Chapter XIII
CHOPIN'S PRODUCTIONS FROM THE SPRING OF 1829 TO THEEND OF 1831.--THE CHIEF INFLUENCES THAT HELPED TO FORM HIS STYLE OF COMPOSITION.
Let us pause for a little in our biographical inquiries and critically examine what Chopin had achieved as a composer since the spring of 1829. At the very first glance it becomes evident that the works of the last two years (1829-1831) are decidedly superior to those he wrote before that time. And this advance was not due merely to the increased power derived from practice; it was real growth, which a Greek philosopher describes as penetration of nourishment into empty places, the nourishment being in Chopin's case experience of life's joys and sorrows. In most of the works of what I call his first period, the composer luxuriates, as it were, in language. He does not regard it solely or chiefly as the interpreter of thoughts and feelings, he loves it for its own sake, just as children, small and tall, prattle for no other reason than the pleasure of prattling. I closed the first period when a new element entered Chopin's life and influenced his artistic work. This element was his first love, his passion for Constantia Gtadkowska. Thenceforth Chopin's compositions had in them more of humanity and poetry, and the improved subject-matter naturally, indeed necessarily, chastened, ennobled, and enriched the means and ways of expression. Of course no hard line can be drawn between the two periods--the distinctive quality of the one period appears sometimes in the work of the other: a work of the earlier period foreshadows the character of the later; one of the later re-echoes that of the earlier.
The compositions which we know to have been written by Chopin between 1829 and 1831 are few in number. This may be partly because Chopin was rather idle from the autumn of 1830 to the end of 1831, partly because no account of the production of other works has come down to us. In fact, I have no doubt that other short pieces besides those mentioned by Chopin in his letters were composed during those years, and subsequently published by him. The compositions oftenest and most explicitly mentioned in the letters are also the most important ones--namely, the concertos. As I wish to discuss them at some length, we will keep them to the last, and see first what allusions to other compositions we can find, and what observations these latter give rise to.
On October 3, 1829, Chopin sends his friend Titus Woyciechowski a waltz which, he says, was, like the Adagio of the F minor Concerto, inspired by his ideal, Constantia Gladkowska:--
Pay attention to the passage marked with a +; nobody, except you, knows of this. How happy would I be if I could play my newest compositions to you! In the fifth bar of the trio the bass melody up to E flat dominates, which, however, I need not tell you, as you are sure to feel it without being told.
The remark about the bass melody up to E flat in the trio gives us a clue to which of Chopin's waltzes this is. It can be no other than the one in D flat which Fontana published among his friend's posthumous works as Op. 70, No. 3. Although by no means equal to any of the waltzes published by Chopin himself, one may admit that it is pretty; but its chief claim to our attention lies in the fact that it contains germs which reappear as fully-developed flowers in other examples of this class of the master's works--the first half of the first part reappears in the opening (from the ninth bar onward) of Op. 42 (Waltz in A flat major); and the third part, in the third part (without counting the introductory bars) of Op. 34, No. 1 (Waltz in A flat major).
On October 20, 1829, Chopin writes:--"During my visit at Prince Radziwill's [at Antonin] I wrote an Alla Polacca. It is nothing more than a brilliant salon piece, such as pleases ladies"; and on April 10, 1830:--
I shall play [at a soiree at the house of Lewicki] Hummel's "La Sentinelle," and at the close my Polonaise with violoncello, for which I have composed an Adagio as an introduction. I have already rehearsed it, and it does not sound badly.
Prince Radziwill, the reader will remember, played the violoncello. It was, however, not to him but to Merk that Chopin dedicated this composition, which, before departing from Vienna to Paris, he left with Mechetti, who eventually published it under the title of "Introduction et Polonaise brillante pour piano et violoncelle," dediees a Mr. Joseph Merk. On the whole we may accept Chopin's criticism of his Op. 3 as correct. The Polonaise is nothing but a brilliant salon piece. Indeed, there is very little in this composition--one or two pianoforte passages, and a finesse here and there excepted--that distinguishes it as Chopin's. The opening theme verges even dangerously to the commonplace. More of the Chopinesque than in the Polonaise may be discovered in the Introduction, which was less of a piece d'occasion. What subdued the composer's individuality was no doubt the violoncello, which, however, is well provided with grateful cantilene.
On two occasions Chopin writes of studies. On October 20, 1829: "I have composed a study in my own manner"; and on November 14, 1829: "I have written some studies; in your presence I would play them well." These studies are probably among the twelve published in the summer of 1833, they may, however, also be among those published in the autumn of 1837. The twelfth of the first sheaf of studies (Op. 10) Chopin composed, as already stated, at Stuttgart, when he was under the excitement caused by the news of the taking of Warsaw by the Russians on September 8, 1831.
The words "I intend to write a Polonaise with orchestra," contained in a letter dated September 18, 1830, give rise to the interesting question: "Did Chopin realise his intention, and has the work come down to us?" I think both questions can be answered in the affirmative. At any rate, I hold that internal evidence seems to indicate that Op. 22, the "Grande Polonaise brillante precedee d'un Andante spianato avec orchestre," which was published in the summer of 1836, is the work in question. Whether the "Andante" was composed at the same time, and what, if any, alterations were subsequently made in the Polonaise, I do not venture to decide. But the Polonaise has so much of Chopin's early showy virtuosic style and so little of his later noble emotional power that my conjecture seems reasonable. Moreover, the fact that the orchestra is employed speaks in favour of my theory, for after the works already discussed in the tenth chapter, and the concertos with which we shall concern ourselves presently, Chopin did not in any other composition (i.e., after 1830) write for the orchestra. His experiences in Warsaw, Vienna, and Paris convinced him, no doubt, that he was not made to contend with masses, either as an executant or as a composer. Query: Is the Polonaise, of which Chopin says in July, 1831, that he has to leave it to Wurfel, Op. 22 or another work?
Two other projects of Chopin, however, seem to have remained unrealised--a Concerto for two pianos which he intended to play in public at Vienna with his countryman Nidecki (letter of December 21, 1830), and Variations for piano and violin on a theme of Beethoven's, to be written conjointly by himself and Slavik (letters of December 21 and 25, 1830). Fragments of the former of these projected works may, however, have been used in the "Allegro de Concert," Op. 46, published in 1842.
In the letter of December 21, 1830, there is also an allusion to a waltz and mazurkas just finished, but whether they are to be found among the master's printed compositions is more than I can tell.
The three "Ecossaises" of the year 1830, which Fontana published as Op. 72, No. 3, are the least individual of Chopin's compositions, and almost the only dances of his which may be described as dance music pure and simple--rhythm and melody without poetry, matter with a minimum of soul.
The posthumous Mazurka (D major) of 1829-30 is unimportant. It contains nothing notable, except perhaps the descending chromatic successions of chords of the sixth. In fact, we can rejoice in its preservation only because a comparison with a remodelling of 1832 allows us to trace a step in Chopin's development.
And now we come to the concertos, the history of which, as far as it is traceable in the composer's letters, I will here place before the reader. If I repeat in this chapter passages already quoted in previous chapters, it is for the sake of completeness and convenience.
October 3, 1829.--I have--perhaps to my misfortune--already found my ideal, whom I worship faithfully and sincerely. Six months have elapsed and I have not yet exchanged a syllable with her of whom I dream every night. Whilst my thoughts were with her I composed the Adagio of my Concerto.
The Adagio here mentioned is that of the F minor Concerto, Op. 21, which he composed before but published after the F. minor Concerto, Op. 11--the former appearing in print in April, 1836, the latter in September, 1833. [Footnote: The slow movements of Chopin's concertos are marked Larglietto, the composer uses here the word Adagio generically--i.e., in the sense of slow movement generally.] Karasowski says mistakingly that the movement referred to is the Adagio of the E minor Concerto. He was perhaps misled by a mistranslation of his own. In the German version of his Chopin biography he gives the concluding words of the above quotation as "of my new Concerto," but there is no new in the Polish text (na ktorego pamiatke skomponowalem Adagio do mojego Koncertu).
October 20, 1829.--Elsner has praised the Adagio of the Concerto. He says that there is something new in it. As to the Rondo I do not wish yet to hear a judgment, for I am not yet satisfied with it myself. I am curious whether I shall finish this work when I return [from a visit to Prince Radziwill].
November 14, 1829.--I received your last letter at Antonin at Radziwill's. I was there a week; you cannot imagine how quickly and pleasantly the time passed to me. I left by the last coach, and had much trouble in getting away. As for me I should have stayed till they had turned me out; but my occupations and, above all things, my Concerto, which is impatiently waiting for its Finale, have compelled me to take leave of this Paradise.
On March 17, 1830, Chopin played the F minor Concerto at the first concert he gave in Warsaw. How it was received by the public and the critics on this occasion and on that of a second concert has been related in the ninth chapter (p.131).
March 27, 1830.--I hope yet to finish before the holidays the first Allegro of my second Concerto [i.e., the one in E minor], and therefore I should in any case wait till after the holidays [to give a third concert], although I am convinced that I should have this time a still larger audience than formerly; for the haute volee has not yet heard me.
On April 10, 1830, Chopin writes that his Concerto is not yet finished; and on May 15, 1830:--
The Rondo for my Concerto is not yet finished, because the right inspired mood has always beep wanting. If I have only the Allegro and the Adagio completely finished I shall be without anxiety about the Finale. The Adagio is in E major, and of a romantic, calm, and partly melancholy character. It is intended to convey the impression which one receives when the eye rests on a beloved landscape that calls up in one's soul beautiful memories--for instance, on a fine, moonlit spring night. I have written violins with mutes as an accompaniment to it. I wonder if that will have a good effect? Well, time will show.
August 21, 1830.--Next month I leave here; first, however, I must rehearse my Concerto, for the Rondo is now finished.
For an account of the rehearsals of the Concerto and its first public performance at Chopin's third Warsaw concert on October u, 1830, the reader is referred to the tenth chapter (p. 150). [FOOTNOTE: In the following remarks on the concertos I shall draw freely from the critical commentary on the Pianoforte Works of Chopin, which I contributed some years ago (1879) to the Monthly Musical Record.]
Chopin, says Liszt, wrote beautiful concertos and fine sonatas, but it is not difficult to perceive in these productions "plus de volonte que d'inspiration." As for his inspiration it was naturally "imperieuse, fantasque, irreflechie; ses allures ne pouvaient etre que libres." Indeed, Liszt believes that Chopin--
did violence to his genius every time he sought to fetter it by rules, classifications, and an arrangement that was not his own, and could not accord with the exigencies of his spirit, which was one of those whose grace displays itself when they seem to drift along [alter a la derive]....The classical attempts of Chopin nevertheless shine by a rare refinement of style. They contain passages of great interest, parts of surprising grandeur.
With Chopin writing a concerto or a sonata was an effort, and the effort was always inadequate for the attainment of the object--a perfect work of its kind. He lacked the peculiar qualities, natural and acquired, requisite for a successful cultivation of the larger forms. He could not grasp and hold the threads of thought which he found flitting in his mind, and weave them into a strong, complex web; he snatched them up one by one, tied them together, and either knit them into light fabrics or merely wound them into skeins. In short, Chopin was not a thinker, not a logician--his propositions are generally good, but his arguments are poor and the conclusions often wanting. Liszt speaks sometimes of Chopin's science. In doing this, however, he misapplies the word. There was nothing scientific in Chopin's mode of production, and there is nothing scientific in his works. Substitute "ingenious" (in the sense of quick-witted and possessed of genius, in the sense of the German geistreich) for "scientific," and you come near to what Liszt really meant. If the word is applicable at all to art, it can be applicable only to works which manifest a sustained and dominating intellectual power, such, for instance, as a fugue of Bach's, a symphony of Beethoven's, that is, to works radically different from those of Chopin. Strictly speaking, the word, however, is not applicable to art, for art and science are not coextensive; nay, to some extent, are even inimical to each other. Indeed, to call a work of art purely and simply "scientific," is tantamount to saying that it is dry and uninspired by the muse. In dwelling so long on this point my object was not so much to elucidate Liszt's meaning as Chopin's character as a composer.
Notwithstanding their many shortcomings, the concertos may be said to be the most satisfactory of Chopin's works in the larger forms, or at least those that afford the greatest amount of enjoyment. In some respects the concerto-form was more favourable than the sonata-form for the exercise of Chopin's peculiar talent, in other respects it was less so. The concerto-form admits of a far greater and freer display of the virtuosic capabilities of the pianoforte than the sonata-form, and does not necessitate the same strictness of logical structure, the same thorough working-out of the subject-matter. But, on the other hand, it demands aptitude in writing for the orchestra and appropriately solid material. Now, Chopin lacked such aptitude entirely, and the nature of his material accorded little with the size of the structure and the orchestral frame. And, then, are not these confessions of intimate experiences, these moonlight sentimentalities, these listless dreams, &c., out of place in the gaslight glare of concert-rooms, crowded with audiences brought together to a great extent rather by ennui, vanity, and idle curiosity than by love of art?
The concerto is the least perfect species of the sonata genus; practical, not ideal, reasons have determined its form, which owes its distinctive features to the calculations of the virtuoso, not to the inspiration of the creative artist. Romanticism does not take kindly to it. Since Beethoven the form has been often modified, more especially the long introductory tutti omitted or cut short. Chopin, however, adhered to the orthodox form, taking unmistakably Hummel for his model. Indeed, Hummel's concertos were Chopin's model not only as regards structure, but also to a certain extent as regards the character of the several movements. In the tutti's of the first movement, and in the general complexion of the second (the slow) and the third (Rondo) movement, this discipleship is most apparent. But while noting the resemblance, let us not overlook the difference. If the bones are Hummel's (which no doubt is an exaggeration of the fact), the flesh, blood, and soul are Chopin's. In his case adherence to the orthodox concerto-form was so much the more regrettable as writing for the orchestra was one of his weakest points. Indeed, Chopin's originality is gone as soon as he writes for another instrument than the pianoforte. The commencement of the first solo is like the opening of a beautiful vista after a long walk through dreary scenery, and every new entry of the orchestra precipitates you from the delectable regions of imagination to the joyless deserts of the actual. Chopin's inaptitude in writing for the orchestra is, however, most conspicuous where he employs it conjointly with the pianoforte. Carl Klindworth and Carl Tausig have rescored the concertos: the former the one in F minor, the latter the one in E minor. Klindworth wrote his arrangement of the F minor Concerto in 1867-1868 in London, and published it ten years later at Moscow (P. Jurgenson).[FOOTNOTE: The title runs: "Second Concerto de Chopin, Op. 21, avec un nouvel accompagnement d'orchestre d'apres la partition originale par Karl Klindworth. Dedie a Franz Lizt." It is now the property of the Berlin publishers Bote and Bock.] A short quotation from the preface will charactise his work:--
The principal pianoforte part has, notwithstanding the entire remodelling of the score, been retained almost unchanged. Only in some passages, which the orchestra, in consequence of a richer instrumentation, accompanies with greater fulness, the pianoforte part had, on that account, to be made more effective by an increase of brilliance. By these divergences from the original, from the so perfect and beautifully effectuating [effectuirenden] pianoforte style of Chopin, either the unnecessary doubling of the melody already pregnantly represented by the orchestra was avoided, or--in keeping with the now fuller harmonic support of the accompaniment--some figurations of the solo instrument received a more brilliant form.
Of Tausig's labour [FOOTNOTE: "Grosses Concert in E moll. Op. 11." Bearberet von Carl Tausig. Score, pianoforte, and orchestral parts. Berlin: Ries and Erler.] I shall only say that his cutting-down and patching-up of the introductory tutti, to mention only one thing, are not well enough done to excuse the liberty taken with a great composer's work. Moreover, your emendations cannot reach the vital fault, which lies in the conceptions. A musician may have mastered the mechanical trick of instrumentation, and yet his works may not be at heart orchestral. Instrumentation ought to be more than something that at will can be added or withheld; it ought to be the appropriate expression of something that appertains to the thought. The fact is, Chopin could not think for the orchestra, his thoughts took always the form of the pianoforte language; his thinking became paralysed when he made use of another medium of expression. Still, there have been critics who thought differently. The Polish composer Sowinski declared without circumlocution that Chopin "wrote admirably for the orchestra." Other countrymen of his dwelt at greater length, and with no less enthusiasm, on what is generally considered a weak point in the master's equipment. A Paris correspondent of the Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik (1834) remarked a propos of the F minor Concerto that there was much delicacy in the instrumentation. But what do the opinions of those critics, if they deserve the name, amount to when weighed against that of the rest of the world, nay, even against that of Berlioz alone, who held that "in the compositions of Chopin all the interest is concentrated in the piano part, the orchestra of his concertos is nothing but a cold and almost useless accompaniment"?
All this and much more may be said against Chopin's concertos, yet such is the charm, loveliness, delicacy, elegance, and brilliancy of the details, that one again and again forgives and forgets their shortcomings as wholes. But now let us look at these works a little more closely.
The first-composed and last-published Concerto, the one in F minor, Op. 21 (dedicated to Madame la Comtesse Delphine Potocka), opens with a tutti of about seventy bars. When, after this, the pianoforte interrupts the orchestra impatiently, and then takes up the first subject, it is as if we were transported into another world and breathed a purer atmosphere. First, there are some questions and expostulations, then the composer unfolds a tale full of sweet melancholy in a strain of lovely, tenderly-intertwined melody. With what inimitable grace he winds those delicate garlands around the members of his melodic structure! How light and airy the harmonic base on which it rests! But the contemplation of his grief disturbs his equanimity more and more, and he begins to fret and fume. In the second subject he seems to protest the truthfulness and devotion of his heart, and concludes with a passage half upbraiding, half beseeching, which is quite captivating, nay more, even bewitching in its eloquent persuasiveness. Thus far, from the entrance of the pianoforte, all was irreproachable. How charming if Chopin had allowed himself to drift on the current of his fancy, and had left rules, classifications, &c., to others! But no, he had resolved to write a concerto, and must now put his hand to the rudder, and have done with idle dreaming, at least for the present--unaware, alas, that the idle dreamings of some people are worth more than their serious efforts. Well, what is unpoetically called the working-out section--to call it free fantasia in this instance would be mockery--reminds me of Goethe's "Zauberlehrling," who said to himself in the absence of his master, "I noted his words, works, and procedure, and, with strength of mind, I also shall do wonders." How the apprentice conjured up the spirits, and made them do his bidding; how, afterwards, he found he had forgotten the formula with which to stop and banish them, and what were the consequent sad results, the reader will, no doubt, remember. The customary repetition of the first section of the movement calls for no remark. Liszt cites the second movement (Larghetto, A flat major) of this work as a specimen of the morceaux d'une surprenante grandeur to be found in Chopin's concertos and sonatas, and mentions that the composer had a marked predilection for it, delighting in frequently playing it. And Schumann exclaims: "What are ten editorial crowns compared to one such Adagio as that in the second concerto!" The beautiful deep-toned, love-laden cantilena, which is profusely and exquisitely ornamented in Chopin's characteristic style, is interrupted by a very impressive recitative of some length, after which the cantilena is heard again. But criticism had better be silent, and listen here attentively. And how shall I describe the last movement (Allegro vivace F minor, 3-4)--its feminine softness and rounded contours, its graceful, gyrating, dance-like motions, its sprightliness and frolicsomeness? Unless I quote every part and particle, I feel I cannot do justice to it. The exquisite ease and grace, the subtle spirit that breathes through this movement, defy description, and, more, defy the attempts of most performers to reproduce the original. He who ventures to interpret Chopin ought to have a soul strung with chords which the gentlest breath of feeling sets in vibration, and a body of such a delicate and supple organisation as to echo with equal readiness the music of the soul. As to the listener, he is carried away in this movement from one lovely picture to another, and no time is left him to reflect and make objections with reference to the whole.
The Concerto in E minor, Op. 11, dedicated to Mr. Fred Kalkbrenner, shows more of volonte and less of inspiration than the one in F minor. One can almost read in it the words of the composer, "If I have only the Allegro and the Adagio completely finished, I shall be in no anxiety about the Finale." The elongated form of the first movement--the introductory tutti alone extends to 138 bars--compares disadvantageously with the greater compactness of the corresponding movement in the F minor Concerto, and makes still more sensible the monotony resulting from the key-relation of the constituent parts, the tonic being the same in both subjects. The scheme is this:--First subject in E minor, second subject in E major, working-out section in C major, leading through various keys to the return of the first subject in E minor and of the second subject in G major, followed by a close in E minor. The tonic is not relieved till the commencement of the working-out section. The re-entrance of the second subject brings, at last, something of a contrast. How little Chopin understood the importance or the handling of those powerful levers, key-relation and contrast, may also be observed in the Sonata, Op. 4, where the last movement brings the first subject in C minor and the second in G minor. Here the composer preserves the same mode (minor), there the same tonic, the result being nearly the same in both instances. But, it may be asked, was not this languid monotony which results from the employment of these means just what Chopin intended? The only reply that can be made to this otherwise unanswerable objection is, so much the worse for the artist's art if he had such intentions. Chopin's description of the Adagio quoted above--remember the beloved landscape, the beautiful memories, the moonlit spring night, and the muted violins--hits off its character admirably. Although Chopin himself designates the first Allegro as "vigorous"--which in some passages, at least from the composer's standpoint, we may admit it to be--the fundamental mood of this movement is one closely allied to that which he says he intended to express in the Adagio. Look at the first movement, and judge whether there are not in it more pale moonlight reveries than fresh morning thoughts. Indeed, the latter, if not wholly absent, are confined to the introductory bars of the first subject and some passage-work. Still, the movement is certainly not without beauty, although the themes appear somewhat bloodless, and the passages are less brilliant and piquant than those in the F minor Concerto. Exquisite softness and tenderness distinguish the melodious parts, and Chopin's peculiar coaxing tone is heard in the semiquaver passage marked tranquillo of the first subject. The least palatable portion of the movement is the working-out section. The pianoforte part therein reminds one too much of a study, without having the beauty of Chopin's compositions thus entitled; and the orchestra amuses itself meanwhile with reminiscences of the principal motives. Chopin's procedure in this and similar cases is pretty much the same (F minor Concerto, Krakowiak, &c.), and recalls to my mind--may the manes of the composer forgive me--a malicious remark of Rellstab's. Speaking of the introduction to the Variations, Op. 2, he says: "The composer pretends to be going to work out the theme." It is curious, and sad at the same time, to behold with what distinction Chopin treats the bassoon, and how he is repaid with mocking ingratitude. But enough of the orchestral rabble. The Adagio is very fine in its way, but such is its cloying sweetness that one longs for something bracing and active. This desire the composer satisfies only partially in the last movement (Rondo vivace, 2-4, E major). Nevertheless, he succeeds in putting us in good humour by his gaiety, pretty ways, and tricksy surprises (for instance, the modulations from E major to E flat major, and back again to E major). We seem, however, rather to look on the play of fantoccini than the doings of men; in short, we feel here what we have felt more or less strongly throughout the whole work--there is less intensity of life and consequently less of human interest in this than in the F minor Concerto.
