CHAPTER XXX.

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

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

NATIONAL MUSIC AND ITS INFLUENCE ON CHOPIN.----CHOPIN A PERSONAL

AS WELL AS NATIONAL TONE-POET.--A REVIEW OF SOME OF HIS LESS

PERFECT COMPOSITIONS AND OF HIS MASTERPIECES: BOLERO; RONDEAU;

VARIATIONS; TARANTELLE; ALLEGRO DE CONCERT; TWO SONATAS FOR

PIANOFORTE (OP. 38 AND 58); SONATA (OP. 65) AND GRAND DUO

CONCERTANT FOR PIANOFORTE AND VIOLONCELLO; FANTAISIE; MAZURKAS;

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

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

VARIOUS EDITIONS.

Before we inquire into the doings and sufferings of Chopin in

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

work as a composer. We may fitly do so now; as at the stage of

his career we have reached, his creative activity had come to a

close. The last composition he published, the G minor Sonata for

piano and violoncello, Op. 65, appeared in October, 1847; and

among his posthumous compositions published by Fontana there are

only two of later date--namely, the mazurkas, No. 2 of Op. 67 (G

minor) and No. 4 of Op. 68 (F minor), which came into existence

in 1849. Neither of these compositions can be numbered with the

master's best works, but the latter of them is interesting,

because it seems in its tonal writhings and wailings a picture of

the bodily and mental torments Chopin was at the time enduring.

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

discussed in Chapters III., VIII., and XIII. These, if we except

the two Concertos, Op. II and 21 (although they, too, do not rank

with his chefs-d'oeuvre), are, however, for us of greater importance

biographically, perhaps also historically, than otherwise. It is

true, we hear now and then of some virtuoso playing the Variations,

Op. 2, or the Fantasia on Polish airs, Op. 13, nay, we may hear even

of the performance of the Trio, Op. 8; but such occurrences are of

the rarest rarity, and, considering how rich musical literature is

in unexceptionable concert-pieces and chamber compositions, one

feels on the whole pleased that these enterprising soloists and

trio-players find neither much encouragement nor many imitators.

While in examining the earlier works, the praise bestowed on them

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

them tempered by dissatisfaction; we shall have little else than

pure praise and admiration for the works that remain to be

considered, at least for the vast majority of them. One thing,

however, seems to me needful before justice can be done to the

composer Chopin: certain prejudices abroad concerning him have to

be combated. I shall, therefore, preface my remarks on particular

compositions and groups of compositions by some general

observations.

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

development in the productions of Chopin, and that in this

respect he is unlike all the other great masters. Such an opinion

cannot be the result of a thorough and comprehensive study of the

composer's works. So far from agreeing with those who hold it, I

am tempted to assert that the difference of style between

Chopin's early and latest works (even when juvenile compositions

like the first two Rondos are left out of account) is as great as

that between Beethoven's first and ninth Symphony. It would be

easy to classify the Polish master's works according to three and

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

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

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

clearly distinguishable two styles--the early virtuosic and the

later poetic style. The latter is in a certain sense also

virtuosic, but with this difference, that its virtuosity is not

virtuosity for virtuosity's sake. The poetic style which has

thrown off the tinsel showiness of its predecessor does not,

however, remain unchanged, for its texture becomes more and more

close, and affords conclusive evidence of the increasing

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

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

peruke, knee-breeches, and shoe-buckles, but his presence in

spite of transformation and attenuation is unmistakable. It is,

however, not only in the closeness and complexity of texture that

we notice Chopin's style changing: a striving after greater

breadth and fulness of form are likewise apparent, and, alas!

also an increase in sombreness, the result of deteriorating

health. All this the reader will have to keep in mind when he

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

groups, not chronologically.

Another prejudice, wide-spread, almost universal, is that

Chopin's music is all languor and melancholy, and, consequently,

wanting in variety. Now, there can be no greater error than this

belief. As to variety, we should be obliged to wonder at its

infiniteness if he had composed nothing but the pieces to which

are really applicable the epithets dreamy, pensive, mournful, and

despondent. But what vigour, what more than manly vigour,

manifests itself in many of his creations! Think only of the

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

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

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

vigour is not natural, but the outcome of despair and maddening

passion. Still, it is vigour, and such vigour as is not often to

be met with. And, then, it is not the only kind to be found in

his music. There is also a healthy vigour, which, for instance,

in the A major Polonaise assumes a brilliantly-heroic form. Nor

are serene and even joyous moods so rare that it would be

permissible to ignore them. While thus controverting the so-

called vox Dei (are not popular opinions generally popular

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

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

excess of languor and melancholy. I only wish to avoid vulgar

exaggeration, to keep within the bounds of the factual. In art as

in life, in biography as in history, there are not many questions

that can be answered by a plain "yea" or "nay. It was, indeed,

with Chopin as has been said of him, "his heart was sad, his mind

was gay. "One day when Chopin, Liszt, and the Comtesse d'Agoult

spent the after-dinner hours together, the lady, deeply moved by

the Polish composer's playing, ventured to ask him "by what name

he called the extraordinary feeling which he enclosed in his

compositions, like unknown ashes in superb urns of most

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

her heart had not deceived her in its melancholy saddening,

for whatever his moments of cheerfulness might be, he never

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

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

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

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

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

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

comprised the whole scale of the feelings which is produced by

an intense plaint, from repentance to hatred, blessed or

poisoned fruits of this acrid root.

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

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

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

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

from his sweetest reveries. These impressions had so much the

more importance in the life of Chopin that they manifested

themselves distinctly in his last works. They little by little

attained a kind of sickly irascibility, reaching the point of

feverish tremulousness. This latter reveals itself in some of

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

sometimes rather pained than surprised to meet. Suffocating

almost under the oppression of his repressed transports of

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

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

feeling, to tear it to pieces.

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

hyperbolical and circumlocutional poetic prose will not be

misunderstood by the reader. The case may be briefly summed up

thus. Zal is not to be found in every one of Chopin's

compositions, but in the greater part of them: sometimes it

appears clearly on the surface, now as a smooth or lightly-

rippled flow, now as a wildly-coursing, fiercely-gushing torrent;

sometimes it is dimly felt only as an undercurrent whose presence

not unfrequently becomes temporarily lost to ear and eye. We

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

exclusively individual, although its width and intensity are so.

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

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

Poles][FOOTNOTE: Volkslieder der Polen. Gesammelt und

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

playful and naive songs something may be heard which reminds

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

groan, which seems to accuse the Creator, curses His

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

dust of annihilation:

"What sin have I committed?"

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

of whole centuries, which in these melodies entwine themselves

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

because they seem to reflect sometimes on their own feeling;

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

annihilating outpouring of feeling expresses itself too

powerfully for these musical poems to be products of conscious

creativeness. One feels when one hears these songs that the

implacable wheel of fate has only too often rolled over the

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

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

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

greatness.

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

question of Chopin's indebtedness to it, which, while in one

respect it cannot be too highly rated, is yet in another respect

generally overrated. The opinion that every peculiarity which

distinguishes his music from that of other masters is to be put

to the account of his nationality, and may be traced in Polish

folk-music, is erroneous. But, on the other hand, it is

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

inspirer and trainer. Generally speaking, however, Chopin has

more of the spirit than of the form of Polish folk-music. The

only two classes of his compositions where we find also something

of the form are his mazurkas and polonaises; and, what is

noteworthy, more in the former, the dance of the people, than in

the latter, the dance of the aristocracy. In Chopin's mazurkas we

meet not only with many of the most characteristic rhythms, but

also with many equally characteristic melodic and harmonic traits

of this chief of all the Polish dances.

Polish national music conforms in part to the tonality prevailing

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

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

of that of the mediaeval church modes, and of that or those

prevalent in the music of the Hungarians, Wallachians, and other

peoples of that quarter.

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

confounded with the ancient Greek modes bearing the same names)

differ from each other by the position of the two semitones: the

Ionian is like our C major; the Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian,

Mixolydian, Aeolian. &c., are like the series of natural notes

starting respectively from d, c, f, g, a, &c. The characteristic

interval of the Hungarian scale is the augmented second (a, b, c,

d#, e, f, g#, a).]

The melodic progression, not always immediate, of an augmented

fourth and major seventh occurs frequently, and that of an

augmented second occasionally. Skips of a third after or before

one or more steps of a second are very common. In connection with

these skips of a third may be mentioned that one meets with

melodies evidently based on a scale with a degree less than our

major and minor scales, having in one place a step of a third

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

becoming acquainted with Polish music, will be incited by many

traits of the latter to undertake a comparative study of the

two.] The opening and the closing note stand often to each other

in the relation of a second, sometimes also of a seventh. The

numerous peculiarities to be met with in Polish folkmusic with

regard to melodic progression are not likely to be reducible to

one tonality or a simple system of tonalities. Time and district

of origin have much to do with the formal character of the

melodies. And besides political, social, and local influences

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

music, &c.--have to be taken into account. Of most Polish

melodies it may be said that they are as capricious as they are

piquant. Any attempt to harmonise them according to our tonal

system must end in failure. Many of them would, indeed, be

spoiled by any kind of harmony, being essentially melodic, not

outgrowths of harmony.

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

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

the best collection of Polish folk-songs. Charles Lipinski's

collection, Piesni Polskie i Ruskie Luttu Galicyjskiego, although

much less interesting, is yet noteworthy.]

To treat, however, this subject adequately, one requires volumes,

not pages; to speak on it authoritatively, one must have studied

it more thoroughly than I have done. The following melodies and

snatches of melodies will to some extent illustrate what I have

said, although they are chosen with a view rather to illustrate

Chopin's indebtedness to Polish folk-music than Polish folk-music

itself:--

[11 music score excerpts illustrated here]

Chopin, while piquantly and daringly varying the tonality

prevailing in art-music, hardly ever departs from it altogether--

he keeps at least in contact with it, however light that contact

may be now and then in the mazurkas.

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

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

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

extending over that and the next fifteen bars displays, on the

other hand, the purest Lydian, while the other portions, although

less definite as regards tonality, keep in closer touch with the

mediaeval church smode [sic: mode] than with our major and

minor.]

Further, he adopted only some of the striking peculiarities of

the national music, and added to them others which were

individual. These individual characteristics--those audacities of

rhythm, melody, and harmony (in progressions and modulations, as

well as in single chords)--may, however, be said to have been

fathered by the national ones. As to the predominating

chromaticism of his style, it is not to be found in Polish folk-

music; although slight rudiments are discoverable (see Nos. 6-12

of the musical illustrations). Of course, no one would seek there

his indescribably-exquisite and highly-elaborate workmanship,

which alone enabled him to give expression to the finest shades

and most sudden changes of gentle feelings and turbulent

passions. Indeed, as I have already said, it is rather the

national spirit than the form which manifests itself in Chopin's

music. The writer of the article on Polish music in Mendel's

Conversations-Lexikon remarks:--

What Chopin has written remains for all times the highest

ideal of Polish music. Although it would be impossible to

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

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

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

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

language is so pregnantly reproduced in the musical diction as

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

be that Prince Oginski with his polonaises and Dobrzynski in

his happiest moments have approached him.

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

the composer Chopin some excellent remarks to offer.

He neither applied himself nor exerted himself to write Polish

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

hear himself called a Polish musician.

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

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

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

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

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

to understand, and how I have in part succeeded in

understanding, our national music"?]

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

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

poetic feeling inherent in his nation and diffused there among

all his contemporaries. Like the true national poets, Chopin

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

what inspiration spontaneously dictated to him; it is thus

that there arose in his music, without solicitation, without

effort, the most idealised form of the emotions which had

animated his childhood, chequered his adolescence, and

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

collected into a luminous sheaf sentiments confusedly felt by

all in his country, fragmentarily disseminated in their

hearts, vaguely perceived by some.

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

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

of his inner life is indeed a fact which no attentive hearer can

fail to discover without the aid of external evidence. For the

composer has hardly written a bar in which, so to speak, the

beating of his heart may not be felt. Chopin revealed himself

only in his music, but there he revealed himself fully. And was

this expression of his inner life really "mysterious and vague"?

