840), and Op. 64, "Trois Valses" (published in

September, 1847), the only other waltzes published by him, we find

ourselves face to face with true dance-poems. Let us tarry for a moment

over Op. 34. How brisk the introductory bars of the first (in A flat

major) of these three waltzes! And what a striking manifestation of the

spirit of that dance all that follows! We feel the wheeling motions;

and where, at the seventeenth bar of the second part, the quaver figure

enters, we think we see the flowing dresses sweeping round. Again what

vigour in the third part, and how coaxingly tender the fourth! And,

lastly, the brilliant conclusion--the quavers intertwined with triplets!

The second waltz (in A minor; Lento) is of quite another, of a more

retired and private, nature, an exception to the rule. The composer

evidently found pleasure in giving way to this delicious languor, in

indulging in these melancholy thoughts full of sweetest, tenderest

loving and longing. But here words will not avail. One day when Stephen

Heller--my informant--was at Schlesinger's music-shop in Paris, Chopin

entered. The latter, hearing Heller ask for one of his waltzes, inquired

of him which of them he liked best. "It is difficult to say which I like

best," replied Heller, "for I like them all; but if I were pressed for

an answer I would probably say the one in A minor." This gave Chopin

much pleasure. "I am glad you do," he said; "it is also my favourite."

And in an exuberance of amiability he invited Heller to lunch with

him, an invitation which was accepted, the two artists taking the meal

together at the Cafe Riche. The third waltz (in F major; Vivace) shows

a character very different from the preceding one. What a stretching of

muscles! What a whirling! Mark the giddy motions of the melody beginning

at bar seventeen! Of this waltz of Chopin's and the first it is more

especially true what Schumann said of all three: "Such flooding life

moves within these waltzes that they seem to have been improvised in the

ball-room." And the words which the same critic applies to Op. 34 may be

applied to all the waltzes Chopin published himself--"They must please;

they are of another stamp than the usual waltzes, and in the style

in which they can only be conceived by Chopin when he looks in a

grandly-artistic way into the dancing crowd, which he elevates by his

playing, thinking of other things than of what is being danced." In the

A flat major waltz which bears the opus number 42, the duple rhythm of

the melody along with the triple one of the accompaniment seems to me

indicative of the loving nestling and tender embracing of the dancing

couples. Then, after the smooth gyrations of the first period, come

those sweeping motions, free and graceful like those of birds, that

intervene again and again between the different portions of the waltz.

The D flat major part bubbles over with joyousness. In the sostenuto, on

the other hand, the composer becomes sentimental, protests, and heaves

sighs. But at the very height of his rising ardour he suddenly plunges

back into that wild, self-surrendering, heaven and earth-forgetting

joyousness--a stroke of genius as delightful as it is clever. If we do

not understand by the name of scherzo a fixed form, but rather a state

of mind, we may say that Chopin's waltzes are his scherzos and not the

pieces to which he has given that name. None of Chopin's waltzes is more

popular than the first of Op. 64 (in D flat major). And no wonder! The

life, flow, and oneness are unique; the charm of the multiform motions

is indescribable. That it has been and why it has been called valse au

petit chien need here only be recalled to the reader's recollection (see

Chapter XXVI., p. 142). No. 2 (in C sharp minor); different as it is,

is in its own way nearly as perfect as No. 1. Tender, love-sick longing

cannot be depicted more truthfully, sweetly, and entrancingly. The

excellent No. 3 (in A flat major), with the exquisite serpentining

melodic lines, which play so important a part in Chopin's waltzes, and

other beautiful details, is in a somewhat trying position beside the

other two waltzes. The non-publication by the composer of the waltzes

which have got into print, thanks to the zeal of his admirers and the

avidity of publishers, proves to me that he was a good judge of his own

works. Fontana included in his collection of posthumous compositions

five waltzes--"Deux Valses," Op. 69 (in F minor, of 1836; in B minor,

of 1829);. and "Trois Valses," Op. 70 (in G flat major, of 1835; in F

minor, of 1843; in D flat major, of 1830). There are further a waltz

in E minor and one in E major (of 1829). [FOOTNOTE: The "Deux Valses

melancoliques" (in F minor and B minor), ecrits sur l'album de Madame

la Comtesse P., 1844 (Cracow: J. Wildt), the English edition of which

(London: Edwin Ashdown) is entitled "Une soiree en 1844," "Deux Valses

melancoliques," are Op. 70. No. 2, and Op. 69, No. 2, of the works

of Chopin posthumously published by Fontana.] Some of these waltzes I

discussed already when speaking of the master's early compositions, to

which they belong. The last-mentioned waltz, which the reader will find

in Mikuli's edition (No. 15 of the waltzes), and also in Breitkopf and

Hartel's (No. 22 of the Posthumous works), is a very weak composition;

and of all the waltzes not published by the composer himself it may be

said that what is good in them has been expressed better in others.