Almost all my remarks on the concertos run counter to those made by W. von Lenz. The F minor Concerto he holds to be an uninteresting work, immature and fragmentary in plan, and, excepting some delicate ornamentation, without originality. Nay, he goes even so far as to say that the passage-work is of the usual kind met with in the compositions of Hummel and his successors, and that the cantilena in the larghetto is in the jejune style of Hummel; the last movement also receives but scanty and qualified praise. On the other hand, he raves about the E minor Concerto, confining himself, however, to the first movement. The second movement he calls a "tiresome nocturne," the Rondo "a Hummel." A tincture of classical soberness and self-possession in the first movement explains Lenz's admiration of this composition, but I fail to understand the rest of his predilections and critical utterances.
In considering these concertos one cannot help exclaiming--What a pity that Chopin should have set so many beautiful thoughts and fancies in such a frame and thereby marred them! They contain passages which are not surpassed in any of his most perfect compositions, yet among them these concertos cannot be reckoned. It is difficult to determine their rank in concerto literature. The loveliness, brilliancy, and piquancy of the details bribe us to overlook, and by dazzling us even prevent us from seeing, the formal shortcomings of the whole. But be their shortcomings ever so great and many, who would dispense with these works? Therefore, let us be thankful, and enjoy them without much grumbling.
Schumann in writing of the concertos said that Chopin introduced Beethoven spirit [Beethovenischen Geist] into the concert-room, dressing the master's thoughts, as Hummel had done Mozart's, in brilliant, flowing drapery; and also, that Chopin had instruction from the best, from Beethoven, Schubert, and Field--that the first might be supposed to have educated his mind to boldness, the second his heart to tenderness, the third his fingers to dexterity. Although as a rule a wonderfully acute observer, Schumann was not on this occasion very happy in the few critical utterances which he vouchsafed in the course of the general remarks of which his notice mainly consists. Without congeniality there cannot be much influence, at least not in the case of so exclusive and fastidious a nature as Chopin's. Now, what congeniality could there be between the rugged German and the delicate Pole? All accounts agree in that Chopin was far from being a thorough-going worshipper of Beethoven--he objected to much in his matter and manner, and, moreover, could not by any means boast an exhaustive acquaintance with his works. That Chopin assimilated something of Beethoven is of course more likely than not; but, if a fact, it is a latent one. As to Schubert, I think Chopin knew too little of his music to be appreciably influenced by him. At any rate, I fail to perceive how and where the influence reveals itself. Of Field, on the other hand, traces are discoverable, and even more distinct ones of Hummel. The idyllic serenity of the former and the Mozartian sweetness of the latter were truly congenial to him; but no less, if not more, so was Spohr's elegiac morbidezza. Chopin's affection for Spohr is proved by several remarks in his letters: thus on one occasion (October 3, 1829) he calls the master's Octet a wonderful work; and on another occasion (September 18, 1830) he says that the Quintet for pianoforte, flute, clarinet, bassoon, and horn (Op. 52) is a wonderfully beautiful work, but not suitable for the pianoforte. How the gliding cantilena in sixths and thirds of the minuet and the serpentining chromatic passages in the last movement of the last-mentioned work must have flattered his inmost soul! There can be no doubt that Spohr was a composer who made a considerable impression upon Chopin. In his music there is nothing to hurt the most fastidious sensibility, and much to feed on for one who, like Jaques in "As you like it", could "suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel eggs."
Many other composers, notably the supremely-loved and enthusiastically-admired Mozart and Bach, must have had a share in Chopin's development; but it cannot be said that they left a striking mark on his music, with regard to which, however, it has to be remembered that the degree of external resemblance does not always accurately indicate the degree of internal indebtedness. Bach's influence on Mendelssohn, Schumann, Chopin, and others of their contemporaries, and its various effects on their styles, is one of the curiosities of nineteenth century musical history; a curiosity, however, which is fully disclosed only by subtle analysis. Field and especially Hummel are those musicians who--more, however, as pianists than as composers (i.e., more by their pianoforte language than by their musical thoughts)--set the most distinct impress on Chopin's early virtuosic style, of which we see almost the last in the concertos, where it appears in a chastened and spiritualised form very different from the materialism of the Fantasia (Op. 13) and the Krakowiak (Op. 14). Indeed, we may say of this style that the germ, and much more than the germ, of almost every one of its peculiarities is to be found in the pianoforte works of Hummel and Field; and this statement the concertos of these masters, more especially those of the former, and their shorter pieces, more especially the nocturnes of the latter, bear out in its entirety. The wide-spread broken chords, great skips, wreaths of rhythmically unmeasured ornamental notes, simultaneous combinations of unequal numbers of notes (five or seven against four, for instance), &c., are all to be found in the compositions of the two above-named pianist-composers. Chopin's style, then, was not original? Most decidedly it was. But it is not so much new elements as the development and the different commixture, in degree and kind, of known elements which make an individual style--the absolutely new being, generally speaking, insignificant compared with the acquired and evolved. The opinion that individuality is a spontaneous generation is an error of the same kind as that imagination has nothing to do with memory. Ex nihilo nihil fit. Individuality should rather be regarded as a feminine organisation which conceives and brings forth; or, better still, as a growing thing which feeds on what is germane to it, a thing with self-acting suctorial organs that operate whenever they come in contact with suitable food. A nucleus is of course necessary for the development of an individuality, and this nucleus is the physical and intellectual constitution of the individual. Let us note in passing that the development of the individuality of an artistic style presupposes the development of the individuality of the man's character. But not only natural dispositions, also acquired dexterities affect the development of the individuality of an artistic style. Beethoven is orchestral even in his pianoforte works. Weber rarely ceases to be operatic. Spohr cannot help betraying the violinist, nor Schubert the song-composer. The more Schumann got under his command the orchestral forces, the more he impressed on them the style which he had formed previously by many years of playing and writing for the pianoforte. Bach would have been another Bach if he had not been an organist. Clementi was and remained all his life a pianist. Like Clementi, so was also Chopin under the dominion of his instrument. How the character of the man expressed itself in the style of the artist will become evident when we examine Chopin's masterpieces. Then will also be discussed the influence on his style of the Polish national music.
Chapter XIV
PARIS IN 1831.--LIFE IN THE STREETS.--ROMANTICISM AND LIBERALISM.--ROMANTICISM IN LITERATURE.--CHIEF LITERARY PUBLICATIONS OF THE TIME.--THE PICTORIAL ARTS.--MUSIC AND MUSICIANS.--CHOPIN'S OPINION OF THE GALAXY OF SINGERS THEN PERFORMING AT THE VARIOUS OPERA-HOUSES.
Chopin's sensations on plunging, after his long stay in the stagnant pool of Vienna, into the boiling sea of Paris might have been easily imagined, even if he had not left us a record of them. What newcomer from a place less populous and inhabited by a less vivacious race could help wondering at and being entertained by the vastness, variety, and bustle that surrounded him there?
Paris offers anything you may wish [writes Chopin]. You can amuse yourself, mope, laugh, weep, in short, do whatever you like; no one notices it, because thousands do the same. Everybody goes his own way....The Parisians are a peculiar people. When evening sets in one hears nothing but the crying of titles of little new books, which consist of from three to four sheets of nonsense. The boys know so well how to recommend their wares that in the end--willing or not--one buys one for a sou. They bear titles such as these:--"L'art de faire, des amours, et de les conserver ensuite"; "Les amours des pretres"; "L'Archeveque de Paris avec Madame la duchesse de Berry"; and a thousand similar absurdities which, however, are often very wittily written. One cannot but be astonished at the means people here make use of to earn a few pence.
All this and much more may be seen in Paris every day, but in 1831 Paris life was not an everyday life. It was then and there, if at any time and anywhere, that the "roaring loom of Time" might be heard: a new garment was being woven for an age that longed to throw off the wornout, tattered, and ill-fitting one inherited from its predecessors; and discontent and hopefulness were the impulses that set the shuttle so busily flying hither and thither. This movement, a reaction against the conventional formalism and barren, superficial scepticism of the preceding age, had ever since the beginning of the century been growing in strength and breadth. It pervaded all the departments of human knowledge and activity--politics, philosophy, religion, literature, and the arts. The doctrinaire school in politics and the eclectic school in philosophy were as characteristic products of the movement as the romantic school in poetry and art. We recognise the movement in Lamennais' attack on religious indifference, and in the gospel of a "New Christianity" revealed by Saint Simon and preached and developed by Bazard and Enfantin, as well as in the teaching of Cousin, Villemain, and Guizot, and in the works of V. Hugo, Delacroix, and others. Indeed, unless we keep in view as far as possible all the branches into which the broad stream divides itself, we shall not be able to understand the movement aright either as a whole or in its parts. V. Hugo defines the militant--i.e., negative side of romanticism as liberalism in literature. The positive side of the liberalism of the time might, on the other hand, not inaptly be described as romanticism in speculation and practice. This, however, is matter rather for a history of civilisation than for a biography of an artist. Therefore, without further enlarging on it, I shall let Chopin depict the political aspect of Paris in 1831 as he saw it, and then attempt myself a slight outline sketch of the literary and artistic aspect of the French capital, which signifies France.
Louis Philippe had been more than a year on the throne, but the agitation of the country was as yet far from being allayed:--
There is now in Paris great want and little money in circulation. One meets many shabby individuals with wild physiognomies, and sometimes one hears an excited, menacing discussion on Louis Philippe, who, as well as his ministers, hangs only by a single hair. The populace is disgusted with the Government, and would like to overthrow it, in order to make an end of the misery; but the Government is too well on its guard, and the least concourse of people is at once dispersed by the mounted police.
Riots and attentats were still the order of the day, and no opportunity for a demonstration was let slip by the parties hostile to the Government. The return of General Ramorino from Poland, where he had taken part in the insurrection, offered such an opportunity. This adventurer, a natural son of Marshal Lannes, who began his military career in the army of Napoleon, and, after fighting wherever fighting was going on, ended it on the Piazza d'Armi at Turin, being condemned by a Piedmontese court-martial to be shot for disobedience to orders, was hardly a worthy recipient of the honours bestowed upon him during his journey through Germany and France. But the personal merit of such popular heroes of a day is a consideration of little moment; they are mere counters, counters representative of ideas and transient whims.
The enthusiasm of the populace for our general is of course known to you [writes Chopin to his friend Woyciechowski]. Paris would not be behind in this respect. [Footnote: The Poles and everything Polish were at that time the rage in Paris; thus, for instance, at one of the theatres where dramas were generally played, they represented now the whole history of the last Polish insurrection, and the house was every night crammed with people who wished to see the combats and national costumes.] The Ecole de Medecine and the jeune France, who wear their beards and cravats according to a certain pattern, intend to honour him with a great demonstration. Every political party--I speak of course only of the ultras--has its peculiar badge: the Carlists have green waistcoats, the Republicans and Napoleonists (and these form the jeune France) [red], [Footnote: Chopin has omitted this word, which seems to be necessary to complete the sentence; at least, it is neither in the Polish nor German edition of Karasowski's book.] the Saint-Simonians who profess a new religion, wear blue, and so forth. Nearly a thousand of these young people marched with a tricolour through the town in order to give Ramorino an ovation. Although he was at home, and notwithstanding the shouting of "Vive les Polonais!" he did not show himself, not wishing to expose himself to any unpleasantness on the part of the Government. His adjutant came out and said that the general was sorry he could not receive them and begged them to return some other day. But the next day he took other lodgings. When some days afterwards an immense mass of people--not only young men, but also rabble that had congregated near the Pantheon--proceeded to the other side of the Seine to Ramorino's house, the crowd increased like an avalanche till it was dispersed by several charges of the mounted police who had stationed themselves at the Pont Neuf. Although many were wounded, new masses of people gathered on the Boulevards under my windows in order to join those who were expected from the other side of the Seine. The police was now helpless, the crowd increased more and more, till at last a body of infantry and a squadron of hussars advanced; the commandant ordered the municipal guard and the troops to clear the footpaths and street of the curious and riotous mob and to arrest the ringleaders. (This is the free nation!) The panic spread with the swiftness of lightning: the shops were closed, the populace flocked together at all the corners of the streets, and the orderlies who galloped through the streets were hissed. All windows were crowded by spectators, as on festive occasions with us at home, and the excitement lasted from eleven o'clock in the morning till eleven o'clock at night. I thought that the affair would have a bad end; but towards midnight they sang "Allons enfants de la patrie!" and went home. I am unable to describe to you the impression which the horrid voices of this riotous, discontented mob made upon me! Everyone was afraid that the riot would be continued next morning, but that was not the case. Only Grenoble has followed the example of Lyons; however, one cannot tell what may yet come to pass in the world!
The length and nature of Chopin's account show what a lively interest he took in the occurrences of which he was in part an eye and ear-witness, for he lived on the fourth story of a house (No. 27) on the Boulevard Poissonniere, opposite the Cite Bergere, where General Ramorino lodged. But some of his remarks show also that the interest he felt was by no means a pleasurable one, and probably from this day dates his fear and horror of the mob. And now we will turn from politics, a theme so distasteful to Chopin that he did not like to hear it discussed and could not easily be induced to take part in its discussion, to a theme more congenial, I doubt not, to all of us.
Literary romanticism, of which Chateaubriand and Madame de Stael were the harbingers, owed its existence to a longing for a greater fulness of thought, a greater intenseness of feeling, a greater appropriateness and adequateness of expression, and, above all, a greater truth to life and nature. It was felt that the degenerated classicists were "barren of imagination and invention," offered in their insipid artificialities nothing but "rhetoric, bombast, fleurs de college, and Latin-verse poetry," clothed "borrowed ideas in trumpery imagery," and presented themselves with a "conventional elegance and noblesse than which there was nothing more common." On the other hand, the works of the master-minds of England, Germany, Spain, and Italy, which were more and more translated and read, opened new, undreamt-of vistas. The Bible, Homer, and Shakespeare began now to be considered of all books the most worthy to be studied. And thus it came to pass that in a short time a most complete revolution was accomplished in literature, from abject slavery to unlimited freedom.
There are neither rules nor models [says V. Hugo, the leader of the school, in the preface to his Cromwell (1827)], or rather there are no other rules than the general laws of nature which encompass the whole art, and the special laws which for every composition result from the conditions of existence peculiar to each subject. The former are eternal, internal, and remain; the latter variable, external, and serve only once.
Hence theories, poetics, and systems were to be broken up, and the old plastering which covered the fagade of art was to be pulled down. From rules and theories the romanticists appealed to nature and truth, without forgetting, however, that nature and art are two different things, and that the truth of art can never be absolute reality. The drama, for instance, must be "a concentrating mirror which, so far from enfeebling, collects and condenses the colouring rays and transforms a glimmer into a light, a light into a flame." To pass from form to matter, the attention given by the romanticists to history is particularly to be noted. Pierre Dubois, the director of the philosophical and literary journal "Le Globe," the organ of romanticism (1824-1832), contrasts the poverty of invention in the works of the classicists with the inexhaustible wealth of reality, "the scenes of disorder, of passion, of fanaticism, of hypocrisy, and of intrigue," recorded in history. What the dramatist has to do is to perform the miracle "of reanimating the personages who appear dead on the pages of a chronicle, of discovering by analysis all the shades of the passions which caused these hearts to beat, of recreating their language and costume." It is a significant fact that Sainte-Beuve opened the campaign of romanticism in "Le Globe" with a "Tableau de la poesie francaise au seizieme siecle," the century of the "Pleiade," and of Rabelais and Montaigne. It is a still more significant fact that the members of the "Cenacle," the circle of kindred minds that gathered around Victor Hugo--Alfred de Vigny, Emile Deschamps, Sainte-Beuve, David d'Angers, and others--"studied and felt the real Middle Ages in their architecture, in their chronicles, and in their picturesque vivacity." Nor should we overlook in connection with romanticism Cousin's aesthetic teaching, according to which, God being the source of all beauty as well as of all truth, religion, and morality, "the highest aim of art is to awaken in its own way the feeling of the infinite." Like all reformers the romanticists were stronger in destruction than in construction. Their fundamental doctrines will hardly be questioned by anyone in our day, but the works of art which they reared on them only too often give just cause for objection and even rejection. However, it is not surprising that, with the physical and spiritual world, with time and eternity at their arbitrary disposal, they made themselves sometimes guilty of misrule. To "extract the invariable laws from the general order of things, and the special from the subject under treatment," is no easy matter. V. Hugo tells us that it is only for a man of genius to undertake such a task, but he himself is an example that even a man so gifted is fallible. In a letter written in the French capital on January 14, 1832, Mendelssohn says of the "so-called romantic school" that it has infected all the Parisians, and that on the stage they think of nothing but the plague, the gallows, the devil, childbeds, and the like. Nor were the romances less extravagant than the dramas. The lyrical poetry, too, had its defects and blemishes. But if it had laid itself open to the blame of being "very unequal and very mixed," it also called for the praise of being "rich, richer than any lyrical poetry France had known up to that time." And if the romanticists, as one of them, Sainte-Beuve, remarked, "abandoned themselves without control and without restraint to all the instincts of their nature, and also to all the pretensions of their pride, or even to the silly tricks of their vanity," they had, nevertheless, the supreme merit of having resuscitated what was extinct, and even of having created what never existed in their language. Although a discussion of romanticism without a characterisation of its specific and individual differences is incomplete, I must bring this part of my remarks to a close with a few names and dates illustrative of the literary aspect of Paris in 1831. I may, however, inform the reader that the subject of romanticism will give rise to further discussion in subsequent chapters.
The most notable literary events of the year 1831 were the publication of Victor Hugo's "Notre Dame de Paris," "Feuilles d'automne," and "Marion Delorme"; Dumas' "Charles VII"; Balzac's "La peau de chagrin"; Eugene Sue's "Ata Gull"; and George Sand's first novel, "Rose et Blanche," written conjointly with Sandeau. Alfred de Musset and Theophile Gautier made their literary debuts in 1830, the one with "Contes d'Espagne et d'ltalie," the other with "Poesies." In the course of the third decade of the century Lamartine had given to the world "Meditations poetiques," "Nouvelles Meditations poetiques," and "Harmonies poetiques et religieuses"; Victor Hugo, "Odes et Ballades," "Les Orientales," three novels, and the dramas "Cromwell" and "Hernani"; Dumas, "Henri III et sa Cour," and "Stockholm, Fontainebleau et Rome"; Alfred de Vigny, "Poemes antiques et modernes" and "Cinq-Mars"; Balzac, "Scenes de la vie privee" and "Physiologie du Mariage." Besides the authors just named there were at this time in full activity in one or the other department of literature, Nodier, Beranger, Merimee, Delavigne, Scribe, Sainte-Beuve, Villemain, Cousin, Michelet, Guizot, Thiers, and many other men and women of distinction.
A glance at the Salon of 1831 will suffice to give us an idea of the then state of the pictorial art in France. The pictures which attracted the visitors most were: Delacroix's "Goddess of Liberty on the barricades"; Delaroche's "Richelieu conveying Cinq-Mars and De Thou to Lyons," "Mazarin on his death-bed," "The sons of Edward in the Tower," and "Cromwell beside the coffin of diaries I."; Ary Scheffer's "Faust and Margaret," "Leonore," "Talleyrand," "Henri IV.," and "Louis Philippe"; Robert's "Pifferari," "Burial," and "Mowers"; Horace Vernet's "Judith," "Capture of the Princes Conde," "Conti, and Longueville," "Camille Desmoulins," and "Pius VIII" To enumerate only a few more of the most important exhibitors I shall yet mention Decamps, Lessore, Schnetz, Judin, and Isabey. The dry list will no doubt conjure up in the minds of many of my readers vivid reproductions of the masterpieces mentioned or suggested by the names of the artists.
Romanticism had not invaded music to the same extent as the literary and pictorial arts. Berlioz is the only French composer who can be called in the fullest sense of the word a romanticist, and whose genius entitles him to a position in his art similar to those occupied by V. Hugo and Delacroix in literature and painting. But in 1831 his works were as yet few in number and little known. Having in the preceding year obtained the prix de Rome, he was absent from Paris till the latter part of 1832, when he began to draw upon himself the attention, if not the admiration, of the public by the concerts in which he produced his startlingly original works. Among the foreign musicians residing in the French capital there were many who had adopted the principles of romanticism, but none of them was so thoroughly imbued with its spirit as Liszt--witness his subsequent publications. But although there were few French composers who, strictly speaking, could be designated romanticists, it would be difficult to find among the younger men one who had not more or less been affected by the intellectual atmosphere.
