attend the Niederrheinische Musikfest at Aix-la-Chapelle. We have a very
pleasant account of this expedition: the two friends met Mendelssohn,
shared a box with him, and returned, after the Festival, to his new home
in Dusseldorf, where they drank coffee and played skittles, and
banqueted on music to their hearts' content. There is a characteristic
picture, too, of an evening at Schadow's: the room full of eager,
talkative art students, Hiller and Mendelssohn occasionally quieting the
hubbub with a Fantasia or a Capriccio, Chopin sitting silent and unknown
in a remote corner until he was forced to 'drop his disguise' and take
his place at the piano. 'After that,' says Hiller, 'they looked at him
with altogether different eyes.'
Back in Paris, he resumed his teaching, and completed his second set of
Études, published later as Op. 25. During the winter season he appeared
four times in public, once for Berlioz at the Conservatoire, twice in
Pleyel's rooms, and once at a great charity concert in the Italian
Opera-house. But it is clear that he was growing disinclined to face
what he calls the 'intimidation' of the crowd. He rarely did himself
full justice on the platform: he was at his happiest in some friend's
room, where he could pour out his fancies to the dim twilight, and
forget the few motionless figures that were listening at his side. 'More
than three,' said Charles Lamb, 'and it degenerates into an audience.'
Chopin was more liberal in fixing his limit, but he understood the
degeneration. All the best accounts which we have received of his
playing come from those who heard him _en petit comité_--Heine, George
Sand, Delacroix--and it is significant that, after his appearance at the
Théâtre Italien, he allowed nearly four years to pass before emerging
again from his seclusion. It does not appear that this distaste for the
multitude in any way embittered him. It is an excess of eloquence to
describe his preference for the drawing-room as 'a malignant cancer,'
which 'cruelly tortured and slowly consumed his life.'[23] He was in no
lack of money, or of friends, or of reputation, and he was the last man
in the world to--
Beg of Hob and Dick
Their needless vouches,
or trouble himself because some upstart tribune could surpass him in
popularity.
In the summer and autumn of 1835, Chopin left Paris for a more extended
tour. He began with Carlsbad, where his father was staying under
doctor's orders, and after a short stay there proceeded to Dresden,
where he met his old schoolfellows the Wodzinskis, and took the
opportunity to fall in love with their sister Marie. We have very little
certain knowledge about this new romance. There were a few pleasant
days together, a Valse,[24] improvised at the moment of parting, and
sent afterwards from Paris, 'pour Mademoiselle Marie,' and a later
interview at Marienbad in 1836, where, we are told, Chopin offered
marriage and was refused. But it seems clear that he only saw her upon
these two occasions, and that his rejection, if it ever occurred,
produced no very serious effect on his spirits. There were a great many
harmless flirtations during his Paris life: flowers that sprang up in a
light soil and withered under the next day's sun, and it is possible
that this was only a growth of the same garden, somewhat deeper in root,
and somewhat more ample in blossom. After all, Chopin was little more
than a boy,--Polish, artistic, impressionable, fond by preference of the
society of women: it is no matter for surprise if, in the intervals of
being the Shelley of music, he found some pleasure in posing as its Tom
Moore.
From Dresden he went on to Leipsic, and there made the acquaintance of
Schumann and the Wiecks. It was nothing less than a meeting of the
Davidsbund: Florestan, Chiarina and Félix Meritis gathered round him at
the piano, while old Master Raro, who was in a bad temper that
afternoon, stood in the next room, with the door ajar, and listened to
the party which he would not compromise his dignity by joining.
Mendelssohn proved the most congenial of companions, Schumann the
kindest and most appreciative of critics, and Clara Wieck, then a girl
of sixteen, convinced her sceptical visitor that there was at least 'one
lady in Germany who could play his compositions.' The visit was all too
short, but pupils were clamouring at home, publishers had received
nothing all the year except the Scherzo in B minor, and the rent of
rooms in the Chaussée d'Antin was a good deal higher than that in the
Boulevard Poissonnière. So Chopin had to bring his holiday to a close,
and to return to Paris with a store of new memories and a consciousness
of new triumphs.