We have of Chopin 27 studies: Op. 10, "Douze Etudes," published in July,

1833; Op. 25, "Douze Etudes," published in October, 1837; and "Trois

nouvelles Etudes," which, before being separately published, appeared in

1840 in the "Methode des Methodes pour le piano" by F. J. Fetis and I.

Moscheles. The dates of their publication, as in the case of many other

works, do not indicate the approximate dates of their composition.

Sowinski tells us, for instance, that Chopin brought the first book of

his studies with him to Paris in 1831. A Polish musician who visited the

French capital in 1834 heard Chopin play the studies contained in Op.

25. And about the last-mentioned opus we read in a critical notice by

Schumann, who had, no doubt, his information directly from Chopin: "The

studies which have now appeared [that is, those of Op. 25] were almost

all composed at the same time as the others [that is, those of Op. 10]

and only some of them, the greater masterliness of which is noticeable,

such as the first, in A flat major, and the splendid one in C minor

[that is, the twelfth] but lately." Regarding the Trois nouvelles Etudes

without OPUS number we have no similar testimony. But internal evidence

seems to show that these weakest of the master's studies--which,

however, are by no means uninteresting, and certainly very

characteristic--may be regarded more than Op. 25 as the outcome of a

gleaning. In two of Chopin's letters of the year 1829, we meet with

announcements of his having composed studies. On the 20th of October he

writes: "I have composed a study in my own manner"; and on the 14th of

November: "I have written some studies." From Karasowski learn that

the master composed the twelfth study of Op. 10 during his stay in

Stuttgart, being inspired by the capture of Warsaw by the Russians,

which took place on September 8, 1831. Whether looked at from the

aesthetical or technical point of view, Chopin's studies will be seen

to be second to those of no composer. Were it not wrong to speak of

anything as absolutely best, their excellences would induce one to call

them unequalled. A striking feature in them compared with Chopin's other

works is their healthy freshness and vigour. Even the slow, dreamy, and

elegiac ones have none of the faintness and sickliness to be found

in not a few of the composer's pieces, especially in several of the

nocturnes. The diversity of character exhibited by these studies is very

great. In some of them the aesthetical, in others the technical purpose

predominates; in a few the two are evenly balanced: in none is either

of them absent. They give a summary of Chopin's ways and means, of

his pianoforte language: chords in extended positions, wide-spread

arpeggios, chromatic progressions (simple, in thirds, and in octaves),

simultaneous combinations of contrasting rhythms, &c--nothing is

wanting. In playing them or hearing them played Chopin's words cannot

fail to recur to one's mind: "I have composed a study in my own manner."

Indeed, the composer's demands on the technique of the executant were

so novel at the time when the studies made their first public appearance

that one does not wonder at poor blind Rellstab being staggered, and

venting his feelings in the following uncouthly-jocular manner: "Those

who have distorted fingers may put them right by practising these

studies; but those who have not, should not play them, at least not

without having a surgeon at hand." In Op. 10 there are three studies

especially noteworthy for their musical beauty. The third (Lento ma

non troppo, in E major) and the sixth (Andante, in E flat minor) may be

reckoned among Chopin's loveliest compositions. They combine classical

chasteness of contour with the fragrance of romanticism. And the twelfth

study (Allegro con fuoco, in C minor), the one composed at Stuttgart

after the fall of Warsaw, how superbly grand! The composer seems to be

fuming with rage: the left hand rushes impetuously along and the

right hand strikes in with passionate ejaculations. With regard to the

above-named Lento ma non troppo (Op. 10, No. 3), Chopin said to Gutmann

that he had never in his life written another such beautiful melody

(CHANT); and on one occasion when Gutmann was studying it the master

lifted up his arms with his hands clasped and exclaimed: "O, my

fatherland!" ("O, me patrie!") I share with Schumann the opinion that

the total weight of Op. 10 amounts to more than that of Op. 25. Like him

I regard also Nos. 1 and 12 as the most important items of the latter

collection of studies: No. 1 (Allegro sostenuto, in A flat major)--a

tremulous mist below, a beautiful breezy melody floating above, and once

or twice a more opaque body becoming discernible within the vaporous

element--of which Schumann says that "after listening to the study

one feels as one does after a blissful vision, seen in a dream, which,

already half-awake, one would fain bring back": [FOOTNOTE: See the whole

quotation, Vol. I., p. 310.] and No. 12 (in C minor, Allegro molto con

fuoco), in which the emotions rise not less than the waves of arpeggios

(in both hands) which symbolise them. Stephen Heller's likings differ

from Schumann's. Discussing Chopin's Op. 25 in the Gazette musicale of

February 24, 1839, he says:--

What more do we require to pass one or several evenings in as

perfect a happiness as possible? As for me, I seek in this

collection of poesy (this is the only name appropriate to the

works of Chopin) some favourite pieces which I might fix in my

memory rather than others. Who could retain everything? For

this reason I have in my note book quite particularly marked

the numbers 4, 5, and 7 of the present poems. Of these twelve

much-loved studies (every one of which has a charm of its own)

these three numbers are those I prefer to all the rest.

