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