The Grand Duo Concertant for 'cello and piano is jointly composed by

Chopin and Franchomme on themes from "Robert le Diable." It begins in E

and ends in A major, and is without opus number. Schumann thinks

"Chopin sketched the whole of it, and that Franchomme said 'Yes' to

everything." It is for the salon of 1833, when it was published. It is

empty, tiresome and only slightly superior to compositions of the same

sort by De Beriot and Osborne. Full of rapid elegancies and shallow

passage work, this duo is certainly a piece d'occasion--the occasion

probably being the need of ready money.

The seventeen Polish songs were composed between 1824 and 1844. In the

psychology of the Lied Chopin was not happy. Karasowski writes that

many of the songs were lost and some of them are still sung in Poland,

their origin being hazy. The Third of May is cited as one of these.

Chopin had a habit of playing songs for his friends, but neglected

putting some of them on paper. The collected songs are under the opus

head 74. The words are by his friends, Stephen Witwicki, Adam

Mickiewicz, Bogdan Zaleski and Sigismond Krasinski. The first in the

key of A, the familiar Maiden's Wish, has been brilliantly paraphrased

by Liszt. This pretty mazurka is charmingly sung and played by Marcella

Sembrich in the singing lesson of "The Barber of Seville." There are

several mazurkas in the list. Most of these songs are mediocre.

Poland's Dirge is an exception, and so is Horsemen Before the Battle.

"Was ein junges Madchen liebt" has a short introduction, in which the

reminiscence hunter may find a true bit of "Meistersinger" color.

Simple in structure and sentiment, the Chopin lieder seem almost

rudimentary compared to essays in this form by Schubert, Schumann,

Franz, Brahms and Tschaikowsky.

A word of recommendation may not be amiss here regarding the technical

study of Chopin. Kleczynski, in his two books, gives many valuable

hints, and Isidor Philipp has published a set of Exercises Quotidiens,

made up of specimens in double notes, octaves and passages taken from

the works. Here skeletonized are the special technical problems. In

these Daily Studies, and his edition of the Etudes, are numerous

examples dealt with practically. For a study of Chopin's ornaments,

Mertke has discussed at length the various editorial procedure in the

matter of attacking the trill in single and double notes, also the

easiest method of executing the flying scud and vapors of the

fioriture. This may be found in No. 179 of the Edition Steingraber.

Philipp's collection is published in Paris by J. Hamelle, and is

prefixed by some interesting remarks of Georges Mathias. Chopin's

portrait in 1833, after Vigneron, is included.

One composition more is to be considered. In 1837 Chopin contributed

the sixth variation of the march from "I Puritani." These variations

were published under the title: "Hexameron: Morceau de Concert. Grandes

Variations de bravoure sur la marche des Puritans de Bellini, composees

pour le concert de Madame la Princesse Belgiojoso au benefice des

pauvres, par MM. Liszt, Thalberg, Pixis, H. Herz, Czerny et Chopin."

Liszt wrote an orchestral accompaniment, never published. His pupil,

Moriz Rosenthal, is the only modern virtuoso who plays the Hexameron in

his concerts, and play it he does with overwhelming splendor. Chopin's

contribution in E major is in his sentimental, salon mood. Musically,

it is the most impressive of this extraordinary mastodonic survival of

the "pianistic" past.

The newly published Fugue--or fugato--in A minor, in two voices, is

from a manuscript in the possession of Natalie Janotha, who probably

got it from the late Princess Czartoryska, a pupil of the composer. The

composition is ineffective, and in spots ugly--particularly in the

stretta--and is no doubt an exercise during the working years with

Elsner. The fact that in the coda the very suspicious octave

pedal-point and trills may be omitted--so the editorial note

urns--leads one to suspect that out of a fragment Janotha has evolved,

Cuvier-like, an entire composition. Chopin as fugue-maker does not

appear in a brilliant light. Is the Polish composer to become a musical

Hugh Conway? Why all these disjecta membra of a sketch-book?

In these youthful works may be found the beginnings of the greater

Chopin, but not his vast subjugation of the purely technical to the

poetic and spiritual. That came later. To the devout Chopinist the

first compositions are so many proofs of the joyful, victorious spirit

of the man whose spleen and pessimism have been wrongfully compared to

Leopardi's and Baudelaire's. Chopin was gay, fairly healthy and

bubbling over with a pretty malice. His first period shows this; it

also shows how thorough and painful the processes by which he evolved

his final style.

XII. THE POLONAISES:--HEROIC HYMNS OF BATTLE.

How is one to reconcile "the want of manliness, moral and

intellectual," which Hadow asserts is "the one great limitation of

Chopin's province," with the power, splendor and courage of the

Polonaises? Here are the cannon buried in flowers of Robert Schumann,

here overwhelming evidences of versatility, virility and passion.

Chopin blinded his critics and admirers alike; a delicate, puny fellow,

he could play the piano on occasion like a devil incarnate. He, too,

had his demon as well as Liszt, and only, as Ehlert puts it,

"theoretical fear" of this spirit driving him over the cliffs of reason

made him curb its antics. After all the couleur de rose portraits and

lollipop miniatures made of him by pensive, poetic persons it is not

possible to conceive Chopin as being irascible and almost brutal. Yet

he was at times even this. "Beethoven was scarce more vehement and

irritable," writes Ehlert. And we remember the stories of friends and

pupils who have seen this slender, refined Pole wrestling with his

wrath as one under the obsession of a fiend. It is no desire to

exaggerate this side of his nature that impels this plain writing.

Chopin left compositions that bear witness to his masculine side.

Diminutive in person, bad-temper became him ill; besides, his whole

education and tastes were opposed to scenes of violence. So this

energy, spleen and raging at fortune found escape in some of his music,

became psychical in its manifestations.

But, you may say, this is feminine hysteria, the impotent cries of an

unmanly, weak nature. Read the E flat minor, the C minor, the A major,

the F sharp minor and the two A flat major Polonaises! Ballades,

Scherzi, Studies, Preludes and the great F minor Fantaisie are

purposely omitted from this awing scheme. Chopin was weak in physique,

but he had the soul of a lion. Allied to the most exquisite poetic

sensibilities--one is reminded here of Balzac's "Ce beau genie est

moins un musicien qu'une dine qui se rend sensible"--there was another

nature, fiery, implacable. He loved Poland, he hated her oppressors.

There is no doubt he idealized his country and her wrongs until the

theme grew out of all proportion. Politically the Poles and Celts rub

shoulders. Niecks points out that if Chopin was "a flattering idealist

as a national poet, as a personal poet he was an uncompromising

realist." So in the polonaises we find two distinct groups: in one the

objective, martial side predominates, in the other is Chopin the moody,

mournful and morose. But in all the Polish element pervades. Barring

the mazurkas, these dances are the most Polish of his works.

Appreciation of Chopin's wide diversity of temperament would have

sparedthe world the false, silly, distorted portraits of him. He had

the warrior in him, even if his mailed fist was seldom used. There are

moments when he discards gloves and soft phrases and deals blows that

reverberate with formidable clangor.

By all means read Liszt's gorgeous description of the Polonaise.

Originating during the last half of the sixteenth century, it was at

first a measured procession of nobles and their womankind to the sound

of music. In the court of Henry of Anjou, in 1574, after his election

to the Polish throne, the Polonaise was born, and throve in the hardy,

warlike atmosphere. It became a dance political, and had words set to

it. Thus came the Kosciuszko, the Oginski, the Moniuszko, the

Kurpinski, and a long list written by composers with names ending in

"ski." It is really a march, a processional dance, grave, moderate,

flowing, and by no means stereotyped. Liszt tells of the capricious

life infused into its courtly measures by the Polish aristocracy. It is

at once the symbol of war and love, a vivid pageant of martial

splendor, a weaving, cadenced, voluptuous dance, the pursuit of shy,

coquettish woman by the fierce warrior.

The Polonaise is in three-four time, with the accent on the second beat

of the bar. In simple binary form--ternary if a trio is added--this

dance has feminine endings to all the principal cadences. The

rhythmical cast of the bass is seldom changed. Despite its essentially

masculine mould, it is given a feminine title; formerly it was called

Polonais. Liszt wrote of it:

"In this form the noblest traditional feelings of ancient Poland are

represented. The Polonaise is the true and purest type of Polish

national character, as in the course of centuries it was developed,

partly through the political position of the kingdom toward east and

west, partly through an undefinable, peculiar, inborn disposition of

the entire race. In the development of the Polonaise everything

co-operated which specifically distinguished the nation from others. In

the Poles of departed times manly resolution was united with glowing

devotion to the object of their love. Their knightly heroism was

sanctioned by high-soaring dignity, and even the laws of gallantry and

the national costume exerted an influence over the turns of this dance.

The Polonaises are the keystone in the development of this form. They

belong to the most beautiful of Chopin inspirations. With their

energetic rhythm they electrify, to the point of excited demonstration,

even the sleepiest indifferentism. Chopin was born too late, and left

his native hearth too early, to be initiated into the original

character of the Polonaise as danced through his own observation. But

what others imparted to him in regard to it was supplemented by his

fancy and his nationality."

Chopin wrote fifteen Polonaises, the authenticity of one in G flat

major being doubted by Niecks. This list includes the Polonaise for

violoncello and piano, op. 3, and the Polonaise, op. 22, for piano and

orchestra. This latter Polonaise is preceded by an andante spianato in

G in six-eight time, and unaccompanied. It is a charming, liquid-toned,

nocturne-like composition, Chopin in his most suave, his most placid

mood: a barcarolle, scarcely a ripple of emotion, disturbs the mirrored

calm of this lake. After sixteen bars of a crudely harmonized tutti

comes the Polonaise in the widely remote key of E flat; it is

brilliant, every note telling, the figuration rich and novel, the

movement spirited and flowing. Perhaps it is too long and lacks relief.