In connection with the fourth, Heller points out that it reminds him

of the first bar of the Kyrie (rather the Requiem aeternam) of Mozart's

Requiem. And of the seventh study he remarks:--

It engenders the sweetest sadness, the most enviable torments;

and if in playing it one feels one's self insensibly drawn

towards mournful and melancholy ideas, it is a disposition of

the soul which I prefer to all others. Alas! how I love these

sombre and mysterious dreams, and Chopin is the god who

creates them.

This No. 7 (in C sharp minor, lento), a duet between a HE and a SHE,

of whom the former shows himself more talkative and emphatic than the

latter, is, indeed, very sweet, but perhaps, also somewhat tiresomely

monotonous, as such tete-a-tete naturally are to third parties. As a

contrast to No. 7, and in conclusion--leaving several aerial flights and

other charming conceptions undiscussed--I will yet mention the octave

study, No. 10, which is a real pandemonium; for a while holier sounds

intervene, but finally hell prevails.

The genesis of the Vingt-quatre Preludes, Op. 28, published in

September, 1839, I have tried to elucidate in the twenty-first chapter.

I need, therefore, not discuss the question here. The indefinite

character and form of the prelude, no doubt, determined the choice of

the title which, however, does not describe the contents of this OPUS.

Indeed, no ONE name could do so. This heterogeneous collection of pieces

reminds me of nothing so much as of an artist's portfolio filled with

drawings in all stages of advancement--finished and unfinished, complete

and incomplete compositions, sketches and mere memoranda, all mixed

indiscriminately together. The finished works were either too small or

too slight to be sent into the world separately, and the right mood for

developing, completing, and giving the last touch to the rest was gone,

and could not be found again. Schumann, after expressing his admiration

for these preludes, as well he might, adds: "This book contains morbid,

feverish, and repellent matter." I do not think that there is much that

could justly be called repellent; but the morbidity and feverishness of

a considerable portion must be admitted.

I described the preludes [writes Schumann] as remarkable. To

confess the truth, I expected they would be executed like the

studies, in the grandest style. Almost the reverse is the

case; they are sketches, commencements of studies, or, if you

will, ruins, single eagle-wings, all strangely mixed together.

But in his fine nonpareil there stands in every piece:--

"Frederick Chopin wrote it." One recognises him by the violent

breathing during the rests. He is, and remains, the proudest

poet-mind of the time.

The almost infinite and infinitely-varied beauties collected in this

treasure-trove denominated Vingt-quatre Preludes could only be done

justice to by a minute analysis, for which, however, there is no room

here. I must content myself with a word or two about a few of them,

picked out at random. No. 4 is a little poem the exquisitely-sweet

languid pensiveness of which defies description. The composer seems to

be absorbed in the narrow sphere of his ego, from which the wide, noisy

world is for the time being shut out. In No. 6 we have, no doubt, the

one of which George Sand said that it occurred to Chopin one evening

while rain was falling, and that it "precipitates the soul into a

frightful depression." [FOOTNOTE: See George Sand's account and

description in Chapter XXI., p. 43.] How wonderfully the contending

rhythms of the accompaniment, and the fitful, jerky course of the

melody, depict in No. 8 a state of anxiety and agitation! The premature

conclusion of that bright vivacious thing No. 11 fills one with regret.

Of the beautifully-melodious No. 13, the piu lento and the peculiar

closing bars are especially noteworthy. No. 14 invites a comparison with

the finale of the B flat minor Sonata. In the middle section (in C sharp

minor) of the following number (in D flat major), one of the larger

pieces, rises before one's mind the cloistered court of the monastery

of Valdemosa, and a procession of monks chanting lugubrious prayers, and

carrying in the dark hours of night their departed brother to his last

resting-place. It reminds one of the words of George Sand, that the

monastery was to Chopin full of terrors and phantoms. This C sharp minor

portion of No. 15 affects one like an oppressive dream; the re-entrance

of the opening D flat major, which dispels the dreadful nightmare, comes

upon one with the smiling freshness of dear, familiar nature--only

after these horrors of the imagination can its serene beauty be fully

appreciated. No. 17, another developed piece, strikes one as akin to

Mendelssohn's Songs without Words. I must not omit to mention No. 21,

one of the finest of the collection, with its calming cantilena and

palpitating quaver figure. Besides the set of twenty-four preludes, Op.