I think not! At least, no effusion of words could have made

clearer and more distinct what he expressed. For the

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

of the fluctuating emotional actualities such as his sensitive

heart experienced, musical forms are, no doubt, less clumsy than

verbal and pictorial ones. And if we know something of his

history and that of his nation, we cannot be at a loss to give

names and local habitations to the impalpable, but emotionally

and intellectually-perceptible contents of his music. We have to

distinguish in Chopin the personal and the national tone-poet,

the singer of his own joys and sorrows and that of his country's.

But, while distinguishing these two aspects, we must take care

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

the constitutive forces of which alternately assumed supremacy.

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

poet at no time disowned the national. His imagination was always

ready to conjure up his native atmosphere, nay, we may even say

that, wherever he might be, he lived in it. The scene of his

dreams and visions lay oftenest in the land of his birth. And

what did the national poet dream and see in these dreams and

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

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

passed through the refining fires of his love and genius and

reappeared in his music sublimated as beauty and poetry. No other

poet has like Chopin embodied in art the romance of the land and

people of Poland. And, also, no other poet has like him embodied

in art the romance of his own existence. But whereas as a

national poet he was a flattering idealist, he was as a personal

poet an uncompromising realist.

The masterpieces of Chopin consist of mazurkas, polonaises,

waltzes, etudes, preludes, nocturnes (with which we will class

the berceuse and barcarole), scherzos and impromptus, and

ballades. They do not, however, comprise all his notable

compositions. And about these notable compositions which do not

rank with his masterpieces, either because they are of less

significance or otherwise fail to reach the standard of requisite

perfectness, I shall first say a few words.

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

polonaise. It is livelier in movement and more coquettish in

character than the compositions which he entitles polonaises, but

for all that its physiognomy does not on the whole strike one as

particularly Spanish, certainly not beyond the first section of

the Bolero proper and the seductive strains of the Pililento, the

second tempo of the introduction. And in saying this I am not

misled by the points of resemblance in the rhythmical

accompaniment of these dances. Chopin published the Bolero in

1834, four years before he visited Spain, but one may doubt

whether it would have turned out less Polish if he had composed

it subsequently. Although an excellent imitator in the way of

mimicry, he lacked the talent of imitating musical thought and

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

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

of his subjectivism in the first place, and of his nationalism in

the second. I said the Bolero was published four years before his

visit to Spain. But how many years before this visit was it

composed? I think a good many years earlier; for it has so much

of his youthful style about it, and not only of his youthful

style, but also of his youthful character--by which I mean that

it is less intensely poetic. It is not impossible that Chopin was

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

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

performed on February 28, 1828. These remarks are thrown out

merely as hints. The second composition which we shall consider

will show how dangerous it is to dogmatise on the strength of

internal evidence.

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

like the Bolero, not without its beauties; but in spite of

greater individuality, ranks, like it, low among the master's

works, being patchy, unequal, and little poetical.

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

Variations brillantes (in B flat major) sur le Rondeau favori:

"Je vends des Scapulaires" de Ludovic, de Herold et Halevy, Op.

12. Did we not know that he must have composed the. work about

the middle of 1833, we should be tempted to class it with the

works which came into existence when his individuality was as yet

little developed. [FOOTNOTE: The opera Ludovic, on which Herold

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

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

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

November, 1833. In the Gazette musicale of January 26, 1834, may

be read a review of it.] But knowing what we do, we can only

wonder at the strange phenomenon. It is as if Chopin had here

thrown overboard the Polish part of his natal inheritance and

given himself up unrestrainedly and voluptuously to the French

part. Besides various diatonic runs of an inessential and purely

ornamental character, there is in the finale actually a plain and

full-toned C flat major scale. What other work of the composer

could be pointed out exhibiting the like feature? Of course,

Chopin is as little successful in entirely hiding his

serpentining and chromaticising tendency as Mephistopheles in

hiding the limp arising from his cloven foot. Still, these

fallings out of the role are rare and transient, and, on the

whole, Chopin presents himself as a perfect homme du monde who

knows how to say the most insignificant trifles with the most

exquisite grace imaginable. There can. be nothing more amusing

than the contemporary critical opinions regarding this work,

nothing more amusing than to see the at other times censorious

Philistines unwrinkle their brows, relax generally the sternness

of their features, and welcome, as it were, the return of the

prodigal son. We wiser critics of to-day, who, of course, think

very differently about this matter, can, nevertheless, enjoy and

heartily applaud the prettiness and elegance of the simple first

variation, the playful tripping second, the schwarmerische

melodious third, the merry swinging fourth, and the brilliant

finale.

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

Tarantelle, Op. 43, which took place in the latter part of 1841,

was attended with difficulties and annoyances. [FOOTNOTE: Herr

Schuberth, of Leipzig, informed me that a honorarium of 500

francs was paid to Chopin for this work on July 1, 1841. The

French publisher deposited the work at the library of the

Conservatoire in October, 1841.] What these difficulties and

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

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

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

and in boldness of harmonic and melodic conception. The

Tarantelle is a translation from Italian into Polish, a

transmutation of Rossini into Chopin, a Neapolitan scene painted

with opaque colours, the south without its transparent sky, balmy

air, and general brightness. That this composition was inspired

by impressions received from Rossini's Tarantella, and not from

impressions received in Italy (of which, as has already been

related, he had a short glimpse in 1839), is evident. A

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

intoxicating transcription of Rossini's composition may be

recommended as a study equally pleasant and instructive. Although

not an enthusiastic admirer of Chopin's Tarantelle, I protest in

the interest of the composer and for justice's sake against

Schumann's dictum: "Nobody can call that beautiful music; but we

pardon the master his wild fantasies, for once he may let us see

also the dark sides of his inner life."

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

1841, although written for the pianoforte alone, contains,

nevertheless, passages which are more distinctly orchestral than

anything Chopin ever wrote for the orchestra. The form resembles

somewhat that of the concerto. In the first section, which

occupies the place of the opening tutti, we cannot fail to

distinguish the entrances of single instruments, groups of

instruments, and the full orchestra. The soloist starts in the

eighty-seventh bar, and in the following commences a cadenza.

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

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

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

major. The first subject, if I may dignify the matter in question

with that designation, does not recur again, nor was it

introduced by the tutti. The central and principal thought is

what I called the second subject. The second section concludes

with brilliant passage-work in E major, the time--honoured shake

rousing the drowsy orchestra from its sweet repose. The hint is

not lost, and the orchestra, in the disguise of the pianoforte,

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

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

principal subject in A minor. After that we have once more

brilliant passage-work, closing this time in A major, and then a

final tutti. The Allegro de Concert gives rise to all sorts of

surmises. Was it written first for the pianoforte and orchestra,

as Schumann suspects? Or may we make even a bolder guess, and

suppose that the composer, at a more advanced age, worked up into

this Allegro de Concert a sketch for the first movement of a

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

fragment or fragments of the Concerto for two pianos which

Chopin, in a letter written at Vienna on December 21, 1830, said

he would play in public with his friend Nidecki, if he succeeded

in writing it to his satisfaction? And is there any significance

in the fact that Chopin, when (probably in the summer of 1841)

sending the manuscript of this work to Fontana, calls it a

Concerto? Be this as it may, the principal subject and some of

the passage-work remind one of the time of the concertos; other

things, again, belong undoubtedly to a later period. The tutti

and solo parts are unmistakable, so different is the treatment of

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

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

work, as a whole, is unsatisfactory, nay, almost indigestible.

The subjects are neither striking nor important. Of the passage-

work, that which follows the second subject contains the most

interesting matter. Piquant traits and all sorts of fragmentary

beauties are scattered here and there over the movement. But

after we have considered all, we must confess that this opus adds

little or nothing to the value of our Chopin inheritance.

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

criticism which since I wrote the above appeared in the Athenaum

(January 21, 1888):--"The last-named work [the Allegro de

Concert, Op. 46] is not often heard, and is generally regarded as

one of Chopin's least interesting and least characteristic

pieces. Let us hasten to say that these impressions are

distinctly wrong; the executive difficulties of the work are

extremely great, and a mere mastery of them is far from all that

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

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

it amounted to an astounding revelation. That which seemed dry

and involved became under his fingers instinct with beauty and

feeling; the musicians and amateurs present listened as if

spellbound, and opinion was unanimous that the performance was

nothing short of an artistic creation. For the sake of the

composer, if not for his own reputation, the pianist should

repeat it, not once, but many times." Notwithstanding this

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

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

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

previously formed opinion.]

As a further confirmation of the supposed origin of the Allegro

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

orchestra (also for two pianos) by Jean Louis Nicode.

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

to the text of Chopin; but his insertion of a working-out section

of more than seventy bars is not justifiable, and, moreover,

though making the work more like an orthodox first movement of a

concerto, does not enhance its beauty and artistic value.]

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

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

remark, "Plus de volonte que d'inspiration," is hardly

applicable, although he used the expression in speaking of

Chopin's concertos and sonatas in general; for there is no lack

of inspiration here, nor are there traces of painful, unrewarded

effort. Each of the four pieces of which the sonata consists is

full of vigour, originality, and interest. But whether they can

be called a sonata is another question. Schumann, in his playful

manner, speaks of caprice and wantonness, and insinuates that

Chopin bound together four of his maddest children, and entitled

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

smuggle them in where otherwise they would not penetrate. Of

course, this is a fancy of Schumann's. Still, one cannot help

wondering whether the composer from the first intended to write a

sonata and obtained this result--amphora coepit institui;

currente rota cur urceus exit?--or whether these four movements

got into existence without any predestination, and were

afterwards put under one cover. [FOOTNOTE: At any rate, the march

was finished before the rest of the work. See the quotation from

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

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

that he does not give Chopin his due. There is something gigantic

in the work which, although it does not elevate and ennoble,

being for the most part a purposeless fuming, impresses one

powerfully. The first movement begins with four bars grave, a

groan full of pain; then the composer, in restless, breathless

haste, is driven by his feelings onward, ever onward, till he

comes to the lovely, peaceful second subject (in D flat major, a

real contrast this time), which grows by-and-by more passionate,

and in the concluding portion of the first part transcends the

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

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

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

dominant seventh in A flat and that in D flat with the suspended

sixth, is noteworthy. The strange second section, in which the

first subject is worked out, has the appearance rather of an

improvisation than of a composition. After this a few bars in 6/4

time, fiercely wild (stretto) at first, but gradually subsiding,

lead to the repeat in B flat major of the second subject--the

first subject does not appear again in its original form. To the

close, which is like that of the corresponding section in the

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

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

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

threatening power which rise to a higher and higher pitch become

quite weird and fear-inspiring; it affects one like lowering

clouds, rolling of thunder, and howling and whistling of the wind-

-to the latter, for instance, the chromatic successions of chords

of the sixth may not inappropriately be likened. The piu lento is

certainly one of the most scherzo-like thoughts in Chopin's

scherzos--so light and joyful, yet a volcano is murmuring under

this serenity. The return of this piu lento, after the repeat of

the first section, is very fine and beneficently refreshing, like

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

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

with particular distinction, and grows justly eloquent over it. I

do not altogether understand Schumann's objection: "It is still

more gloomy than the scherzo," he says, "and contains even much

that is repulsive; in its place an adagio, perhaps in D flat,

would have had an incomparably finer effect." Out of the dull,

stupefied brooding, which is the fundamental mood of the first

section, there rises once and again (bars 7 and 8, and 11 and 12)

a pitiable wailing, and then an outburst of passionate appealing

(the forte passage in D flat major), followed by a sinking

helplessness (the two bars with the shakes in the bass),

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

second section are a rapturous gaze into the beatific regions of

a beyond, a vision of reunion of what for the time is severed.

The last movement may be counted among the curiosities of

composition--a presto in B flat minor of seventy-five bars, an

endless series of triplets from beginning to end in octaves. It

calls up in one's mind the solitude and dreariness of a desert.