The chief incidents of 1836 were a couple of flying visits: one to
London in July, one to Marienbad and Leipsic in September. The import of
the latter has already been noted; at the former, Chopin was introduced
to the Broadwoods as M. Fritz, and, as usual, threw off his incognito at
the first touch of the pianoforte. During this year his health, which
had hitherto been good, gave way under an attack of influenza, which was
followed by a second early in 1837. But, in spite of illness, he
contrived to get through plenty of work, and his list of publications
for the year is unusually large: the F minor Concerto in April, the G
minor Ballade in June, the Andante Spianato and Polonaise in July,
followed in the same month by the two Polonaises, Op. 26, and the two
Nocturnes, Op. 37. No doubt many of these were of earlier composition,
but it must be remembered that to Chopin it was not the inception of a
work which was laborious. Melodies came to him as easily as to Mozart;
it was after they had been brought to birth that the toil began; anxious
elaboration of phrase, hesitating selection of alternatives: here a
cadence to be re-written, there a harmony to be rearranged; often a
whole round of changes rung, only that the passage might return, after
all, to its original form. In the whole process of production, the part
which seems to have given him most trouble was the clerk's work of
correcting the proof-sheets. No composer, except Schumann, has left us
so many conjectural readings; no composer, without exception, has
allowed so many misprints to pass unnoticed. It is a curious, though not
an inexplicable paradox that the conscientiousness with which he revised
his manuscripts should have brought a reaction of indifference to the
printed page. He took so long making up his mind that when he had once
arrived at a decision he accepted it as the end of his responsibilities.
It was in 1837 that he met the woman whose influence over his life has
been so fiercely attacked and so deplorably misunderstood. His
biographers, indeed, in their treatment of George Sand, cannot easily be
acquitted of some recklessness of statement and some unjustifiable
licence of language. It is no light matter to bring grave charges on
evidence avowedly imperfect, to give currency to idle rumour and
malicious innuendo, to aid in casting unjust aspersions on the memory of
a noble name. It is no light matter that these calumnies, many of which
are as far below the level of quotation as they are beyond the
possibility of belief, should be employed to barb some flippant epigram
or envenom some sneering comment. Words which had their origin in the
unscrupulous heat of political controversy[25] have been accepted as the
cool and deliberate utterances of reason and judgment. The distortions
of a false and cruel romance have been reproduced as if they contained
testimony, not, indeed, final, but worthy of serious regard. In the
imperfection of the record opportunity has been found for discreditable
conjectures, for baseless imputations of motive, and for an ultimate
decision which betrays itself by its eagerness to condemn.
It must be said at the outset that the record is manifestly imperfect.
All the letters which Chopin wrote from Paris to his parents have
disappeared, burned during a popular outburst at Warsaw in 1863. The
loss of these documents is, of course, beyond calculation. It is true
that M. Karasowski, the only one of Chopin's biographers who ever saw
them, declares that they threw little or no light upon the matter;[26]
it is also true that Chopin was a bad correspondent, with odd fits of
intermission and reticence; but, at the same time, it is impossible to
help feeling that we have to hear the cause after the principal plea has
been withdrawn. We are therefore dependent partly on the accounts which
have been left us by George Sand herself, partly on the testimony of
third persons; and it is needless to add that, before accepting any
statement, we must satisfy ourselves as to the credibility of the
witness. _Ex parte_ assertions, on whatever side they are adduced, can
only be regarded as valuable in so far as they conform to the ordinary
laws of evidence.