28, Chopin published a single one, Op. 45, which appeared in December,

1841. This composition deserves its name better than almost anyone of

the twenty-four; still, I would rather call it an improvisata. It seems

unpremeditated, a heedless outpouring when sitting at the piano in a

lonely, dreary hour, perhaps in the twilight. The quaver figure rises

aspiringly, and the sustained parts swell out proudly. The piquant

cadenza forestalls in the progression of diminished chords favourite

effects of some of our more modern composers. The modulation from

C sharp minor to D major and back again (after the cadenza) is very

striking and equally beautiful.

It can hardly be said, although Liszt seemed to be of a different

opinion, that Chopin created a new type by his preludes--they are too

unlike each other in form and character. On the other hand, he has done

so by his four scherzos--Op. 20 (in B minor), published in February,

1835; Op. 31 (B flat minor), published in December, 1837; Op. 39 (C

sharp minor), published in October, 1840; and Op. 54 (in E major),

published in December, 1843. "How is 'gravity' to clothe itself, if

'jest' goes about in dark veils?" exclaims Schumann. No doubt, scherzo,

if we consider the original meaning of the word, is a misnomer. But are

not Beethoven's scherzos, too, misnamed? To a certain extent they are.

But if Beethoven's scherzos often lack frolicsomeness, they are endowed

with humour, whereas Chopin's have neither the one nor the other. Were

it not that we attach, especially since Mendelssohn's time, the idea

of lightness and light-heartedness to the word capriccio, this would

certainly be the more descriptive name for the things Chopin entitled

SCHERZO. But what is the use of carping at a name? Let us rather look

at the things, and thus employ our time better. Did ever composer begin

like Chopin in his Premier Scherzo, Op. 20? Is this not like a shriek

of despair? and what follows, bewildered efforts of a soul shut in by a

wall of circumstances through which it strives in vain to break? at

last sinking down with fatigue, dreaming a dream of idyllic beauty?

but beginning the struggle again as soon as its strength is recruited?

Schumann compared the second SCHERZO, Op. 31, to a poem of Byron's, "so

tender, so bold, as full of love as of scorn." Indeed, scorn--an

element which does not belong to what is generally understood by either

frolicsomeness or humour--plays an important part in Chopin's scherzos.

The very beginning of Op. 31 offers an example.

[FOOTNOTE: "It must be a question [the doubled triplet figure A, B

flat, d flat, in the first bar], taught Chopin, and for him it was never

question enough, never piano enough, never vaulted (tombe) enough, as he

said, never important enough. It must be a charnel-house, he said on one

occasion." (W. von Lenz, in Vol. XXVI. of the Berliner Musikzeitung.)]

And then, we do not meet with a phrase of a more cheerful nature

which is not clouded by sadness. Weber--I mention his name

intentionally--would, for instance, in the D flat major portion have

concluded the melodic phrase in diatonic progression and left the

harmony pure. Now see what Chopin does. The con anima has this mark of

melancholy still more distinctly impressed upon it. After the repetition

of the capricious, impulsively-passionate first section (in B flat minor

and D flat major) follows the delicious second, the expression of which

is as indescribable as that of Leonardo da Vinci's "La Gioconda." It is

a pondering and wondering full of longing. In the deep, tender yearning,

with the urging undercurrent of feeling, of the C sharp minor portion,

the vague dreaming of the preceding portion of the section grows into

wakefulness, and the fitful imagination is concentrated on one object.

Without continuing the emotional or entering on a formal analysis of

this scherzo, I venture to say that it is a very important composition,

richer and more varied in emotional incidents than the other works of

Chopin which bear the same name. More than to any one of the master's

scherzos, the name capriccio would be suitable to his third "Scherzo,"

Op. 39, with its capricious starts and changes, its rudderless drifting.

Peevishness, a fierce scornfulness, and a fretful agitation, may be

heard in these sounds, of jest and humour there is nothing perceptible.

At any rate, the curled lip, as it were, contradicts the jesting words,

and the careless exterior does not altogether conceal the seething rage

within. But with the meno mosso (D flat major) come pleasanter thoughts.