"The last movement is more like mockery than music," says

Schumann, but adds, truly and wisely--

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

unmelodious and joyless movement a peculiar dismal spirit

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

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

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

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

sphinx with a mocking smile.

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

relates that Mendelssohn, on being questioned about the finale of

one of Chopin's sonatas (I think it must have been the one before

us), said briefly and bitterly, "Oh, I abhor it!" H. Barbedette

remarks in his "Chopin," a criticism without insight and

originality, of this finale, "C'est Lazare grattant de ses ongles

la pierre de son tombeau et tombant epuise de fatigue, de faim et

de desespoir." And now let the reader recall the words which

Chopin wrote from Nohant to Fontana in the summer of 1839:--

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

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

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

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

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

The meaning of which somewhat obscure interpretation seems to be,

that after the burial the good neighbours took to discussing the

merits of the departed, not without a spice of backbiting.

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

pianoforte sonatas (the third if we take into account the

unpalatable Op. 4), made its appearance five years later, in

June, 1845. Unity is as little discernible in this sonata as in

its predecessor. The four movements of which the work consists

are rather affiliated than cognate; nay, this may be said even of

many parts of the movements. The first movement by far surpasses

the other three in importance: indeed, the wealth of beautiful

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

an unsifted accumulation than an artistic presentation and

evolution--would have sufficed many a composer for several

movements. The ideas are very unequal and their course very jerky

till we come to the second subject (D major), which swells out

into a broad stream of impassioned melody. Farther on the matter

becomes again jerky and mosaic-like. While the close of the first

part is very fine, the beginning of the second is a comfortless

waste. Things mend with the re-entrance of the subsidiary part of

the second subject (now in D flat major), which, after being

dwelt upon for some time and varied, disappears, and is followed

by a repetition of portions of the first subject, the whole

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

prolonged by a coda to make the close more emphatic and

satisfying. A light and graceful quaver figure winds with now

rippling, now waving motion through the first and third sections

of the scherzo; in the contrasting second section, with the

sustained accompaniment and the melody in one of the middle

parts, the entrance of the bright A major, after the gloom of the

preceding bars, is very effective. The third movement has the

character of a nocturne, and as such cannot fail to be admired.

In the visionary dreaming of the long middle section we imagine

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

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

an emotional atmosphere somewhat akin to that of the first

movement, but more agitated. After eight bold introductory bars

with piercing dissonances begins the first subject, which, with

its rhythmically differently-accompanied repetition, is the most

important constituent of the movement. The rest, although finely

polished, is somewhat insignificant. In short, this is the old

story, plus de volonte que d'inspiration, that is to say,

inspiration of the right sort. And also, plus de volonte que de

savoir-faire.

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

volnte que d'inspiratio, applies in all, and even more than all

its force. I allude to the Sonata (in G minor) for piano and

violoncello, Op. 65 (published in September, 1847), in which

hardly anything else but effort, painful effort, manifests

itself. The first and last movements are immense wildernesses

with only here and there a small flower. The middle movements, a

Scherzo and an Andante, do not rise to the dignity of a sonata,

and, moreover, lack distinction, especially the slow movement, a

nocturne-like dialogue between the two instruments. As to the

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

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

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

that lose themselves soon in a sandy waste. Hence I have not the

heart to controvert Moscheles who, in his diary, says some

cutting things about this work: "In composition Chopin proves

that he has only isolated happy thoughts which he does not know

how to work up into a rounded whole. In the just published sonata

with violoncello I find often passages which sound as if someone

were preluding on the piano and knocked at all the keys to learn

whether euphony was at home." [FOOTNOTE: Aus Moscheles' Leben;

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

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

Chopin's Violoncello Sonata, which I am arranging for four hands.

To me it is a tangled forest, through which now and then

penetrates a gleam of the sun." [FOOTNOTE: Ibid., Vol. II., p.

216.] To take up after the last-discussed work a composition like

the Grand Duo Concertant for piano and violoncello, on themes

from "Robert le Diable," by Chopin and A. Franchomme, is quite a

relief, although it is really of no artistic importance. Schumann

is right when he says of this DUO, which saw the light of

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

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

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

behind the shoulders of counts and countesses now and then rises

the head of a celebrated artist." And he may also be right when

he says:--

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

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

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

expresses himself with grace and distinction, compared with

which all the gentility of other brilliant composers together

with all their elegance vanish into thin air.

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

Sonata, Op. 65, in which the violoncello is employed, naturally

suggested it.

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

groups of masterpieces in the smaller forms above enumerated. But

this last work is one of Chopin's best compositions, and in its

way no less a masterpiece than these. Unfettered by the scheme of

a definite form such as the sonata or concerto, the composer

develops in the Fantaisie, Op. 49 (published in November, 1841),

his thought with masterly freedom. There is an enthralling

weirdness about this work, a weirdness made up of force of

passion and an indescribable fantastic waywardness. Nothing more

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

music falls on our ears like the insuppressible outpouring of a

being stirred to its heart's core, and full of immeasurable love

and longing. Who would suspect the composer's fragility and

sickliness in this work? Does it not rather suggest a Titan in

commotion? There was a time when I spoke of the Fantasia in a

less complimentary tone, now I bow down my head regretfully and

exclaim peccavi. The disposition of the composition may be thus

briefly indicated. A tempo di marcia opens the Fantasia--it forms

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

a poco piu mosso are comparable to galleries that connect the

various blocks of buildings. The principal subject, or

accumulation of themes, recurs again and again in different keys,

whilst other subjects appear only once or twice between the

repetitions of the principal subject.

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

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

called a literature in themselves for two reasons--first, because

of their originality, which makes them things sui generis; and

secondly, because of the poetical and musical wealth of their

contents. Chopin, as I have already said, is most national in the

mazurkas and polonaises, for the former of which he draws not

only inspiration, but even rhythmic, melodic, and harmonic

motives from his country's folk-music. Liszt told me, in a

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

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

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

Chopin puts them, perhaps nobody else could have put them." And

mark, those are the words of one who also told me that when he

sometimes played half-an-hour for his amusement, he liked to

resort to Chopin. Moscheles, I suspect, had especially the

mazurkas in his mind when, in 1833, [FOOTNOTE: At this time the

published compositions of Chopin were, of course, not numerous,

but they included the first two books of Mazurkas, Op. 6 and 7.]

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

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

thoughts and through them the fingers stumbled over certain hard,

inartistic modulations." Startling progressions, unreconciled

contrasts, and abrupt changes of mood are characteristic of

Slavonic music and expressive of the Slavonic character. Whether

they ought to be called inartistic or not, we will leave time to

decide, if it has not done so already; the Russian and other

Slavonic composers, who are now coming more and more to the

front, seem to be little in doubt as to their legitimacy. I

neither regard Chopin's mazurkas as his most artistic

achievements nor recommend their capriciousness and

fragmentariness for general imitation. But if we view them from

the right stand-point, which is not that of classicism, we cannot

help admiring them. The musical idiom which the composer uses in

these, notwithstanding their capriciousness and fragmentariness,

exquisitely-finished miniatures, has a truly delightful piquancy.

Yet delightful as their language is, the mazurkas have a far

higher claim to our admiration. They are poems--social poems,

poems of private life, in distinction from the polonaises, which

are political poems. Although Chopin's mazurkas and polonaises

are no less individual than the other compositions of this most

subjective of subjective poets, they incorporate, nevertheless, a

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

names are the expression or vehicle. And let it be noted, in

Poland so-called civilisation did not do its work so fast and

effectually as in Western Europe; there dancing had not yet

become in Chopin's days a merely formal and conventional affair,

a matter of sinew and muscle.

It is, therefore, advisable that we should make ourselves

acquainted with the principal Polish dances; such an

acquaintance, moreover, will not only help us to interpret aright

Chopin's mazurkas and polonaises, but also to gain a deeper

insight into his ways of feeling and seeing generally. Now the

reader will become aware that the long disquisitions on Poland

and the Poles at the commencement of this biography were not

superfluous accessories. For completeness' sake I shall preface

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

the third of the triad of principal Polish dances. The informants

on whom I shall chiefly rely when I am not guided by my own

observations are the musician Sowinski and the poet Brodzinski,

both Poles:

The krakowiak [says Albert Sowinski in chant polonais] bubbles

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

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

Cracovians dance it in a very agitated and expressive manner,

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

they multiply the stanzas and which they often improvise.

These words are of an easy gaiety which remind one strangely

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

France; others again are connected with the glorious epochs of

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

are a faithful expression of the character and manners of the

nation.

Casimir Brodzinski describes the dance as follows:--

The krakowiak resembles in its figures a simplified polonaise;

it represents, compared with the latter, a less advanced

social state. The boldest and strongest takes the position of

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

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

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

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

themselves before the orchestra; the young man looks proud,

presumptuous, preoccupied with his costume and beauty. Before

long he becomes meditative, and seeks inspiration to improvise

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

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

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

orchestra after making a round, the dancer generally takes the

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

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

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

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

seize his arm, after which they dance together until the

ritornello puts an end to their pleasure.

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

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

rhythmical peculiarity of having frequently the accent on a

usually unaccented part of the bar, especially at the end of a

section or a phrase, for instance, on the second quaver of the

second and the fourth bar, thus:--

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

a line of notes divided in measures: 1/8 1/16 1/16 1/8 1/8 | 1/8

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

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

his Op. 14, entitled Krakowiak, Grand Rondeau de Concert, a

composition which was discussed in Chapter VIII. Thus much of the

krakowiak; now to the more interesting second of the triad.

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

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

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

however, these latter easily from the ancient ones on account

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

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

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

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

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

a dance, of which the figures arc multiplied passes and

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

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

executed with energy and warmth, but not without a certain

dignity.

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

all written thus. The dotted rhythmical motive alluded to by

Sowinski is this, or similar to this--

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

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

the following--

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

1/4 | triple 1/8 1/8 1/8 1/8]

are of frequent occurrence, I would propose a more comprehensive

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

mostly of quicker notes than the latter part. But even this more

comprehensive definition does not comprehend all; it is a rule

which has many exceptions. [FOOTNOTE: See the musical

illustrations on pp. 217-218.] Le Sowinski mentions only one

classification of mazurkas. Several others, however, exist.

First, according to the district from which they derive--mazurkas

of Kujavia, of Podlachia, of Lublin, &c.; or, secondly, according

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

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

political mazurkas. And now let us hear what the poet Brodzinski

has to say about the nature of this dance:-

The mazurek in its primitive form and as the common people

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

sautillant. The agile Cracovians and the mountaineers of the

Carpathians call the mazurek danced by the inhabitants of the

plain but a dwarfed krakowiak. The proximity of the Germans,

or rather the sojourn of the German troops, has caused the

true character of the mazurek among the people to be lost;

this dance hap become a kind of awkward waltz.

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

are disfigured not only by the influx of foreigners, but

especially also by the unfortunate employment of barrel-

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

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

the village fiddler, who becomes more and more rare since

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

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

from our country sides these sweet songs and improvised

refrains which the rustic minstrels remembered and repeated,

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

borrowed from the operas most in vogue.

The mazurek, thus degenerated among the people, has been

adopted by the upper classes who, in preserving the national

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

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

has much resemblance with the French quadrille, according to

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

seeing these two dances one might say that a French woman

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

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

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

French female dancer recalls the ideal of Greek statues; a

Polish female dancer has something which recalls the

shepherdesses created by the imagination of the poets; if the

former charms us, the latter attaches us.

As modern dances lend themselves especially to the triumph of

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

favourable, it is noteworthy that the mazurek forms here an

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

remarkable by a certain amiable boldness, becomes soon the

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

dress for the women, and the Polish military costume so

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

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

dance permits to the whole body the most lively and varied

movements, leaves the shoulders full liberty to bend with that

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

certain movement of the foot striking the floor, is

exceedingly graceful.