An opera, "La Marquise de Brinvilliers," produced in 1831 at the Opera-Comique, introduces to us no less than nine dramatic composers, the libretto of Scribe and Castil-Blaze being set to music by Cherubini, Auber, Batton, Berton, Boieldieu, Blangini, Carafa, Herold, and Paer. [Footnote: Chopin makes a mistake, leaving out of account Boieldieu, when he says in speaking of "La Marquise de Brinvilliers" that the opera was composed by eight composers.] Cherubini, who towers above all of them, was indeed the high-priest of the art, the grand-master of the craft. Although the Nestor of composers, none equalled him in manly vigour and perennial youth. When seventy-six years of age (in 1836) he composed his fine Requiem in D minor for three-part male chorus, and in the following year a string quartet and quintet. Of his younger colleagues so favourable an account cannot be given. The youngest of them, Batton, a grand prix, who wrote unsuccessful operas, then took to the manufacturing of artificial flowers, and died as inspector at the Conservatoire, need not detain us. Berton, Paer, Blangini, Carafa (respectively born in 1767, 1771, 1781, and 1785), once composers who enjoyed the public's favour, had lost or were losing their popularity at the time we are speaking of; Rossini, Auber, and others having now come into fashion. They present a saddening spectacle, these faded reputations, these dethroned monarchs! What do we know of Blangini, the "Musical Anacreon," and his twenty operas, one hundred and seventy two-part "Notturni," thirty-four "Romances," &c.? Where are Paer's oratorios, operas, and cantatas performed now? Attempts were made in later years to revive some of Carafa's earlier works, but the result was on each occasion a failure. And poor Berton? He could not bear the public's neglect patiently, and vented his rage in two pamphlets, one of them entitled "De la musique mecanique et de la musique philosophique," which neither converted nor harmed anyone. Boieldieu, too, had to deplore the failure of his last opera, "Les deux nuits" (1829), but then his "La Dame blanche," which had appeared in 1825, and his earlier "Jean de Paris" were still as fresh as ever. Herold had only in this year (1831) scored his greatest success with "Zampa." As to Auber, he was at the zenith of his fame. Among the many operas he had already composed, there were three of his best--"Le Macon," "La Muette," and "Fra Diavolo"--and this inimitable master of the genre sautillant had still a long series of charming works in petto. To exhaust the list of prominent men in the dramatic department we have to add only a few names. Of the younger masters I shall mention Halevy, whose most successful work, "La Juive," did not come out till 1835, and Adam, whose best opera, "Le postilion de Longjumeau," saw the foot-lights in 1836. Of the older masters we must not overlook Lesueur, the composer of "Les Bardes," an opera which came out in 1812, and was admired by Napoleon. Lesueur, distinguished as a composer of dramatic and sacred music, and a writer on musical matters, had, however, given up all professional work with the exception of teaching composition at the Conservatoire. In fact, almost all the above-named old gentlemen, although out of fashion as composers, occupied important positions in the musical commonwealth as professors at that institution. Speaking of professors I must not forget to mention old Reicha (born in 1770), the well-known theorist, voluminous composer of instrumental music, and esteemed teacher of counterpoint and composition.
But the young generation did not always look up to these venerable men with the reverence due to their age and merit. Chopin, for instance, writes:--
Reicha I know only by sight. You can imagine how curious I am to make his personal acquaintance. I have already seen some of his pupils, but from them I have not obtained a favourable opinion of their teacher. He does not love music, never frequents the concerts of the Conservatoire, will not speak with anyone about music, and, when he gives lessons, looks only at his watch. Cherubini behaves in a similar manner; he is always speaking of cholera and the revolution. These gentlemen are mummies; one must content one's self with respectfully lookingat them from afar, and studying their works for instruction.
In these remarks of Chopin the concerts of the Conservatoire are made mention of; they were founded in 1828 by Habeneck and others and intended for the cultivation of the symphonic works of the great masters, more especially of Beethoven. Berlioz tells us in his Memoires, with his usual vivacity and causticity, what impressions the works of Beethoven made upon the old gentlemen above-named. Lesueur considered instrumental music an inferior genre, and although the C minor Symphony quite overwhelmed him, he gave it as his opinion that "one ought not to write such music." Cherubini was profoundly irritated at the success of a master who undermined his dearest theories, but he dared not discharge the bile that was gathering within him. That, however, he had the courage of his opinion may be gathered from what, according to Mendelssohn, he said of Beethoven's later works: "Ca me fait eternuer." Berton looked down with pity on the whole modern German school. Boieldieu, who hardly knew what to think of the matter, manifested "a childish surprise at the simplest harmonic combinations which departed somewhat from the three chords which he had been using all his life." Paer, a cunning Italian, was fond of letting people know that he had known Beethoven, and of telling stories more or less unfavourable to the great man, and flattering to the narrator. The critical young men of the new generation were, however, not altogether fair in their judgments; Cherubini, at least, and Boieldieu too, deserved better treatment at their hands.
In 1830 Auber and Rossini (who, after his last opera "Guillaume Tell," was resting on his laurels) were the idols of the Parisians, and reigned supreme on the operatic stage. But in 1831 Meyerbeer established himself as a third power beside them, for it was in that year that "Robert le Diable" was produced at the Academic Royale de Musique. Let us hear what Chopin says of this event. Speaking of the difficulties with which composers of operas have often to contend he remarks:--
Even Meyerbeer, who for ten years had been favourably known in the musical world, waited, worked, and paid in Paris for three years in vain before he succeeded in bringing about the performance of his opera "Robert le Diable," which now causes such a furore. Auber had got the start of Meyerbeer with his works, which are very pleasing to the taste of the people, and he did not readily make room for the foreigner at the Grand Opera.
And again:--
If there was ever a brilliant mise en scene at the Opera- Italien, I cannot believe that it equalled that of Robert le Diable, the new five-act opera of Meyerbeer, who has also written "Il Crociato." "Robert" is a masterpiece of the new school, where the devils sing through speaking-trumpets and the dead rise from their graves, but not as in "Szarlatan" [an opera of Kurpinski's], only from fifty to sixty persons all at once! The stage represents the interior of a convent ruin illuminated by the clear light of the full moon whose rays fall on the graves of the nuns. In the last act appear in brilliant candle-light monks with ancense, and from behind the scene are heard the solemn tones of the organ. Meyerbeer has made himself immortal by this work; but he had to wait more than three years before he could get it performed. People say that he has spent more than 20,000 francs for the organ and other things made use of in the opera.
[Footnote: This was the current belief at the time, which Meyerbeer, however, declares to be false in a letter addressed to Veron, the director of the Opera:--"L'orgue a ete paye par vous, fourni par vous, comme toutes les choses que reclamait la mise en scene de Robert, et je dois declarer que loin de vous tenir au strict neccessaire, vous avez depasse de bcaucoup les obligations ordinaires d'un directeur envers les auteurs et le public."]
The creative musicians having received sufficient attention, let us now turn for a moment to the executive ones. Of the pianists we shall hear enough in the next chapter, and therefore will pass them by for the present. Chopin thought that there were in no town more pianists than in Paris, nor anywhere more asses and virtuosos. Of the many excellent virtuosos on stringed and wind-instruments only a few of the most distinguished shall be mentioned. Baillot, the veteran violinist; Franchomme, the young violoncellist; Brod, the oboe-player; and Tulou, the flutist. Beriot and Lafont, although not constant residents like these, may yet be numbered among the Parisian artists. The French capital could boast of at least three first-rate orchestras--that of the Conservatoire, that of the Academic Royale, and that of the Opera-Italien. Chopin, who probably had on December 14 not yet heard the first of these, takes no notice of it, but calls the orchestra of the theatre Feydeau (Opera-Comique) excellent. Cherubini seems to have thought differently, for on being asked why he did not allow his operas to be performed at that institution, he answered:--"Je ne fais pas donner des operas sans choeur, sans orchestre, sans chanteurs, et sans decorations." The Opera-Comique had indeed been suffering from bankruptcy; still, whatever its shortcomings were, it was not altogether without good singers, in proof of which assertion may be named the tenor Chollet, Madame Casimir, and Mdlle. Prevost. But it was at the Italian Opera that a constellation of vocal talent was to be found such as has perhaps at no time been equalled: Malibran-Garcia, Pasta, Schroder-Devrient, Rubini, Lablache, and Santini. Nor had the Academic, with Nourrit, Levasseur, Derivis, Madame Damoreau-Cinti, and Madame Dorus, to shrink from a comparison. Imagine the treat it must have been to be present at the concert which took place at the Italian Opera on December 25, 1831, and the performers at which comprised artists such as Malibran, Rubini, Lablache, Santini, Madame Raimbaux, Madame Schroder-Devrient, Madame Casadory, Herz, and De Beriot!
Chopin was so full of admiration for what he had heard at the three operatic establishments that he wrote to his master Elsner:--
It is only here that one can learn what singing is. I believe that not Pasta, but Malibran-Garcia is now the greatest singer in Europe. Prince Valentin Radziwill is quite enraptured by her, and we often wish you were here, for you would be charmed with her singing.
The following extracts from a letter to his friend Woyciechowski contain some more of Chopin's criticism:--
As regards the opera, I must tell you that I never heard so fine a performance as I did last week, when the "Barber of Seville" was given at the Italian Opera, with Lablache, Rubini, and Malibran-Garcia in the principal parts. Of "Othello" there is likewise an excellent rendering in prospect, further also of "L'Italiana in Algeri." Paris has in this respect never offered so much as now. You can have no idea of Lablache. People say that Pasta's voice has somewhat failed, but I never heard in all my life such heavenly singing as hers. Malibran embraces with her wonderful voice a compass of three octaves; her singing is quite unique in its way, enchanting! Rubini, an excellent tenor, makes endless roulades, often too many colorature, vibrates and trills continually, for which he is rewarded with the greatest applause. His mezza voce is incomparable. A Schroder-Devrient is now making her appearance, but she does not produce such a furore here as in Germany. Signora Malibran personated Othello, Schroder-Devrient Desdemona. Malibran is little, the German lady taller. One thought sometimes that Desdemona was going to strangle Othello. It was a very expensive performance; I paid twenty-four francs for my seat, and did so because I wished to see Malibran play the part of the Moor, which she did not do particularly well. The orchestra was excellent, but the mise en scene in the Italian Opera is nothing compared with that of the French Academie Royale...Madame Damoreau-Cinti sings also very beautifully; I prefer her singing to that of Malibran. The latter astonishes one, but Cinti charms. She sings the chromatic scales and colorature almost more perfectly than the famous flute-player Tulou plays them. It is hardly possible to find a more finished execution. In Nourrit, the first tenor of the Grand Opera, [Footnote: It may perhaps not be superfluous to point out that Academie Royale (Imperial, or Nationale, as the case may be) de Musique, or simply Academie de Musique, and Grand Opera, or simply Opera, are different names for one and the same thing--namely, the principal opera-house in France, the institution whose specialties are grand opera and ballet.] one admires the warmth of feeling which speaks out of his singing. Chollet, the first tenor of the Opera-Comique, the best performer of Fra Diavolo, and excellent in the operas "Zampa" and "Fiancee," has a manner of his own in conceiving the parts. He captivates all with his beautiful voice, and is the favourite of the public.
Chapter XV
1831-1832.
ACQUAINTANCES AND FRIENDS: CHERUBINI, BAILLOT, FRANCHOMME, LISZT, MILLER, OSBORNE, MENDELSSOHN.--CHOPIN AND KALKBRENNER.--CHOPIN'S AIMS AS AN ARTIST.--KALKBRENNER'S CHARACTER AS A MAN AND ARTIST.--CHOPIN'S FIRST PARIS CONCERT.--FETIS.--CHOPIN PLAYS AT A CONCERT GIVEN BY THE PRINCE DE LA MOSKOWA.--HIS STATE OF MIND.--LOSS OF HIS POLISH LETTERS.--TEMPORARILY STRAITENED CIRCUMSTANCES AND BRIGHTENING PROSPECTS.--PATRONS AND WELL-WISHERS.--THE "IDEAL."--A LETTER TO HILLER.
Chopin brought only a few letters of introduction with him to Paris: one from Dr. Malfatti to Paer, and some from others to music-publishers. Through Paer he was made acquainted with Cherubini, Rossini, Baillot, and Kalkbrenner. Although Chopin in one of his early Paris letters calls Cherubini a mummy, he seems to have subsequently been more favourably impressed by him. At any rate, Ferdinand Hiller--who may have accompanied the new-comer, if he did not, as he thinks he did, introduce him, which is not reconcilable with his friend's statement that Paer made him acquainted with Cherubini--told me that Chopin conceived a liking for the burbero maestro, of whom Mendelssohn remarked that he composed everything with his head without the help of his heart.
The house of Cherubini [writes Veron in his "Memoires d'un Bourgeois de Paris"] was open to artists, amateurs, and people of good society; and every Monday a numerous assembly thronged his salons. All foreign artists wished to be presented to Cherubini. During these last years one met often at his house Hummel, Liszt, Chopin, Moscheles, Madame Grassini, and Mademoiselle Falcon, then young and brilliant in talent and beauty; Auber and Halevy, the favourite pupils of the master; and Meyerbeer and Rossini.
As evidence of the younger master's respect for the older one may be adduced a copy made by Chopin of one of Cherubini's fugues. This manuscript, which I saw in the possession of M. Franchomme, is a miracle of penmanship, and surpasses in neatness and minuteness everything I have seen of Chopin's writing, which is always microscopic.
From Dr. Hiller I learnt also that Chopin went frequently to Baillot's house. It is very probable that he was present at the soirees which Mendelssohn describes with his usual charming ease in his Paris letters. Baillot, though a man of sixty, still knew how to win the admiration of the best musicians by his fine, expressive violin-playing. Chopin writes in a letter to Elsner that Baillot was very amiable towards him, and had promised to take part with him in a quintet of Beethoven's at his concert; and in another letter Chopin calls Baillot "the rival of Paganini."
As far as I can learn there was not much intercourse between Chopin and Rossini. Of Kalkbrenner I shall have presently to speak at some length; first, however, I shall say a few words about some of the most interesting young artists whose acquaintance Chopin made.
One of these young artists was the famous violoncellist Franchomme, who told me that it was Hiller who first spoke to him of the young Pole and his unique compositions and playing. Soon after this conversation, and not long after the new-comer's arrival in Paris, Chopin, Liszt, Hiller, and Franchomme dined together. When the party broke up, Chopin asked Franchomme what he was going to do. Franchomme replied he had no particular engagement. "Then," said Chopin, "come with me and spend an hour or two at my lodgings." "Well," was the answer of Franchomme, "but if I do you will have to play to me." Chopin had no objection, and the two walked off together. Franchomme thought that Chopin was at that time staying at an hotel in the Rue Bergere. Be this as it may, the young Pole played as he had promised, and the young Frenchman understood him at once. This first meeting was the beginning of a life-long friendship, a friendship such as is rarely to be met with among the fashionable musicians of populous cities.
Mendelssohn, who came to Paris early in December, 1831, and stayed there till about the middle of April, 1832, associated a good deal with this set of striving artists. The diminutive "Chopinetto," which he makes use of in his letters to Hiller, indicates not only Chopin's delicate constitution of body and mind and social amiability, but also Mendelssohn's kindly feeling for him. [Footnote: Chopin is not mentioned in any of Mendelssohn's Paris letters. But the following words may refer to him; for although Mendelssohn did not play at Chopin's concert, there may have been some talk of his doing so. January 14, 1832: "Next week a Pole gives a concert; in it I have to play a piece for six performers with Kalkbrenner, Hiller and Co." Osborne related in his "Reminiscences of Frederick Chopin," a paper read before a meeting of the Musical Association (April 5, 1880), that he, Chopin, Hiller, and Mendelssohn, during the latter's stay in Paris, frequently dined together at a restaurant. They ordered and paid the dinner in turn. One evening at dessert they had a very animated conversation about authors and their manuscripts. When they were ready to leave Osborne called the waiter, but instead of asking for la note a payer, he said "Garcon, apportez-moi votre manuscrit." This sally of the mercurial Irishman was received with hearty laughter, Chopin especially being much tickled by the profanation of the word so sacred to authors. From the same source we learn also that Chopin took delight in repeating the criticisms on his performances which he at one time or other had chanced to overhear.
Not the least interesting and significant incident in Chopin's life was his first meeting and early connection with Kalkbrenner, who at that time--when Liszt and Thalberg had not yet taken possession of the commanding positions they afterwards occupied--enjoyed the most brilliant reputation of all the pianists then living. On December 16, 1831, Chopin writes to his friend Woyciechowski:--
You may easily imagine how curious I was to hear Herz and Hiller play; they are ciphers compared with Kalkbrenner. Honestly speaking, I play as well as Herz, but I wish I could play as well as Kalkbrenner. If Paganini is perfect, so also is he, but in quite another way. His repose, his enchanting touch, the smoothness of his playing, I cannot describe to you, one recognises the master in every note--he is a giant who throws all other artists into the shade. When I visited him, he begged me to play him something. What was I to do? As I had heard Herz, I took courage, seated myself at the instrument, and played my E minor Concerto, which charmed the people of the Bavarian capital so much. Kalkbrenner was astonished, and asked me if I were a pupil of Field's. He remarked that I had the style of Cramer, but the touch of Field. It amused me that Kalkbrenner, when he played to me, made a mistake and did not know how to go on; but it was wonderful to hear how he found his way again. Since this meeting we see each other daily, either he calls on me or I on him. He proposed to teach me for three years and make a great artist of me. I told him that I knew very well what I still lacked; but I will not imitate him, and three years are too much for me. He has convinced me that I play well only when I am in the right mood for it, but less well when this is not the case. This cannot be said of Kalkbrenner, his playing is always the same. When he had watched me for a long time, he came to the conclusion that I had no method; that I was indeed on a very good path, but might easily go astray; and that when he ceased to play, there would no longer be a representative of the grand pianoforte school left. I cannot create a new school, however much I may wish to do so, because I do not even know the old one; but I know that my tone-poems have some individuality in them, and that I always strive to advance.
If you were here, you would say "Learn, young man, as long as you have an opportunity to do so!" But many dissuade me from taking lessons, are of opinion that I play as well as Kalkbrenner, and that it is only vanity that makes him wish to have me for his pupil. That is nonsense. Whoever knows anything of music must think highly of Kalkbrenner's talent, although he is disliked as a man because he will not associate with everybody. But I assure you there is in him something higher than in all the virtuosos whom I have as yet heard. I have said this in a letter to my parents, who quite understand it. Elsner, however, does not comprehend it, and regards it as jealousy on Kalkbrenner's part that he not only praises me, but also wishes that my playing were in some respects different from what it is. In spite of all this I may tell you confidentially that I have already a distinguished name among the artists here.
Elsner expressed his astonishment that Kalkbrenner should require three years to reveal to Chopin the secrets of his art, and advised his former pupil not to confine the exercise of his musical talent to pianoforte-playing and the composition of pianoforte music. Chopin replies to this in a letter written on December 14, 1831, as follows:--
In the beginning of last year, although I knew what I yet lacked, and how very far I still was from equalling the model I have in you, I nevertheless ventured to think, "I will approach him, and if I cannot produce, a Lokietek ["the short," surname of a king of Poland; Elsner had composed an opera of that name], I may perhaps give to the world a Laskonogi ["the thin-legged," surname of another king of Poland]." To-day all such hopes are annihilated; I am forced to think of making my way in the world as a pianist. For some time I must keep in the background the higher artistic aim of which you wrote to me. In order to be a great composer one must possess, in addition to creative power, experience and the faculty of self-criticism, which, as you have taught me, one obtains not only by listening to the works of others, but still more by means of a careful critical examination of one's own.
After describing the difficulties which lie in the way of the opera composer, he proceeds:--
It is my conviction that he is the happier man who is able to execute his compositions himself. I am known here and there in Germany as a pianist; several musical journals have spoken highly of my concerts, and expressed the hope of seeing me soon take a prominent position among the first pianoforte- virtuosos. I had to-day anopportunity or fulfilling the promise I had made to myself. Why should I not embrace it?... I should not like to learn pianoforte-playing in Germany, for there no one could tell me precisely what it was that I lacked. I, too, have not seen the beam in my eye. Three years' study is far too much. Kalkbrenner, when he had heard me repeatedly, came to see that himself. From this you may see that a true meritorious virtuoso does not know the feeling of envy. I would certainly make up my mind to study for three years longer if I were certain that I should then reach the aim which I have kept in view. So much is clear to me, I shall never become a copy of Kalkbrenner; he will not be able to break my perhaps bold but noble resolve--TO CREATE A NEW ART-ERA. If I now continue my studies, I do so only in order to stand at some future time on my own feet. It was not difficult for Ries, who was then already recognised as a celebrated pianist, to win laurels at Berlin, Frankfort-on- the-Main, Dresden, &c., by his opera Die Rauberbraut. And how long was Spohr known as an excellent violinist before he had written Faust, Jessonda, and other works? I hope you will not deny me your blessing when you see on what grounds and with what intentions I struggle onwards.
This is one of the most important letters we have of Chopin; it brings before us, not the sighing lover, the sentimental friend, but the courageous artist. On no other occasion did he write so freely and fully of his views and aims. What heroic self-confidence, noble resolves, vast projects, flattering dreams! And how sad to think that most of them were doomed to end in failure and disappointment! But few are the lives of true artists that can really be called happy! Even the most successful have, in view of the ideally conceived, to deplore the quantitative and qualitative shortcomings of the actually accomplished. But to return to Kalkbrenner. Of him Chopin said truly that he was not a popular man; at any rate, he was not a popular man with the romanticists. Hiller tells us in his "Recollections and Letters of Mendelssohn" how little grateful he and his friends, Mendelssohn included, were for Kalkbrenner's civilities, and what a wicked pleasure they took in worrying him. Sitting one day in front of a cafe on the Boulevard des Italiens, Hiller, Liszt, and Chopin saw the prim master advancing, and knowing how disagreeable it would be to him to meet such a noisy company, they surrounded him in the friendliest manner, and assailed him with such a volley of talk that he was nearly driven to despair, which, adds Hiller, "of course delighted us." It must be confessed that the great Kalkbrenner, as M. Marmontel in his "Pianistes celebres" remarks, had "certaines etroitesses de caractere," and these "narrownesses" were of a kind that particularly provokes the ridicule of unconventional and irreverent minds. Heine is never more biting than when he speaks of Kalkbrenner. He calls him a mummy, and describes him as being dead long ago and having lately also married. This, however, was some years after the time we are speaking of. On another occasion Heine writes that Kalkbrenner is envied
for his elegant manners, for his polish and sweetishness, and for his whole marchpane-like appearance, in which, however, ihe calm observer discovers a shabby admixture of involuntary Berlinisms of the lowest class, so that Koreff could say of the man as wittily as correctly: "He looks like a bon-bon that has been in the mud."