The theme on each re-entrance is varied ornamentally. The second theme,

in C minor, has a Polish and poetic ring, while the coda is effective.

This opus is vivacious, but not characterized by great depth.

Crystalline, gracious, and refined, the piece is stamped "Paris," the

elegant Paris of 1830. Composed in that year and published in July,

1836, it is dedicated to the Baronne D'Est. Chopin introduced it at a

Conservatoire concert for the benefit of Habeneck, April 26, 1835.

This, according to Niecks, was the only time he played the Polonaise

with orchestral accompaniment. It was practically a novelty to New York

when Rafael Joseffy played it here, superlatively well, in 1879.

The orchestral part seems wholly superfluous, for the scoring is not

particularly effective, and there is a rumor that Chopin cannot be held

responsible for it. Xaver Scharwenka made a new instrumentation that is

discreet and extremely well sounding. With excellent tact he has

managed the added accompaniment to the introduction, giving some

thematic work of the slightest texture to the strings, and in the

pretty coda to the wood-wind. A delicately managed allusion is made by

the horns to the second theme of the nocturne in G. There are even five

faint taps of the triangle, and the idyllic atmosphere is never

disturbed. Scharwenka first played this arrangement at a Seidl memorial

concert, in Chickering Hall, New York, April, 1898. Yet I cannot

truthfully say the Polonaise sounds so characteristic as when played

solo.

The C sharp minor Polonaise, op. 26, has had the misfortune of being

sentimentalized to death. What can be more "appassionata" than the

opening with its "grand rhythmical swing"? It is usually played by

timid persons in a sugar-sweet fashion, although fff stares them in the

face. The first three lines are hugely heroic, but the indignation soon

melts away, leaving an apathetic humor; after the theme returns and is

repeated we get a genuine love motif tender enough in all faith

wherewith to woo a princess. On this the Polonaise closes, an odd

ending for such a fiery opening.

In no such mood does No. 2 begin. In E flat minor it is variously known

as the Siberian, the Revolt Polonaise. It breathes defiance and rancor

from the start. What suppressed and threatening rumblings are there!

Volcanic mutterings these:

[Musical score excerpt]

It is a sinister page, and all the more so because of the injunction to

open with pianissimo. One wishes that the shrill, high G flat had been

written in full chords as the theme suffers from a want of massiveness.

Then follows a subsidiary, but the principal subject returns

relentlessly. The episode in B major gives pause for breathing. It has

a hint of Meyerbeer. But again with smothered explosions the Polonaise

proper appears, and all ends in gloom and the impotent clanking of

chains. It is an awe-provoking work, this terrible Polonaise in E flat

minor, op. 26; it was published July, 1836, and is dedicated to M. J.

Dessauer.

Not so the celebrated A major Polonaise, op. 40, Le Militaire. To

Rubinstein this seemed a picture of Poland's greatness, as its

companion in C minor is of Poland's downfall. Although Karasowski and

Kleczynski give to the A flat major Polonaise the honor of suggesting a

well-known story, it is really the A major that provoked it--so the

Polish portrait painter Kwiatowski informed Niecks. The story runs,

that after composing it, Chopin in the dreary watches of the night was

surprised--terrified is a better word--by the opening of his door and

the entrance of a long train of Polish nobles and ladies, richly robed,

who moved slowly by him. Troubled by the ghosts of the past he had

raised, the composer, hollow eyed, fled the apartment. All this must

have been at Majorca, for op. 40 was composed or finished there.

Ailing, weak and unhappy as he was, Chopin had grit enough to file and

polish this brilliant and striking composition into its present shape.

It is the best known and, though the most muscular of his compositions,

it is the most played. It is dedicated to J. Fontana, and was published

November, 1840. This Polonaise has the festive glitter of Weber.

The C minor Polonaise of the same set is a noble, troubled composition,

large in accents and deeply felt. Can anything be more impressive than

this opening?

[Musical score excerpt]

It is indeed Poland's downfall. The Trio in A flat, with its

kaleidoscopic modulations, produces an impression of vague unrest and

suppressed sorrow. There is loftiness of spirit and daring in it.

What can one say new of the tremendous F sharp minor Polonaise? Willeby

calls it noisy! And Stanislaw Przybyszewski--whom Vance Thompson

christened a prestidigious noctambulist-has literally stormed over it.

It is barbaric, it is perhaps pathologic, and of it Liszt has said most

eloquent things. It is for him a dream poem, the "lurid hour that

precedes a hurricane" with a "convulsive shudder at the close." The

opening is very impressive, the nerve-pulp being harassed by the

gradually swelling prelude. There is defiant power in the first theme,

and the constant reference to it betrays the composer's exasperated

mental condition. This tendency to return upon himself, a tormenting

introspection, certainly signifies a grave state. But consider the

musical weight of the work, the recklessly bold outpourings of a mind

almost distraught! There is no greater test for the poet-pianist than

the F sharp minor Polonaise. It is profoundly ironical--what else means

the introduction of that lovely mazurka, "a flower between two

abysses"? This strange dance is ushered in by two of the most enigmatic

pages of Chopin. The A major intermezzo, with its booming cannons and

reverberating overtones, is not easily defensible on the score of form,

yet it unmistakably fits in the picture. The mazurka is full of

interrogation and emotional nuanciren. The return of the tempest is not

long delayed. It bursts, wanes, and with the coda comes sad yearning,

then the savage drama passes tremblingly into the night after fluid and

wavering affirmations; a roar in F sharp and finally a silence that

marks the cessation of an agitating nightmare. No "sabre dance" this,

but a confession from the dark depths of a self-tortured soul. Op. 44

was published November, 1841, and is dedicated to Princesse de Beauvau.

There are few editorial differences. In the eighteenth bar from the

beginning, Kullak, in the second beat, fills out an octave. Not so in

Klindworth nor in the original. At the twentieth bar Klindworth differs

from the original as follows. The Chopin text is the upper one:

[Musical score excerpts]

The A flat Polonaise, op. 53, was published December, 1843, and is said

by Karasowski to have been composed in 1840, after Chopin's return from

Majorca. It is dedicated to A. Leo. This is the one Karasowski calls

the story of Chopin's vision of the antique dead in an isolated tower

of Madame Sand's chateau at Nohant. We have seen this legend disproved

by one who knows. This Polonaise is not as feverish and as exalted as

the previous one. It is, as Kleczynski writes, "the type of a war

song." Named the Heroique, one hears in it Ehlert's "ring of damascene

blade and silver spur." There is imaginative splendor in this thrilling

work, with its thunder of horses' hoofs and fierce challengings. What

fire, what sword thrusts and smoke and clash of mortal conflict! Here

is no psychical presentation, but an objective picture of battle, of

concrete contours, and with a cleaving brilliancy that excites the

blood to boiling pitch. That Chopin ever played it as intended is

incredible; none but the heroes of the keyboard may grasp its dense

chordal masses, its fiery projectiles of tone. But there is something

disturbing, even ghostly, in the strange intermezzo that separates the

trio from the polonaise. Both mist and starlight are in it. Yet the

work is played too fast, and has been nicknamed the "Drum" Polonaise,

losing in majesty and force because of the vanity of virtuosi. The

octaves in E major are spun out as if speed were the sole idea of this

episode. Follow Kleczynski's advice and do not sacrifice the Polonaise

to the octaves. Karl Tausig, so Joseffy and de Lenz assert, played this

Polonaise in an unapproachable manner. Powerful battle tableau as it

is, it may still be presented so as not to shock one's sense of the

euphonious, of the limitations of the instrument. This work becomes

vapid and unheroic when transferred to the orchestra.

The Polonaise-Fantaisie in A flat, op. 61, given to the world

September, 1846, is dedicated to Madame A. Veyret. One of three great

Polonaises, it is just beginning to be understood, having been derided

as amorphous, febrile, of little musical moment, even Liszt declaring

that "such pictures possess but little real value to art. ...

Deplorable visions which the artist should admit with extreme

circumspection within the graceful circle of his charmed realm." This

was written in the old-fashioned days, when art was aristocratic and

excluded the "baser" and more painful emotions. For a generation

accustomed to the realism of Richard Strauss, the Fantaisie-Polonaise

seems vaporous and idealistic, withal new. It recalls one of those

enchanted flasks of the magii from which on opening smoke exhales that

gradually shapes itself into fantastic and fearsome figures. This

Polonaise at no time exhibits the solidity of its two predecessors; its

plasticity defies the imprint of the conventional Polonaise, though we

ever feel its rhythms. It may be full of monologues, interspersed

cadenzas, improvised preludes and short phrases, as Kullak suggests,

yet there is unity in the composition, the units of structure and

style. It was music of the future when Chopin composed; it is now music

of the present, as much as Richard Wagner's. But the realism is a

trifle clouded. Here is the duality of Chopin the suffering man and

Chopin the prophet of Poland. Undimmed is his poetic vision--Poland

will be free!--undaunted his soul, though oppressed by a suffering

body. There are in the work throes of agony blended with the trumpet

notes of triumph. And what puzzled our fathers--the shifting lights and

shadows, the restless tonalities--are welcome, for at the beginning of

this new century the chromatic is king. The ending of this Polonaise is

triumphant, recalling in key and climaxing the A flat Ballade. Chopin

is still the captain of his soul--and Poland will be free! Are Celt and

Slav doomed to follow ever the phosphorescent lights of patriotism?

Liszt acknowledges the beauty and grandeur of this last Polonaise,

which unites the characteristics of superb and original manipulation of

the form, the martial and the melancholic.

Opus 71, three posthumous Polonaises, given to the world by Julius

Fontana, are in D minor, published in 1827, B flat major, 1828, and F

minor, 1829. They are interesting to Chopinists. The influence of

Weber, a past master in this form, is felt. Of the three the last in F

minor is the strongest, although if Chopin's age is taken into

consideration, the first, in D minor, is a feat for a lad of eighteen.