One finds often a magic effect in the animated enthusiasm

which characterises the different movements of the head--now

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

inclined towards the shoulder, and always depicting in large

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

graceful, and delicate sentiments. Seeing in the mazurek the

female dancer almost carried away in the arms and on the

shoulders of her cavalier, abandoning herself entirely to his

guidance, one thinks one sees two beings intoxicated with

happiness and flying towards the celestial regions. The female

dancer, lightly dressed, scarcely skimming the earth with her

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

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

like lightning, precipitating herself again into the arms of

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

creature. The music of the mazurek is altogether national and

original; through its gaiety breathes usually something of

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

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

Chopin himself published forty-one mazurkas of his composition in

eleven sets of four, five, or three numbers--Op. 6, Quatre

Mazurkas, and Op. 7, Cinq Mazurkas, in December, 1832; Op. 17,

Quatre Mazurkas, in May, 1834; Op. 24, Quatre Mazurkas, in

November, 1835; Op. 30, Quatre Maazurkas, in December, 1837; Op.

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

in December, 1840; Op. 50, Trois Mazurkas, in November, 1841; Op,

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

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

tne posthumous works published by Fontana there are two more

sets, each of four numbers, and respectively marked as Op. 67 and

68. Lastly, several other mazurkas composed by or attributed to

Chopin have been published without any opus number. Two mazurkas,

both in A minor, although very feeble compositions, are included

in the editions by Klindworth and Mikuli. The Breitkopf and

Hartel edition, which includes only one of these two mazurkas,

comprises further a mazurka in G major and one in B flat major of

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

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

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

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

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

the date of composition. The other (the one not included in

Breitkopf and Hartel's, No. 50 of Mikuli's and Klindworth's

edition) appeared first as No. 2 of Noire Temps, a publication by

Schott's Sohne. On inquiry I learned that Notre Temps was the

general title of a series of 12 pieces by Czerny, Chopin,

Kalliwoda, Rosenhain, Thalberg, Kalkbrenner, Mendelssohn,

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

1842 or 1843 as a Christmas Album. [FOONOTE: I find, however,

that Chopin's Mazurka was already separately announced as "Notre

Temps, No. 2," in the Monatsberichte of February, 1842.] Whether

a Mazurka elegante by Fr, Chopin, advertised in La France

Musicale of April 6, 1845, as en vente au Bureau de musique, 29,

Place de la Bourse, is identical with one of the above-enumerated

mazurkas I have not been able to discover. In the Klindworth

edition [FOOTNOTE: That is to say, in the original Russian, not

in the English (Augener and Co.'s) edition; and there only by the

desire of the publishers and against the better judgment of the

editor.] is also to be found a very un-Chopinesque Mazurka in F

sharp major, previously published by J. P. Gotthard, in Vienna,

the authorship of which Mr. E. Pauer has shown to belong to

Charles Mayer.

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

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

question is reprinted), we read as follows:--"In 1877 Mr. E.

Pauer, whilst preparing a comprehensive guide through the entire

literature of the piano, looked through many thousand pieces for

that instrument published by German firms, and came across a

mazurka by Charles Mayer, published by Pietro Mechetti

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

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

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

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

fix the time when and the place where he had heard it; but at

last the Mayer mazurka mentioned above returned to his

remembrance, and on comparing the two, he found that they were

one and the same piece. From the appearance of the title-page and

the size of the notes, Mr. Pauer, who has had considerable

experience in these matters, concluded that the Mayer copy must

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

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

work, and asking how he came into possession of the Chopin

manuscript. Mr. Gotthard replied,'that he had bought the mazurka

as Chopin's autograph from a Polish countess, who, being in sad

distress, parted, though with the greatest sorrow, with the

composition of her illustrious compatriot.' Mr. Pauer naturally

concludes that Mr. Gotthard had been deceived, that the

manuscript was not a genuine autograph, and 'that the honour of

having composed the mazurka in question belongs to Charles

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

even if Chopin had made him a present of this mazurka, would have

published it during Chopin's lifetime as a work of his own, or

have sold or given it to the Polish countess. It is much more

likely that Mayer's mazurka was copied in the style of Chopin's

handwriting, and after Mayer's death in 1862 sold as Chopin's

autograph to Mr. Gotthard.'"]

Surveying the mazurkas in their totality, we cannot but notice

that there is a marked difference between those up to and those

above Op. 41. In the later ones we look in vain for the beautes

sauvages which charm us in the earlier ones--they strike us

rather by their propriety of manner and scholarly elaboration; in

short, they have more of reflective composition and less of

spontaneous effusion about them. This, however, must not be taken

too literally. There are exceptions, partial and total. The

"native wood-notes wild" make themselves often heard, only they

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

Strange to say, the last opus (63) of mazurkas published by

Chopin has again something of the early freshness and poetry.

Schumann spoke truly when he said that some poetical trait,

something new, was to be found in every one of Chopin's mazurkas.

They are indeed teeming with interesting matter. Looked at from

the musician's point of view, how much do we not see that is

novel and strange, and beautiful and fascinating withal? Sharp

dissonances, chromatic passing notes, suspensions and

anticipations, displacements of accent, progressions of perfect

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

passage near the close of Op. 30, No. 4, where there are four

bars of simultaneous consecutive fifths and sevenths.] sudden

turns and unexpected digressions that are so unaccountable, so

out of the line of logical sequence, that one's following the

composer is beset with difficulties, marked rhythm picture to us

the graceful motions of the dancers, and suggest the clashing of

the spurs and the striking of heels against the ground. The

second mazurka might be called "the request." All the arts of

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

vein of longing, not unmixed with sadness, runs through the

whole, or rather forms the basis of it. The tender commencement

of the second part is followed, as it were, by the several times

repeated questions--Yes? No? (Bright sunshine? Dark clouds?) But

there comes no answer, and the poor wretch has to begin anew. A

helpless, questioning uncertainty and indecision characterise the

third mazurka. For a while the composer gives way (at the

beginning of the second part) to anger, and speaks in a defiant

tone; but, as if perceiving the unprofitableness of it, returns

soon to his first strain. Syncopations, suspensions, and

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

trade, displacement of everything in melody, harmony, and rhythm

is the rule. Nobody did anything like this before Chopin, and, as

far as I know, nobody has given to the world an equally minute

and distinct representation of the same intimate emotional

experiences. My last remarks hold good with the fourth mazurka,

which is bleak and joyless till, with the entrance of A major, a

fairer prospect opens. But those jarring tones that strike in

wake the dreamer pitilessly. The commencement of the mazurka, as

well as the close on the chord of the sixth, the chromatic

glidings of the harmonies, the strange twirls and skips, give a

weird character to this piece.

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

that of the, no doubt, older mazurka, is lost in the dim past.

For much credit can hardly be given to the popular belief that it

developed out of the measured procession, to the sound of music,

of the nobles and their ladies, which is said to have first taken

place in 1574, the year after his election to the Polish throne,

when Henry of Anjou received the grandees of his realm. The

ancient polonaises were without words, and thus they were still

in the time of King Sobieski (1674-96). Under the subsequent

kings of the house of Saxony, however, they were often adapted to

words or words were adapted to them. Celebrated polonaises of

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

adapted to words relative to the promulgation of the famous

constitution of the 3rd of May, 1791; the Kosciuszko Polonaise,

with words adapted to already existing music, dedicated to the

great patriot and general when, in 1792, the nation rose in

defence of the constitution; the Oginski Polonaise, also called

the Swan's song and the Partition of Poland, a composition

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

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

composers of the second half of the last century and the

beginning of the present whose polonaises enjoyed in their day,

and partly enjoy still, a high reputation, are especially notable

Kozlowski, Kamienski, Elsner, Deszczynski, Bracicki, Wanski,

Prince Oginski, Kurpinski, and Dobrzynski. Outside Poland the

polonaise, both as an instrumental and vocal composition, both as

an independent piece and part of larger works, had during the

same period quite an extraordinary popularity. Whether we examine

the productions of the classics or those of the inferior

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

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

polonaise. Pre-eminence among the most successful foreign

cultivators of this Polish dance has, however, been accorded to

Spohr and Weber. I said just now "this dance," but, strictly

speaking, the polonaise, which has been called a marche dansante,

is not so much a dance as a figured walk, or procession, full of

gravity and a certain courtly etiquette. As to the music of the

polonaise, it is in 3/4 time, and of a moderate movement (rather

slow than quick). The flowing and more or less florid melody has

rhythmically a tendency to lean on the second crotchet and even

on the second quaver of the bar (see illustration No. 1, a and

b), and generally concludes each of its parts with one of certain

stereotyped formulas of a similar rhythmical cast (see

illustration No. 2, a, b, c, and d). The usual accompaniment

consists of a bass note at the beginning of the bar followed,

except at the cadences, by five quavers, of which the first may

be divided into semiquavers. Chopin, however, emancipated himself

more and more from these conventionalities in his later poetic

polonaises.

[Two music score excerpts here, labeled No. 1 and No. 2]

The polonaise [writes Brodzinski] is the only dance which

suits mature age, and is not unbecoming to persons of elevated

rank; it is the dance of kings, heroes, and even old men; it

alone suits the martial dress. It does not breathe any

passion, but seems to be only a triumphal march, an expression

of chivalrous and polite manners. A solemn gravity presides

always at the polonaise, which, perhaps, alone recalls neither

the fire of primitive manners nor the gallantry of more

civilised but more enervated ages. Besides these principal

characteristics, the polonaise bears a singularly national and

historical impress; for its laws recall an aristocratic

republic with a disposition to anarchy, flowing less from the

character of the people than from its particular legislation.

In the olden times the polonaise was a kind of solemn

ceremony. The king, holding by the hand the most distinguished

personage of the assembly, marched at the head of a numerous

train of couples composed of men alone: this dance, made more

effective by the splendour of the chivalrous costumes, was

only, strictly speaking, a triumphal march.

If a lady was the object of the festival, it was her privilege

to open the march, holding by the hand another lady. All the

others followed until the queen of the ball, having offered

her hand to one of the men standing round the room, induced

the other ladies to follow her example.

The ordinary polonaise is opened by the most distinguished

person of the gathering, whose privilege it is to conduct the

whole file of the dancers or to break it up. This is called in

Polish rey wodzic, figuratively, to be the leader, in some

sort the king (from the Latin rex). To dance at the head was

also called to be the marshal, on account of the privileges of

a marshal at the Diets. The whole of this form is connected

with the memories and customs of raising the militia

(pospolite), or rather of the gathering of the national

assemblies in Poland. Hence, notwithstanding the deference

paid to the leaders, who have the privilege of conducting at

will the chain of dancers, it is allowable, by a singular

practice made into a law, to dethrone a leader every time any

bold person calls out odbiianego, which means retaken by force

or reconquered; he who pronounces this word is supposed to

wish to reconquer the hand of the first lady and the direction

of the dance; it is a kind of act of liberum veto, to which

everyone is obliged to give way. The leader then abandons the

hand of his lady to the new pretender; every cavalier dances

with the lady of the following couple, and it is only the

cavalier of the last couple who finds himself definitively

ousted if he has not the boldness to insist likewise upon his

privilege of equality by demanding odbiianego, and placing

himself at the head.

But as a privilege of this nature too often employed would

throw the whole ball into complete anarchy, two means are

established to obviate this abuse--namely, the leader makes

use of his right to terminate the polonaise, in imitation of a

king or marshal dissolving a Diet, or else, according to the

predominating wish, all the cavaliers leave the ladies alone

in the middle, who then choose new partners and continue the

dance, excluding the disturbers and discontented, which

recalls the confederations employed for the purpose of making

the will of the majority prevail.

