certainty are the two Mazurkas in G and B flat, which appear among the
posthumous work in Breitkopf and Härtel's Edition. Indeed, it is pretty
certain that Chopin was still attempting to do too many things at once.
By the beginning of 1826 he had shown unmistakable signs of overwork,
and in the next holidays he was ordered off to try the whey cure at Bad
Reinerz in Prussian Silesia. His experiences of the place are recorded
in a letter to his school-fellow Wilhelm Kolberg, and consist mainly of
approval of the scenery, criticisms of the visitors, and caricatures of
the local band. The only incident, was a concert which he organised for
the benefit of two orphans, the death of whose mother had left them
without money enough to return home. For the rest he drank his whey,
took sedate walks with his mother and sisters, and even succeeded in
persuading himself that he was growing 'stout and lazy.'
The journey home was broken by two or three visits, of which the most
important was a short stay at Antonin, the country residence of Prince
Radziwill. The Prince was an enthusiastic patron of music, an able and
meritorious composer, a good singer and violoncellist, and a pleasant
cultivated man, who seemed to have been cast by Fate for the part of
Mæcenas. Apparently he had met Chopin in Warsaw, and shared the interest
which all Polish society felt in its new genius. Liszt asserts that he
paid for the boy's education, but the statement, which is intrinsically
improbable, is categorically denied by Fontana, while the still wilder
report that he defrayed the expenses of Chopin's Italian tour, is best
answered by the fact that Chopin never set foot inside Italy in his
life. However, the tie of hospitality is not likely to have been
weakened by the absence of a monetary basis, and the friendship between
host and guest was quite as cordial as though they had been debtor and
creditor.
Once back in Warsaw, Chopin set himself to prepare for his final
examination at the Lyceum, which he passed with something less than his
usual distinction, in 1827. The cause of this comparative failure is not
hard to divine, for although the compositions of the winter are few and
unimportant, there can be no doubt that Chopin was devoting himself
more and more to music, and allowing other interests to sink into the
background. And there was another reason. On April 10, his sister Emily,
the closest and dearest of all his companions, died of pulmonary
disease. She had accompanied her brother to Reinerz, in the hope of
checking a malady which medical skill is almost powerless to cure, she
had returned with some alleviation of suffering and some hopes of
reprieve--and then came the end. We may readily imagine the effect which
her death must have produced on the sensitive, affectionate boy from
whom, through all her short life, she had been inseparable. It was his
first great sorrow, and he was never of a nature to take his sorrows
lightly.
As soon as his work set him free, he tried to find solace in some short,
fitful periods of travel, and paid a visit to his godmother's house in
Posen, and a second to the brother of his old head-master, who was
occupying some official post at Danzic. All the winter was spent at
home, sketching, revising, polishing, and preparing his compositions for
the publisher. By the autumn of the next year he had completed two or
three Polonaises,[17] a Nocturne, a Piano Sonata, a brilliant Rondo for
two pianos, the first movement of the G minor Trio, and, more important
than all, the variations on _La ci darem_, which were published in 1830
as Op. 2. It was this last-named work which evoked Schumann's first
critical essay, and introduced the world at large to Florestan and
Eusebius. Sixty years have passed since the essay was printed, and we
are in no mind to question its decision. 'Hats off, gentlemen, a
genius,' is the only judgment which sums up that wonderful combination
of grace and audacity, of delicacy and vigour, of technical display and
poetic invention.
The course of the year's work was interrupted by a notable episode. One
day at the beginning of September, Dr Jarocki, the zoology professor,
came up to call; announced that he had been invited to attend a
scientific congress at Berlin, and offered to take Chopin with him as
travelling companion. The proposal was readily accepted. Nicholas
Chopin, who had by this time entirely acquiesced in his son's choice of
a career, was beginning to doubt whether a sufficiently wide field of
action and opportunity could be obtained at Warsaw: and, in any case, it
was advisable that the young man should see something of the world
before he settled down to the duties of his profession. Frederick, too,
was overjoyed at the prospect. He cared little for congresses and
nothing at all for science, he refused his ticket of admission to the
meetings, on the ground that he did not want to pose as 'Saul among the
prophets,' but the chances of increasing his musical experience were far
too precious to be lost. By the middle of the month he was established
at the Hotel Kronprinz, hearing _Fernando Cortez_ at the Opera,
revelling in Handel's _St Cæcilia_ at the Singakademie, spending his
days in the music library at Schlesinger's, and only idle when some
enthusiastic scientist carried him off to spend a reluctant hour in the
Zoological Museum.