I agree with Niecks that the posthumous Polonaise, without opus number,

in G sharp minor, was composed later than 1822--the date given in the

Breitkopf & Hartel edition. It is an artistic conception, and in "light

winged figuration" far more mature than the Chopin of op. 71. Really a

graceful and effective little composition of the florid order, but like

his early music without poetic depth. The Warsaw "Echo Musicale," to

commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of Chopin's death, published a

special number in October, 1899, with the picture of a farmer named

Krysiak, born in 1810, the year after the composer. Thereat Finck

remarked that it is not a case of survival of the fittest! A fac-simile

reproduction of a hitherto unpublished Polonaise in A flat, written at

the age of eleven, is also included in this unique number. This tiny

dance shows, it is said, the "characteristic physiognomy" of the

composer. In reality this polacca is thin, a tentative groping after a

form that later was mastered so magnificently by the composer. Here is

the way it begins--the autograph is Chopin's:

[Musical score excerpt]

The Alla Polacca for piano and 'cello, op. 3, was composed in 1829,

while Chopin was on a visit to Prince Radziwill. It is preceded by an

introduction, and is dedicated to Joseph Merk, the 'cellist. Chopin

himself pronounced it a brilliant salon piece. It is now not even that,

for it sounds antiquated and threadbare. The passage work at times

smacks of Chopin and Weber--a hint of the Mouvement Perpetuel--and the

'cello has the better of the bargain. Evidently written for my lady's

chamber.

Two Polonaises remain. One, in B flat minor, was composed in 1826, on

the occasion of the composer's departure for Reinerz. A footnote to the

edition of this rather elegiac piece tells this. Adieu to Guillaume

Kolberg, is the title, and the Trio in D flat is accredited to an air

of "Gazza Ladra," with a sentimental Au Revoir inscribed. Kleczynski

has revised the Gebethner & Wolff edition. The little cadenza in

chromatic double notes on the last page is of a certainty Chopin. But

the Polonaise in G flat major, published by Schott, is doubtful. It has

a shallow ring, a brilliant superficiality that warrants Niecks in

stamping it as a possible compilation. There are traces of the master

throughout, particularly in the E flat minor Trio, but there are some

vile progressions and an air of vulgarity surely not Chopin's. This

dance form, since the death of the great composer, has been chiefly

developed on the virtuoso side. Beethoven, Schubert, Weber, and even

Bach--in his B minor suite for strings and flute--also indulged in this

form. Wagner, as a student, wrote a Polonaise for four hands, in D, and

in Schumann's Papillons there is a charming specimen. Rubinstein

composed a most brilliant and dramatic example in E flat in Le Bal. The

Liszt Polonaises, all said and done, are the most remarkable in design

and execution since Chopin. But they are more Hungarian than Polish.

XIII. MAZURKAS:--DANCES OF THE SOUL

I

"Coquetries, vanities, fantasies, inclinations, elegies, vague

emotions, passions, conquests, struggles upon which the safety or

favors of others depend, all, all meet in this dance."

Thus Liszt. De Lenz further quotes him: "Of the Mazurkas, one must

harness a new pianist of the first rank to each of them." Yet Liszt

told Niecks 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 as Chopin puts them perhaps nobody could have put them." Liszt,

despite the rhapsodical praise of his friend, is not always to be

relied upon. Capricious as Chopin, he had days when he disliked not

only the Mazurkas, but all music. He confessed to Niecks that when he

played a half hour for amusement it was Chopin he took up.

There is no more brilliant chapter than this Hungarian's on the dancing

of the Mazurka by the Poles. It is a companion to his equally

sensational description of the Polonaise. He gives a wild, whirling,

highly-colored narrative of the Mazurka, with a coda of extravagant

praise of the beauty and fascination of Polish women. "Angel through

love, demon through fantasy," as Balzac called her. In none of the

piano rhapsodies are there such striking passages to be met as in

Liszt's overwrought, cadenced prose, prose modelled after

Chateaubriand. Niema iak Polki--"nothing equals the Polish women" and

their "divine coquetries;" the Mazurka is their dance--it is the

feminine complement to the heroic and masculine Polonaise.

An English writer describes the dancing of the Mazurka in contemporary

Russia:

In the salons of St. Petersburg, for instance, the guests

actually dance; they do not merely shamble to and fro in a

crowd, crumpling their clothes and ruffling their tempers, and

call it a set of quadrilles. They have ample space for the

sweeping movements and complicated figures of all the orthodox

ball dances, and are generally gifted with sufficient plastic

grace to carry them out in style. They carefully cultivate

dances calling for a kind of grace which is almost beyond the

reach of art. The mazurka is one of the finest of these, and

it is quite a favorite at balls on the banks of the Neva. It

needs a good deal of room, one or more spurred officers, and

grace, grace and grace. The dash with which the partners rush

forward, the clinking and clattering of spurs as heel clashes

with heel in mid air, punctuating the staccato of the music,

the loud thud of boots striking the ground, followed by their

sibilant slide along the polished floor, then the swift

springs and sudden bounds, the whirling gyrations and dizzy

evolutions, the graceful genuflections and quick embraces, and

all the other intricate and maddening movements to the

accompaniment of one of Glinka's or Tschaikowsky's

masterpieces, awaken and mobilize all the antique heroism,

mediaeval chivalry and wild romance that lie dormant in the

depths of men's being. There is more genuine pleasure in being

the spectator of a soul thrilling dance like that than in

taking an active part in the lifeless make-believes performed

at society balls in many of the more Western countries of

Europe.

Absolutely Slavonic, though a local dance of the province of Mazovia,

the Mazurek or Mazurka, is written in three-four time, with the usual

displaced accent in music of Eastern origin. Brodzinski is quoted as

saying that in its primitive form the Mazurek is only a kind of

Krakowiak, "less lively, less sautillant." At its best it is a dancing

anecdote, a story told in a charming variety of steps and gestures. It

is intoxicating, rude, humorous, poetic, above all melancholy. When he

is happiest he sings his saddest, does the Pole. Hence his predilection

for minor modes. The Mazurka is in three-four or three-eight time.

Sometimes the accent is dotted, but this is by no means absolute. Here

is the rhythm most frequently encountered, although Chopin employs

variants and modifications. The first part of the bar has usually the

quicker notes.

The scale is a mixture of major and minor--melodies are encountered

that grew out of a scale shorn of a degree. Occasionally the augmented

second, the Hungarian, is encountered, and skips of a third are of

frequent occurrence. This, with progressions of augmented fourths and

major sevenths, gives to the Mazurkas of Chopin an exotic character

apart from their novel and original content. As was the case with the

Polonaise, Chopin took the framework of the national dance, developed

it, enlarged it and hung upon it his choicest melodies, his most

piquant harmonies. He breaks and varies the conventionalized rhythm in

a half hundred ways, lifting to the plane of a poem the heavy hoofed

peasant dance. But in this idealization he never robs it altogether of

the flavor of the soil. It is, in all its wayward disguises, the Polish

Mazurka, and is with the Polonaise, according to Rubinstein, the only

Polish-reflective music he has made, although "in all of his

compositions we hear him relate rejoicingly of Poland's vanished

greatness, singing, mourning, weeping over Poland's downfall and all

that, in the most beautiful, the most musical, way." Besides the "hard,

inartistic modulations, the startling progressions and abrupt changes

of mood" that jarred on the old-fashioned Moscheles, and dipped in

vitriol the pen of Rellstab, there is in the Mazurkas the greatest

stumbling block of all, the much exploited rubato. Berlioz swore that

Chopin could not play in time--which was not true--and later we shall

see that Meyerbeer thought the same. What to the sensitive critic is a

charming wavering and swaying in the measure--"Chopin leans about

freely within his bars," wrote an English critic--for the classicists

was a rank departure from the time beat. According to Liszt's

description of the rubato "a wind plays in the leaves, Life unfolds and

develops beneath them, but the tree remains the same--that is the

Chopin rubato." Elsewhere, "a tempo agitated, broken, interrupted, a

movement flexible, yet at the same time abrupt and languishing, and

vacillating as the fluctuating breath by which it is agitated." Chopin

was more commonplace in his definition: "Supposing," he explained,

"that a piece lasts a given number of minutes; it may take just so long

to perform the whole, but in detail deviations may differ."

The tempo rubato is probably as old as music itself. It is in Bach, it

was practised by the old Italian singers. Mikuli says that no matter

how free Chopin was in his treatment of the right hand in melody or

arabesque, the left kept strict time. Mozart and not Chopin it was who

first said: "Let your left hand be your conductor and always keep

time." Halle, the pianist, once asserted that he proved Chopin to be

playing four-four instead of three-four measure in a mazurka. Chopin

laughingly admitted that it was a national trait. Halle was bewildered

when he first heard Chopin play, for he did not believe such music

could be represented by musical signs. Still he holds that this style

has been woefully exaggerated by pupils and imitators. If a Beethoven

symphony or a Bach fugue be played with metronomical rigidity it loses

its quintessential flavor. Is it not time the ridiculous falsehoods

about the Chopin rubato be exposed? Naturally abhorring anything that

would do violence to the structural part of his compositions, Chopin

was a very martinet with his pupils if too much license of tempo was

taken. His music needs the greatest lucidity in presentation, and

naturally a certain elasticity of phrasing. Rhythms need not be

distorted, nor need there be absurd and vulgar haltings, silly and

explosive dynamics. Chopin sentimentalized is Chopin butchered. He

loathed false sentiment, and a man whose taste was formed by Bach and

Mozart, who was nurtured by the music of these two giants, could never

have indulged in exaggerated, jerky tempi, in meaningless expression.