A thorough belief in and an unlimited admiration of himself form the centre of gravity upon which the other qualities of Kalkbrenner's character balance themselves. He prided himself on being the pattern of a fine gentleman, and took upon him to teach even his oldest friends how to conduct themselves in society and at table. In his gait he was dignified, in his manners ceremonious, and in his speech excessively polite. He was addicted to boasting of honours offered him by the King, and of his intimacy with the highest aristocracy. That he did not despise popularity with the lower strata of society is evidenced by the anecdote (which the virtuoso is credited with having told himself to his guests) of the fish-wife who, on reading his card, timidly asks him to accept as a homage to the great Kalkbrenner a splendid fish which he had selected for his table. The artist was the counterpart of the man. He considered every success as by right his due, and recognised merit only in those who were formed on his method or at least acknowledged its superiority. His artistic style was a chastened reflex of his social demeanour.
It is difficult to understand how the Kalkbrenner-Chopin affair could be so often misrepresented, especially since we are in possession of Chopin's clear statements of the facts. [FOOTNOTE: Statements which are by no means invalidated by the following statement of Lenz:--"On my asking Chopin 'whether Kalkbrenner had understood much about it' [i.e. the art of pianoforte-playing], followed the answer: 'It was at the beginning of my stay in Paris.'"]. There are no grounds whatever to justify the assumption that Kalkbrenner was actuated by jealousy, artfulness, or the like, when he proposed that the wonderfully-gifted and developed Chopin should become his pupil for three years. His conceit of himself and his method account fully for the strangeness of the proposal. Moreover, three years was the regulation time of Kalkbrenner's course, and it was much that he was willing to shorten it in the case of Chopin. Karasowski, speaking as if he had the gift of reading the inmost thoughts of men, remarks: "Chopin did not suspect what was passing in Kalkbrenner's mind when he was playing to him." After all, I should like to ask, is there anything surprising in the fact that the admired virtuoso and author of a "Methode pour apprendre le Piano a l'aide du Guide-mains; contenant les principes de musique; un systems complet de doigter; des regles sur l'expression," &c., found fault with Chopin's strange fingering and unconventional style? Kalkbrenner could not imagine anything superior to his own method, anything finer than his own style. And this inability to admit the meritoriousness or even the legitimacy of anything that differed from what he was accustomed to, was not at all peculiar to this great pianist; we see it every day in men greatly his inferiors. Kalkbrenner's lament that when he ceased to play there would be no representative left of the grand pianoforte school ought to call forth our sympathy. Surely we cannot blame him for wishing to perpetuate what he held to be unsurpassable! According to Hiller, Chopin went a few times to the class of advanced pupils which Kalkbrenner had advised him to attend, as he wished to see what the thing was like. Mendelssohn, who had a great opinion of Chopin and the reverse of Kalkbrenner, was furious when he heard of this. But were Chopin's friends correct in saying that he played better than Kalkbrenner, and could learn nothing from him? That Chopin played better than Kalkbrenner was no doubt true, if we consider the emotional and intellectual qualities of their playing. But I think it was not correct to say that Chopin could learn nothing from the older master. Chopin was not only a better judge of Kalkbrenner than his friends, who had only sharp eyes for his short-comings, and overlooked or undervalued his good qualities, but he was also a better judge of himself and his own requirements. He had an ideal in his mind, and he thought that Kalkbrenner's teaching would help him to realise it. Then there is also this to be considered: unconnected with any school, at no time guided by a great master of the instrument, and left to his own devices at a very early age, Chopin found himself, as it were, floating free in the air without a base to stand on, without a pillar to lean against. The consequent feeling of isolation inspires at times even the strongest and most independent self-taught man--and Chopin, as a pianist, may almost be called one--with distrust in the adequacy of his self-acquired attainments, and an exaggerated idea of the advantages of a school education. "I cannot create a new school, because I do not even know the old one." This may or may not be bad reasoning, but it shows the attitude of Chopin's mind. It is also possible that he may have felt the inadequacy and inappropriateness of his technique and style for other than his own compositions. And many facts in the history of his career as an executant would seem to confirm the correctness of such a feeling. At any rate, after what we have read we cannot attribute his intention of studying under Kalkbrenner to undue self-depreciation. For did he not consider his own playing as good as that of Herz, and feel that he had in him the stuff to found a new era in music? But what was it then that attracted him to Kalkbrenner, and made him exalt this pianist above all the pianists he had heard? If the reader will recall to mind what I said in speaking of Mdlles. Sontag and Belleville of Chopin's love of beauty of tone, elegance, and neatness, he cannot be surprised at the young pianist's estimate of the virtuoso of whom Riehl says: "The essence of his nature was what the philologists call elegantia--he spoke the purest Ciceronian Latin on the piano." As a knowledge of Kalkbrenner's artistic personality will help to further our acquaintance with Chopin, and as our knowledge of it is for the most part derived from the libels and caricatures of well-intentioned critics, who in their zeal for a nobler and more glorious art overshoot the mark of truth, it will be worth our while to make inquiries regarding it.
Kalkbrenner may not inaptly be called the Delille of pianist-composers, for his nature and fate remind us somewhat of the poet. As to his works, although none of them possessed stamina enough to be long-lived, they would have insured him a fairer reputation if he had not published so many that were written merely for the market. Even Schumann confessed to having in his younger days heard and played Kalkbrenner's music often and with pleasure, and at a maturer age continued to acknowledge not only the master's natural virtuoso amiability and clever manner of writing effectively for fingers and hands, but also the genuinely musical qualities of his better works, of which he held the Concerto in D minor to be the "bloom," and remarks that it shows the "bright sides" of Kalkbrenner's "pleasing talent." We are, however, here more concerned with the pianist than with the composer. One of the best sketches of Kalkbrenner as a pianist is to be found in a passage which I shall presently quote from M. Marmontel's collection of "Silhouettes et Medaillons" of "Les Pianistes celebres." The sketch is valuable on account of its being written by one who is himself a master, one who does not speak from mere hearsay, and who, whilst regarding Kalkbrenner as an exceptional virtuoso, the continuator of Clementi, the founder ("one of the founders" would be more correct) of modern pianoforte-playing, and approving of the leading principle of his method, which aims at the perfect independence of the fingers and their preponderant action, does not hesitate to blame the exclusion of the action of the wrist, forearm, and arm, of which the executant should not deprive himself "dans les accents de legerete, d'expression et de force." But here is what M. Marmontel says:--
The pianoforte assumed under his fingers a marvellous and never harsh sonorousness, for he did not seek forced effects. His playing, smooth, sustained, harmonious, and of a perfect evenness, charmed even more than it astonished; moreover, a faultless neatness in the most difficult passages, and a left hand of unparalleled bravura, made Kalkbrenner an extraordinary virtuoso. Let us add that the perfect independence of the fingers, the absence of the in our day so frequent movements of the arms, the tranquillity of the hands and body, a perfect bearing--all these qualities combined, and many others which we forget, left the auditor free to enjoy the pleasure of listening without having his attention diverted by fatiguing gymnastics. Kalkbrenner's manner of phrasing was somewhat lacking in expression and communicative warmth, but the style was always noble, true, and of the grand school.
We now know what Chopin meant when he described Kalkbrenner as "perfect and possessed of something that raised him above all other virtuosos"; we now know also that Chopin's admiration was characteristic and not misplaced. Nevertheless, nobody will think for a moment of disagreeing with those who advised Chopin not to become a pupil of this master, who always exacted absolute submission to his precepts; for it was to be feared that he would pay too dear for the gain of inferior accomplishments with the loss of his invaluable originality. But, as we have seen, the affair came to nothing, Chopin ceasing to attend the classes after a few visits. What no doubt influenced his final decision more than the advice of his friends was the success which his playing and compositions met with at the concert of which I have now to tell the history. Chopin's desertion as a pupil did not terminate the friendly relation that existed between the two artists. When Chopin published his E minor Concerto he dedicated it to Kalkbrenner, and the latter soon after composed "Variations brillantes (Op. 120) pour le piano sur une Mazourka de Chopin," and often improvised on his young brother-artist's mazurkas. Chopin's friendship with Camille Pleyel helped no doubt to keep up his intercourse with Kalkbrenner, who was a partner of the firm of Pleyel & Co.
The arrangements for his concert gave Chopin much trouble, and had they not been taken in hand by Paer, Kalkbrenner, and especially Norblin, he would not have been able to do anything in Paris, where one required at least two months to get up a concert. This is what Chopin tells Elsner in the letter dated December 14, 1831. Notwithstanding such powerful assistance he did not succeed in giving his concert on the 25th of December, as he at first intended. The difficulty was to find a lady vocalist. Rossini, the director of the Italian Opera, was willing to help him, but Robert, the second director, refused to give permission to any of the singers in his company to perform at the concert, fearing that, if he did so once, there would be no end of applications. As Veron, the director of the Academie Royale likewise refused Chopin's request, the concert had to be put off till the 15th of January, 1832, when, however, on account of Kalkbrenner's illness or for some other reason, it had again to be postponed. At last it came off on February 26, 1832. Chopin writes on December 16, 1831, about the arrangements for the concert:--
Baillot, the rival of Paganini, and Brod, the celebrated oboe- player, will assist me with their talent. I intend to play my F minor Concerto and the Variations in B flat...I shall play not only the concerto and the variations, but also with Kalkbrenner his duet "Marche suivie d'une Polonaise" for two pianos, with the accompaniment of four others. Is this not an altogether mad idea? One of the grand pianos is very large, and is for Kalkbrenner; the other is small (a so-called mono- chord), and is for me. On the other large ones, which are as loud as an orchestra, Hiller, Osborne, Stamati, and Sowinski are to play. Besides these performers, Norblin, Vidal, and the celebrated viola-player Urban will take part in the concert.
The singers of the evening were Mdlles. Isambert and Tomeoni, and M. Boulanger. I have not been able to discover the programme of the concert. Hiller says that Chopin played his E minor Concerto and some of his mazurkas and nocturnes. Fetis, in the Revue musicale (March 3, 1832), mentions only in a general way that there were performed a concerto by Chopin, a composition for six pianos by Kalkbrenner, some vocal pieces, an oboe solo, and "a quintet for violin [sic], executed with that energy of feeling and that variety of inspiration which distinguish the talent of M. Baillot." The concert, which took place in Pleyel's rooms, was financially a failure; the receipts did not cover the expenses. The audience consisted chiefly of Poles, and most of the French present had free tickets. Hiller says that all the musical celebrities of Paris were there, and that Chopin's performances took everybody by storm. "After this," he adds, "nothing more was heard of want of technique, and Mendelssohn applauded triumphantly." Fetis describes this soiree musicale as one of the most pleasant that had been given that year. His criticism contains such interesting and, on the whole, such excellent remarks that I cannot resist the temptation to quote the more remarkable passages:--
Here is a young man who, abandoning himself to his natural impressions and without taking a model, has found, if not a complete renewal of pianoforte music, at least a part of what has been sought in vain for a long time--namely, an abundance of original ideas of which the type is to be found nowhere. We do not mean by this that M. Chopin is endowed with a powerful organisation like that of Beethoven, nor that there are in his music such powerful conceptions as one remarks in that of this great man. Beethoven has composed pianoforte music, but I speak here of pianists' music, and it is by comparison with the latter that I find in M. Chopin's inspirations the indication of a renewal of forms which may exercise in time much influence over this department of the art.
Of Chopin's concerto Fetis remarks that it:--
equally astonished and surprised his audience, as much by the novelty of the melodic ideas as by the figures, modulations, and general disposition of the movements. There is soul in these melodies, fancy in these figures, and originality in everything. Too much luxuriance in the modulations, disorder in the linking of the phrases, so that one seems sometimes to hear an improvisation rather than written music, these are the defects which are mixed with the qualities I have just now pointed out. But these defects belong to the age of the artist; they will disappear when experience comes. If the subsequent works of M. Chopin correspond to his debut, there can be no doubt but that he will acquire a brilliant and merited reputation.
As an executant also the young artist deserves praise. His playing is elegant, easy, graceful, and possesses brilliance and neatness. He brings little tone out of the instrument, and resembles in this respect the majority of German pianists. But the study which he is making of this part of his art, under the direction of M. Kalkbrenner, cannot fail to give him an important quality on which the nerf of execution depends, and without which the accents of the instrument cannot be modified.
Of course dissentient voices made themselves heard who objected to this and that; but an overwhelming majority, to which belonged the young artists, pronounced in favour of Chopin. Liszt says that he remembers his friend's debut:--
The most vigorous applause seemed not to suffice to our enthusiasm in the presence of this talented musician, who revealed a new phase of poetic sentiment combined with such happy innovations in the form of his art.
The concluding remark of the above-quoted criticism furnishes an additional proof that Chopin went for some time to Kalkbrenner's class. As Fetis and Chopin were acquainted with each other, we may suppose that the former was well informed on this point. In passing, we may take note of Chopin's account of the famous historian and theorist's early struggles:--
Fetis [Chopin writes on December 14, 1831], whom I know, and from whom one can learn much, lives outside the town, and comes to Paris only to give his lessons. They say he is obliged to do this because his debts are greater than the profits from his "Revue musicale." He is sometimes in danger of making intimate acquaintance with the debtors' prison. You must know that according to the law of the country a debtor can only be arrested in his dwelling. Fetis has, therefore, left the town and lives in the neighbourhood of Paris, nobody knows where.
On May 20, 1832, less than three months after his first concert, Chopin made his second public appearance in Paris, at a concert given by the Prince de la Moskowa for the benefit of the poor. Among the works performed was a mass composed by the Prince. Chopin played the first movement of:--
the concerto, which had already been heard at Pleyel's rooms, and had there obtained a brilliant success. On this occasion it was not so well received, a fact which, no doubt, must be attributed to the instrumentation, which is lacking in lightness, and to the small volume of tone which M. Chopin draws from the piano. However, it appears to us that the music of this artist will gain in the public opinion when it becomes better known. [FOOTNOTE: From the "Revue musicale."]
The great attraction of the evening was not Chopin, but Brod, who "enraptured" the audience. Indeed, there were few virtuosos who were as great favourites as this oboe-player; his name was absent from the programme of hardly any concert of note.
In passing we will note some other musical events of interest which occurred about the same time that Chopin made his debut. On March 18 Mendelssohn played Beethoven's G major Concerto with great success at one of the Conservatoire concerts, [FOOTNOTE: It was the first performance of this work in Paris.] the younger master's overture to the "Midsummer Night's Dream" had been heard and well received at the same institution in the preceding month, and somewhat later his "Reformation Symphony" was rehearsed, but laid aside. In the middle of March Paganini, who had lately arrived, gave the first of a series of concerts, with what success it is unnecessary to say. Of Chopin's intercourse with Zimmermann, the distinguished pianoforte-professor at the Conservatoire, and his family we learn from M. Marmontel, who was introduced to Chopin and Liszt, and heard them play in 1832 at one of his master's brilliant musical fetes, and gives a charming description of the more social and intimate parties at which Chopin seems to have been occasionally present.
Madame Zimmermann and her daughters did the honours to a great number of artists. Charades were acted; the forfeits that were given, and the rebuses that were not guessed, had to be redeemed by penances varying according to the nature of the guilty ones. Gautier, Dumas, and Musset were condemned to recite their last poem. Liszt or Chopin had to improvise on a given theme, Mesdames Viardot, Falcon, and Euggnie Garcia had also to discharge their melodic debts, and I myself remember having paid many a forfeit.
The preceding chapter and the foregoing part of this chapter set forth the most important facts of Chopin's social and artistic life in his early Paris days. The following extract from a letter of his to Titus Woyciechowski, dated December 25, 1831, reveals to us something of his inward life, the gloom of which contrasts violently with the outward brightness:--
Ah, how I should like to have you beside me!... You cannot imagine how sad it is to have nobody to whom I can open my troubled heart. You know how easily I make acquaintances, how I love human society--such acquaintances I make in great numbers--but with no one, no one can I sigh. My heart beats as it were always "in syncopes," therefore I torment myself and seek for a rest--for solitude, so that the whole day nobody may look at me and speak to me. It is too annoying to me when there is a pull at the bell, and a tedious visit is announced while I am writing to you. At the moment when I was going to describe to you the ball, at which a divine being with a rose in her black hair enchanted me, arrives your letter. All the romances of my brain disappear? my thoughts carry me to you, I take your hand and weep...When shall we see each other again?...Perhaps never, because, seriously, my health is very bad. I appear indeed merry, especially when I am among my fellow-countrymen; but inwardly something torments me--a gloomy presentiment, unrest, bad dreams, sleeplessness, yearning, indifference to everything, to the desire to live and the desire to die. It seems to me often as if my mind were benumbed, I feel a heavenly repose in my heart, in my thoughts I see images from which I cannot tear myself away, and this tortures me beyond all measure. In short, it is a combination of feelings that are difficult to describe...Pardon me, dear Titus, for telling you of all this; but now I have said enough...I will dress now and go, or rather drive, to the dinner which our countrymen give to- day to Ramorino and Langermann...Your letter contained much that was news to me; you have written me four pages and thirty-seven lines--in all my life you have never been so liberal to me, and I stood in need of something of the kind, I stood indeed very much in need of it.
What you write about my artistic career is very true, and I myself am convinced of it.
I drive in my own equipage, only the coachman is hired.
I shall close, because otherwise I should be too late for the post, for I am everything in one person, master and servant. Take pity on me and write as often as possible!--Yours unto death,
FREDERICK.
In the postscript of this letter Chopin's light fancy gets the better of his heavy heart; in it all is fun and gaiety. First he tells his friend of a pretty neighbour whose husband is out all day and who often invites him to visit and comfort her. But the blandishments of the fair one were of no avail; he had no taste for adventures, and, moreover, was afraid to be caught and beaten by the said husband. A second love-story is told at greater length. The dramatis personae are Chopin, John Peter Pixis, and Francilla Pixis, a beautiful girl of sixteen, a German orphan whom the pianist-composer, then a man of about forty-three, had adopted, and who afterwards became known as a much-admired singer. Chopin made their acquaintance in Stuttgart, and remarks that Pixis said that he intended to marry her. On his return to Paris Pixis invited Chopin to visit him; the latter, who had by this time forgotten pretty Francilla, was in no hurry to call. What follows must be given in Chopin's own words:--
Eight days after the second invitation I went to his house, and accidentally met his pet on the stairs. She invited me to come in, assuring me it did not matter that Mr. Pixis was not at home; meanwhile I was to sit down, he would return soon, and so on. A strange embarrassment seized both of us. I made my excuses--for I knew the old man was very jealous--and said I would rather return another time. While we were talking familiarly and innocently on the staircase, Pixis came up, looking over his spectacles in order to see who was speaking above to his bella. He may not have recognised us at once, quickened his steps, stopped before us, and said to her harshly: "Qu'est-ce que vous faites ici?" and gave her a severe lecture for receiving young men in his absence, and so on. I addressed Pixis smilingly, and said to her that it was somewhat imprudent to leave the room in so thin a silk dress. At last the old man became calm--he took me by the arm and led me into the drawing-room. He was in such a state of excitement that he did not know what seat to offer me; for he was afraid that, if he had offended me, I would make better use of his absence another time. When I left he accompanied me down stairs, and seeing me smile (for I could not help doing so when I found I was thought capable of such a thing), he went to the concierge and asked how long it was since I had come. The concierge must have calmed his fears, for since that time Pixis does not know how to praise my talent sufficiently to all his acquaintances. What do you think of this? I, a dangerous seducteur!
The letters which Chopin wrote to his parents from Paris passed, after his mother's death, into the hands of his sister, who preserved them till September 19, 1863. On that day the house in which she lived in Warsaw--a shot having been fired and some bombs thrown from an upper story of it when General Berg and his escort were passing--was sacked by Russian soldiers, who burned or otherwise destroyed all they could lay hands on, among the rest Chopin's letters, his portrait by Ary Scheffer, the Buchholtz piano on which he had made his first studies, and other relics. We have now also exhausted, at least very nearly exhausted, Chopin's extant correspondence with his most intimate Polish friends, Matuszynski and Woyciechowski, only two unimportant letters written in 1849 and addressed to the latter remaining yet to be mentioned. That the confidential correspondence begins to fail us at this period (the last letter is of December 25, 1831) is particularly inopportune; a series of letters like those he wrote from Vienna would have furnished us with the materials for a thoroughly trustworthy history of his settlement in Paris, over which now hangs a mythical haze. Karasowski, who saw the lost letters, says they were tinged with melancholy.