Three of his letters, preserved by M. Karasowski, give us an amusing
picture of his impressions. We can see him, shrinking with suppressed
impatience, while the interminable dinner goes on, and Professor Lehmann
rests an academic hand on his plate in order to converse across him with
Professor Jarocki: we can see him at the Singakademie looking with
awe-stricken eyes at Mendelssohn and Spontini, or burning with shame to
discover that he has mistaken Alexander von Humboldt for a footman: we
can see him making stealthy caricatures and carefully adding the names
of the originals, 'in case they should prove to be celebrities.'
Everything is noted with a good-natured criticism, the humours of the
journey, the cleanliness and order of the streets, the bad taste of the
ladies' dresses, and the great final banquet, at which all the sciences
sat round the table singing convivial songs, while counterpoint, in the
person of Zelter, stood behind a golden goblet and beat time.
It is unlikely that Chopin completed any musical work at Berlin. The
first we hear of his Fantasia on Polish airs is that he played it at a
little post town on the way home, while the diligence was changing
horses, but it is more probable that he composed it earlier in the year
than that he found time for it amid all the rush of new interests and
new distractions. The real value of his visit was that it supplied the
need, which every composer feels, of an occasional period of pure
receptiveness. Not that the music heard presents itself in any way as a
model for imitation: a man may be stimulated to write a string quartett
by a course of opera, or be moved to song by a series of symphonies: but
the very fact of production involves a certain wear and tear which is
often most easily repaired from outside. And so it is not surprising
that, when Chopin returned home, after stopping a couple of days at
Posen, and paying his respects to Prince Radziwill, he at once finished
his Pianoforte Trio and wrote the Krakowiak, which is the most carefully
scored of all his orchestral compositions. His parents gave him a little
back room, furnished with a piano and an old writing-desk, and there he
sat and elaborated his phrases, complaining piteously when his solitude
was invaded by inopportune visitors or unwelcome invitations. Society is
the most delightful of patrons, until a man realises that he has his
work to do. After that it tends to become something of a tyrant.
In the early part of 1829 Warsaw was visited successively by Hummel and
Paganini. For the latter Chopin felt little more than the common
admiration, the former he had long regarded as a special tutelary
genius, whose exquisite precision of style was at once his ambition and
his despair. He was far too modest to recognise the limitations of his
hero, and the deeper and truer note which his own temperament was
capable of sounding: as yet, if we except the great variations of the
preceding year, he had attempted little more than the mastery of exact
expression, and in this he regarded Hummel as the best of types with the
same loyalty with which he had accepted Elsner as the best of teachers.
We have no record of the interview between the two artists. We only know
that they met, that they made a good impression on each other, and that
their subsequent intercourse bears witness to much cordiality on the
elder side, and to an unquestioning and unbroken hero-worship on the
younger.
It is possible that this glimpse of the ideal served to bring into
sharper relief the narrowness of the Warsaw horizon. In any case, as the
summer approached, Chopin grew restless and began to pine for a larger
atmosphere and more congenial surroundings. Naturally, his first thought
was of Vienna. He had already sent three or four of his manuscripts to
try their fortune with Haslinger: and as no answer had come, he found a
reasonable excuse for going to attack the publisher in person. He
therefore started from home about the middle of July, spent a few
days in Cracow, and a few more in Polish Switzerland and Galicia,
and finally arrived at his destination on the 31st. Haslinger
received him courteously enough, promised to print the _La ci darem_
Variations, and strongly urged him to give a concert in order to
familiarise the Viennese public with his manner of composition. It is
characteristic that this obvious suggestion appeared to Chopin to be
wholly impracticable. That he should venture to play in a city which
had heard Mozart and Beethoven; that he, a mere provincial, should
expect an audience in the metropolis of the musical world; the bare
idea seemed an act of presumption beside which the challenge of
Marsyas faded into insignificance: and it was only after continued
pressure and reiterated encouragement that he finally nerved himself
to the attempt. Acquiescence once extorted the arrangements went
on smoothly; Würfel got out the bills, Count Gallenberg lent the
Kärnthnerthor Theatre, and on August 11--a memorable date in musical
history--Chopin made his _début_ before a foreign public.