Come, let us be done with this fetish of stolen time, of the wonderful

and so seldom comprehended rubato. If you wish to play Chopin, play him

in curves; let there be no angularities of surface, of measure, but in

the name of the Beautiful do not deliver his exquisitely balanced

phrases with the jolting, balky eloquence of a cafe chantant singer.

The very balance and symmetry of the Chopin phraseology are internal;

it must be delivered in a flowing, waving manner, never square or hard,

yet with every accent showing like the supple muscles of an athlete

beneath his skin. Without the skeleton a musical composition is

flaccid, shapeless, weak and without character. Chopin's music needs a

rhythmic sense that to us, fed upon the few simple forms of the West,

seems almost abnormal. The Chopin rubato is rhythm liberated from its

scholastic bonds, but it does not mean anarchy, disorder. What makes

this popular misconception all the more singular is the freedom with

which the classics are now being interpreted. A Beethoven, and even a

Mozart symphony, no longer means a rigorous execution, in which the

measure is ruthlessly hammered out by the conductor, but the melodic

and emotional curve is followed and the tempo fluctuates. Why then is

Chopin singled out as the evil and solitary representative of a vicious

time-beat? Play him as you play Mendelssohn and your Chopin has

evaporated. Again play him lawlessly, with his accentual life

topsy-turvied, and he is no longer Chopin--his caricature only.

Pianists of Slavic descent alone understand the secret of the tempo

rubato.

I have read in a recently started German periodical that to

make the performance of Chopin's works pleasing it is

sufficient to play them with less precision of rhythm than the

music of other composers. I, on the contrary, do not know a

single phrase of Chopin's works--including even the freest

among them--in which the balloon of inspiration, as it moves

through the air, is not checked by an anchor of rhythm and

symmetry. Such passages as occur in the F minor Ballade, the B

flat minor Scherzo--the middle part--the F minor Prelude, and

even the A flat Impromptu, are not devoid of rhythm. The most

crooked recitative of the F minor Concerto, as can be easily

proved, has a fundamental rhythm not at all fantastic, and

which cannot be dispensed with when playing with orchestra.

... Chopin never overdoes fantasy, and is always restrained by

a pronounced aesthetical instinct. ... Everywhere the

simplicity of his poetical inspiration and his sobriety saves

us from extravagance and false pathos.

Kleczynski has this in his second volume, for he enjoyed the invaluable

prompting of Chopin's pupil, the late Princess Marceline Czartoryska.

Niecks quotes Mme. Friederike Stretcher, nee Muller, a pupil, who wrote

of her master: "He required adherence to the strictest rhythm, hated

all lingering and lagging, misplaced rubatos, as well as exaggerated

ritardandos. 'Je vous prie de vous asseoir,' he said, on such an

occasion, with gentle mockery. And it is just in this respect that

people make such terrible mistakes in the execution of his works."

And now to the Mazurkas, which de Lenz said were Heinrich Heine's songs

on the piano. "Chopin was a phoenix of intimacy with the piano. In his

nocturnes and mazurkas he is unrivalled, downright fabulous."

No compositions are so Chopin-ish as the Mazurkas. Ironical, sad,

sweet, joyous, morbid, sour, sane and dreamy, they illustrate what was

said of their composer--"his heart is sad, his mind is gay." That

subtle quality, for an Occidental, enigmatic, which the Poles call Zal,

is in some of them; in others the fun is almost rough and roaring. Zal,

a poisonous word, is a baleful compound of pain, sadness, secret

rancor, revolt. It is a Polish quality and is in the Celtic peoples.

Oppressed nations with a tendency to mad lyrism develop this mental

secretion of the spleen. Liszt writes that "the Zal colors with a

reflection now argent, now ardent the whole of Chopin's works." This

sorrow is the very soil of Chopin's nature. He so confessed when

questioned by Comtesse d'Agoult. Liszt further explains that the

strange word includes in its meanings--for it seems packed with

them--"all the tenderness, all the humility of a regret borne with

resignation and without a murmur;" it also signifies "excitement,

agitation, rancor, revolt full of reproach, premeditated vengeance,

menace never ceasing to threaten if retaliation should ever become

possible, feeding itself meanwhile with a bitter if sterile hatred."

Sterile indeed must be such a consuming passion. Even where his

patriotism became a lyric cry, this Zal tainted the source of Chopin's

joy. It made him irascible, and with his powers of repression, this

smouldering, smothered rage must have well nigh suffocated him, and in

the end proved harmful alike to his person and to his art. As in

certain phases of disease it heightened the beauty of his later work,

unhealthy, feverish, yet beauty without doubt. The pearl is said to be

a morbid secretion, so the spiritual ferment called Zal gave to

Chopin's music its morbid beauty. It is in the B minor Scherzo but not

in the A flat Ballade. The F minor Ballade overflows with it, and so

does the F sharp minor Polonaise, but not the first Impromptu. Its dark

introspection colors many of the preludes and mazurkas, and in the C

sharp minor Scherzo it is in acrid flowering--truly fleurs du mal.

Heine and Baudelaire, two poets far removed from the Slavic, show

traces of the terrible drowsy Zal in their poetry. It is the collective

sorrow and tribal wrath of a down-trodden nation, and the mazurkas for

that reason have ethnic value. As concise, even as curt as the

Preludes, they are for the most part highly polished. They are dancing

preludes, and often tiny single poems of great poetic intensity and

passionate plaint.

Chopin published during his lifetime forty-one Mazurkas in eleven

cahiers of three, four and five numbers. Op. 6, four Mazurkas, and op.

7, five Mazurkas, were published December, 1832. Op. 6 is dedicated to

Comtesse Pauline Plater; op. 7 to Mr. Johns. Op. 17, four Mazurkas, May

4, dedicated to Madame Lina Freppa; op. 24, four Mazurkas, November,

1835, dedicated to Comte de Perthuis; op. 30, four Mazurkas, December,

1837, dedicated to Princesse Czartoryska; op. 33, four Mazurkas,

October, 1838, dedicated to Comtesse Mostowska; op. 41, four Mazurkas,

December, 1840, dedicated to E. Witwicki; op. 50, three Mazurkas,

November, 1841, dedicated to Leon Szmitkowski; op. 56, three Mazurkas,

August, 1844, dedicated to Mile. C. Maberly; op. 59, three Mazurkas,

April, 1846, no dedication, and op. 63, three Mazurkas, September,

1847, dedicated to Comtesse Czosnowska.

Besides there are op. 67 and 68 published by Fontana after Chopin's

death, consisting of eight Mazurkas, and there are a miscellaneous

number, two in A minor, both in the Kullak, Klindworth and Mikuli

editions, one in F sharp major, said to be written by Charles Mayer--in

Klindworth's--and four others, in G, B flat, D and C major. This makes

in all fifty-six to be grouped and analyzed. Niecks thinks there is a

well-defined difference between the Mazurkas as far as op. 41 and those

that follow. In the latter he misses "savage beauties" and spontaneity.

As Chopin gripped the form, as he felt more, suffered more and knew

more, his Mazurkas grew broader, revealed more Weltschmerz, became

elaborate and at times impersonal, but seldom lost the racial "snap"

and hue. They are sonnets in their well-rounded mecanisme, and, as

Schumann says, something new is to be found in each. Toward the last, a

few are blithe and jocund, but they are the exceptions. In the larger

ones the universal quality is felt, but to the detriment of the

intimate, Polish characteristics. These Mazurkas are just what they are

called, only some dance with the heart, others with the heels.

Comprising a large and original portion of Chopin's compositions, they

are the least known. Perhaps when they wander from the map of Poland

they lose some of their native fragrance. Like hardy, simple wild

flowers, they are mostly for the open air, the only out-of-doors music

Chopin ever made. But even in the open, under the moon, the note of

self-torture, of sophisticated sadness is not absent. Do not accuse

Chopin, for this is the sign-manual of his race. The Pole suffers in

song the joy of his sorrow.

II

The F sharp minor Mazurka of op. 6 begins with the characteristic

triplet that plays such a role in the dance. Here we find a Chopin

fuller fledged than in the nocturnes and variations, and probably

because of the form. This Mazurka, first in publication, is melodious,

slightly mournful but of a delightful freshness. The third section with

the appoggiaturas realizes a vivid vision of country couples dancing

determinedly. Who plays No. 2 of this set? It, too, has the "native

wood note wild," with its dominant pedal bass, its slight twang and its

sweet-sad melody in C sharp minor. There is hearty delight in the

major, and how natural it seems. No. 3 in E is still on the village

green, and the boys and girls are romping in the dance. We hear a drone

bass--a favorite device of Chopin--and the chatter of the gossips, the

bustle of a rural festival. The harmonization is rich, the rhythmic

life vital. But in the following one in E flat minor a different note

is sounded. Its harmonies are closer and there is sorrow abroad. The

incessant circling around one idea, as if obsessed by fixed grief, is

used here for the first, but not for the last time, by the composer.

Opus 7 drew attention to Chopin. It was the set that brought down the

thunders of Rellstab, who wrote: "If Mr. Chopin had shown this

composition to a master the latter would, it is to be hoped, have torn

it and thrown it at his feet, which we hereby do symbolically."

Criticism had its amenities in 1833. In a later number of "The Iris,"

in which a caustic notice appeared of the studies, op. 10, Rellstab

printed a letter, signed Chopin, the authenticity of which is extremely

doubtful. In it Chopin is made to call the critic "really a very bad

man." Niecks demonstrates that the Polish pianist was not the writer.

It reads like the effusion of some indignant, well meaning female

friend.

The B flat major Mazurka which opens op. 7 is the best known of these

dances. There is an expansive swing, a laissez-aller to this piece,

with its air of elegance, that are very alluring. The rubato

flourishes, and at the close we hear the footing of the peasant. A

jolly, reckless composition that makes one happy to be alive and

dancing. The next, which begins in A minor, is as if one danced upon

one's grave; a change to major does not deceive, it is too

heavy-hearted. No. 3, in F minor, with its rhythmic pronouncement at

the start, brings us back to earth. The triplet that sets off the

phrase has great significance. Guitar-like is the bass in its snapping

resolution. The section that begins on the dominant of D flat is full

of vigor and imagination; the left hand is given a solo. This Mazurka

has the true ring.