Besides the thought of his unhappy country, a thought constantly kept alive by the Polish refugees with whom Paris was swarming, Chopin had another more prosaic but not less potent cause of disquietude and sadness. His pecuniary circumstances were by no means brilliant. Economy cannot fill a slender purse, still less can a badly-attended concert do so, and Chopin was loath to be a burden on his parents who, although in easy circumstances, were not wealthy, and whose income must have been considerably lessened by some of the consequences of the insurrection, such as the closing of schools, general scarcity of money, and so forth. Nor was Paris in 1831, when people were so busy with politics, El Dorado for musicians. Of the latter, Mendelssohn wrote at the time that they did not, like other people, wrangle about politics, but lamented over them. "One has lost his place, another his title, and a third his money, and they say this all proceeds from the 'juste milieu.'" As Chopin saw no prospect of success in Paris he began to think, like others of his countrymen, of going to America. His parents, however, were against this project, and advised him either to stay where he was and wait for better things, or to return to Warsaw. Although he might fear annoyances from the Russian government on account of his not renewing his passport before the expiration of the time for which it was granted, he chose the latter alternative. Destiny, however, had decided the matter otherwise.[FOOTNOTE: Karasowski says that Liszt, Hiller, and Sowinski dissuaded him from leaving Paris. Liszt and Hiller both told me, and so did also Franchomme, that they knew nothing of Chopin having had any such intention; and Sowinski does not mention the circumstance in his Musiciens polonais.] One day, or, as some will have it, on the very day when he was preparing for his departure, Chopin met in the street Prince Valentine Radziwill, and, in the course of the conversation which the latter opened, informed him of his intention of leaving Paris. The Prince, thinking, no doubt, of the responsibility he would incur by doing so, did not attempt to dissuade him, but engaged the artist to go with him in the evening to Rothschild's. Chopin, who of course was asked by the hostess to play something, charmed by his wonderful performance, and no doubt also by his refined manners, the brilliant company assembled there to such a degree that he carried off not only a plentiful harvest of praise and compliments, but also some offers of pupils. Supposing the story to be true, we could easily believe that this soiree was the turning-point in Chopin's career, but nevertheless might hesitate to assert that it changed his position "as if by enchantment." I said "supposing the story to be true," because, although it has been reported that Chopin was fond of alluding to this incident, his best friends seem to know nothing of it: Liszt does not mention it, Hiller and Franchomme told me they never heard of it, and notwithstanding Karasowski's contrary statement there is nothing to be found about it in Sowinski's Musiciens polonais. Still, the story may have a substratum of truth, to arrive at which it has only to be shorn of its poetical accessories and exaggerations, of which, however, there is little in my version.
But to whatever extent, or whether to any extent at all, this or any similar soiree may have served Chopin as a favourable introduction to a wider circle of admirers and patrons, and as a stepping-stone to success, his indebtedness to his countrymen, who from the very first befriended and encouraged him, ought not to be forgotten or passed over in silence for the sake of giving point to a pretty anecdote. The great majority of the Polish refugees then living in Paris would of course rather require than be able to afford help and furtherance, but there was also a not inconsiderable minority of persons of noble birth and great wealth whose patronage and influence could not but be of immense advantage to a struggling artist. According to Liszt, Chopin was on intimate terms with the inmates of the Hotel Lambert, where old Prince Adam Czartoryski and his wife and daughter gathered around them "les debris de la Pologne que la derniere guerre avait jetes au loin." Of the family of Count Plater and other compatriots with whom the composer had friendly intercourse we shall speak farther on. Chopin's friends were not remiss in exerting themselves to procure him pupils and good fees at the same time. They told all inquirers that he gave no lesson for less than twenty francs, although he had expressed his willingness to be at first satisfied with more modest terms. Chopin had neither to wait in vain nor to wait long, for in about a year's time he could boast of a goodly number of pupils.
The reader must have noticed with surprise the absence of any mention of the "Ideal" from Chopin's letters to his friend Titus Woyciechowski, to whom the love-sick artist was wont to write so voluminously on this theme. How is this strange silence to be accounted for? Surely this passionate lover could not have forgotten her beneath whose feet he wished his ashes to be spread after his death? But perhaps in the end of 1831 he had already learnt what was going to happen in the following year. The sad fact has to be told: inconstant Constantia Gladkowska married a merchant of the name of Joseph Grabowski, at Warsaw, in 1832; this at least is the information given in Sowinski's biographical dictionary Les musiciens polonais et slaves.[FOOTNOTE: According to Count Wodzinski she married a country gentleman, and subsequently became blind.] As the circumstances of the case and the motives of the parties are unknown to me, and as a biographer ought not to take the same liberties as a novelist, I shall neither expatiate on the fickleness and mercenariness of woman, nor attempt to describe the feelings of our unfortunate hero robbed of his ideal, but leave the reader to make his own reflections and draw his own moral.
On August 2, 1832, Chopin wrote a letter to Hiller, who had gone in the spring of the year to Germany. What the young Pole thought of this German brother-artist may be gathered from some remarks of his in the letter to Titus Woyciechowski dated December 16, 1831:--
The concert of the good Hiller, who is a pupil of Hummel and a youth of great talent, came off very successfully the day before yesterday. A symphony of his was received with much applause. He has taken Beethoven for his model, and his work is full of poesy and inspiration.
Since then the two had become more intimate, seeing each other almost every day, Chopin, as Osborne relates, being always in good spirits when Hiller was with him. The bearer of the said letter was Mr. Johns, to whom the five Mazurkas, Op. 7, are dedicated, and whom Chopin introduced to Hiller as "a distinguished amateur of New Orleans." After warmly recommending this gentleman, he excuses himself for not having acknowledged the receipt of his friend's letter, which procured him the pleasure of Paul Mendelssohn's acquaintance, and then proceeds:--
Your trios, my dear friend, have been finished for a long time, and, true to my character of a glutton, I have gulped down your manuscripts into my repertoire. Your concerto will be performed this month by Adam's pupils at the examination of the Conservatoire. Mdlle. Lyon plays it very well. La Tentation, an opera-ballet by Halevy and Gide, has not tempted any one of good taste, because it has just as little interest as your German Diet harmony with the spirit of the age. Maurice, who has returned from London, whither he had gone for the mise en scene of Robert (which has not had a very great success), has assured us that Moscheles and Field will come to Paris for the winter. This is all the news I have to give you. Osborne has been in London for the last two months. Pixis is at Boulogne. Kalkbrenner is at Meudon, Rossini at Bordeaux. All who know you await you with open arms. Liszt will add a few words below. Farewell, dear friend.
Yours most truly,
F. CHOPIN.
Paris, 2/8/32
Chapter XVI
1832-1834.
CHOPIN'S SUCCESS IN SOCIETY AND AS A TEACHER.--VARIOUS CONCERTS AT WHICH HE PLAYED.--A LETTER FROM CHOPIN AND LISZT TO HILLER.--SOME OF HIS FRIENDS.--STRANGE BEHAVIOUR.--A LETTER TO FRANCHOMME.--CHOPIN'S RESERVE.--SOME TRAITS OF THE POLISH CHARACTER.--FIELD.--BERLIOZ.--NEO-ROMANTICISM AND CHOPIN'S RELATION TO IT.--WHAT INFLUENCE HAD LISZT ON CHOPIN'S DEVELOPMENT--PUBLICATION OF WORKS.--THE CRITICS.--INCREASING POPULARITY.--JOURNEY IN THE COMPANY OF HILLER TO AIX-LA-CHAPELLE.--A DAY AT DUSSELDORF WITH MENDELSSOHN.
IN the season 1832-1833 Chopin took his place as one of the acknowledged pianistic luminaries of the French capital, and began his activity as a professor par excellence of the aristocracy. "His distinguished manners, his exquisite politeness, his studied and somewhat affected refinement in all things, made Chopin the model professor of the fashionable nobility." Thus Chopin is described by a contemporary. Now he shall describe himself. An undated letter addressed to his friend Dominic Dziewanowski, which, judging from an allusion to the death of the Princess Vaudemont, [FOOTNOTE: In a necrology contained in the Moniteur of January 6, 1833, she is praised for the justesse de son esprit, and described as naive et vraie comme une femme du peuple, genereuse comme une grande dame. There we find it also recorded that she saved M. de Vitrolles pendant les Cent-jours, et M. de Lavalette sous la Restoration.] must have been written about the second week of January, 1833, gives much interesting information concerning the writer's tastes and manners, the degree of success he had obtained, and the kind of life he was leading. After some jocular remarks on his long silence--remarks in which he alludes to recollections of Szafarnia and the sincerity of their friendship, and which he concludes with the statement that he is so much in demand on all sides as to betorn to pieces--Chopin proceeds thus:--
I move in the highest society--among ambassadors, princes, and ministers; and I don't know how I got there, for I did not thrust myself forward at all. But for me this is at present an absolute necessity, for thence comes, as it were, good taste. You are at once credited with more talent if you are heard at a soiree of the English or Austrian Ambassador's. Your playing is finer if the Princess Vaudemont patronises you. "Patronises" I cannot properly say, for the good old woman died a week ago. She was a lady who reminded me of the late Kasztelanowa Polaniecka, received at her house the whole Court, was very charitable, and gave refuge to many aristocrats in the days of terror of the first revolution. She was the first who presented herself after the days of July at the Court of Louis Philippe, although she belonged to the Montmorency family (the elder branch), whose last descendant she was. She had always a number of black and white pet dogs, canaries, and parrots about her; and possessed also a very droll little monkey, which was permitted even to... bite countesses and princesses.
Among the Paris artists I enjoy general esteem and friendship, although I have been here only a year. A proof of this is that men of great reputation dedicate their compositions to me, and do so even before I have paid them the same compliment--for instance, Pixis his last Variations for orchestra. He is now even composing variations on a theme of mine. Kalkbrenner improvises frequently on my mazurkas. Pupils of the Conservatoire, nay, even private pupils of Moscheles, Herz, and Kalkbrenner (consequently clever artists), still take lessons from me, and regard me as the equal of Field. Really, if I were somewhat more silly than I am, I might imagine myself already a finished artist; nevertheless, I feel daily how much I have still to learn, and become the more conscious of it through my intercourse with the first artists here, and my perception of what every one, even of them, is lacking in. But I am quite ashamed of myself for what I have written just now, having praised myself like a child. I would erase it, but I have no time to write another letter. Moreover, you will remember my character as it formerly was; indeed, I have remained quite the same, only with this one difference, that I have now whiskers on one side--unfortunately they won't grow at all on the other side. To-day I have to give five lessons; you will imagine that I must soon have made a fortune, but the cabriolet and the white gloves eat the earnings almost up, and without these things people would deny my bon ton. I love the Carlists, hate the Philippists, and am myself a revolutionist; therefore I don't care for money, but only for friendship, for the preservation of which I earnestly entreat you.
This letter, and still more the letters which I shall presently transcribe, afford irrefragable evidence of the baselessness of the often-heard statement that Chopin's intercourse was in the first years of his settlement in Paris confined to the Polish salons. The simple unexaggerated truth is that Chopin had always a predilection for, and felt more at home among, his compatriots.
In the winter 1832-1833 Chopin was heard frequently in public. At a concert of Killer's (December 15, 1832) he performed with Liszt and the concert-giver a movement of Bach's Concerto for three pianos, the three artists rendering the piece "avec une intelligence de son caractere et une delicatesse parfaite." Soon after Chopin and Liszt played between the acts of a dramatic performance got up for the benefit of Miss Smithson, the English actress and bankrupt manager, Berlioz's flame, heroine of his "Episode de la vie d'un artiste," and before long his wife. On April 3, 1833, Chopin assisted at a concert given by the brothers Herz, taking part along with them and Liszt in a quartet for eight hands on two pianos. M. Marmontel, in his silhouette of the pianist and critic Amedee de Mereaux, mentions that in 1832 this artist twice played with Chopin a duo of his own on "Le Pre aux Clercs," but leaves us in uncertainty as to whether they performed it at public concerts or private parties. M. Franchomme told me that he remembered something about a concert given by Chopin in 1833 at the house of one of his aristocratic friends, perhaps at Madame la Marechale de Lannes's! In summing up, as it were, Chopin's activity as a virtuoso, I may make use of the words of the Paris correspondent of the "Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung," who reports in April, 1833, that "Chopin and Osborne, as well as the other celebrated masters, delight the public frequently." In short, Chopin was becoming more and more of a favourite, not, however, of the democracy of large concert-halls, but of the aristocracy of select salons.
The following letter addressed to Hiller, written by Chopin and Liszt, and signed by them and Franchomme, brings together Chopin's most intimate artist friends, and spreads out before us a vivid picture of their good fellowship and the society in which they moved. I have put the portions written by Liszt within brackets [within parentheses in this e-text]. Thus the reader will see what belongs to each of the two writers, and how they took the pen out of each other's hand in the middle of a phrase and even of a word. With regard to this letter I have further to remark that Hiller, who was again in Germany, had lately lost his father:--
{This is at least the twentieth time that we have made arrangements to meet, sometimes at my house, sometimes here, [Footnote: At Chopin's lodgings mentioned farther on.] with the intention of writing to you, and some visit, or other unexpected hindrance, has always prevented us from doing so!...I don't know whether Chopin will be able to make any excuses to you; as regards myself it seems to me that we have been so excessively rude and impertinent that excuses are no longer either admissible or possible.
We have sympathised deeply with you in your sorrow, and longed to be with you in order to alleviate as much as possible the pangs of your heart.}
He has expressed himself so well that I have nothing to add in excuse of my negligence or idleness, influenza or distraction, or, or, or--you know I explain myself better in person; and when I escort you home to your mother's house this autumn, late at night along the boulevards, I shall try to obtain your pardon. I write to you without knowing what my pen is scribbling, because Liszt is at this moment playing my studies and transports me out of my proper senses. I should like to rob him of his way of rendering my own studies. As to your friends who are in Paris, I have seen the Leo family and their set [Footnote: Chopin's words are et qui s'en suit.' He refers, no doubt, to the Valentin family, relations of the Leos, who lived in the same house with them.] frequently this winter and spring. There have been some soirees at the houses of certain ambassadresses, and there was not one in which mention was not made of some one who is at Frankfort. Madame Eichthal sends you a thousand compliments. The whole Plater family were much grieved at your departure, and asked me to express to you their sympathy. (Madame d'Appony has quite a grudge against me for not having taken you to her house before your departure; she hopes that when you return you will remember the promise you made me. I may say as much from a certain lady who is not an ambassadress. [Footnote: This certain lady was the Countess d'Agoult.]
Do you know Chopin's wonderful studies?) They are admirable-- and yet they will only last till the moment yours appear (a little bit of authorial modesty!!!). A little bit of rudeness on the part of the tutor--for, to explain the matter better to you, he corrects my orthographical mistakes (after the fashion of M. Marlet.
You will come back to us in the month of September, will you not? Try to let us know the day as we have resolved to give you a serenade (or charivari). The most distinguished artists of the capital--M. Franchomme (present), Madame Petzold, and the Abbe Bardin, the coryphees of the Rue d'Amboise (and my neighbours), Maurice Schlesinger, uncles, aunts, nephews, nieces, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, &c., &c.) en plan du troisieme, &c. [Footnote: I give the last words in the original French, because I am not sure of their meaning. Hiller, to whom I applied for an explanation, was unable to help me. Perhaps Chopin uses here the word plan in the pictorial sense (premier plan, foreground; second plan, middle distance).]
The responsible editors,
(F. LISZT.) F. CHOPIN. (Aug. FRANCHOMME.)
A Propos, I met Heine yesterday, who asked me to grussen you herzlich und herzlich. [Footnote: To greet you heartily and heartily.] A propos again, pardon me for all the "you's"--I beg you to forgive me them. If you have a moment to spare let us have news of you, which is very precious to us.
Paris: Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin, No. 5.
At present I occupy Franck's lodgings--he has set out for London and Berlin; I feel quite at home in the rooms which were so often our place of meeting. Berlioz embraces you. As to pere Baillot, he is in Switzerland, at Geneva, and so you will understand why I cannot send you Bach's Concerto.
June 20, 1833.
Some of the names that appear in this letter will give occasion for comment. Chopin, as Hiller informed me, went frequently to the ambassadors Appony and Von Kilmannsegge, and still more frequently to his compatriots, the Platers. At the house of the latter much good music was performed, for the countess, the Pani Kasztelanowa (the wife of the castellan), to whom Liszt devotes an eloquent encomium, "knew how to welcome so as to encourage all the talents that then promised to take their upward flight and form une lumineuse pleiade," being
in turn fairy, nurse, godmother, guardian angel, delicate benefactress, knowing all that threatens, divining all that saves, she was to each of us an amiable protectress, equally beloved and respected, who enlightened, warmed, and elevated his [Chopin's] inspiration, and left a blank in his life when she was no more.
It was she who said one day to Chopin: "Si j'etais jeune et jolie, mon petit Chopin, je te prendrais pour mari, Hiller pour ami, et Liszt pour amant." And it was at her house that the interesting contention of Chopin with Liszt and Hiller took place. The Hungarian and the German having denied the assertion of the Pole that only he who was born and bred in Poland, only he who had breathed the perfume of her fields and woods, could fully comprehend with heart and mind Polish national music, the three agreed to play in turn, by way of experiment, the mazurka "Poland is not lost yet." Liszt began, Hiller followed, and Chopin came last and carried off the palm, his rivals admitting that they had not seized the true spirit of the music as he had done. Another anecdote, told me by Hiller, shows how intimate the Polish artist was with this family of compatriots, the Platers, and what strange whims he sometimes gave way to. One day Chopin came into the salon acting the part of Pierrot, and, after jumping and dancing about for an hour, left without having spoken a single word.
Abbe Bardin was a great musical amateur, at whose weekly afternoon gatherings the best artists might be seen and heard, Mendelssohn among the rest when he was in Paris in 1832-1833. In one of the many obituary notices of Chopin which appeared in French and other papers, and which are in no wise distinguished by their trustworthiness, I found the remark that the Abbe Bardin and M.M. Tilmant freres were the first to recognise Chopin's genius. The notice in question is to be found in the Chronique Musicale of November 3, 1849.
In Franck, whose lodgings Chopin had taken, the reader will recognise the "clever [geistreiche], musical Dr. Hermann Franck," the friend of many musical and other celebrities, the same with whom Mendelssohn used to play at chess during his stay in Paris. From Hiller I learned that Franck was very musical, and that his attainments in the natural sciences were considerable; but that being well-to-do he was without a profession. In the fifth decade of this century he edited for a year Brockhaus's Deutsche allgemeine Zeitung.
In the following letter which Chopin wrote to Franchomme--the latter thinks in the autumn of 1833--we meet with some new names. Dr. Hoffmann was a good friend of the composer's, and was frequently found at his rooms smoking. I take him to have been the well-known litterateur Charles Alexander Hoffmann, [Footnote: This is the usual German, French, and English spelling. The correct Polish spelling is Hofman. The forms Hoffman and Hofmann occur likewise.] the husband of Clementina Tanska, a Polish refugee who came to Paris in 1832 and continued to reside there till 1848. Maurice is of course Schlesinger the publisher. Of Smitkowski I know only that he was one of Chopin's Polish friends, whose list is pretty long and comprised among others Prince Casimir Lubomirski, Grzymala, Fontana, and Orda.
[Footnote: Of Grzymala and Fontana more will be heard in the sequel. Prince Casimir Lubomirski was a passionate lover of music, and published various compositions. Liszt writes that Orda, "who seemed to command a future," was killed at the age of twenty in Algiers. Karasowski gives the same information, omitting, however, the age. My inquiries about Orda among French musicians and Poles have had no result. Although the data do not tally with those of Liszt and Karasowski, one is tempted to identify Chopin's friend with the Napoleon Orda mentioned in Sowinski's Musiciens polonais et slaves--"A pianist-composer who had made himself known since the events of 1831. One owes to him the publication of a Polish Album devoted to the composers of this nation, published at Paris in 1838. M. Orda is the author of several elegantly-written pianoforte works." In a memoir prefixed to an edition of Chopin's mazurkas and waltzes (Boosey & Co.), J.W. Davison mentions a M. Orda (the "M." stands, I suppose, for Monsieur) and Charles Filtsch as pupils of Chopin.]
It was well for Chopin that he was so abundantly provided with friends, for, as Hiller told me, he could not do without company. But here is Chopin's letter to Franchomme:--
Begun on Saturday, the 14th, and finished on Wednesday, the 18th.
DEAR FRIEND,--It would be useless to excuse myself for my silence. If my thoughts could but go without paper to the post-office! However, you know me too well not to know that I, unfortunately, never do what I ought to do. I got here very comfortably (except for a little disagreeable episode, caused by an excessively odoriferous gentleman who went as far as Chartres--he surprised me in the night-time). I have found more occupation in Paris than I left behind me, which will, without doubt, hinder me from visiting you at Coteau. Coteau! oh Coteau! Say, my child, to the whole family at Coteau that I shall never forget my stay in Touraine--that so much kindness has made me for ever grateful. People think I am stouter and look very well, and I feel wonderfully well, thanks to the ladies that sat beside me at dinner, who bestowed truly maternal attentions upon me. When I think of all this the whole appears to me such an agreeable dream that I should like to sleep again. And the peasant-girls of Pormic! [FOOTNOTE: A village near the place where Chopin had been staying.] and the flour! or rather your graceful nose which you were obliged to plunge into it.
[FOOTNOTE: The remark about the "flour" and Franchomme's "nez en forme gracieuse" is an allusion to some childish game in which Chopin, thanks to his aquiline nose, got the better of his friend, who as regards this feature was less liberally endowed.]
A very interesting visit has interrupted my letter, which was begun three days ago, and which I have not been able to finish till to-day.
Hiller embraces you, Maurice, and everybody. I have delivered your note to his brother, whom I did not find at home.
Paer, whom I saw a few days ago, spoke to me of your return. Come back to us stout and in good health like me. Again a thousand messages to the estimable Forest family. I have neither words nor powers to express all I feel for them. Excuse me. Shake hands with me--I pat you on the shoulder--I hug you--I embrace you. My friend--au revoir.
Hoffmann, the stout Hoffmann, and the slim Smitkowski also, embrace you.
[FOOTNOTE: The orthography of the French original is very careless. Thus one finds frequent omissions and misplacements of accents and numerous misspellings, such as trouvais instead of trouve, engresse instead of engraisse, plonge instead of plonger. Of course, these mistakes have to be ascribed to negligence not to ignorance. I must mention yet another point which the English translation does not bring out--namely, that in addressing Franchomme Chopin makes use of the familiar form of the second person singular.]