The polonaise breathes and paints the whole national

character; the music of this dance, while admitting much art,

combines something martial with a sweetness marked by the

simplicity of manners of an agricultural people. Foreigners

have distorted this character of the polonaises; the natives

themselves preserve it less in our day in consequence of the

frequent employment of motives drawn from modern operas. As to

the dance itself, the polonaise has become in our day a kind

of promenade which has little charm for the young, and is but

a scene of etiquette for those of a riper age. Our fathers

danced it with a marvellous ability and a gravity full of

nobleness; the dancer, making gliding steps with energy, but

without skips, and caressing his moustache, varied his

movements by the position of his sabre, of his cap, and of

his tucked-up coat-sleeves, distinctive signs of a free man

and warlike citizen. Whoever has seen a Pole of the old school

dance the polonaise in the national costume will confess

without hesitation that this dance is the triumph of a well-

made man, with a noble and proud tournure, and with an air at

once manly and gay.

After this Brodzinski goes on to describe the way in which the

polonaise used to be danced. But instead of his description I

shall quote a not less true and more picturesque one from the

last canto of Mickiewicz's "Pan Tadeusz":--

It is time to dance the polonaise. The President comes

forward; he lightly throws back the fausses manches of his

overcoat, caresses his moustache, presents his hand to Sophia:

and, by a respectful salute, invites her for the first couple.

Behind them range themselves the other dancers, two and two;

the signal is given, the dance is begun, the President directs

it.

His red boots move over the green sward, his belt sends forth

flashes of light; he proceeds slowly, as if at random: but in

every one of his steps, in every one of his movements, one can

read the feelings and the thoughts of the dancer. He stops as

if to question his partner; he leans towards her, wishes to

speak to her in an undertone. The lady turns away, does not

listen, blushes. He takes off his cap, and salutes her

respectfully. The lady is not disinclined to look at him, but

persists in being silent. He slackens his pace, seeks to read

in her eyes, and smiles. Happy in her mute answer, he walks

more quickly, looking proudly at his rivals; now he draws his

cap with the heron-feathers forward, now he pushes it back. At

last he puts it on one side and turns up his moustaches. He

withdraws; all envy him, all follow his footsteps. He would

like to disappear with his lady. Sometimes he stops, raises

politely his hand, and begs the dancers to pass by him.

Sometimes he tries to slip dexterously away, changing the

direction. He would like to deceive his companions; but the

troublesome individuals follow him with a nimble step, entwine

him with more and more tightened loops. He becomes angry; lays

his right hand on his sword as if he wished to say: "Woe to

the jealous!" He turns, pride on his countenance, a challenge

in his air, and marches straight on the company, who give way

at his approach, open to him a passage, and soon, by a rapid

evolution, are off again in pursuit of him.

On all sides one hears the exclamation: "Ah! this is perhaps

the last. Look, young people, perhaps this is the last who

will know how to conduct thus the polonaise!"

Among those of Chopin's compositions which he himself published

are, exclusive of the "Introduction et Polonaise brillante" for

piano and violoncello, Op. 3, eight polonaises--namely: "Grande

Polonaise brillante" (in E flat major), "precedee d'un Andante

spianato" (in G major), "pour le piano avec orchestre," Op. 22;

"Deux Polonaises" (in C sharp minor and E flat minor), Op. 26;

"Deux Polonaises" (in A major and C minor), Op. 40; "Polonaise"

(F sharp minor), Op. 44; "Polonaise" (in A flat major), Op. 53;

[FOOTNOTE: This polonaise is called the "eighth" on the title-

page, which, of course, it is only by including the "Polonaise,"

Op. 3, for piano and violoncello.] and "Polonaise-Fantaisie" (in

A flat major), Op. 61. The three early polonaises posthumously-

published by Fontana as Op. 71 have already been discussed in

Chapter VIII. Other posthumously-published polonaises--such as

the Polonaise in G sharp minor, to be found in Mikuli's edition,

and one in B flat minor of the year 1826, first published in the

supplement of the journal "Echo Muzyczne"--need not be considered

by us. [FOOTNOTE: Both polonaises are included in the Breitkopf

and Hartel edition, where the one in G sharp minor bears the

unlikely date 1822. The internal evidence speaks against this

statement.]

Chopin's Polonaises Op. 26, 40, 53, and 61 are pre-eminently

political, they are the composer's expression of his patriotic

feelings. It is not difficult to recognise in them proud memories

of past splendours, sad broodings over present humiliations,

bright visions of a future resurrection. They are full of martial

chivalry, of wailing dejection, of conspiracy and sedition, of

glorious victories. The poetically-inferior Polonaise, Op. 22, on

the other hand, while unquestionably Polish in spirit, is not

political. Chopin played this work, which was probably composed,

or at least sketched, in 1830, [FOOTNOTE: See Vol. I., Chapter

xiii., pp. 201, 202.] and certainly published in July, 1836, for

the first time in public at a Paris Conservatoire concert for the

benefit of Habeneck on April 26, 1835; and this was the only

occasion on which he played it with orchestral accompaniments.

The introductory Andante (in G major, and 6/8 time), as the

accompanying adjective indicates, is smooth and even. It makes

one think of a lake on a calm, bright summer day. A boat glides

over the pellucid, unruffled surface of the water, by-and-by

halts at a shady spot by the shore, or by the side of some island

(3/4 time), then continues its course (f time), and finally

returns to its moorings (3/4). I can perceive no connection

between the Andante and the following Polonaise (in E flat major)

except the factitious one of a formal and forced transition, with

which the orchestra enters on the scene of action (Allegro molto,

3/4). After sixteen bars of tutti, the pianoforte commences,

unaccompanied, the polonaise. Barring the short and in no way

attractive and remarkable test's, the orchestra plays a very

subordinate and often silent role, being, indeed, hardly missed

when the pianoforte part is. played alone. The pronounced bravura

character of the piece would warrant the supposition that it was

written expressly for the concert-room, even if the orchestral

accompaniments were not there to prove the fact. A proud bearing,

healthful vigour, and sprightly vivacity distinguish Chopin on

this occasion. But notwithstanding the brave appearance, one

misses his best qualities. This polonaise illustrates not only

the most brilliant, but also the least lovable features of the

Polish character--ostentatiousness and exaggerated rhetoric. In

it Chopin is discovered posturing, dealing in phrases, and

coquetting with sentimental affectations. In short, the composer

comes before us as a man of the world, intent on pleasing, and

sure of himself and success. The general airiness of the style is

a particularly-noticeable feature of this piece of Chopin's

virtuosic period.

The first bars of the first (in C sharp minor) of the two

Polonaises, Op. 26 (published in July, 1836), fall upon one's ear

like a decision of irresistible, inexorable fate. Indignation

flares up for a moment, and then dies away, leaving behind

sufficient strength only for a dull stupor (beginning of the

second part), deprecation, melting tenderness (the E major in the

second part, and the closing bars of the first and second parts),

and declarations of devotion (meno mosso). While the first

polonaise expresses weak timidity, sweet plaintiveness, and a

looking for help from above, the second one (in E flat minor)

speaks of physical force and self-reliance--it is full of

conspiracy and sedition. The ill-suppressed murmurs of

discontent, which may be compared to the ominous growls of a

volcano, grow in loudness and intensity, till at last, with a

rush and a wild shriek, there follows an explosion. The thoughts

flutter hither and thither, in anxious, helpless agitation. Then

martial sounds are heard--a secret gathering of a few, which soon

grows in number and in boldness. Now they draw nearer; you

distinguish the clatter of spurs and weapons, the clang of

trumpets (D flat major). Revenge and death are their watchwords,

and with sullen determination they stare desolation in the face

(the pedal F with the trebled part above). After an interesting

transition the first section returns. In the meno mosso (B major)

again a martial rhythm is heard; this time, however, the

gathering is not one for revenge and death, but for battle and

victory. From the far-off distance the winds carry the message

that tells of freedom and glory. But what is this (the four bars

before the tempo I.)? Alas! the awakening from a dream. Once more

we hear those sombre sounds, the shriek and explosion, and so on.

Of the two Polonaises, Op. 26, the second is the grander, and the

definiteness which distinguishes it from the vague first shows

itself also in the form.

A greater contrast than the two Polonaises, Op. 40 (published in

November, 1840), can hardly be imagined. In the first (in A

major) the mind of the composer is fixed on one elating thought--

he sees the gallantly-advancing chivalry of Poland, determination

in every look and gesture; he hears rising above the noise of

stamping horses and the clash of arms their bold challenge

scornfully hurled at the enemy. In the second (in C minor), on

the other hand, the mind of the composer turns from one

depressing or exasperating thought to another--he seems to review

the different aspects of his country's unhappy state, its sullen

discontent, fretful agitation, and uncertain hopes. The manly

Polonaise in A major, one of the simplest (not easiest)

compositions of Chopin, is the most popular of his polonaises.

The second polonaise, however, although not so often heard, is

the more interesting one, the emotional contents being more

varied, and engaging more our sympathy. Further, the pianoforte,

however fully and effectively employed, cannot do justice to the

martial music of the one, while its capacities are well suited

for the rendering of the less material effect of the other. In

conclusion, let me point out in the C minor Polonaise the chafing

agitation of the second part, the fitful play between light and

shade of the trio-like part in A flat major, and the added

wailing voice in the recurring first portion at the end of the

piece. [FOOTNOTE: In connection with the A major Polonaise, see

last paragraph on next page.]

If Schiller is right in saying "Ernst ist das Leben, heiter ist

die Kunst," then what we find in the Polonaise (in F sharp

minor), Op. 44 (published in November, 1841), cannot be art. We

look in vain for beauty of melody and harmony; dreary unisons,

querulous melodic phrases, hollow-eyed chords, hard progressions

and modulations throughout every part of the polonaise proper. We

receive a pathological rather than aesthetical impression.

Nevertheless, no one can deny the grandeur and originality that

shine through this gloom. The intervening Doppio movimento, tempo

di Mazurka, sends forth soft beneficent rays--reminiscences of

long ago, vague and vanishing, sweet and melancholy. But there is

an end to this as to all such dreams. Those harassing,

exasperating gloomy thoughts (Tempo di Polacca) return. The sharp

corners which we round so pleasantly and beautifully in our

reconstructions of the past make themselves only too soon felt in

the things of the present, and cruelly waken us to reality and

its miseries.

The Polonaise, Op. 53 (in A flat major; published in December,

1843), is one of the most stirring compositions of Chopin,

manifesting an overmastering power and consuming fire. But is it

really the same Chopin, is it the composer of the dreamy

nocturnes, the elegant waltzes, who here fumes and frets,

struggling with a fierce, suffocating rage (mark the rushing

succession of chords of the sixth, the growling semiquaver

figures, and the crashing dissonances of the sixteen introductory

bars), and then shouts forth, sure of victory, his bold and

scornful challenge? And farther on, in the part of the polonaise

where the ostinato semiquaver figure in octaves for the left hand

begins, do we not hear the trampling of horses, the clatter of

arms and spurs, and the sound of trumpets? Do we not hear--yea,

and see too--a high-spirited chivalry approaching and passing?

Only pianoforte giants can do justice to this martial tone-

picture, the physical strength of the composer certainly did not

suffice.

The story goes that when Chopin played one of his polonaises in

the night-time, just after finishing its composition, he saw the

door open, and a long train of Polish knights and ladies, dressed

in antique costumes, enter through it and defile past him. This

vision filled the composer with such terror that he fled through

the opposite door, and dared not return to the room the whole

night. Karasowski says that the polonaise in question is the last-

mentioned one, in A flat major; but from M. Kwiatkowski, who

depicted the scene three times, [FOOTNOTE: "Le Reve de Chopin," a

water-colour, and two sketches in oils representing, according to

Chopin's indication (d'apres l'avis de Chopin), the polonaise.]

learned that it is the one in A major, No. 1 of Op. 40, dedicated

to Fontana.

I know of no more affecting composition among all the productions

of Chopin than the "Polonaise-Fantaisie" (in A flat major), Op.

61 (published in September, 1846). What an unspeakable,

unfathomable wretchedness reveals itself in these sounds! We gaze

on a boundless desolation. These lamentations and cries of

despair rend our heart, these strange, troubled wanderings from

thought to thought fill us with intensest pity. There are

thoughts of sweet resignation, but the absence of hope makes them

perhaps the saddest of all. The martial strains, the bold

challenges, the shouts of triumph, which we heard so often in the

composer's polonaises, are silenced.