The hymn-like snatches of sustained melody with the intervening airy

interludes are very lovely. These are the principal features, to

describe all the whims is of course impossible. You may call this work

an extravaganza, and point out its grotesqueness; but you must admit

that only by this erratic character of the form and these spasmodic

movements, could be expressed the peculiar restiveness, fitfulness,

and waywardness of thought and feeling that characterise Chopin's

individuality. To these unclassical qualities--for classical art is

above all plastic and self-possessed--combined as they are with a high

degree of refinement and delicacy, his compositions owe much of their

peculiar charm. The absence of scorn distinguishes the fourth "Scherzo,"

Op. 54, from the other three; but, like them, although less closely

wrapped, it wears dark veils. The tripping fairy steps which we find in

bars 17-20 and in other places are a new feature in Chopin. As to the

comparative value of the work, it seems to me inferior to its brothers.

The first section is too fragmentary to give altogether satisfaction.

One is hustled from one phrase to another, and they are as unlike

each other as can well be imagined. The beauty of many of the details,

however, must be acknowledged; indeed, the harmonic finesses, the

melodic cunning, and rhythmical piquancy, are too potent to be

ignored. The resting-place and redeeming part of this scherzo is the

sweetly-melodious second section, with its long, smooth, gently and

beautifully-curved lines. Also the return to the repetition of the first

section is very interesting. This scherzo has the appearance of being

laboured, painfully hammered and welded together. But as the poet is

born, not made-which "being born" is not brought about without travail,

nor makes the less desirable a careful bringing-up--so also does a

work of art owe what is best in it to a propitious concurrence of

circumstances in the natal hour.

The contents of Chopin's impromptus are of a more pleasing nature than

those of the scherzos. Like the latter they are wayward, but theirs is

a charming, lovable waywardness. The composer's three first impromptus

were published during his lifetime: Op. 29 in December, 1837; Op. 36

in May, 1840; and Op. 51 in February, 1843. The fourth impromptu

("Fantaisie-Impromptu"), Op. 66, is a posthumous publication. What name

has been more misapplied than that of impromptu? Again and again we meet

with works thus christened which bear upon them the distinct marks of

painful effort and anxious filing, which maybe said to smell of the

mid-night lamp, and to be dripping with the hard-working artificer's

sweat. How Chopin produced the "Impromptu," Op. 29 (in A flat major), I

do not know. Although an admired improviser, the process of composition

was to him neither easy nor quick. But be this as it may, this impromptu

has quite the air of a spontaneous, unconstrained outpouring. The first

section with its triplets bubbles forth and sparkles like a fountain on

which the sunbeams that steal through the interstices of the overhanging

foliage are playing. The F minor section is sung out clearly and

heartily, with graces beautiful as nature's. The song over, our

attention is again attracted by the harmonious murmuring and the

changing lights of the water. The "Deuxieme Impromptu," Op. 36 (in F

sharp major), is, like the first, a true impromptu, but while the first

is a fresh and lusty welling forth of joy amidst the pleasures of a

present reality, this is a dreamy lingering over thoughts and scenes of

the imagination that appear and vanish like dissolving views. One would

wish to have a programme of this piece. Without such assistance the D

major section of the impromptu is insignificant. We want to see, or at

least to know, who the persons that walk in the procession which the

music accompanies are. Some bars in the second half of this section

remind one of Schumann's "Fantasia" in C. After this section a curious

transition leads in again the theme, which first appeared in F sharp

major, in F major, and with a triplet accompaniment. When F sharp major

is once more reached, the theme is still further varied (melodically),

till at last the wondrous, fairy-like phrase from the first section

brings the piece to a conclusion. This impromptu is inferior to the

first, having less pith in it; but its tender sweetness and euphony

cannot be denied. The idle forgetfulness of the more serious duties and

the deep miseries of life in the enjoyment of a dolce far niente recalls

Schubert and the "Fantasia," Op. 78, and other works of his. In the

"Troisieme Impromptu" (in G flat major), Op. 51, the rhythmical motion

and the melodical form of the two parts that serpentine their lines in

opposite directions remind one of the first impromptu (in A flat), but

the characters of these pieces are otherwise very unlike. The earlier

work is distinguished by a brisk freshness; the later one by a feverish

restlessness and faint plaintiveness. After the irresolute flutter of

the relaxing and enervating chromatic progressions and successions of

thirds and sixths, the greater steadiness of the middle section, more

especially the subdued strength and passionate eloquence at the D

flat major, has a good effect. But here, too, the languid, lamenting

chromatic passing and auxiliary notes are not wanting, and the anxious,

breathless accompaniment does not make things more cheerful. In short,

the piece is very fine in its way, but the unrelieved, or at least very

insufficiently relieved, morbidezza is anything but healthy. We may take

note of the plain chord progressions which intervene in the first

and last sections of the impromptu; such progressions are of frequent

occurrence in Chopin's works. Is there not something pleonastic in the

title "Fantaisie-Impromptu?" Whether the reader may think so or not, he

will agree with me that the fourth impromptu (in C sharp minor), Op. 66,

is the most valuable of the compositions published by Fontana; indeed,

it has become one of the favourites of the pianoforte-playing world.