Of course there was the usual disaster at rehearsal. Like all young
composers, Chopin insisted on copying his own band parts, and the result
was that the Krakowiak had to be cut out of the programme, and the
concert marred by an apology. However, the evening made amends. The
audience was not numerous, but it was cordial and appreciative;
applauded the variations so lustily, that the _tuttis_ were inaudible,
and finally 'began a regular dance in the back benches,' when Chopin
replaced his rondo with an improvisation. The only adverse criticism,
from stalls to gallery, was an expression of disappointment, on the part
of some unknown lady, that 'the lad had so little presence.' No doubt,
like the wife of Charles Lamb's friend, she 'had expected to see a tall,
fine, officer-looking man,' who would look well in uniform.
Fortified by his success, Chopin gave a second concert on August 18, at
which the Krakowiak was produced, and the variations were repeated. This
time the audience was larger, and the reception still more encouraging.
Several of the musical notabilities of Vienna came to offer their
applause--Gyrowetz, with the queer, wrinkled face and the kindly eyes,
that belied the querulous mouth; Lachner, young, ardent and restless;
Schuppanzigh, still chuckling at Beethoven's jests on his corpulence;
Czerny, all high forehead, big spectacles and bland expression.
Everybody was warm and friendly, full of congratulations on the triumph
which, as the manager was careful to explain, 'could not be due to the
ballet, because that had been given before,' and Chopin soon found
himself arguing with a press of people who wanted him to fix the date
for his third appearance. But on this point he was obdurate. He had
only given his second concert lest the Warsaw public should think that
he was dissatisfied with the first. The Viennese had been very kind, but
he was quite sure that they had seen enough of him for one visit. He was
full of gratitude, he had enjoyed himself immensely, but the fact was
that he had made up his mind to start for Prague the next day, and he
could not alter his arrangements. And so, in spite of all entreaties, he
left Vienna on the evening of August 19, without even waiting for the
newspaper reports of his two recitals.
It is interesting to compare his letters with the various notices and
critiques that appeared after his departure. 'I was not hissed,'
he writes on August 12, 'so don't be anxious about my artistic
reputation.... My friends swear that they heard nothing but praise, and
that, until the spontaneous outburst of applause, not one of them
clapped or uttered a bravo.... I am curious to hear what Herr Elsner
will say to all this. Perhaps he disapproves of my playing at all. But I
was so besieged on all sides that I had no escape, and I don't seem to
have committed a blunder by my performance.' And again, on August 19,
'My reception yesterday was still more hearty. I know I have pleased the
ladies and the musicians. Only the thorough Germans seem to have been
dissatisfied.... When I told the manager that I hoped to come back to
Vienna for the purpose of improving myself, he answered that for such a
reason I should never need to come, since I had nothing more to learn.
Of course these are mere compliments; still, one does not listen to them
unwillingly. At any rate, for the future, I shall not be regarded as a
student. Blahetka tells me that he wonders at my learning it all in
Warsaw. I answered that from Zywny and Elsner even the greatest donkey
must gain something.' In all this there is a tone of simple, unconscious
modesty which is very pleasant to notice. There are not many men in
Chopin's position who would have taken their first triumph so easily,
and still fewer who would have been at the pains to disclaim the
assistance of a _claque_.