First, then, as to George Sand's character. Here we have, fortunately, a
complete consensus on the part of those writers to whose name and
authority the greatest weight can be attached. Matthew Arnold describes
her as 'that great soul, simple, affectionate, without vanity, without
pedantry, human, equitable, patient, kind,' and pours a full measure of
scorn on those 'who have degraded her cry for love into the cravings of
a sensual passion.'[27] Sainte-Beuve knew her intimately for thirty
years, and this is the way in which he writes about her:--'Elle est
femme, et très femme, mais elle n'a rien des petitesses du sexe, ni des
ruses, ni des arrière-pensées: elle aime les horizons larges et vastes,
et c'est là qu'elle va d'abord: elle s'inquiète du bien de tous, de
l'amélioration du monde, ce qui est au moins le plus noble mal des âmes
et la plus généreuse manie.'[28] Delacroix bears eloquent witness to her
devotion and unselfishness:[29] Heine almost forgets to mock as he bows
before the woman 'whose every thought is fragrant':[30] Mrs Browning,
the purest and most spiritual of idealists, bent to kiss her hand at the
first interview, and speaks of her throughout with sisterly affection
and sympathy.[31] And all this testimony is as nothing when compared
with that of her own writings. Grant that her earlier novels contain a
note of revolt, that her generous and enthusiastic temper led her for a
time into the error of Saint-Simonism: it is yet certain that she
believed herself to be writing in defence of Religion and humanity
against a decadent Church and a maladministered government. And it is
impossible to read her autobiography, and still more her letters,
without the conviction that she was a good as well as a great woman,
lacking, perhaps, in reticence and self-restraint, too frank of speech
in face of oppression and wrong, but wholly devoid of any taint of
luxury, wholly free from the meaner passions, wholly intent on helping
all who needed her counsel or assistance. The truthfulness of the
_Histoire de ma Vie_ is attested in plain words by no less an authority
than M. Edmond de Goncourt,[32] whose verdict in the matter will
probably be accepted as conclusive. The truthfulness of the letters will
be evident to anyone who takes the trouble to compare them with one
another, and with the independent record of the period which they
embrace. In one word, the intrinsic probability of George Sand's
account is at least sufficient to throw the _onus probandi_ upon her
adversaries.
And when we turn to the other side, we are at once struck with a want of
definite aim in the attack. Animated with the belief that Chopin was
ill-used, impelled by a not unnatural desire to protect him at all
hazards, his biographers have accredited George Sand with the
incongruous vices of antagonistic temperaments, and have given us a
picture, not of a bad woman, but of an impossible monster. Again, there
are some charges which, in themselves, it is of no moment to prefer. It
would be merely idle to accuse St Louis of atheism, or Bayard of
treachery. It would be a waste of effort to call Nelson a coward, or
Latimer an apostate. And equally, when one of our authors affirms that
George Sand 'was never at a loss to justify any act, be it ever so cruel
and abject,'[33] we can only condole with him on having selected, out of
all existing adjectives, the two most entirely inapplicable to the
character of which he treats. For the grosser accusations, the best
answer is silence. They are no more worth denying than the calumnies of
'Lui et Elle': indeed, like that 'abominable book,'[34] they stand
self-refuted. It is only a matter for regret that they have ever been
allowed to emerge from their obscurity, and to darken, even for a
moment, the intercourse of two noble lives.
From a misunderstanding of George Sand's character, there is but a short
step to a misjudgment of her connection with Chopin. It has been
represented as a _liaison_ in our vulgarised English sense of the term:
it was in reality a pure and cordial friendship, into which there
entered no element of shame and no taint of degradation. Its closest
parallel may be found in the relation between Teresa Malvezzi and
Leopardi, a relation only to be questioned by those who hold that a
sweet and gracious comradeship of man and woman is an impossibility. She
was the older in years, she was far the older in character: her feeling
for Chopin is well expressed in her own phrase as '_une sorte
d'affection maternelle_': for ten years she encouraged him in his work,
tended him in his sickness, offered him welcome in his holiday: and when
at last the rupture came, it was brought about against her will, and
maintained, by unforeseen accidents, against her expectation. In short,
to describe Chopin as her 'discarded lover' is to make two mistakes of
fact in two words.
At first, it is true, they saw but little of each other. For one reason,
the fastidious artist was somewhat repelled by the unconventionality of
George Sand's surroundings; for a second, they were both busy--he with
his pupils, she with her books and with the education of her daughter,
Solange. However, it is probable that, in 1837, he formed one of the
usual summer party at Nohant, and that he forgot his unreasoning dislike
in the kindliness and hospitality which filled that most delightful of
châteaux. During the winter he was occupied with fresh publications--the
second Scherzo, the Impromptu in A flat, and some smaller pieces--and
then came a third attack of influenza, which for a time rendered all
further work impracticable. In February 1838, he was well enough to
accept an invitation to Court; next month he had so far recovered as to
play in a concert at Rouen: but during the spring his illness returned
in the form of a serious bronchial affection, and the doctor, whom
he called in for consultation, peremptorily ordered him abroad.