The last-quoted letter adds a few more touches to the portraiture of Chopin which has been in progress in the preceding pages. The insinuating affectionateness and winning playfulness had hitherto not been brought out so distinctly. There was then, and there remained to the end of his life, something of a woman and of a boy in this man. The sentimental element is almost wholly absent from Chopin's letters to his non-Polish friends. Even to Franchomme, the most intimate among these, he shows not only less of his inmost feelings and thoughts than to Titus Woyciechowski and John Matuszyriski, the friends of his youth, but also less than to others of his countrymen whose acquaintance he made later in life, and of whom Grzymala may be instanced. Ready to give everything, says Liszt, Chopin did not give himself--
his most intimate acquaintances did not penetrate into the sacred recess where, apart from the rest of his life, dwelt the secret spring of his soul: a recess so well concealed that one hardly suspected its existence.
Indeed, you could as little get hold of Chopin as, to use L. Enault's expression, of the scaly back of a siren. Only after reading his letters to the few confidants to whom he freely gave his whole self do we know how little of himself he gave to the generality of his friends, whom he pays off with affectionateness and playfulness, and who, perhaps, never suspected, or only suspected, what lay beneath that smooth surface. This kind of reserve is a feature of the Slavonic character, which in Chopin's individuality was unusually developed.
The Slavonians [says Enault pithily] lend themselves, they do not give themselves; and, as if Chopin had wished to make his country-men pardon him the French origin of his family, he showed himself more Polish than Poland.
Liszt makes some very interesting remarks on this point, and as they throw much light on the character of the race, and on that of the individual with whom we are especially concerned in this book, I shall quote them:--
With the Slavonians, the loyalty and frankness, the familiarity and captivating desinvoltura of their manners, do not in the least imply trust and effusiveness. Their feelings reveal and conceal themselves like the coils of a serpent convoluted upon itself; it is only by a very attentive examination that one discovers the connection of the rings. It would be naive to take their complimentary politeness, their pretended modesty literally. The forms of this politeness and this modesty belong to their manners, which bear distinct traces of their ancient relations with the East. Without being in the least infected by Mussulmanic taciturnity, the Slavonians have learned from it a defiant reserve on all subjects which touch the intimate chords of the heart. One may be almost certain that, in speaking of themselves, they maintain with regard to their interlocutor some reticence which assures them over him an advantage of intelligence or of feeling, leaving him in ignorance of some circumstance or some secret motive by which they would be the most admired or the least esteemed; they delight in hiding themselves behind a cunning interrogatory smile of imperceptible mockery. Having on every occasion a taste for the pleasure of mystification, from the most witty and droll to the most bitter and lugubrious kinds, one would say that they see in this mocking deceit a form of disdain for the superiority which they inwardly adjudge to themselves, but which they veil with the care and cunning of the oppressed.
And now we will turn our attention once more to musical matters. In the letter to Hiller (August 2, 1832) Chopin mentioned the coming of Field and Moscheles, to which, no doubt, he looked forward with curiosity. They were the only eminent pianists whom he had not yet heard. Moscheles, however, seems not to have gone this winter to Paris; at any rate, his personal acquaintance with the Polish artist did not begin till 1839. Chopin, whose playing had so often reminded people of Field's, and who had again and again been called a pupil of his, would naturally take a particular interest in this pianist. Moreover, he esteemed him very highly as a composer. Mikuli tells us that Field's A flat Concerto and nocturnes were among those compositions which he delighted in playing (spielte mit Vorliebe). Kalkbrenner is reported [FOOTNOTE: In the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung of April 3, 1833.] to have characterised Field's performances as quite novel and incredible; and Fetis, who speaks of them in the highest terms, relates that on hearing the pianist play a concerto of his own composition, the public manifested an indescribable enthusiasm, a real delirium. Not all accounts, however, are equally favourable.
[FOOTNOTE: In the Revue musicale of December 29, 1832. The criticism is worth reproducing:--"Quiconque n'a point entendu ce grand pianiste ne peut se faire d'idee du mecanisme admirable de ses doigts, mecanisme tel que les plus grandes difficultes semblent etre des choses fort simples, et que sa main n'a point l'air de se mouvoir. Il n'est d'ailleurs pas mains etonnant dans l'art d'attaquer la note et de varier a l'infini les diverses nuances de force, de douceur et d'accent. Un enthousiasme impossible a decrire, un veritable delire s'est manifeste dans le public a l'audition de ce concerto plein de charme rendu avec une perfection de fini, de precision, de nettete et d'expression qu'il serait impossible de surpasser et que bien peu de pianistes pourraient egaler." Of a MS. concerto played by Field at his second concert, given on February 3, 1833, Fetis says that it is "diffus, peu riche en motifs heureux, peu digne, en un mot, de la renommee de son auteur," but "la delicieuse execution de M. Field nous a tres-heureusement servi de compensation"]
Indeed, the contradictory criticisms to be met with in books and newspapers leave on the reader the impression that Field disappointed the expectations raised by his fame. The fact that the second concert he gave was less well attended than the first cannot but confirm this impression. He was probably no longer what he had been; and the reigning pianoforte style and musical taste were certainly no longer what they had been. "His elegant playing and beautiful manner of singing on the piano made people admire his talent," wrote Fetis at a later period (in his "Biographie universelle des Musiciens"), "although his execution had not the power of the pianists of the modern school." It is not at all surprising that the general public and the younger generation of artists, more especially the romanticists, were not unanimously moved to unbounded enthusiasm by "the clear limpid flow" and "almost somnolent tranquillity" of Field's playing, "the placid tenderness, graceful candour, and charming ingenuousness of his melodious reveries." This characterisation of Field's style is taken from Liszt's preface to the nocturnes. Moscheles, with whom Field dined in London shortly before the latter's visit to Paris, gives in his diary a by no means flattering account of him. Of the man, the diarist says that he is good-natured but not educated and rather droll, and that there cannot be a more glaring contrast than that between Field's nocturnes and Field's manners, which were often cynical. Of the artist, Moscheles remarks that while his touch was admirable and his legato entrancing, his playing lacked spirit and accent, light and shadow, and depth of feeling. M. Marmontel was not far wrong when, before having heard Field, he regarded him as the forerunner of Chopin, as a Chopin without his passion, sombre reveries, heart-throes, and morbidity. The opinions which the two artists had of each other and the degree of their mutual sympathy and antipathy may be easily guessed. We are, however, not put to the trouble of guessing all. Whoever has read anything about Chopin knows of course Field's criticism of him--namely, that he was "un talent de chambre de malade," which, by the by, reminds one of a remark of Auber's, who said that Chopin was dying all his life (il se meurt tonte sa vie). It is a pity that we have not, as a pendant to Field's criticism on Chopin, one of Chopin on Field. But whatever impression Chopin may have received from the artist, he cannot but have been repelled by the man. And yet the older artist's natural disposition was congenial to that of the younger one, only intemperate habits had vitiated it. Spohr saw Field in 1802-1803, and describes him as a pale, overgrown youth, whose dreamy, melancholy playing made people forget his awkward bearing and badly-fitting clothes. One who knew Field at the time of his first successes portrays him as a young man with blonde hair, blue eyes, fair complexion, and pleasing features, expressive of the mood of the moment--of child-like ingenuousness, modest good-nature, gentle roguishness, and artistic aspiration. M. Marmontel, who made his acquaintance in 1832, represents him as a worn-out, vulgar-looking man of fifty, whose outward appearance contrasted painfully with his artistic performances, and whose heavy, thick-set form in conjunction with the delicacy and dreaminess of his musical thoughts and execution called to mind Rossini's saying of a celebrated singer, "Elle a l'air d'un elephant qui aurait avale un rossignol." One can easily imagine the surprise and disillusion of the four pupils of Zimmermann--MM. Marmontel, Prudent, A. Petit, and Chollet--who, provided with a letter of introduction by their master, called on Field soon after his arrival in Paris and beheld the great pianist--
in a room filled with tobacco smoke, sitting in an easy chair, an enormous pipe in his mouth, surrounded by large and small bottles of all sorts [entoure de chopes et bouteilles de toutes provenances]. His rather large head, his highly- coloured cheeks, his heavy features gave a Falstaff-like appearance to his physiognomy.
Notwithstanding his tipsiness, he received the young gentlemen kindly, and played to them two studies by Cramer and Clementi "with rare perfection, admirable finish, marvellous agility, and exquisiteness of touch." Many anecdotes might be told of Field's indolence and nonchalance; for instance, how he often fell asleep while giving his lessons, and on one occasion was asked whether he thought he was paid twenty roubles for allowing himself to be played to sleep; or, how, when his walking-stick had slipped out of his hand, he waited till some one came and picked it up; or, how, on finding his dress-boots rather tight, he put on slippers, and thus appeared in one of the first salons of Paris and was led by the mistress of the house, the Duchess Decazes, to the piano--but I have said enough of the artist who is so often named in connection with Chopin.
From placid Field to volcanic Berlioz is an enormous distance, which, however, we will clear at one leap, and do it too without hesitation or difficulty. For is not leaping the mind's natural mode of locomotion, and walking an artificially-acquired and rare accomplishment? Proceeding step by step we move only with more or less awkwardness, but aided by ever so slight an association of ideas we bound with the greatest ease from any point to any other point of infinitude. Berlioz returned to Paris in the latter part of 1832, and on the ninth of December of that year gave a concert at which he produced among other works his "Episode de la vie d'un artiste" (Part I.--"Symphonic fantastique," for the second time; Part II--"Lelio, ou le retour a la vie," for the first time), the subject of which is the history of his love for Miss Smithson. Chopin, no doubt, made Berlioz's acquaintance through Liszt, whose friendship with the great French symphonic composer dated from before the latter's departure for Italy. The characters of Chopin and Berlioz differed too much for a deep sympathy to exist between them; their connection was indeed hardly more than a pleasant social companionship. Liszt tells us that the constant intercourse with Berlioz, Hiller, and other celebrities who were in the habit of saying smart things, developed Chopin's natural talent for incisive remarks, ironical answers, and ambiguous speeches. Berlioz. I think, had more affection for Chopin than the latter for Berlioz.
But it is much more the artistic than the social attitude taken up by Chopin towards Berlioz and romanticism which interests us. Has Liszt correctly represented it? Let us see. It may be accepted as in the main true that the nocturnes of Field, [Footnote: In connection with this, however, Mikuli's remark has to be remembered.] the sonatas of Dussek, and the "noisy virtuosities and decorative expressivities" of Kalkbrenner were either insufficient for or antipathetic to Chopin; and it is plainly evident that he was one of those who most perseveringly endeavoured to free themselves from the servile formulas of the conventional style and repudiated the charlatanisms that only replace old abuses by new ones. On the other hand, it cannot be said that he joined unreservedly those who, seeing the fire of talent devour imperceptibly the old worm-eaten scaffolding, attached themselves to the school of which Berlioz was the most gifted, valiant, and daring representative, nor that, as long as the campaign of romanticism lasted, he remained invariable in his predilections and repugnances. The promptings of his genius taught Chopin that the practice of any one author or set of authors, whatever their excellence might be, ought not to be an obligatory rule for their successors. But while his individual requirements led him to disregard use and wont, his individual taste set up a very exclusive standard of his own. He adopted the maxims of the romanticists, but disapproved of almost all the works of art in which they were embodied. Or rather, he adopted their negative teaching, and like them broke and threw off the trammels of dead formulas; but at the same time he rejected their positive teaching, and walked apart from them. Chopin's repugnance was not confined only to the frantic side and the delirious excesses of romanticism as Liszt thinks. He presents to us the strange spectacle of a thoroughly romantic and emphatically unclassical composer who has no sympathy either with Berlioz and Liszt, or with Schumann and other leaders of romanticism, and the object of whose constant and ardent love and admiration was Mozart, the purest type of classicism. But the romantic, which Jean Paul Richter defined as "the beautiful without limitation, or the beautiful infinite" [das Schone ohne Begrenzung, oder das schone Unendliche], affords more scope for wide divergence, and allows greater freedom in the display of individual and national differences, than the classical.
Chopin's and Berlioz's relative positions may be compared to those of V. Hugo and Alfred de Musset, both of whom were undeniably romanticists, and yet as unlike as two authors can be. For a time Chopin was carried away by Liszt's and Killer's enthusiasm for Berlioz, but he soon retired from his championship, as Musset from the Cenacle. Franchomme thought this took place in 1833, but perhaps he antedated this change of opinion. At any rate, Chopin told him that he had expected better things from Berlioz, and declared that the latter's music justified any man in breaking off all friendship with him. Some years afterwards, when conversing with his pupil Gutmann about Berlioz, Chopin took up a pen, bent back the point of it, and then let it rebound, saying: "This is the way Berlioz composes--he sputters the ink over the pages of ruled paper, and the result is as chance wills it." Chopin did not like the works of Victor Hugo, because he felt them to be too coarse and violent. And this may also have been his opinion of Berlioz's works. No doubt he spurned Voltaire's maxim, "Le gout n'est autre chose pour la poesie que ce qu'il est pour les ajustements des femmes," and embraced V. Hugo's countermaxim, "Le gout c'est la raison du genie"; but his delicate, beauty-loving nature could feel nothing but disgust at what has been called the rehabilitation of the ugly, at such creations, for instance, as Le Roi s'amuse and Lucrece Borgia, of which, according to their author's own declaration, this is the essence:--
Take the most hideous, repulsive, and complete physical deformity; place it where it stands out most prominently, in the lowest, most subterraneous and despised story of the social edifice; illuminate this miserable creature on all sides by the sinister light of contrasts; and then give it a soul, and place in that soul the purest feeling which is bestowed on man, the paternal feeling. What will be the result? This sublime feeling, intensified according to certain conditions, will transform under your eyes the degraded creature; the little being will become great; the deformed being will become beautiful.--Take the most hideous, repulsive, and complete moral deformity; place it where it stands out most prominently, in the heart of a woman, with all the conditions of physical beauty and royal grandeur which give prominence to crime; and now mix with all this moral deformity a pure feeling, the purest which woman can feel, the maternal feeling; place a mother in your monster and the monster will interest you, and the monster will make you weep, and this creature which caused fear will cause pity, and this deformed soul will become almost beautiful in your eyes. Thus we have in Le Roi s'amuse paternity sanctifying physical deformity; and in Lucrece Borgia maternity purifying moral deformity. [FOOTNOTE: from Victor Hugo's preface to "Lucrece Borgia."]
In fact, Chopin assimilated nothing or infinitely little of the ideas that were surging around him. His ambition was, as he confided to his friend Hiller, to become to his countrymen as a musician what Uhland was to the Germans as a poet. Nevertheless, the intellectual activity of the French capital and its tendencies had a considerable influence on Chopin. They strengthened the spirit of independence in him, and were potent impulses that helped to unfold his individuality in all its width and depth. The intensification of thought and feeling, and the greater fulness and compactness of his pianoforte style in his Parisian compositions, cannot escape the attentive observer. The artist who contributed the largest quotum of force to this impulse was probably Liszt, whose fiery passions, indomitable energy, soaring enthusiasm, universal tastes, and capacity of assimilation, mark him out as the very opposite of Chopin. But, although the latter was undoubtedly stimulated by Liszt's style of playing the piano and of writing for this instrument, it is not so certain as Miss L. Ramann, Liszt's biographer, thinks, that this master's influence can be discovered in many passages of Chopin's music which are distinguished by a fiery and passionate expression, and resemble rather a strong, swelling torrent than a gently-gliding rivulet. She instances Nos. 9 and 12 of "Douze Etudes," Op. 10; Nos. 11 and 12 of "Douze Etudes," Op. 25; No. 24 of "Vingt-quatre Preludes," Op. 28; "Premier Scherzo," Op. 20; "Polonaise" in A flat major, Op. 53; and the close of the "Nocturne" in A flat major, Op. 32. All these compositions, we are told, exhibit Liszt's style and mode of feeling. Now, the works composed by Chopin before he came to Paris and got acquainted with Liszt comprise not only a sonata, a trio, two concertos, variations, polonaises, waltzes, mazurkas, one or more nocturnes, &c., but also--and this is for the question under consideration of great importance--most of, if not all, the studies of Op. 10, [FOOTNOTE: Sowinski says that Chopin brought with him to Paris the MS. of the first book of his studies.] and some of Op. 25; and these works prove decisively the inconclusiveness of the lady's argument. The twelfth study of Op. 10 (composed in September, 1831) invalidates all she says about fire, passion, and rushing torrents. In fact, no cogent reason can be given why the works mentioned by her should not be the outcome of unaided development.[FOONOTE: That is to say, development not aided in the way indicated by Miss Ramann. Development can never be absolutely unaided; it always presupposes conditions--external or internal, physical or psychical, moral or intellectual--which induce and promote it. What is here said may be compared with the remarks about style and individuality on p. 214.] The first Scherzo alone might make us pause and ask whether the new features that present themselves in it ought not to be fathered on Liszt. But seeing that Chopin evolved so much, why should he not also have evolved this? Moreover, we must keep in mind that Liszt had, up to 1831, composed almost nothing of what in after years was considered either by him or others of much moment, and that his pianoforte style had first to pass through the state of fermentation into which Paganini's, playing had precipitated it (in the spring of 1831) before it was formed; on the other hand, Chopin arrived in Paris with his portfolios full of masterpieces, and in possession of a style of his own, as a player of his instrument as well as a writer for it. That both learned from each other cannot be doubted; but the exact gain of each is less easily determinable. Nevertheless, I think I may venture to assert that whatever be the extent of Chopin's indebtedness to Liszt, the latter's indebtedness to the former is greater. The tracing of an influence in the works of a man of genius, who, of course, neither slavishly imitates nor flagrantly appropriates, is one of the most difficult tasks. If Miss Ramann had first noted the works produced by the two composers in question before their acquaintance began, and had carefully examined Chopin's early productions with a view to ascertain his capability of growth, she would have come to another conclusion, or, at least, have spoken less confidently. [FOOTNOTE: Schumann, who in 1839 attempted to give a history of Liszt's development (in the "Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik"), remarked that when Liszt, on the one hand, was brooding over the most gloomy fancies, and indifferent, nay, even blase, and, on the other hand, laughing and madly daring, indulged in the most extravagant virtuoso tricks, "the sight of Chopin, it seems, first brought him again to his senses."]
It was not till 1833 that Chopin became known to the musical world as a composer. For up to that time the "Variations," Op. 2, published in 1830, was the only work in circulation; the compositions previously published in Warsaw--the "Rondo," Op. 1, and the "Rondeau a la Mazur," Op. 5--may be left out of account, as they did not pass beyond the frontier of Poland till several years afterwards, when they were published elsewhere. After the publication, in December, 1832, of Op. 6, "Quatre Mazurkas," dedicated to Mdlle. la Comtesse Pauline Plater, and Op. 7, "Cinq Mazurkas," dedicated to Mr. Johns, Chopin's compositions made their appearance in quick succession. In the year 1833 were published: in January, Op. 9, "Trois Nocturnes," dedicated to Mdme. Camille Pleyel; in March, Op. 8, "Premier Trio," dedicated to M. le Prince Antoine Radziwill; in July, Op. 10, "Douze Grandes Etudes," dedicated to Mr. Fr. Liszt; and Op. 11, "Grand Concerto" (in E minor), dedicated to Mr. Fr. Kalkbrenner; and in November, Op. 12, "Variations brillantes" (in B flat major), dedicated to Mdlle. Emma Horsford. In 1834 were published: in January, Op. 15, "Trois Nocturnes," dedicated to Mr. Ferd. Hiller; in March, Op. 16, "Rondeau" (in E flat major), dedicated to Mdlle. Caroline Hartmann; in April, Op. 13, "Grande Fantaisie sur des airs polonais," dedicated to Mr. J. P. Pixis; and in May, Op. 17, "Quatre Mazurkas," dedicated to Mdme. Lina Freppa; in June, Op. 14, "Krakowiak, grand Rondeau de Concert," dedicated to Mdme. la Princesse Adam Czartoryska; and Op. 18, "Grande Valse brillante," dedicated to Mdlle. Laura Horsford; and in October, Op. 19, "Bolero" (in C major), dedicated to Mdme. la Comtesse E. de Flahault. [FOOTNOTE: The dates given are those when the pieces, as far as I could ascertain, were first heard of as published. For further information see "List of Works" at the end of the second volume, where my sources of information are mentioned, and the divergences of the different original editions, as regards time of publication, are indicated.]
The "Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung" notices several of Chopin's compositions with great praise in the course of 1833; in the year after the notices became more frequent. But the critic who follows Chopin's publications with the greatest attention and discusses them most fully is Rellstab, the editor of the Iris. Unfortunately, he is not at all favourably inclined towards the composer. He occasionally doles out a little praise, but usually shows himself a spendthrift in censure and abuse. His most frequent complaints are that Chopin strives too much after originality, and that his music is unnecessarily difficult for the hands. A few specimens of Rellstab's criticism may not be out of place here. Of the "Mazurkas," Op. 7, he says:--
In the dances before us the author satisfies the passion [of writing affectedly and unnaturally] to a loathsome excess. He is indefatigable, and I might say inexhaustible [sic], in his search for ear-splitting discords, forced transitions, harsh modulations, ugly distortions of melody and rhythm. Everything it is possible to think of is raked up to produce the effect of odd originality, but especially strange keys, the most unnatural positions of chords, the most perverse combinations with regard to fingering.
After some more discussion of the same nature, he concludes thus:-- 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.
In his review of the "Trois Nocturnes," Op. 9, occurs the following pretty passage:--
Where Field smiles, Chopin makes a grinning grimace: where Field sighs, Chopin groans; where Field shrugs his shoulders, Chopin twists his whole body; where Field puts some seasoning into the food, Chopin empties a handful of Cayenne pepper...In short, if one holds Field's charming romances before a distorting concave mirror, so that every delicate expression becomes coarse, one gets Chopin's work...We implore Mr. Chopin to return to nature.
I shall quote one more sentence; it is from a notice of the "Douze Etudes," Op. 10:--
Those who have distorted fingers may put them right by practising these studies; but those who have not, should not play them, at least, not without having a surgeon at hand.