An elegiac sadness [says Liszt] predominates, intersected by

wild movements, melancholy smiles, unexpected starts, and

intervals of rest full of dread such as those experience who

have been surprised by an ambuscade, who are surrounded on all

sides, for whom there dawns no hope upon the vast horizon, and

to whose brain despair has gone like a deep draught of Cyprian

wine, which gives a more instinctive rapidity to every

gesture, a sharper point to every emotion, causing the mind to

arrive at a pitch of irritability bordering on madness.

Thus, although comprising thoughts that in beauty and grandeur

equal--I would almost say surpass-anything Chopin has written,

the work stands, on account of its pathological contents, outside

the sphere of art.

Chopin's waltzes, the most popular of his compositions, are not

poesie intime like the greater number of his works. [FOOTNOTE:

Op. 34, No. 2, and Op. 64, No. 2, however, have to be excepted,

to some extent at least.] In them the composer mixes with the

world-looks without him rather than within--and as a man of the

world conceals his sorrows and discontents under smiles and

graceful manners. The bright brilliancy and light pleasantness of

the earlier years of his artistic career, which are almost

entirely lost in the later years, rise to the surface in the

waltzes. These waltzes are salon music of the most aristocratic

kind. Schumann makes Florestan say of one of them, and he might

have said it of all, that he would not play it unless one half of

the female dancers were countesses. But the aristocraticalness of

Chopin's waltzes is real, not conventional; their exquisite

gracefulness and distinction are natural, not affected. They are,

indeed, dance-poems whose content is the poetry of waltz-rhythm

and movement, and the feelings these indicate and call forth. In

one of his most extravagantly-romantic critical productions

Schumann speaks, in connection with Chopin's Op. 18, "Grande

Valse brillante," the first-published (in June, 1834) of his

waltzes, of "Chopin's body and mind elevating waltz," and its

"enveloping the dancer deeper and deeper in its floods." This

language is altogether out of proportion with the thing spoken

of; for Op. 18 differs from the master's best waltzes in being,

not a dance-poem, but simply a dance, although it must be

admitted that it is an exceedingly spirited one, both as regards

piquancy and dash. When, however, we come to Op. 34, "Trois

Valses brillantes" (published in December, 1838), Op. 42, "Valse"

(published in July, 1840), and Op. 64, "Trois Valses" (published

in September, 1847), the only other waltzes published by him, we

find ourselves face to face with true dance-poems. Let us tarry

for a moment over Op. 34. How brisk the introductory bars of the

first (in A flat major) of these three waltzes! And what a

striking manifestation of the spirit of that dance all that

follows! We feel the wheeling motions; and where, at the

seventeenth bar of the second part, the quaver figure enters, we

think we see the flowing dresses sweeping round. Again what

vigour in the third part, and how coaxingly tender the fourth!

And, lastly, the brilliant conclusion--the quavers intertwined

with triplets! The second waltz (in A minor; Lento) is of quite

another, of a more retired and private, nature, an exception to

the rule. The composer evidently found pleasure in giving way to

this delicious languor, in indulging in these melancholy thoughts

full of sweetest, tenderest loving and longing. But here words

will not avail. One day when Stephen Heller--my informant--was at

Schlesinger's music-shop in Paris, Chopin entered. The latter,

hearing Heller ask for one of his waltzes, inquired of him which

of them he liked best. "It is difficult to say which I like

best," replied Heller, "for I like them all; but if I were

pressed for an answer I would probably say the one in A minor."

This gave Chopin much pleasure. "I am glad you do," he said; "it

is also my favourite." And in an exuberance of amiability he

invited Heller to lunch with him, an invitation which was

accepted, the two artists taking the meal together at the Cafe

Riche. The third waltz (in F major; Vivace) shows a character

very different from the preceding one. What a stretching of

muscles! What a whirling! Mark the giddy motions of the melody

beginning at bar seventeen! Of this waltz of Chopin's and the

first it is more especially true what Schumann said of all three:

"Such flooding life moves within these waltzes that they seem to

have been improvised in the ball-room." And the words which the

same critic applies to Op. 34 may be applied to all the waltzes

Chopin published himself--"They must please; they are of another

stamp than the usual waltzes, and in the style in which they can

only be conceived by Chopin when he looks in a grandly-artistic

way into the dancing crowd, which he elevates by his playing,

thinking of other things than of what is being danced." In the A

flat major waltz which bears the opus number 42, the duple rhythm

of the melody along with the triple one of the accompaniment

seems to me indicative of the loving nestling and tender

embracing of the dancing couples. Then, after the smooth

gyrations of the first period, come those sweeping motions, free

and graceful like those of birds, that intervene again and again

between the different portions of the waltz. The D flat major

part bubbles over with joyousness. In the sostenuto, on the other

hand, the composer becomes sentimental, protests, and heaves

sighs. But at the very height of his rising ardour he suddenly

plunges back into that wild, self-surrendering, heaven and earth-

forgetting joyousness--a stroke of genius as delightful as it is

clever. If we do not understand by the name of scherzo a fixed

form, but rather a state of mind, we may say that Chopin's

waltzes are his scherzos and not the pieces to which he has given

that name. None of Chopin's waltzes is more popular than the

first of Op. 64 (in D flat major). And no wonder! The life, flow,

and oneness are unique; the charm of the multiform motions is

indescribable. That it has been and why it has been called valse

au petit chien need here only be recalled to the reader's

recollection (see Chapter XXVI., p. 142). No. 2 (in C sharp

minor); different as it is, is in its own way nearly as perfect

as No. 1. Tender, love-sick longing cannot be depicted more

truthfully, sweetly, and entrancingly. The excellent No. 3 (in A

flat major), with the exquisite serpentining melodic lines, which

play so important a part in Chopin's waltzes, and other beautiful

details, is in a somewhat trying position beside the other two

waltzes. The non-publication by the composer of the waltzes which

have got into print, thanks to the zeal of his admirers and the

avidity of publishers, proves to me that he was a good judge of

his own works. Fontana included in his collection of posthumous

compositions five waltzes--"Deux Valses," Op. 69 (in F minor, of

1836; in B minor, of 1829);. and "Trois Valses," Op. 70 (in G

flat major, of 1835; in F minor, of 1843; in D flat major, of

1830). There are further a waltz in E minor and one in E major

(of 1829). [FOOTNOTE: The "Deux Valses melancoliques" (in F minor

and B minor), ecrits sur l'album de Madame la Comtesse P., 1844

(Cracow: J. Wildt), the English edition of which (London: Edwin

Ashdown) is entitled "Une soiree en 1844," "Deux Valses

melancoliques," are Op. 70. No. 2, and Op. 69, No. 2, of the

works of Chopin posthumously published by Fontana.] Some of these

waltzes I discussed already when speaking of the master's early

compositions, to which they belong. The last-mentioned waltz,

which the reader will find in Mikuli's edition (No. 15 of the

waltzes), and also in Breitkopf and Hartel's (No. 22 of the

Posthumous works), is a very weak composition; and of all the

waltzes not published by the composer himself it may be said that

what is good in them has been expressed better in others.

We have of Chopin 27 studies: Op. 10, "Douze Etudes," published

in July, 1833; Op. 25, "Douze Etudes," published in October,

1837; and "Trois nouvelles Etudes," which, before being

separately published, appeared in 1840 in the "Methode des

Methodes pour le piano" by F. J. Fetis and I. Moscheles. The

dates of their publication, as in the case of many other works,

do not indicate the approximate dates of their composition.

Sowinski tells us, for instance, that Chopin brought the first

book of his studies with him to Paris in 1831. A Polish musician

who visited the French capital in 1834 heard Chopin play the

studies contained in Op. 25. And about the last-mentioned opus we

read in a critical notice by Schumann, who had, no doubt, his

information directly from Chopin: "The studies which have now

appeared [that is, those of Op. 25] were almost all composed at

the same time as the others [that is, those of Op. 10] and only

some of them, the greater masterliness of which is noticeable,

such as the first, in A flat major, and the splendid one in C

minor [that is, the twelfth] but lately." Regarding the Trois

nouvelles Etudes without OPUS number we have no similar

testimony. But internal evidence seems to show that these weakest

of the master's studies--which, however, are by no means

uninteresting, and certainly very characteristic--may be regarded

more than Op. 25 as the outcome of a gleaning. In two of Chopin's

letters of the year 1829, we meet with announcements of his

having composed studies. On the 2Oth of October he writes: "I

have composed a study in my own manner"; and on the 14th of

November: "I have written some studies." From Karasowski learn

that the master composed the twelfth study of Op. 10 during his

stay in Stuttgart, being inspired by the capture of Warsaw by the

Russians, which took place on September 8, 1831. Whether looked

at from the aesthetical or technical point of view, Chopin's

studies will be seen to be second to those of no composer. Were

it not wrong to speak of anything as absolutely best, their

excellences would induce one to call them unequalled. A striking

feature in them compared with Chopin's other works is their

healthy freshness and vigour. Even the slow, dreamy, and elegiac

ones have none of the faintness and sickliness to be found in not

a few of the composer's pieces, especially in several of the

nocturnes. The diversity of character exhibited by these studies

is very great. In some of them the aesthetical, in others the

technical purpose predominates; in a few the two are evenly

balanced: in none is either of them absent. They give a summary

of Chopin's ways and means, of his pianoforte language: chords in

extended positions, wide-spread arpeggios, chromatic progressions

(simple, in thirds, and in octaves), simultaneous combinations of

contrasting rhythms, &c--nothing is wanting. In playing them or

hearing them played Chopin's words cannot fail to recur to one's

mind: "I have composed a study in my own manner." Indeed, the

composer's demands on the technique of the executant were so

novel at the time when the studies made their first public

appearance that one does not wonder at poor blind Rellstab being

staggered, and venting his feelings in the following uncouthly-

jocular manner: "Those who have distorted fingers may put them

right by practising these studies; but those who have not, should

not play them, at least not without having a surgeon at hand." In

Op. 10 there are three studies especially noteworthy for their

musical beauty. The third (Lento ma non troppo, in E major) and

the sixth (Andante, in E flat minor) may be reckoned among

Chopin's loveliest compositions. They combine classical

chasteness of contour with the fragrance of romanticism. And the

twelfth study (Allegro con fuoco, in C minor), the one composed

at Stuttgart after the fall of Warsaw, how superbly grand! The

composer seems to be fuming with rage: the left hand rushes

impetuously along and the right hand strikes in with passionate

ejaculations. With regard to the above-named Lento ma non troppo

(Op. 10, No. 3), Chopin said to Gutmann that he had never in his

life written another such beautiful melody (CHANT); and on one

occasion when Gutmann was studying it the master lifted up his

arms with his hands clasped and exclaimed: "O, my fatherland!"

("O, me patrie!") I share with Schumann the opinion that the

total weight of Op. 10 amounts to more than that of Op. 25. Like

him I regard also Nos. 1 and 12 as the most important items of

the latter collection of studies: No. 1 (Allegro sostenuto, in A

flat major)--a tremulous mist below, a beautiful breezy melody

floating above, and once or twice a more opaque body becoming

discernible within the vaporous element--of which Schumann says

that "after listening to the study one feels as one does after a

blissful vision, seen in a dream, which, already half-awake, one

would fain bring back": [FOOTNOTE: See the whole quotation, Vol.

I., p. 310.] and No. 12 (in C minor, Allegro molto con fuoco), in

which the emotions rise not less than the waves of arpeggios (in

both hands) which symbolise them. Stephen Heller's likings differ

from Schumann's. Discussing Chopin's Op. 25 in the Gazette

musicale of February 24, 1839, he says:--

What more do we require to pass one or several evenings in as

perfect a happiness as possible? As for me, I seek in this

collection of poesy (this is the only name appropriate to the

works of Chopin) some favourite pieces which I might fix in my

memory rather than others. Who could retain everything? For

this reason I have in my note book quite particularly marked

the numbers 4, 5, and 7 of the present poems. Of these twelve

much-loved studies (every one of which has a charm of its own)

these three numbers are those I prefer to all the rest.