The following one, in A flat, is a sequence of moods. Its assertiveness

soon melts into tenderer hues, and in an episode in A we find much to

ponder. No. 5, in C, consists of three lines. It is a sort of coda to

the opus and full of the echoes of lusty happiness. A silhouette with a

marked profile.

Opus 17, No. 1, in B flat, is bold, chivalric, and I fancy I hear the

swish of the warrior's sabre. The peasant has vanished or else gapes

through the open window while his master goes through the paces of a

courtlier dance. We encounter sequential chords of the seventh, and

their use, rhythmically framed as they are, gives a line of sternness

to the dance. Niecks thinks that the second Mazurka might be called The

Request, so pathetic, playful and persuasive is it. It is in E minor

and has a plaintive, appealing quality. The G major part is very

pretty. In the last lines the passion mounts, but is never shrill.

Kullak notes that in the fifth and sixth bars there is no slur in

certain editions. Klindworth employs it, but marks the B sforzando. A

slur on two notes of the same pitch with Chopin does not always mean a

tie. The A flat Mazurka, No. 3, is pessimistic, threatening and

irritable. Though in the key of E major the trio displays a relentless

sort of humor. The return does not mend matters. A dark page! In A

minor the fourth is called by Szulc the Little Jew. Szulc, who wrote

anecdotes of Chopin and collected them with the title of "Fryderyk

Szopen," told the story to Kleczynski. It is this:

Chopin did not care for programme music, though more than one

of his compositions, full of expression and character, may be

included under that name. Who does not know the A minor

Mazurka of op. 17, dedicated to Lena Freppa? Itwas already

known in our country as the "Little Jew" before the departure

of our artist abroad. It is one of the works of Chopin which

are characterized by distinct humor. A Jew in slippers and a

long robe comes out of his inn, and seeing an unfortunate

peasant, his customer, intoxicated, tumbling about the road

and uttering complaints, exclaims from his threshold, "What is

this?" Then, as if by way of contrast to this scene, the gay

wedding party of a rich burgess comes along on its way from

church, with shouts of various kinds, accompanied in a lively

manner by violins and bagpipes. The train passes by, the tipsy

peasant renews his complaints--the complaints of a man who had

tried to drown his misery in the glass. The Jew returns

indoors, shaking his head and again asking, "What was this?"

The story strikes one as being both childish and commonplace. The

Mazurka is rather doleful and there is a little triplet of

interrogation standing sentinel at the fourth bar. It is also the last

phrase. But what of that? I, too, can build you a programme as lofty or

lowly as you please, but it will not be Chopin's. Niecks, for example,

finds this very dance bleak and joyless, of intimate emotional

experience, and with "jarring tones that strike in and pitilessly wake

the dreamer." So there is no predicating the content of music except in

a general way; the mood key may be struck, but in Chopin's case this is

by no means infallible. If I write with confidence it is that begot of

desperation, for I know full well that my version of the story will not

be yours. The A minor Mazurka for me is full of hectic despair,

whatever that may mean, and its serpentining chromatics and apparently

suspended close--on the chord of the sixth--gives an impression of

morbid irresolution modulating into a sort of desperate gayety. Its

tonality accounts for the moods evoked, being indeterminate and

restless.

Opus 24 begins with the G minor Mazurka, a favorite because of its

comparative freedom from technical difficulties. Although in the minor

mode there is mental strength in the piece, with its exotic scale of

the augmented second, and its trio is hearty. In the next, in C, we

find, besides the curious content, a mixture of tonalities--Lydian and

mediaeval church modes. Here the trio is occidental. The entire piece

leaves a vague impression of discontent, and the refrain recalls the

Russian bargemen's songs utilized at various times by Tschaikowsky.

Klindworth uses variants. There is also some editorial differences in

the metronomic markings, Mikuli being, according to Kullak, too slow.

Mention has not been made, as in the studies and preludes, of the tempi

of the Mazurkas. These compositions are so capricious, so varied, that

Chopin, I am sure, did not play any one of them twice alike. They are

creatures of moods, melodic air plants, swinging to the rhythms of any

vagrant breeze. The metronome is for the student, but metronome and

rubato are, as de Lenz would have said, mutually exclusive.

The third Mazurka of op. 24 is in A flat. It is pleasing, not deep, a

real dance with an ornamental coda. But the next! Ah! here is a gem, a

beautiful and exquisitely colored poem. In B flat minor, it sends out

prehensile filaments that entwine and draw us into the centre of a

wondrous melody, laden with rich odors, odors that almost intoxicate.

The figuration is tropical, and when the major is reached and those

glancing thirty-seconds so coyly assail us we realize the seductive

charm of Chopin. The reprise is still more festooned, and it is almost

a relief when the little, tender unison begins with its positive chord

assertions closing the period. Then follows a fascinating, cadenced

step, with lights and shades, sweet melancholy driving before it joy

and being routed itself, until the annunciation of the first theme and

the dying away of the dance, dancers and the solid globe itself, as if

earth had committed suicide for loss of the sun. The last two bars

could have been written only by Chopin. They are ineffable sighs.

And now the chorus of praise begins to mount in burning octaves. The C

minor Mazurka, op. 30, is another of those wonderful, heartfelt

melodies of the master. What can I say of the deepening feeling at the

con anima! It stabs with its pathos. Here is the poet Chopin, the poet

who, with Burns, interprets the simple strains of the folk, who blinds

us with color and rich romanticism like Keats and lifts us Shelley-wise

to transcendental azure. And his only apparatus a keyboard. As Schumann

wrote: "Chopin did not make his appearance by an orchestral army, as a

great genius is accustomed to do; he only possesses a small cohort, but

every soul belongs to him to the last hero."

Eight lines is this dance, yet its meanings are almost endless. No. 2,

in B minor, is called The Cuckoo by Kleczynski. It is sprightly and

with the lilt, notwithstanding its subtle progressions, of Mazovia. No.

3 in D flat is all animation, brightness and a determination to stay

out the dance. The alternate major-minor of the theme is truly Polish.

The graceful trio and canorous brilliancy of this dance make it a

favored number. The ending is epigrammatic. It comes so suddenly upon

us, our cortical cells pealing with the minor, that its very abruptness

is witty. One can see Chopin making a mocking moue as he wrote it.

Tschaikowsky borrowed the effect for the conclusion of the Chinoise in

a miniature orchestral suite. The fourth of this opus is in C sharp

minor. Again I feel like letting loose the dogs of enthusiasm. The

sharp rhythms and solid build of this ample work give it a massive

character. It is one of the big Mazurkas, and the ending, raw as it

is--consecutive, bare-faced fifths and sevenths--compasses its intended

meaning.

Opus 33 is a popular set. It begins with one in G sharp minor, which is

curt and rather depressing. The relief in B major is less real than it

seems--on paper. Moody, withal a tender-hearted Mazurka. No. 2, in D,

is bustling, graceful and full of unrestrained vitality. Bright and not

particularly profound, it was successfully arranged for voice by

Viardot-Garcia. The third of the opus, in C, is the one described by de

Lenz as almost precipitating a violent row between Chopin and

Meyerbeer. He had christened it the Epitaph of the Idea.

"Two-four," said Meyerbeer, after de Lenz played it. "Three-four,"

answered Chopin, flushing angrily. "Let me have it for a ballet in my

new opera and I'll show you," retorted Meyerbeer. "It's three-four,"

scolded Chopin, and played it himself. De Lenz says they parted coolly,

each holding to his opinion. Later, in St. Petersburg, Meyerbeer met

this gossip and told him that he loved Chopin. "I know no pianist, no

composer for the piano like him." Meyerbeer was wrong in his idea of

the tempo. Though Chopin slurs the last beat, it is there,

nevertheless. This Mazurka is only four lines long and is charming, as

charming as the brief specimen in the Preludes. The next Mazurka is

another famous warhorse. In B minor, it is full of veiled coquetries,

hazardous mood transitions, growling recitatives and smothered plaints.

The continual return to the theme gives rise to all manner of fanciful

programmes. One of the most characteristic is by the Polish poet

Zelenski, who, so Kleczynski relates, wrote a humorous poem on this

mazurka. For him it is a domestic comedy in which a drunken peasant and

his much abused wife enact a little scene. Returning home the worse for

wear he sings "Oj ta dana"--"Oh dear me"--and rumbles in the bass in a

figure that answers the treble. His wife reproaching him, he strikes

her. Here we are in B flat. She laments her fate in B major. Then her

husband shouts: "Be quiet, old vixen." This is given in the octaves, a

genuine dialogue, the wife tartly answering: "Shan't be quiet." The

gruff grumbling in the bass is heard, an imitation of the above, when

suddenly the man cries out, the last eight bars of the composition:

"Kitty, Kitty come--do come here, I forgive you," which is decidedly

masculine in its magnanimity.

If one does not care for the rather coarse realism of this reading

Kleczynski offers the poem of Ujejeski, called The Dragoon. A soldier

flatters a girl at the inn. She flies from him, and her lover,

believing she has deceived him, despairingly drowns himself. The

ending, with its "Ring, ring, ring the bell there! Horses carry me to

the depths," has more poetic contour than the other. Without grafting

any libretto on it, this Mazurka is a beautiful tone-piece in itself.

Its theme is delicately mournful and the subject, in B major, simply

entrancing in its broad, flowing melody.