Spontaneity of emotional expression and effective treatment of the

pianoforte distinguish the Fantaisie-Impromptu. In the first section

we have the restless, surging, gushing semiquavers, carrying along with

them a passionate, urging melody, and the simultaneous waving

triplet accompaniment; in the second section, where the motion of

the accompaniment is on the whole preserved, the sonorous, expressive

cantilena in D flat major; the third section repeats the first, which

it supplements with a coda containing a reminiscence of the cantilena

of the second section, which calms the agitation of the semiquavers.

According to Fontana, Chopin composed this piece about 1834. Why did he

keep it in his portfolio? I suspect he missed in it, more especially in

the middle section, that degree of distinction and perfection of detail

which alone satisfied his fastidious taste.

Among Chopin's nocturnes some of his most popular works are to be found.

Nay, the most widely-prevailing idea of his character as a man and

musician seems to have been derived from them. But the idea thus formed

is an erroneous one; these dulcet, effeminate compositions illustrate

only one side of the master's character, and by no means the best

or most interesting. Notwithstanding such precious pearls as the two

Nocturnes, Op. 37, and a few others, Chopin shows himself greater both

as a man and a musician in every other class of pieces he has originated

and cultivated, more especially in his polonaises, ballades, and

studies. That, however, there is much to be admired in the class now

under consideration will be seen from the following brief comments on

the eighteen nocturnes (leaving out of account the one of the year

1828 published by Fontana as Op. 72, No. 1, and already discussed in an

earlier chapter) which Chopin gave to the world--Op. 9, Trois Nocturnes,

in January, 1833; Op. 15, Trois Nocturnes, in January, 1834; Op. 27,

Deux Nocturnes, in May, 1836; Op. 32, Deux Nocturnes, December, 1837;

Op. 37, Deux Nocturnes, in May, 1840; Op. 48, Deux Nocturnes, in

November, 1841; Op. 55, Deux Nocturnes, in August, 1844; and Op. 62,

Deux Nocturnes, in September, 1846. Rellstab remarked in 1833 of the

Trois Nocturnes, Op. 9, that Chopin, without borrowing directly from

Field, copied the latter's melody and manner of accompaniment. There

is some truth in this; only the word "copy" is not the correct one. The

younger received from the elder artist the first impulse to write in

this form, and naturally adopted also something of his manner. On the

whole, the similitude is rather generic than specific. Even the

contents of Op. 9 give Chopin a just claim to originality; and the Field

reminiscences which are noticeable in Nos. 1 and 2 (most strikingly in

the commencement of No. 2) of the first set of nocturnes will be looked

for in vain in the subsequent ones.

Where Field smiles [said the above-mentioned critic], Chopin

makes a grinning grimace; where Field sighs, Chopin groans;

where Field shrugs his shoulders, Chopin twists his whole

body; where Field puts some seasoning into the food, Chopin

empties a handful of Cayenne pepper...In short, if one holds

Field's charming romances before a distorting concave mirror,

so that every delicate expression becomes a coarse one, one

gets Chopin's work...We implore Mr. Chopin to return to

nature.

Now, what remains of this statement after subtracting prejudices and

narrow-mindedness? Nothing but that Chopin is more varied and passionate

than Field, and has developed to the utmost some of the means of

expression used by the latter. No. 1 (in B flat minor) of Op. 9 is

pervaded by a voluptuous dreaminess and cloying sweetness: it suggests

twilight, the stillness of night, and thoughts engendered thereby. The

tone of sentiment and the phraseology of No. 2 (in E fiat major) have

been made so common by fashionable salon composers that one cannot

help suspecting that it is not quite a natural tone--not a tone of true

feeling, but of sentimentality. The vulgar do not imitate the true

and noble, but the false and ostentatious. In this piece one breathes

drawing-room air, and ostentation of sentiment and affectation of speech

are native to that place. What, however, the imitations often lack is

present in every tone and motion of the original: eloquence, grace, and

genuine refinement.

[FOOTNOTE: Gutmann played the return of the principal subject in a way

very different from that in which it is printed, with a great deal of

ornamentation, and said that Chopin played it always in that way. Also

the cadence at the end of the nocturne (Op. 9, No. 2) had a different

form. But the composer very frequently altered the ornamentions of his

pieces or excogitated alternative readings.]