In connection with the fourth, Heller points out that it reminds

him of the first bar of the Kyrie (rather the Requiem aeternam)

of Mozart's Requiem. And of the seventh study he remarks:--

It engenders the sweetest sadness, the most enviable torments;

and if in playing it one feels one's self insensibly drawn

towards mournful and melancholy ideas, it is a disposition of

the soul which I prefer to all others. Alas! how I love these

sombre and mysterious dreams, and Chopin is the god who

creates them.

This No. 7 (in C sharp minor, lento), a duet between a HE and a

SHE, of whom the former shows himself more talkative and emphatic

than the latter, is, indeed, very sweet, but perhaps, also

somewhat tiresomely monotonous, as such tete-a-tete naturally are

to third parties. As a contrast to No. 7, and in conclusion--

leaving several aerial flights and other charming conceptions

undiscussed--I will yet mention the octave study, No. 10, which

is a real pandemonium; for a while holier sounds intervene, but

finally hell prevails.

The genesis of the Vingt-quatre Preludes, Op. 28, published in

September, 1839, I have tried to elucidate in the twenty-first

chapter. I need, therefore, not discuss the question here. The

indefinite character and form of the prelude, no doubt,

determined the choice of the title which, however, does not

describe the contents of this OPUS. Indeed, no ONE name could do

so. This heterogeneous collection of pieces reminds me of nothing

so much as of an artist's portfolio filled with drawings in all

stages of advancement--finished and unfinished, complete and

incomplete compositions, sketches and mere memoranda, all mixed

indiscriminately together. The finished works were either too

small or too slight to be sent into the world separately, and the

right mood for developing, completing, and giving the last touch

to the rest was gone, and could not be found again. Schumann,

after expressing his admiration for these preludes, as well he

might, adds: "This book contains morbid, feverish, and repellent

matter." I do not think that there is much that could justly be

called repellent; but the morbidity and feverishness of a

considerable portion must be admitted.

I described the preludes [writes Schumann] as remarkable. To

confess the truth, I expected they would be executed like the

studies, in the grandest style. Almost the reverse is the

case; they are sketches, commencements of studies, or, if you

will, ruins, single eagle-wings, all strangely mixed together.

But in his fine nonpareil there stands in every piece:--

"Frederick Chopin wrote it." One recognises him by the violent

breathing during the rests. He is, and remains, the proudest

poet-mind of the time.

The almost infinite and infinitely-varied beauties collected in

this treasure-trove denominated Vingt-quatre Preludes could only

be done justice to by a minute analysis, for which, however,

there is no room here. I must content myself with a word or two

about a few of them, picked out at random. No. 4 is a little poem

the exquisitely-sweet languid pensiveness of which defies

description. The composer seems to be absorbed in the narrow

sphere of his ego, from which the wide, noisy world is for the

time being shut out. In No. 6 we have, no doubt, the one of which

George Sand said that it occurred to Chopin one evening while

rain was falling, and that it "precipitates the soul into a

frightful depression."30 [FOOTNOTE: See George Sand's account and

description in Chapter XXI., p. 43.] How wonderfully the

contending rhythms of the accompaniment, and the fitful, jerky

course of the melody, depict in No. 8 a state of anxiety and

agitation! The premature conclusion of that bright vivacious

thing No. 11 fills one with regret. Of the beautifully-melodious

No. 13, the piu lento and the peculiar closing bars are

especially noteworthy. No. 14 invites a comparison with the

finale of the B flat minor Sonata. In the middle section (in C

sharp minor) of the following number (in D flat major), one of

the larger pieces, rises before one's mind the cloistered court

of the monastery of Valdemosa, and a procession of monks chanting

lugubrious prayers, and carrying in the dark hours of night their

departed brother to his last resting-place. It reminds one of the

words of George Sand, that the monastery was to Chopin full of

terrors and phantoms. This C sharp minor portion of No. 15

affects one like an oppressive dream; the re-entrance of the

opening D flat major, which dispels the dreadful nightmare, comes

upon one with the smiling freshness of dear, familiar nature--

only after these horrors of the imagination can its serene beauty

be fully appreciated. No. 17, another developed piece, strikes

one as akin to Mendelssohn's Songs without Words. I must not omit

to mention No. 21, one of the finest of the collection, with its

calming cantilena and palpitating quaver figure. Besides the set

of twenty-four preludes, Op. 28, Chopin published a single one,

Op. 45, which appeared in December, 1841. This composition

deserves its name better than almost anyone of the twenty-four;

still, I would rather call it an improvisata. It seems

unpremeditated, a heedless outpouring when sitting at the piano

in a lonely, dreary hour, perhaps in the twilight. The quaver

figure rises aspiringly, and the sustained parts swell out

proudly. The piquant cadenza forestalls in the progression of

diminished chords favourite effects of some of our more modern

composers. The modulation from C sharp minor to D major and back

again (after the cadenza) is very striking and equally beautiful.

It can hardly be said, although Liszt seemed to be of a different

opinion, that Chopin created a new type by his preludes--they are

too unlike each other in form and character. On the other hand,

he has done so by his four scherzos--Op. 20 (in B minor),

published in February, 1835; Op. 31 (B flat minor), published in

December, 1837; Op. 39 (C sharp minor), published in October,

1840; and Op. 54 (in E major), published in December, 1843. "How

is 'gravity' to clothe itself, if 'jest' goes about in dark

veils?" exclaims Schumann. No doubt, scherzo, if we consider the

original meaning of the word, is a misnomer. But are not

Beethoven's scherzos, too, misnamed? To a certain extent they

are. But if Beethoven's scherzos often lack frolicsomeness, they

are endowed with humour, whereas Chopin's have neither the one

nor the other. Were it not that we attach, especially since

Mendelssohn's time, the idea of lightness and light-heartedness

to the word capriccio, this would certainly be the more

descriptive name for the things Chopin entitled SCHERZO. But what

is the use of carping at a name? Let us rather look at the

things, and thus employ our time better. Did ever composer begin

like Chopin in his Premier Scherzo, Op. 20? Is this not like a

shriek of despair? and what follows, bewildered efforts of a soul

shut in by a wall of circumstances through which it strives in

vain to break? at last sinking down with fatigue, dreaming a

dream of idyllic beauty? but beginning the struggle again as soon

as its strength is recruited? Schumann compared the second

SCHERZO, Op. 31, to a poem of Byron's, "so tender, so bold, as

full of love as of scorn." Indeed, scorn--an element which does

not belong to what is generally understood by either

frolicsomeness or humour--plays an important part in Chopin's

scherzos. The very beginning of Op. 31 offers an example.

[FOOTNOTE: "It must be a question [the doubled triplet figure A,

B flat, d flat, in the first bar], taught Chopin, and for him it

was never question enough, never piano enough, never vaulted

(tombe) enough, as he said, never important enough. It must be a

charnel-house, he said on one occasion." (W. von Lenz, in Vol.

XXVI. of the Berliner Musikzeitung.)]

And then, we do not meet with a phrase of a more cheerful nature

which is not clouded by sadness. Weber--I mention his name

intentionally--would, for instance, in the D flat major portion

have concluded the melodic phrase in diatonic progression and

left the harmony pure. Now see what Chopin does. The con anima

has this mark of melancholy still more distinctly impressed upon

it. After the repetition of the capricious, impulsively-

passionate first section (in B flat minor and D flat major)

follows the delicious second, the expression of which is as

indescribable as that of Leonardo da Vinci's "La Gioconda." It is

a pondering and wondering full of longing. In the deep, tender

yearning, with the urging undercurrent of feeling, of the C sharp

minor portion, the vague dreaming of the preceding portion of the

section grows into wakefulness, and the fitful imagination is

concentrated on one object. Without continuing the emotional or

entering on a formal analysis of this scherzo, I venture to say

that it is a very important composition, richer and more varied

in emotional incidents than the other works of Chopin which bear

the same name. More than to any one of the master's scherzos, the

name capriccio would be suitable to his third "Scherzo," Op. 39,

with its capricious starts and changes, its rudderless drifting.

Peevishness, a fierce scornfulness, and a fretful agitation, may

be heard in these sounds, of jest and humour there is nothing

perceptible. At any rate, the curled lip, as it were, contradicts

the jesting words, and the careless exterior does not altogether

conceal the seething rage within. But with the meno mosso (D flat

major) come pleasanter thoughts. The hymn-like snatches of

sustained melody with the intervening airy interludes are very

lovely. These are the principal features, to describe all the

whims is of course impossible. You may call this work an

extravaganza, and point out its grotesqueness; but you must admit

that only by this erratic character of the form and these

spasmodic movements, could be expressed the peculiar restiveness,

fitfulness, and waywardness of thought and feeling that

characterise Chopin's individuality. To these unclassical

qualities--for classical art is above all plastic and self-

possessed--combined as they are with a high degree of refinement

and delicacy, his compositions owe much of their peculiar charm.

The absence of scorn distinguishes the fourth "Scherzo," Op. 54,

from the other three; but, like them, although less closely

wrapped, it wears dark veils. The tripping fairy steps which we

find in bars 17-20 and in other places are a new feature in

Chopin. As to the comparative value of the work, it seems to me

inferior to its brothers. The first section is too fragmentary to

give altogether satisfaction. One is hustled from one phrase to

another, and they are as unlike each other as can well be

imagined. The beauty of many of the details, however, must be

acknowledged; indeed, the harmonic finesses, the melodic cunning,

and rhythmical piquancy, are too potent to be ignored. The

resting-place and redeeming part of this scherzo is the sweetly-

melodious second section, with its long, smooth, gently and

beautifully-curved lines. Also the return to the repetition of

the first section is very interesting. This scherzo has the

appearance of being laboured, painfully hammered and welded

together. But as the poet is born, not made-which "being born" is

not brought about without travail, nor makes the less desirable a

careful bringing-up--so also does a work of art owe what is best

in it to a propitious concurrence of circumstances in the natal

hour.

The contents of Chopin's impromptus are of a more pleasing nature

than those of the scherzos. Like the latter they are wayward, but

theirs is a charming, lovable waywardness. The composer's three

first impromptus were published during his lifetime: Op. 29 in

December, 1837; Op. 36 in May, 1840; and Op. 51 in February,

1843. The fourth impromptu ("Fantaisie-Impromptu"), Op. 66, is a

posthumous publication. What name has been more misapplied than

that of impromptu? Again and again we meet with works thus

christened which bear upon them the distinct marks of painful

effort and anxious filing, which maybe said to smell of the mid-

night lamp, and to be dripping with the hard-working artificer's

sweat. How Chopin produced the "Impromptu," Op. 29 (in A flat

major), I do not know. Although an admired improviser, the

process of composition was to him neither easy nor quick. But be

this as it may, this impromptu has quite the air of a

spontaneous, unconstrained outpouring. The first section with its

triplets bubbles forth and sparkles like a fountain on which the

sunbeams that steal through the interstices of the overhanging

foliage are playing. The F minor section is sung out clearly and

heartily, with graces beautiful as nature's. The song over, our

attention is again attracted by the harmonious murmuring and the

changing lights of the water. The "Deuxieme Impromptu," Op. 36

(in F sharp major), is, like the first, a true impromptu, but

while the first is a fresh and lusty welling forth of joy amidst

the pleasures of a present reality, this is a dreamy lingering

over thoughts and scenes of the imagination that appear and

vanish like dissolving views. One would wish to have a programme

of this piece. Without such assistance the D major section of the

impromptu is insignificant. We want to see, or at least to know,

who the persons that walk in the procession which the music

accompanies are. Some bars in the second half of this section

remind one of Schumann's "Fantasia" in C. After this section a

curious transition leads in again the theme, which first appeared

in F sharp major, in F major, and with a triplet accompaniment.