In C sharp minor, op. 41, is a Mazurka that is beloved of me. Its scale

is exotic, its rhythm convincing, its tune a little saddened by life,

but courage never fails. This theme sounds persistently, in the middle

voices, in the bass, and at the close in full harmonies, unisons,

giving it a startling effect. Octaves take it up in profile until it

vanishes. Here is the very apotheosis of rhythm. No. 2, in E minor, is

not very resolute of heart. It was composed, so Niecks avers, at Palma,

when Chopin's health fully accounts for the depressed character of the

piece, for it is sad to the point of tears. Of op. 41 he wrote to

Fontana from Nohant in 1839, "You know I have four new Mazurkas, one

from Palma, in E minor; three from here, in B major, A flat major and C

sharp minor. They seem to me pretty, as the youngest children usually

do when the parents grow old." No. 3 is a vigorous, sonorous dance. No.

4, over which the editors deviate on the serious matter of text, in A

flat, is for the concert room, and is allied to several of his gracious

Valses. Playful and decorative, but not profound in feeling.

Opus 50, the first in G major, is healthy and vivacious. Good humor

predominates. Kullak notes that in some editions it closes pianissimo,

which seems a little out of drawing. No. 2 is charming. In A flat, it

is a perfect specimen of the aristocratic Mazurka. The D flat Trio, the

answering episode in B flat minor, and the grace of the return make

this one to be studied and treasured. De Lenz finds Bach-ian influences

in the following, in C sharp minor: "It begins as though written for

the organ, and ends in an exclusive salon; it does him credit and is

worked out more fully than the others. Chopin was much pleased when I

told him that in the construction of this Mazurka the passage from E

major to F major was the same as that in the Agatha aria in

'Freischutz.'" De Lenz refers to the opening Bach-like mutations. The

texture of this dance is closer and finer spun than any we have

encountered. Perhaps spontaneity is impaired, mais que voulez vous?

Chopin was bound to develop, and his Mazurkas, fragile and constricted

as is the form, were sure to show a like record of spiritual and

intellectual growth.

Opus 56, in B major, is elaborate, even in its beginning. There is

decoration in the ritornelle in E flat and one feels the absence of a

compensating emotion, despite the display of contrapuntal skill. Very

virtuoso-like, but not so intimate as some of the others. Karasowski

selects No. 2 in C as an illustration. "It is as though the composer

had sought for the moment to divert himself with narcotic intoxication

only to fall back the more deeply into his original gloom." There is

the peasant in the first bars in C, but the A minor and what follows

soon disturb the air of bonhomie. Theoretical ease is in the imitative

passages; Chopin is now master of his tools. The third Mazurka of op.

56 is in C minor. It is quite long and does not give the impression of

a whole. With the exception of a short break in B major, it is composed

with the head, not the heart, nor yet the heels.

Not unlike, in its sturdy affirmation, the one in C sharp minor, op.

41, is the next Mazurka, in A minor, op. 59. That Chopin did not repeat

himself is an artistic miracle. A subtle turn takes us off the familiar

road to some strange glade, wherein the flowers are rare in scent and

odor. This Mazurka, like the one that follows, has a dim resemblance to

others, yet there is always a novel point of departure, a fresh

harmony, a sudden melody or an unexpected ending. Hadow, for example,

thinks the A flat of this opus the most beautiful of them all. In it he

finds legitimately used the repetition in various shapes of a single

phrase. To me this Mazurka seems but an amplification, an elaboration

of the lovely one in the same key, op. 50, No. 2. The double sixths and

more complicated phraseology do not render the later superior to the

early Mazurka, yet there is no gainsaying the fact that this is a noble

composition. But the next, in F sharp minor, despite its rather

saturnine gaze, is stronger in interest, if not in workmanship. While

it lacks Niecks' beautes sauvages, is it not far loftier in conception

and execution than op. 6, in F sharp minor? The inevitable triplet

appears in the third bar, and is a hero throughout. Oh, here is charm

for you! Read the close of the section in F sharp major. In the major

it ends, the triplet fading away at last, a mere shadow, a turn on D

sharp, but victor to the last. Chopin is at the summit of his

invention. Time and tune, that wait for no man, are now his bond

slaves. Pathos, delicacy, boldness, a measured melancholy and the art

of euphonious presentiment of all these, and many factors more, stamp

this Mazurka a masterpiece.

Niecks believes there is a return of the early freshness and poetry in

the last three Mazurkas, op. 63. "They are, indeed, teeming with

interesting matter," he writes. "Looked at from the musician's point of

view, how much do we not see novel and strange, beautiful and

fascinating withal? Sharp dissonances, chromatic passing notes,

suspensions and anticipations, displacement of accent, progressions of

perfect fifths--the horror of schoolmen--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.

But all this is a means to an end, the expression of an individuality

with its intimate experiences. The emotional content of many of these

trifles--trifles if considered only by their size--is really

stupendous." Spoken like a brave man and not a pedant!

Full of vitality is the first number of op. 63. In B major, it is

sufficiently various in figuration and rhythmical life to single it

from its fellows. The next, in F minor, has a more elegiac ring. Brief

and not difficult of matter or manner is this dance. The third, of

winning beauty, is in C sharp minor--surely a pendant to the C sharp

minor Valse. I defy anyone to withstand the pleading, eloquent voice of

this Mazurka. Slender in technical configuration, yet it impressed

Louis Ehlert so much that he was impelled to write: "A more perfect

canon in the octave could not have been written by one who had grown

gray in the learned arts."

The four Mazurkas, published posthumously in 1855, that comprise op. 67

were composed by Chopin at various dates. To the first, in G,

Klindworth affixes 1849 as the year of composition. Niecks gives a much

earlier date, 1835. I fancy the latter is correct, as the piece sounds

like one of Chopin's more youthful efforts. It is jolly and rather

superficial. The next, in G minor, is familiar. It is very pretty, and

its date is set down by Niecks as 1849, while Klindworth gives 1835.

Here again Niecks is correct, although I suspect that Klindworth

transposed his figures accidentally. No. 3, in C, was composed in 1835.

On this both biographer and editor agree. It is certainly an early

effusion of no great value, although a good dancing tune. No. 4 A

minor, of this opus, composed in 1846, is more mature, but in no wise

remarkable.

Opus 68, the second of the Fontana set, was composed in 1830. The

first, in C, is commonplace; the one in A minor, composed in 1827, is

much better, being lighter and well made; the third, in F major, 1830,

weak and trivial, and the fourth, in F minor, 1849, interesting because

it is said by Julius Fontana to be Chopin's last composition. He put it

on paper a short time before his death, but was too ill to try it at

the piano. It is certainly morbid in its sick insistence in phrase

repetition, close harmonies and wild departure--in A--from the first

figure. But it completes the gloomy and sardonic loop, and we wish,

after playing this veritable song of the tomb, that we had parted from

Chopin in health, not disease. This page is full of the premonitions of

decay. Too weak and faltering to be febrile, Chopin is here a debile,

prematurely exhausted young man. There are a few accents of a forced

gayety, but they are swallowed up in the mists of dissolution--the

dissolution of one of the most sensitive brains ever wrought by nature.

Here we may echo, without any savor of Liszt's condescension or de

Lenz's irony: "Pauvre Frederic!"

Klindworth and Kullak have different ideas concerning the end of this

Mazurka. Both are correct. Kullak, Klindworth and Mikuli include in

their editions two Mazurkas in A minor. Neither is impressive. One, the

date of composition unknown, is dedicated "a son ami Emile Gaillard;"

the other first appeared in a musical publication of Schotts' about

1842 or 1843--according to Niecks. Of this set I prefer the former; it

abounds in octaves and ends with a long trill There is in the

Klindworth edition a Mazurka, the last in the set, in the key of F

sharp. It is so un-Chopinish and artificial that the doubts of the

pianist Ernst Pauer were aroused as to its authenticity. On

inquiry--Niecks quotes from the London monthly "Musical Record," July

1, 1882--Pauer discovered that the piece was identical with a Mazurka

by Charles Mayer. Gotthard being the publisher of the alleged Chopin

Mazurka, declared he bought the manuscript from a Polish

countess--possibly one of the fifty in whose arms Chopin died--and that

the lady parted with Chopin's autograph because of her dire poverty. It

is, of course, a clear case of forgery.

Of the four early Mazurkas, in G major and B flat major--dating from

1825--D major--composed in 1829-30, but remodelled in 1832--and C

major--of 1833--the latter is the most characteristic. The G major is

of slight worth. As Niecks remarks, it contains a harmonic error. The

one in B flat starts out with a phrase that recalls the A minor

Mazurka, numbered 45 in the Breitkopf & Hartel edition. This B flat

Mazurka, early as it was composed, is, nevertheless, pretty. There are

breadth and decision in the C major Mazurka. The recasting improves the

D major Mazurka. Its trio is lifted an octave and the doubling of notes

throughout gives more weight and richness.

"In the minor key laughs and cries, dances and mourns the Slav," says

Dr. J. Schucht in his monograph on Chopin. Chopin here reveals not only

his nationality, but his own fascinating and enigmatic individuality.

Within the tremulous spaces of this immature dance is enacted the play

of a human soul, a soul that voices the sorrow and revolt of a dying

race, of a dying poet. They are epigrammatic, fluctuating, crazy, and

tender, these Mazurkas, and some of them have a soft, melancholy light,

as if shining through alabaster--true corpse light leading to a morass

of doubt and terror. But a fantastic, dishevelled, debonair spirit is

the guide, and to him we abandon ourselves in these precise and

vertiginous dances.

XIV. CHOPIN THE CONQUEROR

The Scherzi of Chopin are of his own creation; the type as illustrated

by Beethoven and Mendelssohn had no meaning for him. Whether in earnest

or serious jest, Chopin pitched on a title that is widely misleading

when the content is considered. The Beethoven Scherzo is full of a

robust sort of humor. In it he is seldom poetical, frequently given to

gossip, and at times he hints at the mystery of life. The demoniacal

element, the fierce jollity that mocks itself, the almost titanic anger

of Chopin would not have been regarded by the composer of the Eroica

Symphony as adapted to the form. The Pole practically built up a new

musical structure, boldly called it a Scherzo, and, as in the case of

the Ballades, poured into its elastic mould most disturbing and

incomparable music.