The third is, like the preceding nocturne, exquisite salon music. Little

is said, but that little very prettily. Although the atmosphere is

close, impregnated with musk and other perfumes, there is here no

affectation. The concluding cadenza, that twirling line, reads plainly

"Frederic Chopin." Op. 15 shows a higher degree of independence and

poetic power than Op. 9. The third (in G minor) of these nocturnes is

the finest of the three. The words languido e rubato describe well the

wavering pensiveness of the first portion of the nocturne, which finds

its expression in the indecision of the melodic progressions, harmonies,

and modulations. The second section is marked religiose, and may be

characterised as a trustful prayer, conducive to calm and comfort. The

Nocturnes in F major and F sharp major, Op. 15, are more passionate than

the one we just now considered, at least in the middle sections. The

serene, tender Andante in F major, always sweet, and here and there with

touches of delicate playfulness, is interrupted by thoughts of impetuous

defiance, which give way to sobs and sighs, start up again with equal

violence, and at last die away into the first sweet, tender serenity.

The contrast between the languid dreaming and the fiery upstarting

is striking and effective, and the practical musician, as well as the

student of aesthetics, will do well to examine by what means these

various effects are produced. In the second nocturne, F sharp major,

the brightness and warmth of the world without have penetrated into the

world within. The fioriture flit about as lightly as gossamer threads.

The sweetly-sad longing of the first section becomes more disquieting

in the doppio movimento, but the beneficial influence of the sun never

quite loses its power, and after a little there is a relapse into the

calmer mood, with a close like a hazy distance on a summer day. The

second (in D flat major) of Op. 27 was, no doubt, conceived in a more

auspicious moment than the first (in C sharp minor), of which the

extravagantly wide-meshed netting of the accompaniment is the most

noteworthy feature. [FOOTNOTE: In most of the pieces where, as in this

one, the left-hand accompaniment consists of an undulating figure,

Chopin wished it to be played very soft and subdued. This is what

Gutmann said.] As to the one in D flat, nothing can equal the finish and

delicacy of execution, the flow of gentle feeling, lightly rippled by

melancholy, and spreading out here and there in smooth expansiveness.

But all this sweetness enervates; there is poison in it. We should not

drink in these thirds, sixths, &c., without taking an antidote of Bach

or Beethoven. Both the nocturnes of Op. 32 are pretty specimens of

Chopin's style of writing in the tender, calm, and dreamy moods. Of the

two (in B major and A flat major) I prefer the quiet, pellucid first

one. It is very simple, ornaments being very sparingly introduced.

The quietness and simplicity are, however, at last disturbed by an

interrupted cadence, sombre sounds as of a kettle-drum, and a passionate

recitative with intervening abrupt chords. The second nocturne has less

originality and pith. Deux Nocturnes (in G minor and G major), Op. 37,

are two of the finest, I am inclined to say, the two finest, of this

class of Chopin's pieces; but they are of contrasting natures. The first

and last sections of the one in G minor are plaintive and longing,

and have a wailing accompaniment; the chord progressions of the middle

section glide along hymn-like. [FOOTNOTE: Gutmann played this section

quicker than the rest, and said that Chopin forgot to mark the change

of movement.] Were it possible to praise one part more emphatically than

another without committing an injustice, I would speak of the melodic

exquisiteness of the first motive. But already I see other parts rise

reproachfully before my repentant conscience. A beautiful sensuousness

distinguishes the nocturne in G major: it is luscious, soft, rounded,

and not without a certain degree of languor. The successions of

thirds and, sixths, the semitone progressions, the rocking motion,

the modulations (note especially those of the first section and the

transition from that to the second), all tend to express the essential

character. The second section in C major reappears in E major, after a

repetition of part of the first section; a few bars of the latter and a

reminiscence of the former conclude the nocturne. But let us not tarry

too long in the treacherous atmosphere of this Capua--it bewitches and

unmans. The two nocturnes (in C minor and F sharp minor) which form

Op. 48 are not of the number of those that occupy foremost places among

their companions. Still, they need not be despised. The melody of the C

minor portion of the first is very expressive, and the second has in

the C sharp minor portion the peculiar Chopinesque flebile dolcezza.