On the other hand, the newspapers speak with a much firmer tone. The
_Wiener Theaterzeitung_ noted a touch of genius in the compositions,
and gave special praise to the clearness and delicacy of their
interpretation. 'He plays very quietly,' it said, 'with little emphasis,
and with none of that rhetorical _aplomb_ which is considered by
virtuosos as indispensable.... He was recognised as an artist of whom
the best may be expected as soon as he has heard more.... He knows how
to please, although, in his case, the desire to make good music
predominates noticeably over the desire to give pleasure.' Such
commendation from the acknowledged leader of Viennese criticism at once
set the tone to the minor journals; and the whole city swelled its
voice into a full chorus of approval. Even the distant _Allgemeine
Musikalische Zeitung_ caught an echo of the enthusiasm, and hailed
Chopin as a 'brilliant meteor,' who had 'appeared on the horizon without
any previous blast of trumpets.'
From Vienna he went on to Prague, where he met Pixis, Klengel and some
other celebrities; and from Prague to Teplitz, where he spent an evening
at Prince Clary's, and electrified the company by his improvisations.
The westernmost point of his travel was Dresden. As a devoted admirer of
_Der Freischütz_, he naturally felt an interest in the city where Weber
had been kapellmeister, and he bore with him letters of introduction
which would ensure his admission into the centre of its artistic
society. It is probably in consequence of his admiration for Weber that
he writes rather cavalierly about his interview with Morlacchi. Musical
enmities have a way of lasting, and Chopin was always more vehement in
the quarrels of his heroes than he was in his own. For the rest, he paid
his tribute of homage to the Gallery, stayed to see a performance of
_Faust_ at the theatre, and then hurried homeward to supplement his
letter with the thousand details that are always lost between pen and
paper. Indeed, there was plenty to relate. He had left Warsaw with a
reputation little wider than the limits of his native province: now,
after two eventful months, he was returning to match the wreath of
welcome with the laurels of a victorious campaign.
A few short weeks and the conqueror is in the dust. Nothing in all
Chopin's life is more striking than the sudden and entire change which
followed as a reaction from the excitements of the summer. His letters
grew morbid, anxious, irritable; the clear-cut sentences wander off into
vagueness and incoherence; the rapid judgment becomes hesitating and
irresolute. Through all this dark time there runs the golden thread of
an ideal friendship; but it is knotted and entwined with a love-story
that can only seem to us singularly unreal and purposeless. Many of its
details are absolutely unknown, but there is little need that we should
know them. We are only concerned with its effect on Chopin's character;
with the presage through which it may lead us to a better and fuller
comprehension of his subsequent life. And herein the story, imperfect
though it be, may serve us as a true guide. The two tragic episodes of
Chopin's career, for all their unlikeness, have their explanation in a
single point of temperament: the weakness which, in later years, lost
the comradeship of George Sand, was but another form of that nervous
sensibility which now called up, for its torment, the shadowy and
fugitive vision of Constance Gladkowska.
Even at the outset there is no tone of hopefulness. 'I have, perhaps to
my misfortune, already found my ideal,' he writes to his friend
Woyciechowski; and a little later, 'It is bitter to have no one with
whom one can share joy or sorrow, to feel one's heart oppressed, and to
be unable to express one's complaints to any human soul.' All this
time--it is a grotesque touch which somehow adds to the pathos--he had
never spoken to her, and had only seen her occasionally as she was
taking her lessons at the Conservatorium. At least six months had
elapsed before he made her acquaintance, and even then we have no record
of intimacy, no interchange of letters, no word of lover's vows; nothing
but idle conjecture and a few wild confessions of doubt and despair.
Warsaw had become intolerable to him. Come what may, he will not spend
another winter at home. He will go to Berlin, to Vienna, to Paris, to
Italy; anywhere to escape. And then comes a revulsion, and he fancies
himself dying in a foreign land, with the unconcerned physician and the
paid servants waiting beside his deathbed. Plans are made only to be
reversed; projects are formed only to be abandoned; and every change is
made the occasion for some fresh complaint, or some new exhibition of a
self-inflicted wound.