When F sharp major is once more reached, the theme is still

further varied (melodically), till at last the wondrous, fairy-

like phrase from the first section brings the piece to a

conclusion. This impromptu is inferior to the first, having less

pith in it; but its tender sweetness and euphony cannot be

denied. The idle forgetfulness of the more serious duties and the

deep miseries of life in the enjoyment of a dolce far niente

recalls Schubert and the "Fantasia," Op. 78, and other works of

his. In the "Troisieme Impromptu" (in G flat major), Op. 51, the

rhythmical motion and the melodical form of the two parts that

serpentine their lines in opposite directions remind one of the

first impromptu (in A flat), but the characters of these pieces

are otherwise very unlike. The earlier work is distinguished by a

brisk freshness; the later one by a feverish restlessness and

faint plaintiveness. After the irresolute flutter of the relaxing

and enervating chromatic progressions and successions of thirds

and sixths, the greater steadiness of the middle section, more

especially the subdued strength and passionate eloquence at the D

flat major, has a good effect. But here, too, the languid,

lamenting chromatic passing and auxiliary notes are not wanting,

and the anxious, breathless accompaniment does not make things

more cheerful. In short, the piece is very fine in its way, but

the unrelieved, or at least very insufficiently relieved,

morbidezza is anything but healthy. We may take note of the plain

chord progressions which intervene in the first and last sections

of the impromptu; such progressions are of frequent occurrence in

Chopin's works. Is there not something pleonastic in the title

"Fantaisie-Impromptu?" Whether the reader may think so or not, he

will agree with me that the fourth impromptu (in C sharp minor),

Op. 66, is the most valuable of the compositions published by

Fontana; indeed, it has become one of the favourites of the

pianoforte-playing world. Spontaneity of emotional expression and

effective treatment of the pianoforte distinguish the Fantaisie-

Impromptu. In the first section we have the restless, surging,

gushing semiquavers, carrying along with them a passionate,

urging melody, and the simultaneous waving triplet accompaniment;

in the second section, where the motion of the accompaniment is

on the whole preserved, the sonorous, expressive cantilena in D

flat major; the third section repeats the first, which it

supplements with a coda containing a reminiscence of the

cantilena of the second section, which calms the agitation of the

semiquavers. According to Fontana, Chopin composed this piece

about 1834. Why did he keep it in his portfolio? I suspect he

missed in it, more especially in the middle section, that degree

of distinction and perfection of detail which alone satisfied his

fastidious taste.

Among Chopin's nocturnes some of his most popular works are to be

found. Nay, the most widely-prevailing idea of his character as a

man and musician seems to have been derived from them. But the

idea thus formed is an erroneous one; these dulcet, effeminate

compositions illustrate only one side of the master's character,

and by no means the best or most interesting. Notwithstanding

such precious pearls as the two Nocturnes, Op. 37, and a few

others, Chopin shows himself greater both as a man and a musician

in every other class of pieces he has originated and cultivated,

more especially in his polonaises, ballades, and studies. That,

however, there is much to be admired in the class now under

consideration will be seen from the following brief comments on

the eighteen nocturnes (leaving out of account the one of the

year 1828 published by Fontana as Op. 72, No. 1, and already

discussed in an earlier chapter) which Chopin gave to the world--

Op. 9, Trois Nocturnes, in January, 1833; Op. 15, Trois

Nocturnes, in January, 1834; Op. 27, Deux Nocturnes, in May,

1836; Op. 32, Deux Nocturnes, December, 1837; Op. 37, Deux

Nocturnes, in May, 1840; Op. 48, Deux Nocturnes, in November,

1841; Op. 55, Deux Nocturnes, in August, 1844; and Op. 62, Deux

Nocturnes, in September, 1846. Rellstab remarked in 1833 of the

Trois Nocturnes, Op. 9, that Chopin, without borrowing directly

from Field, copied the latter's melody and manner of

accompaniment. There is some truth in this; only the word "copy"

is not the correct one. The younger received from the elder

artist the first impulse to write in this form, and naturally

adopted also something of his manner. On the whole, the

similitude is rather generic than specific. Even the contents of

Op. 9 give Chopin a just claim to originality; and the Field

reminiscences which are noticeable in Nos. 1 and 2 (most

strikingly in the commencement of No. 2) of the first set of

nocturnes will be looked for in vain in the subsequent ones.

Where Field smiles [said the above-mentioned critic], Chopin

makes a grinning grimace; where Field sighs, Chopin groans;

where Field shrugs his shoulders, Chopin twists his whole

body; where Field puts some seasoning into the food, Chopin

empties a handful of Cayenne pepper...In short, if one holds

Field's charming romances before a distorting concave mirror,

so that every delicate expression becomes a coarse one, one

gets Chopin's work...We implore Mr. Chopin to return to

nature.

Now, what remains of this statement after subtracting prejudices

and narrow-mindedness? Nothing but that Chopin is more varied and

passionate than Field, and has developed to the utmost some of

the means of expression used by the latter. No. 1 (in B flat

minor) of Op. 9 is pervaded by a voluptuous dreaminess and

cloying sweetness: it suggests twilight, the stillness of night,

and thoughts engendered thereby. The tone of sentiment and the

phraseology of No. 2 (in E fiat major) have been made so common

by fashionable salon composers that one cannot help suspecting

that it is not quite a natural tone--not a tone of true feeling,

but of sentimentality. The vulgar do not imitate the true and

noble, but the false and ostentatious. In this piece one breathes

drawing-room air, and ostentation of sentiment and affectation of

speech are native to that place. What, however, the imitations

often lack is present in every tone and motion of the original:

eloquence, grace, and genuine refinement.

[FOOTNOTE: Gutmann played the return of the principal subject in

a way very different from that in which it is printed, with a

great deal of ornamentation, and said that Chopin played it

always in that way. Also the cadence at the end of the nocturne

(Op. 9, No. 2) had a different form. But the composer very

frequently altered the ornamentions of his pieces or excogitated

alternative readings.]

The third is, like the preceding nocturne, exquisite salon music.

Little is said, but that little very prettily. Although the

atmosphere is close, impregnated with musk and other perfumes,

there is here no affectation. The concluding cadenza, that

twirling line, reads plainly "Frederic Chopin." Op. 15 shows a

higher degree of independence and poetic power than Op. 9. The

third (in G minor) of these nocturnes is the finest of the three.

The words languido e rubato describe well the wavering

pensiveness of the first portion of the nocturne, which finds its

expression in the indecision of the melodic progressions,

harmonies, and modulations. The second section is marked

religiose, and may be characterised as a trustful prayer,

conducive to calm and comfort. The Nocturnes in F major and F

sharp major, Op. 15, are more passionate than the one we just now

considered, at least in the middle sections. The serene, tender

Andante in F major, always sweet, and here and there with touches

of delicate playfulness, is interrupted by thoughts of impetuous

defiance, which give way to sobs and sighs, start up again with

equal violence, and at last die away into the first sweet, tender

serenity. The contrast between the languid dreaming and the fiery

upstarting is striking and effective, and the practical musician,

as well as the student of aesthetics, will do well to examine by

what means these various effects are produced. In the second

nocturne, F sharp major, the brightness and warmth of the world

without have penetrated into the world within. The fioriture flit

about as lightly as gossamer threads. The sweetly-sad longing of

the first section becomes more disquieting in the doppio

movimento, but the beneficial influence of the sun never quite

loses its power, and after a little there is a relapse into the

calmer mood, with a close like a hazy distance on a summer day.

The second (in D flat major) of Op. 27 was, no doubt, conceived

in a more auspicious moment than the first (in C sharp minor), of

which the extravagantly wide-meshed netting of the accompaniment

is the most noteworthy feature. [FOOTNOTE: In most of the pieces

where, as in this one, the left-hand accompaniment consists of an

undulating figure, Chopin wished it to be played very soft and

subdued. This is what Gutmann said.] As to the one in D flat,

nothing can equal the finish and delicacy of execution, the flow

of gentle feeling, lightly rippled by melancholy, and spreading

out here and there in smooth expansiveness. But all this

sweetness enervates; there is poison in it. We should not drink

in these thirds, sixths, &c., without taking an antidote of Bach

or Beethoven. Both the nocturnes of Op. 32 are pretty specimens

of Chopin's style of writing in the tender, calm, and dreamy

moods. Of the two (in B major and A flat major) I prefer the

quiet, pellucid first one. It is very simple, ornaments being

very sparingly introduced. The quietness and simplicity are,

however, at last disturbed by an interrupted cadence, sombre

sounds as of a kettle-drum, and a passionate recitative with

intervening abrupt chords. The second nocturne has less

originality and pith. Deux Nocturnes (in G minor and G major),

Op. 37, are two of the finest, I am inclined to say, the two

finest, of this class of Chopin's pieces; but they are of

contrasting natures. The first and last sections of the one in G

minor are plaintive and longing, and have a wailing

accompaniment; the chord progressions of the middle section glide

along hymn-like. [FOOTNOTE: Gutmann played this section quicker

than the rest, and said that Chopin forgot to mark the change of

movement.] Were it possible to praise one part more emphatically

than another without committing an injustice, I would speak of

the melodic exquisiteness of the first motive. But already I see

other parts rise reproachfully before my repentant conscience. A

beautiful sensuousness distinguishes the nocturne in G major: it

is luscious, soft, rounded, and not without a certain degree of

languor. The successions of thirds and, sixths, the semitone

progressions, the rocking motion, the modulations (note

especially those of the first section and the transition from

that to the second), all tend to express the essential character.

The second section in C major reappears in E major, after a

repetition of part of the first section; a few bars of the latter

and a reminiscence of the former conclude the nocturne. But let

us not tarry too long in the treacherous atmosphere of this Capua-

-it bewitches and unmans. The two nocturnes (in C minor and F

sharp minor) which form Op. 48 are not of the number of those

that occupy foremost places among their companions. Still, they

need not be despised. The melody of the C minor portion of the

first is very expressive, and the second has in the C sharp minor

portion the peculiar Chopinesque flebile dolcezza. In playing

these nocturnes there occurred to me a remark of Schumann's, made

when he reviewed some nocturnes by Count Wielhorski. He said, on

that occasion, that the quicker middle movements which Chopin

frequently introduces into his nocturnes are often weaker than

his first conceptions, meaning the first portions of the

nocturnes. Now, although the middle parts in the present

instances are, on the contrary, slower movements, yet the

judgment holds good; at least, with respect to the first

nocturne, the middle part of which has nothing to recommend it

but the effective use of a full and sonorous instrumentation, if

I may use this word in speaking of one instrument. The middle

part of the second (f, D flat, Molto piu lento), however, is much

finer; in it we meet again, as we did in some other nocturnes,

with soothing, simple chord progressions. When Gutmann studied

the C sharp minor nocturne with Chopin, the master told him that

the middle section (the Molto piu lento, in D flat major) should

be played as a recitative: "A tyrant commands" (the first two

chords), he said, "and the other asks for mercy." Regarding the

first nocturne (in F minor) of Op. 55, we will note only the

flebile dolcezza of the first and the last section, and the

inferiority of the more impassioned middle section. The second

nocturne (in E flat major) differs in form from the other

nocturnes in this, that it has no contrasting second section, the

melody flowing onward from begining to end in a uniform manner.

The monotony of the unrelieved sentimentality does not fail to

make itself felt. One is seized by an ever-increasing longing to

get out of this oppressive atmosphere, to feel the fresh breezes

and warm sunshine, to see smiling faces and the many-coloured

dress of Nature, to hear the rustling of leaves, the murmuring of

streams, and voices which have not yet lost the clear, sonorous

ring that joy in the present and hope in the future impart. The

two nocturnes, Op. 62, seem to owe their existence rather to the

sweet habit of activity than to inspiration. At any rate, the

tender flutings, trills, roulades, syncopations, &c., of the

first nocturne (in B major), and the sentimental declarations and

confused, monotonous agitation of the second (in E major), do not

interest me sufficiently to induce me to discuss their merits and

demerits.