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