It happened that George Sand was also contemplating a visit to the South
of Europe. Her son Maurice, was suffering from rheumatism: she thought
it advisable to save him from the risks of a Parisian December: after
some debate, she decided to try Majorca, of which her friend Count
Valdemosa had given her an enthusiastic description. Chopin, who was her
guest during part of the summer, heard the plan discussed, and, feeling
somewhat disheartened at the prospects of a lonely voyage, asked leave
to make one of the party. His proposal was accepted with frank
good-nature; and, after a few weeks of hesitation and uncertainty, he
followed the Sands to Perpignan, crossed with them to Barcelona, and
proceeded first to Palma, and then to a little up-country villa, where
they hoped to establish themselves for the winter.
Never, since the days of the Ten Thousand, was there a more disastrous
expedition. No doubt the scenery was magnificent enough to justify all
Count Valdemosa's patriotism, but it was compensated by every form of
_petite misère_ which a malicious destiny could devise. The house was
draughty and ill-constructed: the food was detestable; the peasants were
ignorant, superstitious savages, to whom, as to most barbarians,
stranger was synonymous with enemy. Chopin's failure to attend Mass on
the first Sunday exposed him to the gravest suspicion; and when it was
rumoured that his absence was due to ill-health, suspicion ripened into
the hostility of panic terror. It became difficult to procure the
necessaries of life; it became almost impossible to obtain any service
or neighbourly assistance; the whole countryside passed sentence of
outlawry upon the newcomers; and as climax of inhospitality, the
landlord heard that one of his tenants was consumptive, and immediately
turned the whole party out of doors.
All this was bad enough, but it would have been tolerable if only the
climate had remained propitious. Unfortunately, after a fortnight's
delusive sunshine, the winter broke into a passion of wind and rain. The
woods stood dripping and shivering; the mountain roads turned into
impassable torrents; and the exiles, driven for shelter to the cells of
a disused monastery, found their days heavy with imprisonment, and their
nights ghostly with the voices of the storm. It is not surprising that
Chopin's nerve began to give way. His material privations he could bear
with some fortitude, but he was powerless to banish the vague, nameless
apprehensions which spoke in every echo, and haunted every shadowy
corner. It required all George Sand's courage and devotion to render his
life endurable. It was in her strength that his weakness found support;
it was her sympathy and kindness that soothed him, as a mother soothes a
sick child. On her, indeed, devolved the whole administration of the
household. Overwhelmed as she was with literary work, she yet found time
to teach her children, to tend her patients, to clothe empty rooms and
bleak walls with some appearance of warmth and comfort. She was never
weary, never despondent, never out of humour, and whatever of brightness
came to lighten those wintry days of stress and hardship was but the
reflection of her unclouded serenity.
During these fluctuations of fear and solace, of convalescence and
relapse, Chopin can hardly have completed any work of importance. The
Preludes, which are sometimes referred to his sojourn in Majorca, seem
to have been composed before he left Paris; and as they are the only
publications of the year 1839, we may reasonably conclude that there was
nothing else ready. It is possible that one or two of them may have been
written at Valdemosa, whence also may have come the inception of the
Ballade in F major, the two Polonaises, Op. 40, and the Funeral March
Sonata. But none of these look like productions of the sick-room; and it
is clear that, as the winter advanced, Chopin grew less and less capable
of any sustained effort. Unmistakable symptoms of consumption made their
appearance; the local doctors proved wholly incompetent to deal with the
case; at last, it became only a question of waiting until the season
was warm enough for a journey home. At the end of February, Chopin
nerved himself to face the fatigue of travel, and returned to the shores
of France in desperate search of the health, for lack of which he had
left them.