[FOOTNOTE: In the number of the Iris in which this criticism appeared (No. 5 of Vol. V., 1834 Rellstab inserts the following letter, which he says he received from Leipzig:--
"P. P.
"You are really a very bad man, and not worthy that God's earth either knows (sic) or bears you. The King of Prussia should have imprisoned you in a fortress; in that case he would have removed from the world a rebel, a disturber of the peace, and an infamous enemy of humanity, who probably will yet be choked in his own blood. I have noticed a great number of enemies, not only in Berlin, but in all towns which I visited last summer on my artistic tour, especially very many here in Leipzig, where I inform you of this, in order--that you may in future change your disposition, and not act so uncharitably towards others. Another bad, bad trick, and you are done for! Do you understand me, you little man, you loveless and partial dog of a critic, you musical snarler [Schnurrbart], you Berlin wit-cracker [Witzenmacher], &c.
"Your most obedient Servant,
"CHOPIN."
To this Rellstab adds: "Whether Mr. Chopin has written this letter himself, I do not know, and will not assert it, but print the document that he may recognise or repudiate it." The letter was not repudiated, but I do not think that it was written by Chopin. Had he written a letter, he surely would have written a less childish one, although the German might not have been much better than that of the above. But my chief reasons for doubting its genuineness are that Chopin made no artistic tour in Germany after 1831, and is not known to have visited Leipzig either in 1833 or 1834.]
However, we should not be too hard upon Rellstab, seeing that one of the greatest pianists and best musicians of the time made in the same year (in 1833, and not in 1831, as we read in Karasowski's book) an entry in his diary, which expresses an opinion not very unlike his. Moscheles writes thus:--
I like to employ some free hours in the evening in making myself acquainted with Chopin's studies and his other compositions, and find much charm in the originality and national colouring of their motivi; but my fingers always stumble over certain hard, inartistic, and to me incomprehensible modulations, and the whole is often too sweetish for my taste, and appears too little worthy of a man and a trained musician.
And again--
I am a sincere admirer of Chopin's originality; he has furnished pianists with matter of the greatest novelty and attractiveness. But personally I dislike the artificial, often forced modulations; my fingers stumble and fall over such passages; however much I may practise them, I cannot execute them without tripping.
The first criticism on Chopin's publications which I met with in the French musical papers is one on the "Variations," Op. 12. It appeared in the "Revue musicale" of January 26, 1834. After this his new works are pretty regularly noticed, and always favourably. From what has been said it will be evident that Karasowski made a mistake when he wrote that Chopin's compositions began to find a wide circulation as early as the year 1832.
Much sympathy has been undeservedly bestowed on the composer by many, because they were under the impression that he had had to contend with more than the usual difficulties. Now just the reverse was the case. Most of his critics were well-disposed towards him, and his fame spread fast. In 1834 (August 13) a writer in the "Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung" remarks that Chopin had the good fortune to draw upon himself sooner than others the attention not only of the pianists, although of these particularly, but also of a number of the musicians generally. And in 1836 even Rellstab, Chopin's most adverse critic, says: "We entertain the hope of hearing a public performance of the Concerto [the second, Op. 21] in the course of the winter, for now it is a point of honour for every pianist to play Chopin." The composer, however, cannot be said to have enjoyed popularity; his works were relished only by the few, not by the many. Chopin's position as a pianist and composer at the point we have reached in the history of his life (1833-1834) is well described by a writer in the "Revue musicale" of May 15, 1834:--
Chopin [he says] has opened up for himself a new route, and from the first moment of his appearance on the scene he has taken so high a stand, both by his pianoforte-playing and by his compositions for this instrument, that he is to the multitude an inexplicable phenomenon which it looks on in passing with astonishment, and which stupid egoism regards with a smile of pity, while the small number of connoisseurs, led by a sure judgment, rather by an instinct of progress than by a reasoned sentiment of enjoyment, follow this artist in his efforts and in his creations, if not closely, at least at a distance, admiring him, learning from him, and trying to imitate him. For this reason Chopin has not found a critic, although his works are already known everywhere. They have either excited equivocal smiles and have been disparaged, or have provoked astonishment and an overflow of unlimited praise; but nobody has as yet come forward to say in what their peculiar character and merit consists, by what they are distinguished from so many other compositions, what assigns to them a superior rank, &c.
No important events are to be recorded of the season 1833-1834, but that Chopin was making his way is shown by a passage from a letter which Orlowski wrote to one of his friends in Poland:--
Chopin [he says] is well and strong; he turns the heads of all the Frenchwomen, and makes the men jealous of him. He is now the fashion, and the elegant world will soon wear gloves a la Chopin, Only the yearning after his country consumes him.
In the spring of 1834 Chopin took a trip to Aix-la-Chapelle, where at Whitsuntide the Lower Rhenish Music Festival was held. Handel's "Deborah," Mozart's Jupiter Symphony, and part of Beethoven's Ninth were on the programme, and the baton was in the hand of Ferdinand Ries. Hiller, who had written additional accompaniments to the oratorio and translated the English words into German, had received an invitation from the committee, and easily persuaded Chopin to accompany him. But this plan very nearly came to naught. While they were making preparations for the journey, news reached them that the festival was postponed; and when a few days later they heard that it would take place after all, poor Chopin was no longer able to go, having in the meantime spent the money put aside for travelling expenses, probably given it away to one of his needy countrymen, to whom, as Hiller says, his purse was always open. But what was to be done now? Hiller did not like to depart without his friend, and urged him to consider if he could not contrive in one way or another to procure the requisite pecuniary outfit. At last Chopin said he thought he could manage it, took the manuscript of the Waltz in E flat (Op. 18), went with it to Pleyel, and returned with 500 francs. [FOOTNOTE: I repeat Hiller's account without vouching for its literal correctness, confining myself to the statement that the work was in print on the 1st of June,1834, and published by Schlesinger, of Paris, not by Pleyel.] Thus the barrier was removed, and the friends set out for Aix-la-Chapelle. There Hiller was quartered in the house of the burgomaster, and Chopin got a room close by. They went without much delay to the rehearsal of "Deborah," where they met Mendelssohn, who describes their meeting in a letter addressed to his mother (Dusseldorf, May 23, 1834):--
On the first tier sat a man with a moustache reading the score, and as he was coming downstairs after the rehearsal, and I was going up, we met in the side-scenes, and Ferdinand Hiller stumbled right into my arms, almost crushing me in his joyful embrace. He had come from Paris to hear the oratorio, and Chopin had left his pupils in the lurch and come with him, and thus we met again. Now I had my full share of pleasure in the musical festival, for we three now remained together, got a box in the theatre (where the performances are given) to ourselves, and as a matter of course betook ourselves next morning to a piano, where I enjoyed myself greatly. They have both still further developed their execution, and Chopin is now one of the very first pianoforte- players; he produces as novel effects as Paganini does on the violin, and performs wonders which one would never have imagined possible. Hiller, too, is an excellent player, powerful and coquettish enough. Both are a little infected by the Parisian mania for despondency and straining after emotional vehemence [Verzweif-lungssucht und Leidenschaftssucherei], and often lose sight of time and repose and the really musical too much. I, on the other hand, do so perhaps too little. Thus we made up for each other's deficiencies, and all three, I think, learned something, while I felt rather like a schoolmaster, and they like mirliflores or incroyables.
After the festival the three musicians travelled together to Dusseldorf, where since the preceding October Mendelssohn was settled as musical director. They passed the morning of the day which Chopin and Hiller spent in the town at Mendelssohn's piano, and in the afternoon took a walk, at the end of which they had coffee and a game at skittles. In this walk they were accompanied by F. W. Schadow, the director of the Academy of Art and founder of the Dusseldorf School, and some of his pupils, among whom may have been one or more of its brightest stars--Lessing, Bendemann, Hildebrandt, Sohn, and Alfred Rethel. Hiller, who furnishes us with some particulars of what Mendelssohn calls "a very agreeable day passed in playing and discussing music," says that Schadow and his pupils appeared to him like a prophet surrounded by his disciples. But the dignified manner and eloquent discourse of the prophet, the humble silence of the devoutly-listening disciples, seem to have prevented Chopin from feeling quite at ease.
Chopin [writes Hiller], who was not known to any of them, and extremely reserved, kept close to me during the walk, observing everything and making remarks to me in a low, low tone. For the later part of the evening we were invited to the Schadows', who were never wanting in hospitality. We found there some of the most eminent young painters. The conversation soon became very animated, and all would have been right if poor Chopin had not sat there so reserved--not to say unnoticed. However, Mendelssohn and I knew that he would have his revenge, and were secretly rejoicing at the thought. At last the piano was opened; I began, Mendelssohn followed; then we asked Chopin to play, and rather doubtful looks were cast at him and us. But he had hardly played a few bars when all present, especially Schadow, looked at him with altogether different eyes. Nothing like it had ever been heard. They were all in the greatest delight, and begged for more and more. Count Almaviva had dropped his disguise, and all were speechless.
The following day Chopin and Hiller set out per steamer for Coblenz, and Mendelssohn, although Schadow had asked him what was to become of "St. Paul," at which he was working, accompanied them as far as Cologne. There, after a visit to the Apostles' church, they parted at the Rhine bridge, and, as Mendelssohn wrote to his mother, "the pleasant episode was over."
Chapter XVII
1834-1835.
MATUSZYNSKI SETTLES IN PARIS.--MORE ABOUT CHOPIN'S WAY OF LIFE.--OP. 25.--HE IS ADVISED TO WRITE AN OPERA.--HIS OWN IDEAS IN REGARD TO THIS, AND A DISCUSSION OF THE QUESTION.--CHOPIN'S PUBLIC APPEARANCES.--BERLIOZ'S CONCERT.--STOEPEL's CONCERT.--A CONCERT AT PLEYEL'S ROOMS.--A CONCERT AT THE THEATRE-ITALIEN FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE INDIGENT POLISH REFUGEES.--A CONCERT OF THE SOCIETE DES CONCERTS.--CHOPIN AS A PUBLIC PERFORMER.--CHOUQUET, LISZT, ETC., ON THE CHARACTER OF HIS PLAYING.--BELLINI AND HIS RELATION TO CHOPIN.--CHOPIN GOES TO CARLSBAD.--AT DRESDEN.--HIS VISIT TO LEIPZIG: E. F. WENZEL'S REMINISCENCES; MENDELSSOHN'S AND SCHUMANN'S REMARKS ON THE SAME EVENT.--CHOPIN'S STAY AT HEIDELBERG AND RETURN TO PARIS.
The coming to Paris and settlement there of his friend Matuszynski must have been very gratifying to Chopin, who felt so much the want of one with whom he could sigh. Matuszynski, who, since we heard last of him, had served as surgeon-major in the Polish insurrectionary army, and taken his doctor's degree at Tubingen in 1834, proceeded in the same year to Paris, where he was appointed professor at the Ecole de Medecine. The latter circumstance testifies to his excellent professional qualities, and Chopin's letters do not leave us in doubt concerning the nature of his qualities as a friend. Indeed, what George Sand says of his great influence over Chopin only confirms what these letters lead one to think. In 1834 Matuszynski wrote in a letter addressed to his brother-in-law:--
The first thing I did in Paris was to call on Chopin. I cannot tell you how great our mutual happiness was on meeting again after a separation of five years. He has grown strong and tall; I hardly recognised him. Chopin is now the first pianist here; he gives a great many lessons, but none under twenty francs. He has composed much, and his works are in great request. I live with him: Rue Chaussee d'Antin, No. 5. This street is indeed rather far from the Ecole de Medecine and the hospitals; but I have weighty reasons for staying with him--he is my all! We spend the evenings at the theatre or pay visits; if we do not do one or the other, we enjoy ourselves quietly at home.
Less interesting than this letter of Matuszynski's, with its glimpses of Chopin's condition and habits, are the reminiscences of a Mr. W., now or till lately a music-teacher at Posen, who visited Paris in 1834, and was introduced to Chopin by Dr. A. Hofman. [FOONOTE: See p. 257.] But, although less interesting, they are by no means without significance, for instance, with regard to the chronology of the composer's works. Being asked to play something, Mr. W. chose Kalkbrenner's variations on one of Chopin's mazurkas (the one in B major, Op. 7, No. 1). Chopin generously repaid the treat which Kalkbrenner's variations and his countryman's execution may have afforded him, by playing the studies which he afterwards published as Op. 25.
Elsner, like all Chopin's friends, was pleased with the young artist's success. The news he heard of his dear Frederick filled his heart with joy, nevertheless he was not altogether satisfied. "Excuse my sincerity," he writes, on September 14, 1834, "but what you have done hitherto I do not yet consider enough." Elsner's wish was that Chopin should compose an opera, if possible one with a Polish historical subject; and this he wished, not so much for the increase of Chopin's fame as for the advantage of the art. Knowing his pupil's talents and acquirements he was sure that what a critic pointed out in Chopin's mazurkas would be fully displayed and obtain a lasting value only in an opera. The unnamed critic referred to must be the writer in the "Gazette musicale," who on June 29, 1834, in speaking of the "Quatre Mazurkas," Op. 17, says--
Chopin has gained a quite special reputation by the clever spirituelle and profoundly artistic manner in which he knows how to treat the national music of Poland, a genre of music which was to us as yet little known...here again he appears poetical, tender, fantastic, always graceful, and always charming, even in the moments when he abandons himself to the most passionate inspiration.
Karasowski says that Elsner's letter made Chopin seriously think of writing an opera, and that he even addressed himself to his friend Stanislas Kozmian with the request to furnish him with a libretto, the subject of which was to be taken from Polish history. I do not question this statement. But if it is true, Chopin soon abandoned the idea. In fact, he thoroughly made up his mind, and instead of endeavouring to become a Shakespeare he contented himself with being an Uhland. The following conversations will show that Chopin acquired the rarest and most precious kind of knowledge, that is, self-knowledge. His countryman, the painter Kwiatkowski, calling one day on Chopin found him and Mickiewicz in the midst of a very excited discussion. The poet urged the composer to undertake a great work, and not to fritter away his power on trifles; the composer, on the other hand, maintained that he was not in possession of the qualities requisite for what he was advised to undertake. G. Mathias, who studied under Chopin from 1839 to 1844, remembers a conversation between his master and M. le Comte de Perthuis, one of Louis Philippe's aides-de-camp. The Count said--
"Chopin, how is it that you, who have such admirable ideas, do not compose an opera?" [Chopin, avec vos idees admirables, pourquoi ne nous faites-vous pas un opera?] "Ah, Count, let me compose nothing but music for the pianoforte; I am not learned enough to compose operas!" [Ah, Monsieur le Comte, laissez-moi ne faire que de la musique de piano; pour faire des operas je ne suis pas assez savant.]
Chopin, in fact, knew himself better than his friends and teacher knew him, and it was well for him and it is well for us that he did, for thereby he saved himself much heart-burning and disappointment, and us the loss of a rich inheritance of charming and inimitable pianoforte music. He was emphatically a Kleinmeister--i.e. a master of works of small size and minute execution. His attempts in the sonata-form were failures, although failures worth more--some of them at least--than many a clever artist's most brilliant successes. Had he attempted the dramatic form the result would in all probability have been still less happy; for this form demands not only a vigorous constructive power, but in addition to it a firm grasp of all the vocal and instrumental resources--qualities, in short, in which Chopin was undeniably deficient, owing not so much to inadequate training as to the nature of his organisation. Moreover, he was too much given to express his own emotions, too narrow in his sympathies, in short, too individual a composer, to successfully express the emotions of others, to objectively conceive and set forth the characters of men and women unlike himself. Still, the master's confidence in his pupil, though unfounded in this particular, is beautiful to contemplate; and so also is his affection for him, which even the pedantic style of his letters cannot altogether hide. Nor is it possible to admire in a less degree the reciprocation of these sentiments by the great master's greater pupil:--
What a pity it is [are the concluding words of Elsner's letter of September 14, 1834] that we can no longer see each other and exchange our opinions! I have got so much to tell you. I should like also to thank you for the present, which is doubly precious to me. I wish I were a bird, so that I might visit you in your Olympian dwelling, which the Parisians take for a swallow's nest. Farewell, love me, as I do you, for I shall always remain your sincere friend and well-wisher.
In no musical season was Chopin heard so often in public as in that of 1834-35; but it was not only his busiest, it was also his last season as a virtuoso. After it his public appearances ceased for several years altogether, and the number of concerts at which he was subsequently heard does not much exceed half-a-dozen. The reader will be best enabled to understand the causes that led to this result if I mention those of Chopin's public performances in this season which have come under my notice. On December 7, 1834, at the third and last of a series of concerts given by Berlioz at the Conservatoire, Chopin played an "Andante" for the piano with orchestral accompaniments of his own composition, which, placed as it was among the overtures to "Les Francs-Juges" and "King Lear," the "Harold" Symphony, and other works of Berlioz, no doubt sounded at the concert as strange as it looks on the programme. The "Andante" played by Chopin was of course the middle movement of one of his concertos. [Footnote: Probably the "Larghetto" from the F minor Concerto. See Liszt's remark on p. 282.]
On December 25 of the same year, Dr. Francois Stoepel gave a matinee musicale at Pleyel's rooms, for which he had secured a number of very distinguished artists. But the reader will ask--"Who is Dr. Stoepel?" An author of several theoretical works, instruction books, and musical compositions, who came to Paris in 1829 and founded a school on Logier's system, as he had done in Berlin and other towns, but was as unsuccessful in the French capital as elsewhere. Disappointed and consumptive he died in 1836 at the age of forty-two; his income, although the proceeds of teaching were supplemented by the remuneration for contributions to the "Gazette musicale," having from first to last been scanty. Among the artists who took part in this matinee musicale were Chopin, Liszt, the violinist Ernst, and the singers Mdlle. Heinefetter, Madame Degli-Antoni, and M. Richelmi. The programme comprised also an improvisation on the orgue expressif (harmonium) by Madame de la Hye, a grand-niece of J.J. Rousseau's. Liszt and Chopin opened the matinee with a performance of Moscheles' "Grand duo a quatre mains," of which the reporter of the "Gazette musicale" writes as follows:--
We consider it superfluous to say that this piece, one of the masterworks of the composer, was executed with a rare perfection of talent by the two greatest pianoforte-virtuosos of our epoch. Brilliancy of execution combined with perfect delicacy, sustained elevation, and the contrast of the most spirited vivacity and calmest serenity, of the most graceful lightness and gravest seriousness--the clever blending of all the nuances can only be expected from two artists of the same eminence and equally endowed with deep artistic feeling. The most enthusiastic applause showed MM. Liszt and Chopin better than we can do by our words how much they charmed the audience, which they electrified a second time by a Duo for two pianos composed by Liszt.
This work of Liszt's was no doubt the Duo for two pianos on a theme of Mendelssohn's which, according to Miss Ramann, was composed in 1834 but never published, and is now lost.
The "Menestrel" of March 22, 1835, contains a report of a concert at Pleyel's rooms, without, however, mentioning the concert-giver, who was probably the proprietor himself:--
The last concert at Pleyel's rooms was very brilliant. Men of fashion, litterateurs, and artists had given each other rendez-vous there to hear our musical celebrities--MM. Herz, Chopin, Osborne, Hiller, Reicha, Mesdames Camille Lambert and Leroy, and M. Hamati [read Stamati], a young pianist who had not yet made a public appearance in our salons. These artists performed various pieces which won the approval of all.
And now mark the dying fall of this vague report: "Kalkbrenner's Variations on the cavatina 'Di tanti palpiti' were especially applauded."
We come now to the so much talked-of concert at the Italian Opera, which became so fateful in Chopin's career as a virtuoso. It is generally spoken of as a concert given by Chopin, and Karasowski says it took place in February, 1834. I have, however, been unable to find any trace of a concert given by Chopin in 1834. On the other hand, Chopin played on April 5, 1835, at a concert which in all particulars except that of date answers to the description of the one mentioned by Karasowski. The "Journal des Debats" of April 4, 1835, draws the public's attention to it by the following short and curious article:--
The concert for the benefit of the indigent Poles [i.e., indigent Polish refugees] will take place to-morrow, Saturday, at the Theatre-Italien, at eight o'clock in the evening. Mdlle. Falcon and Nourrit, MM. Ernst, Dorus, Schopin [sic], Litz [sic], and Pantaleoni, will do the honours of this soiree, which will be brilliant. Among other things there will be heard the overtures to "Oberon" and "Guillaume Tell," the duet from the latter opera, sung by Mdlle. Falcon and Nourrit, and romances by M. Schubert, sung by Nourrit and accompanied by Litz, &c.
To this galaxy of artistic talent I have yet to add Habeneck, who conducted the orchestra. Chopin played with the orchestra his E minor Concerto and with Liszt a duet for two pianos by Hiller.
As you may suppose [says a writer of a notice in the "Gazette musicale"] M. Chopin was not a stranger to the composition of the programme of this soiree in behalf of his unhappy countrymen. Accordingly the fete was brilliant.
In the same notice may also be read the following:--
Chopin's Concerto, so original, of so brilliant a style, so full of ingenious details, so fresh in its melodies, obtained a very great success. It is very difficult not to be monotonous in a pianoforte concerto; and the amateurs could not but thank Chopin for the pleasure he had procured them, while the artists admired the talent which enabled him to do so [i.e., to avoid monotony], and at the same time to rejuvenate so antiquated a form.