Chopin seldom compasses sublimity. His arrows are tipped with fire, yet

they do not fly far. But in some of his music he skirts the regions

where abide the gods. In at least one Scherzo, in one Ballade, in the F

minor Fantaisie, in the first two movements of the B flat minor Sonata,

in several of the Eludes, and in one of the Preludes, he compasses

grandeur. Individuality of utterance, beauty of utterance, and the

eloquence we call divine are his; criticism then bows its questioning

brows before this anointed one. In the Scherzi Chopin is often prophet

as well as poet. He fumes and frets, but upon his countenance is the

precious fury of the sibyls. We see the soul that suffers from secret

convulsions, but forgive the writhing for the music made. These four

Scherzi are psychical records, confessions committed to paper of

outpourings that never could have passed the lips. From these alone we

may almost reconstruct the real Chopin, the inner Chopin, whose

conventional exterior so ill prepared the world for the tragic issues

of his music.

The first Scherzo is a fair model. There are a few bars of

introduction--the porch, as Niecks would call it--a principal subject,

a trio, a short working-out section, a skilful return to the opening

theme, and an elaborate coda. This edifice, not architecturally

flawless, is better adapted to the florid beauties of Byzantine

treatment than to the severe Hellenic line. Yet Chopin gave it dignity,

largeness and a classic massiveness. The interior is romantic, is

modern, personal, but the facade shows gleaming minarets, the strangely

builded shapes of the Orient. This B minor Scherzo has the acid note of

sorrow and revolt, yet the complex figuration never wavers. The walls

stand firm despite the hurricane blowing through and around them.

Ehlert finds this Scherzo tornadic. It is gusty, and the hurry and

over-emphasis do not endear it to the pianist. The first pages are

filled with wrathful sounds, there is much tossing of hands and cries

to heaven, calling down its fire and brimstone. A climax mounts to a

fine frenzy until the lyric intermezzo in B is reached. Here love

chants with honeyed tongues. The widely dispersed figure of the melody

has an entrancing tenderness. But peace does not long prevail against

the powers of Eblis, and infernal is the Wilde Jagd of the finale.

After shrillest of dissonances, a chromatic uproar pilots the doomed

one across this desperate Styx.

What Chopin's programme was we can but guess. He may have outlined the

composition in a moment of great ebullition, a time of soul laceration

arising from a cat scratch or a quarrel with Maurice Sand in the garden

over the possession of the goat cart.

The Klindworth edition is preferable. Kullak follows his example in

using the double note stems in the B major part. He gives the A sharp

in the bass six bars before the return of the first motif. Klindworth,

and other editions, prescribe A natural, which is not so effective.

This Scherzo might profit by being played without the repeats. The

chromatic interlocked octaves at the close are very striking.

I find at times--as my mood changes--something almost repellant in the

B minor Scherzo. It does not present the frank physiognomy of the

second Scherzo, op. 31, in B flat minor. Ehlert cries that it was

composed in a blessed hour, although de Lenz quotes Chopin as saying of

the opening, "It must be a charnel house." The defiant challenge of the

beginning has no savor of the scorn and drastic mockery of its

fore-runner. We are conscious that tragedy impends, that after the

prologue may follow fast catastrophe. Yet it is not feared with all the

portentous thunder of its index. Nor are we deceived. A melody of

winning distinction unrolls before us. It has a noble tone, is of a

noble type. Without relaxing pace it passes and drops like a

thunderbolt into the bowels of the earth. Again the story is told, and

tarrying not at all we are led to a most delectable spot in the key of

A major. This trio is marked by genius. Can anything be more bewitching

than the episode in C sharp minor merging into E major, with the

overflow at the close? The fantasy is notable for variety of tonality,

freedom in rhythmical incidents and genuine power. The coda is dizzy

and overwhelming. For Schumann this Scherzo is Byronic in tenderness

and boldness. Karasowski speaks of its Shakespearian humor, and indeed

it is a very human and lovable piece of art. It holds richer, warmer,

redder blood than the other three and like the A flat Ballade, is

beloved of the public. But then it is easier to understand.

Opus 39, the third Scherzo in C sharp minor, was composed or finished

at Majorca and is the most dramatic of the set. I confess to see no

littleness in the polished phrases, though irony lurks in its bars and

there is fever in its glance--a glance full of enigmatic and luring

scorn. I heartily agree with Hadow, who finds the work clear cut and of

exact balance. And noting that Chopin founded whole paragraphs "either

on a single phrase repeated in similar shapes or on two phrases in

alternation"--a primitive practice in Polish folksongs--he asserts that

"Beethoven does not attain the lucidity of his style by such

parallelism of phraseology," but admits that Chopin's methods made for

"clearness and precision...may be regarded as characteristic of the

national manner." A thoroughly personal characteristic too.

There is virile clangor in the firmly struck octaves of the opening

pages. No hesitating, morbid view of life, but rank, harsh

assertiveness, not untinged with splenetic anger. The chorale of the

trio is admirably devised and carried out. Its piety is a bit of

liturgical make-believe. The contrasts here are most artistic--sonorous

harmonies set off by broken chords that deliciously tinkle. There is a

coda of frenetic movement and the end is in major, a surprising

conclusion when considering all that has gone before. Never to become

the property of the profane, the C sharp minor Scherzo, notwithstanding

its marked asperities and agitated moments, is a great work of art.

Without the inner freedom of its predecessor, it is more sober and

self-contained than the B minor Scherzo.

The fourth Scherzo, op. 54, is in the key of E. Built up by a series of

cunning touches and climaxes and without the mood depth or variety of

its brethren, it is more truly a Scherzo than any of them. It has

tripping lightness and there is sunshine imprisoned behind its open

bars. Of it Schumann could not ask, "How is gravity to clothe itself if

jest goes about in dark veils?" Here, then, is intellectual refinement

and jesting of a superior sort. Niecks thinks it fragmentary. I find

the fairy-like measures delightful after the doleful mutterings of some

of the other Scherzi. There is the same "spirit of opposition," but of

arrogance none. The C sharp minor theme is of lyric beauty, the coda

with its scales, brilliant. It seems to be banned by classicists and

Chopin worshippers alike. The agnostic attitude is not yet dead in the

piano playing world.

Rubinstein most admired the first two Scherzi. The B minor has been

criticised for being too much in the etude vein. But with all their

shortcomings these compositions are without peer in the literature of

the piano.

They were published and dedicated as follows: Op. 20, February, 1835,

to M. T. Albrecht; op. 31, December, 1837, Comtesse de Furstenstein;

op. 39, October, 1840, Adolph Gutmann, and op. 54, December, 1843,

Mile, de Caraman. De Lenz relates that Chopin dedicated the C sharp

minor Scherzo to his pupil Gutmann, because this giant, with a prize

fighter's fist, could "knock a hole in the table" with a certain chord

for the left hand--sixth measure from the beginning--and adds quite

naively: "Nothing more was ever heard of this Gutmann--he was a

discovery of Chopin's." Chopin died in this same Gutmann's arms, and,

despite de Lenz, Gutmann was in evidence until his death as a "favorite

pupil."

And now we have reached the grandest--oh, banal and abused word--of

Chopin's compositions, the Fantaisie in F minor, op. 49. Robert

Schumann, after remarking that the cosmopolitan must "sacrifice the

small interests of the soil on which he was born," notices that

Chopin's later works "begin to lose something of their especial

Sarmatian physiognomy, to approach partly more nearly the universal

ideal cultivated by the divine Greeks which we find again in Mozart."

The F minor Fantaisie has hardly the Mozartian serenity, but parades a

formal beauty--not disfigured by an excess of violence, either personal

or patriotic, and its melodies, if restless by melancholy, are of

surprising nobility and dramatic grandeur. Without including the

Beethoven Sonatas, not strictly born of the instrument, I do not fear

to maintain that this Fantaisie is one of the greatest of piano pieces.

Never properly appreciated by pianists, critics, or public, it is,

after more than a half century of neglect, being understood at last. It

was published November, 1843, and probably composed at Nohant, as a

letter of the composer indicates. The dedication is to Princesse C. de

Souzzo--these interminable countesses and princesses of Chopin! For

Niecks, who could not at first discern its worth, it suggests a Titan

in commotion. It is Titanic; the torso of some Faust-like dream, it is

Chopin's Faust. A macabre march, containing some dangerous dissonances,

gravely ushers us to ascending staircases of triplets, only to

precipitate us to the very abysses of the piano. That first subject, is

it not almost as ethically puissant and passionate as Beethoven in his

F minor Sonata? Chopin's lack of tenaciousness is visible here.

Beethoven would have built a cathedral on such a foundational scheme,

but Chopin, ever prodigal in his melody making, dashes impetuously to

the A flat episode, that heroic love chant, erroneously marked dolce

and played with the effeminacies of a salon. Three times does it

resound in this strange Hall of Glancing Mirrors, yet not once should

it be caressed. The bronze fingers of a Tausig are needed. Now are

arching the triplets to the great, thrilling song, beginning in C

minor, and then the octaves, in contrary motion, split wide asunder the

very earth. After terrific chordal reverberations there is the rapid

retreat of vague armies, and once again is begun the ascent of the

rolling triplets to inaccessible heights, and the first theme sounds in

C minor. The modulation lifts to G flat, only to drop to abysmal

depths. What mighty, desperate cause is being espoused? When peace is

presaged in the key of B, is this the prize for which strive these

agonized hosts? Is some forlorn princess locked behind these solemn,

inaccessible bars? For a few moments there is contentment beyond all

price. Then the warring tribe of triplets recommence, after clamorous G

flat octaves reeling from the stars to the sea of the first theme.