At Marseilles he stayed for nearly three months,[35] under charge of Dr
Cauvière, who, without concealing the gravity of the disease, told his
patient that, with proper care, he might yet count on many years of life
and work. There can be no doubt that Chopin's death-warrant had been
signed, but it is equally sure that his sentence was one which could
allow a long respite, and encourage the continued hope of deferment.
Every man stands liable to an unread mandate of execution. Every man
goes through the world, like Hernani, waiting for the summons of the
fatal horn. Life, in all true reckoning, is counted not by years but by
actions; and it is better to lavish the few decades of Schubert or
Mozart than to hoard a long, inglorious cycle that has outworn its hopes
and outlived its memories. No career is unhappy, however brief it be,
that does not fail of its purpose.
And of failure in any form Chopin had unusually little experience. Even
at this dark time we hear of rapid recovery, of regained strength and
courage, of a summer filled with pleasant days and noble achievement.
The cloud of trouble, which had hung over the forests of Valdemosa, lay
far removed from the smooth lawns and sunny glades of Nohant; and there,
amid music and children's laughter, and a concourse of friendly faces,
the winter of discontent was very speedily forgotten. For the next few
years, with the exception of 1840, he made a practice of spending his
summer vacation at the château. Life looked more simple in the light of
George Sand's simplicity and goodness; beneath her example it was easy
to disregard all personal anxieties, and to turn with fresh resolution
to the service of Art. Besides, under that hospitable roof, there were
always other comrades to share the welcome. At one time Liszt would
come, radiant with the triumphs of his last European tour; at another,
Mickiewicz, ablaze with some fresh project of social regeneration; at
another, Delacroix, busy with his _St Anne_; or Louis Blanc, intent on a
new chapter of his History. Over the whole house was spread a clear,
wholesome atmosphere of work, braced with a high seriousness of aim, and
made genial with kindly aid and brilliant converse. We may well believe
the statement of George Sand that Chopin always wrote his best at
Nohant.
For some part of every winter, too, they were near neighbours in Paris.
At first they occupied two adjoining houses in the Rue Pigalle; later
they moved to the Cour d'Orléans, where Chopin took No. 3 on one side of
the court; George Sand No. 5 on the other; and their friend Madame
Marliani completed the phalanstery by installing herself between them.
Here was established that famous _salon_, the memory of which recalls
the better days of the Hôtel Rambouillet. Indeed, though some few names
of the classic age are unsurpassed, at no time could Catherine de
Vivonne have gathered so notable an assemblage of talent as that which
thronged the rooms of the new Arthenice. Chapelain, Godeau, Voiture, the
Scudérys, even Boileau himself are but dim and uncertain lights
beside Dumas and Balzac, Gautier and Heine, Lamennais and Arago and
Sainte-Beuve. Here was something better than madrigals and anagrams and
the _carte du tendre_; something which helped to mould the life of a
nation, and bore its effect on the whole course of European thought. It
was amid these surroundings--now at Paris, now at Nohant--that Chopin
lived and worked, stimulated by all that was best in contemporary art,
encouraged by the sympathy of his peers and the cordial admiration of
his listeners.
Unlike most musicians, Chopin was fond of teaching, and was almost
uniformly popular as a master. It is hard to understand how his
finely-strung temperament could have endured the strain and irritation
of pianoforte lessons, but we have abundant testimony as to the
gentleness and tact with which he corrected errors or pointed out
nuances of expression. Even on 'stormy days,' his anger was nothing more
than a cry of physical pain, and he always softened at once if the
culprit showed any symptoms of distress. When things went well, he was
the most admirable of teachers; kindly alert, suggestive, often
protracting the lesson for two or three hours, and sometimes closing it
with the best of all rewards, an improvisation. The qualities which he
regarded as paramount were delicacy of touch, intelligence of
conception, purity of feeling: in his eyes the only sin worse than
affectation was the correct mechanical dexterity that is too dull to be
affected. Not, of course, that he undervalued accuracy; every student,
however accomplished, had to begin with Clementi's _Gradus_, and to
tread the whole course of studies and exercises; but he was far too
great an artist to see any finality in a mere Academic precision.
'Mettez y donc toute votre âme' was his injunction; and in all education
there is no better rule.