The remark on the agedness of the concerto-form and the difficulty of not being monotonous is naive and amusing enough to be quoted for its own sake, but what concerns us here is the correctness of the report. Although the expressions of praise contained in it are by no means enthusiastic, nay, are not even straightforward, they do not tally with what we learn from other accounts. This discrepancy may be thus explained. Maurice Schlesinger, the founder and publisher of the "Gazette musicale," was on friendly terms with Chopin and had already published some of his compositions. What more natural, therefore, than that, if the artist's feelings were hurt, he should take care that they should not be further tortured by unpleasant remarks in his paper. Indeed, in connection with all the Chopin notices and criticisms in the "Gazette musicale" we must keep in mind the relations between the publisher and composer, and the fact that several of the writers in the paper were Chopin's intimate friends, and many of them were of the clique, or party, to which he also belonged. Sowinski, a countryman and acquaintance of Chopin's, says of this concert that the theatre was crowded and all went well, but that Chopin's expectations were disappointed, the E minor Concerto not producing the desired effect. The account in Larousse's "Grand Dictionnaire" is so graphic that it makes one's flesh creep. After remarking that Chopin obtained only a demi-success, the writer of the article proceeds thus: "The bravos of his friends and a few connoisseurs alone disturbed the cold and somewhat bewildered attitude of the majority of the audience." According to Sowinski and others Chopin's repugnance to play in public dates from this concert; but this repugnance was not the outcome of one but of many experiences. The concert at the Theatre-Italien may, however, have brought it to the culminating point. Liszt told me that Chopin was most deeply hurt by the cold reception he got at a concert at the Conservatoire, where he played the Larghetto from the F minor Concerto. This must have been at Berlioz's concert, which I mentioned on one of the foregoing pages of this chapter.
Shortly after the concert at the Theatre-Italien, Chopin ventured once more to face that terrible monster, the public. On Sunday, April 26, 1835, he played at a benefit concert of Habeneck's, which is notable as the only concert of the Societe des Concerts du Conservatoire in which he took part. The programme was as follows:--1. The "Pastoral Symphony," by Beethoven; 2. "The Erl-King," by Schubert, sung by M. Ad. Nourrit; 3. Scherzo from the "Choral Symphony," by Beethoven; 4. "Polonaise avec introduction" [i.e., "Polonaise brillante precedee d'un Andante spianato"], composed and played by M. Chopin; 5. Scena, by Beethoven, sung by Mdlle. Falcon; 6. Finale from the C minor Symphony, by Beethoven. The writer of the article Chopin in Larousse's "Grand Dictionnaire" says that Chopin had no reason to repent of having taken part in the concert, and others confirm this statement. In Elwart's "Histoire des Concerts du Conservatoire" we read:--"Le compositeur reveur, l'elegiaque pianiste, produisit a ce concert un effet delicieux." To the author of the "Histoire dramatique en France" and late curator of the Musee du Conservatoire I am indebted for some precious communications. M. Gustave Chouquet, who at the time we are speaking of was a youth and still at the College, informed me in a charming letter that he was present at this concert at which Chopin played, and also at the preceding one (on Good Friday) at which Liszt played Weber's "Concertstuck," and that he remembered very well "the fiery playing of Liszt and the ineffable poetry of Chopin's style." In another letter M. Chouquet gave a striking resume of the vivid reminiscences of his first impressions:--
Liszt, in 1835 [he wrote], represented a merveilleux the prototype of the virtuoso; while in my opinion Chopin personified the poet. The first aimed at effect and posed as the Paganini of the piano; Chopin, on the other hand, seemed never to concern himself [se preuccuper] about the public, and to listen only to the inner voices. He was unequal; but when inspiration took hold of him [s'emparait de hit] he made the keyboard sing in an ineffable manner. I owe him some poetic hours which I shall never forget.
One of the facts safely deducible from the often doubtful and contradictory testimonies relative to Chopin's public performances is, that when he appeared before a large and mixed audience he failed to call forth general enthusiasm. He who wishes to carry the multitude away with him must have in him a force akin to the broad sweep of a full river. Chopin, however, was not a Demosthenes, Cicero, Mirabeau, or Pitt. Unless he addressed himself to select conventicles of sympathetic minds, the best of his subtle art remained uncomprehended. How well Chopin knew this may be gathered from what he said to Liszt:--
I am not at all fit for giving concerts, the crowd intimidates me, its breath suffocates me, I feel paralysed by its curious look, and the unknown faces make me dumb. But you are destined for it, for when you do not win your public, you have the power to overwhelm it.
Opposition and indifference, which stimulate more vigorous natures, affected Chopin as touch does the mimosa pudica, the sensitive plant--they made him shrink and wither. Liszt observes correctly that the concerts did not so much fatigue Chopin's physical constitution as provoke his irritability as a poet; that, in fact, his delicate constitution was less a reason than a pretext for abstention, he wishing to avoid being again and again made the subject of debate. But it is more difficult for one in similar circumstances not to feel as Chopin did than for a successful virtuoso like Liszt to say:--
If Chopin suffered on account of his not being able to take part in those public and solemn jousts where popular acclamation salutes the victor; if he felt depressed at seeing himself excluded from them, it was because he did not esteem highly enough what he had, to do gaily without what he had not.
To be sure, the admiration of the best men of his time ought to have consoled him for the indifference of the dull crowd. But do we not all rather yearn for what we have not than enjoy what we have? Nay, do we not even often bewail the unattainableness of vain bubbles when it would be more seasonable to rejoice in the solid possessions with which we are blessed? Chopin's discontent, however, was caused by the unattainableness not of a vain bubble, but of a precious crown. There are artists who pretend to despise the great public, but their abuse of it when it withholds its applause shows their real feeling. No artist can at heart be fully satisfied with the approval of a small minority; Chopin, at any rate, was not such a one. Nature, who had richly endowed him with the qualities that make a virtuoso, had denied him one, perhaps the meanest of all, certainly the least dispensable, the want of which balked him of the fulfilment of the promise with which the others had flattered him, of the most brilliant reward of his striving. In the lists where men much below his worth won laurels and gold in abundance he failed to obtain a fair share of the popular acclamation. This was one of the disappointments which, like malignant cancers, cruelly tortured and slowly consumed his life.
The first performance of Bellini's "I Puritani" at the Theatre-Italien (January 24, 1835), which as well as that of Halevy's "La Juive" at the Academic (February 23, 1835), and of Auber's "Le cheval de bronze" at the Opera-Comique (March 23, 1835), was one of the chief musico-dramatic events of the season 1834-1835, reminds me that I ought to say a few words about the relation which existed between the Italian and the Polish composer. Most readers will have heard of Chopin's touching request to be buried by the side of Bellini. Loath though I am to discredit so charming a story, duty compels me to state that it is wholly fictitious. Chopin's liking for Bellini and his music, how ever, was true and real enough. Hiller relates that he rarely saw him so deeply moved as at a performance of Norma, which they attended together, and that in the finale of the second act, in which Rubini seemed to sing tears, Chopin had tears in his eyes. A liking for the Italian operatic music of the time, a liking which was not confined to Bellini's works, but, as Franchomme, Wolff, and others informed me, included also those of Rossini, appears at first sight rather strange in a musician of Chopin's complexion; the prevalent musical taste at Warsaw, and a kindred trait in the national characters of the Poles and Italians, however, account for it. With regard to Bellini, Chopin's sympathy was strengthened by the congeniality of their individual temperaments. Many besides Leon Escudier may have found in the genius of Chopin points of resemblance with Bellini as well as with Raphael--two artists who, it is needless to say, were heaven-wide apart in the mastery of the craft of their arts, and in the width, height, and depth of their conceptions. The soft, rounded Italian contours and sweet sonorousness of some of Chopin's cantilene cannot escape the notice of the observer. Indeed, Chopin's Italicisms have often been pointed out. Let me remind the reader here only of some remarks of Schumann's, made apropos of the Sonata in B flat minor, Op. 35:--
It is known that Bellini and Chopin were friends, and that they, who often made each other acquainted with their compositions, may perhaps have had some artistic influence on each other. But, as has been said, there is [on the part of Chopin] only a slight leaning to the southern manner; as soon as the cantilena is at an end the Sarmatian flashes out again.
To understand Chopin's sympathy we have but to picture to ourselves Bellini's personality--the perfectly well-proportioned, slender figure, the head with its high forehead and scanty blonde hair, the well-formed nose, the honest, bright look, the expressive mouth; and within this pleasing exterior, the amiable, modest disposition, the heart that felt deeply, the mind that thought acutely. M. Charles Maurice relates a characteristic conversation in his "Histoire anecdotique du Theatre." Speaking to Bellini about "La Sonnambula," he had remarked that there was soul in his music. This expression pleased the composer immensely. "Oui, n'est-ce pas? De l'ame!" he exclaimed in his soft Italian manner of speaking, "C'est ce que je veux...De L'ame! Oh! je suis sensible! Merci!...C'est que l'ame, c'est toute la musique!" "And he pressed my hands," says Charles Maurice, "as if I had discovered a new merit in his rare talent." This specimen of Bellini's conversation is sufficient to show that his linguistic accomplishments were very limited. Indeed, as a good Sicilian he spoke Italian badly, and his French was according to Heine worse than bad, it was frightful, apt to make people's hair stand on end.
When one was in the same salon with him, his vicinity inspired one with a certain anxiety mingled with the fascination of terror which repelled and attracted at the same time. His puns were not always of an amusing kind. Hiller also mentions Bellini's bad grammar and pronunciation, but he adds that the contrast between what he said and the way he said it gave to his gibberish a charm which is often absent from the irreproachable language of trained orators. It is impossible to conjecture what Bellini might have become as a musician if, instead of dying before the completion of his thirty-third year (September 24, 1835), he had lived up to the age of fifty or sixty; thus much, however, is certain, that there was still in him a vast amount of undeveloped capability. Since his arrival in Paris he had watched attentively the new musical phenomena that came there within his ken, and the "Puritani" proves that he had not done so without profit. This sweet singer from sensuous Italy was not insensible even to the depth and grandeur of German music. After hearing Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony, for instance, he said to Hiller, his eyes glistening as if he had himself done a great deed: "E bel comme la nature!" [Footnote: I give the words literally as they are printed in Hiller's Kimmerleben. The mixture of Italian and French was no doubt intended, but hardly the spelling.] In short, Bellini was a true artist, and therefore a meet companion for a true artist like Chopin, of whose music it can be said with greater force than of that of most composers that "it is all soul." Chopin, who of course met Bellini here and there in the salons of the aristocracy, came also in closer contact with him amidst less fashionable but more congenial surroundings. I shall now let Hiller, the pleasant story-teller, speak, who, after remarking that Bellini took a great interest in piano-forte music, even though it was not played by a Chopin, proceeds thus:--
I can never forget some evenings which I spent with him [Bellini] and Chopin and a few other guests at Madame Freppa's. Madame Freppa, an accomplished and exceedingly musical woman, born at Naples, but of French extraction, had, in order to escape from painful family circumstances, settled in Paris, where she taught singing in the most distinguished circles. She had an exceedingly sonorous though not powerful voice, and an excellent method, and by her rendering of Italian folk-songs and other simple vocal compositions of the older masters charmed even the spoiled frequenters of the Italian Opera. We cordially esteemed her, and sometimes went together to visit her at the extreme end of the Faubourg St. Germain, where she lived with her mother on a troisieme au dessus de l'entresol, high above all the noise and tumult of the ever-bustling city. There music was discussed, sung, and played, and then again discussed, played, and sung. Chopin and Madame Freppa seated themselves by turns at the pianoforte; I, too, did my best; Bellini made remarks, and accompanied himself in one or other of his cantilene, rather in illustration of what he had been saying than for the purpose of giving a performance of them. He knew how to sing better than any German composer whom I have met, and had a voice less full of sound than of feeling. His pianoforte- playing sufficed for the reproduction of his orchestra, which, indeed, is not saying much. But he knew very well what he wanted, and was far from being a kind of natural poet, as some may imagine him to have been.
In the summer of 1835, towards the end of July, Chopin journeyed to Carlsbad, whither his father had been sent by the Warsaw physicians. The meeting of the parents and their now famous son after a separation of nearly five years was no doubt a very joyous one; but as no accounts have come down to us of Chopin's doings and feelings during his sojourn in the Bohemian watering-place, I shall make no attempt to fill up the gap by a gushing description of what may have been, evolved out of the omniscience of my inner consciousness, although this would be an insignificant feat compared with those of a recent biographer whose imaginativeness enabled her to describe the appearance of the sky and the state of the weather in the night when her hero became a free citizen of this planet, and to analyse minutely the characters of private individuals whose lives were passed in retirement, whom she had never seen, and who had left neither works nor letters by which they might be judged.
From Carlsbad Chopin went to Dresden. His doings there were of great importance to him, and are of great interest to us. In fact, a new love-romance was in progress. But the story had better be told consecutively, for which reason I postpone my account of his stay in the Saxon capital till the next chapter.
Frederick Wieck, the father and teacher of Clara, who a few years later became the wife of Robert Schumann, sent the following budget of Leipzig news to Nauenburg, a teacher of music in Halle, in the autumn of 1835:--
The first subscription concert will take place under the direction of Mendelssohn on October 4, the second on October 4. To-morrow or the day after to-morrow Chopin will arrive here from Dresden, but will probably not give a concert, for he is very lazy. He could stay here for some time, if false friends (especially a dog of a Pole) did not prevent him from making himself acquainted with the musical side of Leipzig. But Mendelssohn, who is a good friend of mine and Schumann's, will oppose this. Chopin does not believe, judging from a remark he made to a colleague in Dresden, that there is any lady in Germany who can play his compositions--we will see what Clara can do.
The Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik, Schumann's paper, of September 29, 1835, contained the following announcement:--
Leipzig will soon be able to show a Kalisz [Footnote: An allusion to the encampment of Russian and Prussian troops and friendly meeting of princes which took place there in 1835.] as regards musical crowned heads. Herr Mendelssohn has already arrived. Herr Moscheles comes this week; and besides him there will be Chopin, and later, Pixis and Franzilla. [Footnote: Franzilla (or Francilla) Pixis, the adopted daughter of Peter Pixis, whose acquaintance the reader made in one of the preceding chapters (p. 245).]
The details of the account of Chopin's visit to Leipzig which I am now going to give, were communicated to me by Ernst Ferdinand Wenzel, the well-known professor of pianoforte-playing at the Leipzig Conservatorium, who died in 1880.
In the middle of the year 1835 the words "Chopin is coming" were passing from mouth to mouth, and caused much stir in the musical circles of Leipzig. Shortly after this my informant saw Mendelssohn in the street walking arm in arm with a young man, and he knew at once that the Polish musician had arrived, for this young man could be no other than Chopin. From the direction in which the two friends were going, he guessed whither their steps were tending. He, therefore, ran as fast as his legs would carry him to his master Wieck, to tell him that Chopin would be with him in another moment. The visit had been expected, and a little party was assembled, every one of which was anxious to see and hear the distinguished artist. Besides Wieck, his wife, daughter, and sister-in-law, there were present Robert Schumann and Wieck's pupils Wenzel, Louis Rakemann, and Ulex. But the irascible pedagogue, who felt offended because Chopin had not come first to him, who had made such efforts for the propagation of his music, would not stay and welcome his visitor, but withdrew sulkily into the inner apartments. Wieck had scarcely left the room when Mendelssohn and Chopin entered. The former, who had some engagement, said, "Here is Chopin!" and then left, rightly thinking this laconic introduction sufficient. Thus the three most distinguished composers of their time were at least for a moment brought together in the narrow space of a room. [Footnote: This dictum, like all superlatives and sweeping assertions, will no doubt raise objectors; but, I think, it may be maintained, and easily maintained with the saving clause "apart from the stage."] Chopin was in figure not unlike Mendelssohn, but the former was more lightly built and more graceful in his movements. He spoke German fluently, although with a foreign accent. The primary object of Chopin's visit was to make the acquaintance of Clara Wieck, who had already acquired a high reputation as a pianist. She played to him among other things the then new and not yet published Sonata in F sharp minor (Op. 11) by Schumann, which she had lately been studying. The gentlemen dared not ask Chopin to play because of the piano, the touch of which was heavy and which consequently would not suit him. But the ladies were bolder, and did not cease entreating him till he sat down and played his Nocturne in E flat (Op. 9, No. 2). After the lapse of forty-two years Wenzel was still in raptures about the wonderful, fairy-like lightness and delicacy of Chopin's touch and style. The conversation seems to have turned on Schubert, one of Schumann's great favourites, for Chopin, in illustration of something he said, played the commencement of Schubert's Alexander March. Meanwhile Wieck was sorely tried by his curiosity when Chopin was playing, and could not resist the temptation of listening in the adjoining room, and even peeping through the door that stood slightly ajar. When the visit came to a close; Schumann conducted Chopin to the house of his friend Henrietta Voigt, a pupil of Louis Berger's, and Wenzel, who accompanied them to the door, heard Schumann say to Chopin: "Let us go in here where we shall find a thorough, intelligent pianist and a good piano." They then entered the house, and Chopin played and also stayed for dinner. No sooner had he left, than the lady, who up to that time had been exceedingly orthodox in her musical opinions and tastes, sent to Kistner's music-shop, and got all the compositions by Chopin which were in stock.
The letter of Mendelssohn which I shall quote presently and an entry in Henrietta Voigt's diary of the year 1836, which will be quoted in the next chapter, throw some doubt on the latter part of Herr Wenzel's reminiscences. Indeed, on being further questioned on the subject, he modified his original information to this, that he showed Chopin, unaccompanied by Schumann, the way to the lady's house, and left him at the door. As to the general credibility of the above account, I may say that I have added nothing to my informant's communications, and that in my intercourse with him I found him to be a man of acute observation and tenacious memory. What, however, I do not know, is the extent to which the mythopoeic faculty was developed in him.
[Footnote: Richard Pohl gave incidentally a characterisation of this exceedingly interesting personality in the Signale of September, 1886, No. 48. Having been personally acquainted with Wenzel and many of his friends and pupils, I can vouch for its truthfulness. He was "one of the best and most amiable men I have known," writes R. Pohl, "full of enthusiasm for all that is beautiful, obliging, unselfish, thoroughly kind, and at the same time so clever, so cultured, and so many-sided as--excuse me, gentlemen--I have rarely found a pianoforte-teacher. He gave pianoforte lessons at the Conservatorium and in many private houses; he worked day after day, year after year, from morning till night, and with no other outcome as far as he himself was concerned than that all his pupils--especially his female pupils--loved him enthusiastically. He was a pupil of Friedrich Wieck and a friend of Schumann."]
In a letter dated October 6, 1835, and addressed to his family, Mendelssohn describes another part of Chopin's sojourn in Leipzig and gives us his opinion of the Polish artist's compositions and playing:--
The day after I accompanied the Hensels to Delitzsch, Chopin was here; he intended to remain only one day, so we spent this entirely together and had a great deal of music. I cannot deny, dear Fanny, that I have lately found that you do not do him justice in your judgment [of his talents]; perhaps he was not in a right humour for playing when you heard him, which may not unfrequently be the case with him. But his playing has enchanted me anew, and I am persuaded that if you and my father had heard some of his better pieces played as he played them to me, you would say the same. There is something thoroughly original and at the same time so very masterly in his piano-forte-playing that he may be called a really perfect virtuoso; and as every kind of perfection is welcome and gratifying to me, that day was a most pleasant one, although so entirely different from the previous ones spent with you Hensels.
I was glad to be once more with a thorough musician, not with those half-virtuosos and half-classics who would gladly combine in music les honneurs de la vertu et les plaisirs du vice, but with one who has his perfect and well-defined genre [Richtung]. To whatever extent it may differ from mine, I can get on with it famously; but not with those half-men. The Sunday evening was really curious when Chopin made me play over my oratorio to him, while curious Leipzigers stole into the room to see him, and how between the first and second parts he dashed off his new Etudes and a new Concerto, to the astonishment of the Leipzigers, and I afterwards resumed my St. Paul, just as if a Cherokee and a Kaffir had met and conversed. He has such a pretty new notturno, several parts of which I have retained in my memory for the purpose of playing it for Paul's amusement. Thus we passed the time pleasantly together, and he promised seriously to return in the course of the winter if I would compose a new symphony and perform it in honour of him. We vowed these things in the presence of three witnesses, and we shall see whether we both keep our word. My works of Handel [Footnote: A present from the Committee of the Cologne Musical Festival of 1835.] arrived before Chopin's departure, and were a source of quite childish delight to him; but they are really so beautiful that I cannot sufficiently rejoice in their possession.
Although Mendelssohn never played any of Chopin's compositions in public, he made his piano pupils practise some of them. Karasowski is wrong in saying that Mendelssohn had no such pupils; he had not many, it is true, but he had a few. A remark which Mendelssohn once made in his peculiar naive manner is very characteristic of him and his opinion of Chopin. What he said was this: "Sometimes one really does not know whether Chopin's music is right or wrong." On the whole, however, if one of the two had to complain of the other's judgment, it was not Chopin but Mendelssohn, as we shall see farther on.
To learn what impression Chopin made on Schumann, we must once more turn to the Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik, where we find the Polish artist's visit to Leipzig twice mentioned:--
October 6, 1835. Chopin was here, but only for a few hours, which he passed in private circles. He played just as he composes, that is, uniquely.
The second mention is in the P.S. of a transcendental Schwarmerbrief addressed by Eusebius (the personification of the gentle, dreamy side of Schumann's character) to Chiara (Clara Wieck):--
October 20, 1835. Chopin was here. Florestan [the personification of the strong, passionate side of Schumann's character] rushed to him. I saw them arm in arm glide rather than walk. I did not speak with him, was quite startled at the thought.
On his way to Paris, Chopin stopped also at Heidelberg, where he visited the father of his pupil Adolph Gutmann, who treated him, as one of his daughters remarked, not like a prince or even a king, but like somebody far superior to either. The children were taught to look up to Chopin as one who had no equal in his line. And the daughter already referred to wrote more than thirty years afterwards that Chopin still stood out in her memory as the most poetical remembrance of her childhood and youth.
Chopin must have been back in Paris in the first half or about the middle of October, for the Gazette musicale of the 18th of that month contains the following paragraph:--
One of the most eminent pianists of our epoch, M. Chopin, has returned to Paris, after having made a tour in Germany which has been for him a real ovation. Everywhere his admirable talent obtained the most flattering reception and excited enthusiasm. It was, indeed, as if he had not left our capital at all.