This is not the manner of true passion. It is not love which degrades a
chivalrous nature, which torments generosity with suspicion, and turns
activity into a feverish impatience. Grant that the noblest character
has its ignoble aspect; its concealed depths which an unforeseen storm
may sometimes lash to the surface; yet we cannot look upon a current
which is wholly turbid, and characterise it by the highest name in all
man's vocabulary. Grant that every lover has his moments of unreason,
fits of groundless ill-temper, of disproportionate remorse, of jealousy
that is roused by a look and quieted by a word, yet we are here bidden
to mistake the accidents for the substance, and to describe as love a
shadow which is cast from no sun. The truth is that Chopin's passion was
not a cause, but a symptom; not a power which influenced his life, but a
direction of hectic energy that must itself be traced back to a remoter
source. He was standing at the verge of manhood: always nervous and
impressionable, he was come to the time when strength is weakest and
courage the most insecure: he had just passed through the bewilderment
of his first great enterprise, and had emerged to breathe an atmosphere
electric with change and heavy with disquietude. It is little wonder
that he lost his true self, and strayed from his appointed course. He
would have been more than human if he had not felt some stress of
uncertainty, or followed his restless impulses in the absence of a surer
guide.
Yet the affection which is lacking to his romance is poured, in full and
continuous profusion, upon his friend. 'You do not require my portrait,'
he writes to Woyciecowski in November; 'I am always with you, and shall
never forget you to the end of my life.' And later, 'You have no idea
how much I love you. What would I not give to embrace you once again.'
He suggests that they should travel abroad together, and then, by a
refinement of sensibility, adds that it would be more delightful if they
started separately, 'and met somewhere by chance.' All the compositions
are discussed with entire frankness, all the plans submitted for advice
and counsel; even omens and presentiments are called in and made to bear
their witness to community of purpose. The very complaints take a
brighter tone when we realise their absolute trust, and their certain
expectation of sympathy. It is as though Chopin shrank from the thought
of his passion as a child shrinks from the darkness, and turned to take
refuge in the strong arms that he knew were waiting to protect him. He
was never self-reliant, never strong enough to face the world alone.
Now, in the time of his trouble, he looked to his friend for comfort,
just as, ten years before, he would have taken some boyish sorrow to his
mother.
It must not be supposed that this period of mental depression is
entirely occupied with lamentations. Troilus may be 'weaker than a
woman's tear' when he thinks of Cressida, yet he still has hours in
which he can shake off his lethargy and take his place in the field or
the council chamber; and even we must add, hours when he can find solace
in the company of the white-armed Helen. Indeed, in spite of his
troubles, Chopin seems to have been fairly busy during the autumn
of 1829. By October 3, the 'Adagio' of his F minor Concerto was
completed;[18] by October 20, the Finale had been sketched, and at least
one of the Études written: then came a week's visit to Prince Radziwill,
from whose house we hear something of a new Polonaise for Violoncello,
and something, also, about the beauty and intelligence of Princess
Wanda. 'I should like her to practise my work,' writes this distracted
lover; 'it would be delightful to have the privilege of placing her
pretty fingers upon the keys.'
The winter was spent quietly at home. Chopin finished his Concerto,
showed it to Elsner for approval, and then set about looking for some
opportunity of performance. It was a long time since he had played in
public at Warsaw, and the newspaper notices from Vienna had aroused
fresh interest which he thought it advisable to satisfy. So in March
1830 he gave two concerts, both of which were conspicuously successful.
At the first, indeed, there was some complaint that he did not play loud
enough; but, on hearing it, he sent to Vienna for one of Graff's pianos,
and disarmed even this effort of criticism at the second. It is
noticeable, as an indication of musical taste in 1830, that at both
concerts the F minor Concerto was divided, the Allegro given by itself
as a separate piece, and the Adagio and Rondo following later in the
programme. We may remember that even in Paris it was the fashion of the
time to give Beethoven's symphonies piecemeal, and to intersperse the
movements with _bravura_ songs and _divertimenti_ for the French horn.
It seems unlikely that a stage manager would ever present one of
Shakespear's plays with portions of the _School for Scandal_ between the
acts; but music has always lagged behind the other arts in its
appreciation of structure, and if Berlioz could mishandle Beethoven, we
need not be surprised at Chopin's tearing his own work in pieces for
fear that the audience should suspect it of continuity. In any case, he
seems to have lost nothing by the sacrifice, for the house was crowded,
the applause vehement, and the receipts, after all expenses had been
paid, amounted to the respectable figure of 5000 florins.