In playing these nocturnes there occurred to me a remark of Schumann's,

made when he reviewed some nocturnes by Count Wielhorski. He said, on

that occasion, that the quicker middle movements which Chopin

frequently introduces into his nocturnes are often weaker than his first

conceptions, meaning the first portions of the nocturnes. Now, although

the middle parts in the present instances are, on the contrary, slower

movements, yet the judgment holds good; at least, with respect to the

first nocturne, the middle part of which has nothing to recommend it but

the effective use of a full and sonorous instrumentation, if I may use

this word in speaking of one instrument. The middle part of the second

(f, D flat, Molto piu lento), however, is much finer; in it we meet

again, as we did in some other nocturnes, with soothing, simple chord

progressions. When Gutmann studied the C sharp minor nocturne with

Chopin, the master told him that the middle section (the Molto piu

lento, in D flat major) should be played as a recitative: "A tyrant

commands" (the first two chords), he said, "and the other asks for

mercy." Regarding the first nocturne (in F minor) of Op. 55, we will

note only the flebile dolcezza of the first and the last section, and

the inferiority of the more impassioned middle section. The second

nocturne (in E flat major) differs in form from the other nocturnes

in this, that it has no contrasting second section, the melody flowing

onward from begining to end in a uniform manner. The monotony of the

unrelieved sentimentality does not fail to make itself felt. One is

seized by an ever-increasing longing to get out of this oppressive

atmosphere, to feel the fresh breezes and warm sunshine, to see smiling

faces and the many-coloured dress of Nature, to hear the rustling of

leaves, the murmuring of streams, and voices which have not yet lost

the clear, sonorous ring that joy in the present and hope in the future

impart. The two nocturnes, Op. 62, seem to owe their existence rather to

the sweet habit of activity than to inspiration. At any rate, the tender

flutings, trills, roulades, syncopations, &c., of the first nocturne

(in B major), and the sentimental declarations and confused, monotonous

agitation of the second (in E major), do not interest me sufficiently to

induce me to discuss their merits and demerits.

One day Tausig, the great pianoforte-virtuoso, promised W. von Lenz to

play him Chopin's "Barcarolle," Op. 60 (published in September, 1846),

adding, "That is a performance which must not be undertaken before more

than two persons. I shall play you my own self (meinen Menschen). I

love the piece, but take it up only rarely." Lenz, who did not know

the barcarolle, thereupon went to a music-shop and read it through

attentively. The piece, however, did not please him at all; it seemed

to him a long movement in the nocturne-style, a Babel of figuration on

a lightly-laid foundation. But he found that he had made a mistake,

and, after hearing it played by Tausig, confessed that the virtuoso had

infused into the "nine pages of enervating music, of one and the same

long-breathed rhythm (12/8), so much interest, so much motion, and so

much action," that he regretted the long piece was not longer. And now

let us hear what remarks Tausig made with regard to the barcarolle:--

There are two persons concerned in the affair; it is a love-

scene in a discrete gondola; let us say this mise en scene is

the symbol of a lovers' meeting generally. This is expressed

in the thirds and sixths; the dualism of two notes (persons)

is maintained throughout; all is two-voiced, two-souled. In

this modulation here in C sharp major (superscribed dolce

sfogato), there are kiss and embrace! This is evident! When,

after three bars of introduction, the theme, lightly rocking

in the bass solo, enters in the fourth, this theme is

nevertheless made use of throughout the whole fabric only as

an accompaniment, and on this the cantilena in two parts is

laid; we have thus a continuous, tender dialogue.

Both Lenz's first and last impressions were correct. The form of the

barcarolle is that of most of Chopin's nocturnes--consisting of three

sections, of which the third is a modified repetition of the first--only

everything is on a larger scale, and more worked out. Unfortunately,

the contrast of the middle section is not great enough to prevent the

length, in spite of the excellence of the contents, from being felt.

Thus we must also subscribe to the "nine pages of enervating music."

Still, the barcarolle is one of the most important of Chopin's

compositions in the nocturne-style. It has distinctive features which

decidedly justify and make valuable its existence. Local colouring is

not wanting. The first section reminded me of Schumann's saying that

Chopin in his melodies leans sometimes over Germany towards Italy. If

properly told, this love-laden romance cannot fail to produce effect.

Of the pieces that bear the name "Berceuse," Chopin's Op. 57 (published

in June, 1845) is the finest, or at least one of the finest and happiest

conceptions. It rests on the harmonic basis of tonic and dominant. The

triad of the tonic and the chord of the dominant seventh divide

every bar between them in a brotherly manner. Only in the twelfth and

thirteenth bars from the end (the whole piece contains seventy) the

triad of the subdominant comes forward, and gives a little breathing

time to the triad of the tonic, the chord of the dominant having already

dropped off. Well, on this basis Chopin builds, or let us rather say, on

this rocking harmonic fluid he sets afloat a charming melody, which is

soon joined by a self-willed second part. Afterwards, this melody is

dissolved into all kinds of fioriture, colorature, and other trickeries,

and they are of such fineness, subtlety, loveliness, and gracefulness,

that one is reminded of Queen Mab, who comes--