Another rush into D flat ensues, the song of C minor reappears in F

minor, and the miracle is repeated. Oracular octaves quake the

cellarage of the palace, the warriors hurry by, their measured tramp is

audible after they vanish, and the triplets obscure their retreat with

chromatic vapors. Then an adagio in this fantastic old world tale--the

curtain prepares to descend--a faint, sweet voice sings a short,

appealing cadenza, and after billowing A flat arpeggios, soft, great

hummocks of tone, two giant chords are sounded, and the Ballade of Love

and War is over. Who conquers? Is the Lady with the Green Eyes and Moon

White Face rescued? Or is all this a De Quincey's Dream Fugue

translated into tone--a sonorous, awesome vision? Like De Quincey, it

suggests the apparition of the empire of fear, the fear that is

secretly felt with dreams, wherein the spirit expands to the drummings

of infinite space.

Alas! for the validity of subjective criticism. Franz Liszt told

Vladimir de Pachmann the programme of the Fantaisie, as related to him

by Chopin. At the close of one desperate, immemorial day, the pianist

was crooning at the piano, his spirits vastly depressed. Suddenly came

a knocking at his door, a Poe-like, sinister tapping, which he at once

rhythmically echoed upon the keyboard, his phono-motor centre being

unusually sensitive. The first two bars of the Fantaisie describe these

rappings, just as the third and fourth stand for Chopin's musical

invitation, entrez, entrez! This is all repeated until the doors wide

open swinging admit Liszt, George Sand, Madame Camille Pleyel nee Mock,

and others. To the solemn measures of the march they enter, and range

themselves about Chopin, who after the agitated triplets begins his

complaint in the mysterious song in F minor. But Sand, with whom he has

quarrelled, falls before him on her knees and pleads for pardon.

Straightway the chant merges into the appealing A flat section--this

sends skyward my theory of its interpretation--and from C minor the

current becomes more tempestuous until the climax is reached and to the

second march the intruders rapidly vanish. The remainder of the work,

with the exception of the Lento Sostenuto in B--where it is to be hoped

Chopin's perturbed soul finds momentary peace--is largely repetition

and development. This far from ideal reading is an authoritative one,

coming as it does from Chopin by way of Liszt. I console myself for its

rather commonplace character with the notion that perhaps in the

re-telling the story has caught some personal cadenzas of the two

historians. In any case I shall cling to my own version.

The F minor Fantaisie will mean many things to many people. Chopin has

never before maintained so artistically, so free from delirium, such a

level of strong passion, mental power and exalted euphony. It is his

largest canvas, and though there are no long-breathed periods such as

in the B flat minor Scherzo, the phraseology is amply broad, without

padding of paragraphs. The rapt interest is not relaxed until the final

bar. This transcendental work more nearly approaches Beethoven in its

unity, its formal rectitude and its brave economy of thematic material.

While few men have dared to unlock their hearts thus, Chopin is not so

intimate here as in the mazurkas. But the pulse beats ardently in the

tissues of this composition. As art for art, it is less perfect; the

gain is on the human side. Nearing his end Chopin discerned, with ever

widening, ever brighter vision, the great heart throb of the universe.

Master of his material, if not of his mortal tenement, he passionately

strove to shape his dreams into abiding sounds. He did not always

succeed, but his victories are the precious prizes of mankind. One is

loath to believe that the echo of Chopin's magic music can ever fall

upon unheeding ears. He may become old-fashioned, but, like Mozart, he

will remain eternally beautiful.

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Also recollections in letters and diaries of Moscheles,

Hiller, Mendelssohn, Berlioz, Henselt, Schumann, Rubinstein,

Mathias, Legouve, Tarnowski, Grenier and others.

The author begs to acknowledge the kind suggestions and

assistance of Rafael Joseffy, Vladimir de Pachmann, Moriz

Rosenthal, Jaraslow de Zielinski, Edwin W. Morse, Edward E.

Ziegler and Ignace Jan Paderewski.

BOOKS BY JAMES HUNEKER

What Maeterlinck wrote:

Maurice Maeterlinck wrote thus of James Huneker: "Do you know

that 'Iconoclasts' is the only book of high and universal

critical worth that we have had for years--to be precise,

since Georg Brandes. It is at once strong and fine, supple and

firm, indulgent and sure."

The Evening Post of June 10, 1915, wrote of Mr. Huneker's "The New

Cosmopolis":

"The region of Bohemia, Mr. James Huneker found long ago, is

within us. At twenty, he says, he discovered that there is no

such enchanted spot as the Latin Quarter, but that every

generation sets back the mythical land into the golden age of

the Commune, or of 1848, or the days of 'Hernani.' It is the

same with New York's East Side, 'the fabulous East Side,' as

Mr. Huneker calls it in his collection of international urban

studies, 'The New Cosmopolis.' If one judged externals by

grime, by poverty, by sanded back-rooms, with long-haired

visionaries assailing the social order, then the East Side of

the early eighties has gone down before the mad rush of

settlement workers, impertinent reformers, sociological

cranks, self-advertising politicians, billionaire socialists,

and the reporters. To-day the sentimental traveller 'feels a

heart-pang to see the order, the cleanliness, the wide

streets, the playgrounds, the big boulevards, the absence of

indigence that have spoiled the most interesting part of New

York City.' But apparently this is only a first impression;

for Mr. Huneker had no trouble in discovering in one cafe a

patriarchal figure quite of the type beloved of the local-color

hunters of twenty years ago, a prophet, though speaking

a modern language and concerned with things of the day. So

that we owe to Mr. Huneker the discovery of a notable truth,

namely, that Bohemia is not only a creation of the sentimental

memory, but, being psychological, may be located in clean and

prosperous quarters. The tendency has always been to place it

in a golden age, but a tattered and unswept age. Bohemia is

now shown to exist amidst model tenements and sanitary

drinking-cups."

IVORY APES AND PEACOCKS With frontispiece portrait of Dostoievsky 12mo.

$1.50 net

NEW COSMOPOLIS 12mo. $1.50 net

THE PATHOS of DISTANCE A Book of a Thousand and One Moments 12mo. $2.00

net

PROMENADES of an IMPRESSIONIST 12mo. $1.50 net

"We like best such sober essays as those which analyze for us

the technical contributions of Cezanne and Rodin. Here Mr.

Huneker is a real interpreter, and here his long experience of

men and ways in art counts for much. Charming, in the lighter

vein, are such appreciations as the Monticelli, and Chardin."

--FRANK JEWETT MATHER, JR., in New York Nation and Evening

Post.

EGOISTS A Book of Supermen STENDHAL, BAUDELAIRE, FLAUBERT, ANATOLE

FRANCE, HUYSMANS, BARRES, HELLO, BLAKE, NIETZSCHE, IBSEN, AND MAX

STIRNER With Portrait and Facsimile Reproductions 12mo. $1.50 net

ICONOCLASTS: A Book of Dramatists 12mo. $1.50 net

CONTENTS: Henrik Ibsen--August Strindberg--Henry Becque--

Gerhart Hauptmann--Paul Hervieu--The Quintessence of Shaw--

Maxim Gorky's Nachtasyl--Hermann Sudermann--Princess

Mathilde's Play--Duse and D'Annunzio--Villiers de l'Isle

Adam--Maurice Maeterlinck.

"His style is a little jerky, but it is one of those rare

styles in which we are led to expect some significance, if not

wit, in every sentence."

--G. K. CHESTERTON, in London Daily News.

OVERTONES: A Book of Temperaments WITH FRONTISPIECE PORTRAIT Of RICHARD

STRAUSS 12mo. $1.50 net

"In some respects Mr. Huneker must be reckoned the most

brilliant of all living writers on matters musical."

--Academy, London.

MEZZOTINTS IN MODERN MUSIC BRAHMS, TSCHAIKOWSKY, CHOPIN. RICHARD

STRAUSS, LISZT, AND WAGNER 12mo. $1.50 net

"Mr. Huneker is, in the best sense, a critic; he listens to

the music and gives you his impressions as rapidly and in as

few words as possible; or he sketches the composers in fine,

broad, sweeping strokes with a magnificent disregard for

unimportant details. ... A distinctly original and very

valuable contribution to the world's tiny musical literature."

--J. F. RUNCIMAN, in London Saturday Review.

FRANZ LISZT WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS 12mo. $2.00 net

CHOPIN: The Man and His Music WITH ETCHED PORTRAIT 12mo. $2.00 net

VISIONARIES 12 mo. $1.50 net

CONTENTS: A Master of Cobwebs--The Eighth Deadly Sin--The

Puree of Aholibah--Rebels of the Moon--The Spiral Road--A Mock

Sun--Antichrist--The Eternal Duel--The Enchanted Yodler--The

Third Kingdom--The Haunted Harpsichord--The Tragic Wall--A

Sentimental Rebellion--Hall of the Missing Footsteps--The

Cursory Light--An Iron Fan--The Woman Who Loved Chopin--The

Tune of Time--Nada--Pan.

"In 'The Spiral Road' and in some of the other stories both

fantasy and narrative may be compared with Hawthorne in his

most unearthly moods. The younger man has read his Nietzsche

and has cast off his heritage of simple morals. Hawthorne's

Puritanism finds no echo in these modern souls, all sceptical,

wavering and unblessed. But Hawthorne's splendor of vision and

his power of sympathy with a tormented mind do live again in

the best of Mr. Huneker's stories."

--London Academy (Feb. 3, 1906).

MELOMANIACS 12mo. $1.50 net

"It would be difficult to sum up 'Melomaniacs' in a phrase.

Never did a book, in my opinion at any rate, exhibit greater

contrasts, not, perhaps, of strength and weakness, but of

clearness and obscurity."

--HAROLD E. GORST, in London Saturday Review.

End of Project Gutenberg's Chopin: The Man and His Music, by James Huneker