Frederick Chopin, as a Man and Musician Part 51

The Polonaise, Op. 53 (in A flat major; published in December, 1843), is one of the most stirring compositions of Chopin, manifesting an overmastering power and consuming fire. But is it really the same Chopin, is it the composer of the dreamy nocturnes, the elegant waltzes, who here fumes and frets, struggling with a fierce, suffocating rage (mark the rushing succession of chords of the sixth, the growling semiquaver figures, and the crashing dissonances of the sixteen introductory bars), and then shouts forth, sure of victory, his bold and scornful challenge? And farther on, in the part of the polonaise where the ostinato semiquaver figure in octaves for the left hand begins, do we not hear the trampling of horses, the clatter of arms and spurs, and the sound of trumpets? Do we not hear--yea, and see too--a high-spirited chivalry approaching and pa.s.sing? Only pianoforte giants can do justice to this martial tone-picture, the physical strength of the composer certainly did not suffice.

The story goes that when Chopin played one of his polonaises in the night-time, just after finishing its composition, he saw the door open, and a long train of Polish knights and ladies, dressed in antique costumes, enter through it and defile past him. This vision filled the composer with such terror that he fled through the opposite door, and dared not return to the room the whole night. Karasowski says that the polonaise in question is the last-mentioned one, in A flat major; but from M. Kwiatkowski, who depicted the scene three times, [FOOTNOTE: "Le Reve de Chopin," a water-colour, and two sketches in oils representing, according to Chopin's indication (d'apres l'avis de Chopin), the polonaise.] learned that it is the one in A major, No. 1 of Op. 40, dedicated to Fontana.

I know of no more affecting composition among all the productions of Chopin than the "Polonaise-Fantaisie" (in A flat major), Op. 61 (published in September, 1846). What an unspeakable, unfathomable wretchedness reveals itself in these sounds! We gaze on a boundless desolation. These lamentations and cries of despair rend our heart, these strange, troubled wanderings from thought to thought fill us with intensest pity. There are thoughts of sweet resignation, but the absence of hope makes them perhaps the saddest of all. The martial strains, the bold challenges, the shouts of triumph, which we heard so often in the composer's polonaises, are silenced.

An elegiac sadness [says Liszt] predominates, intersected by wild movements, melancholy smiles, unexpected starts, and intervals of rest full of dread such as those experience who have been surprised by an ambuscade, who are surrounded on all sides, for whom there dawns no hope upon the vast horizon, and to whose brain despair has gone like a deep draught of Cyprian wine, which gives a more instinctive rapidity to every gesture, a sharper point to every emotion, causing the mind to arrive at a pitch of irritability bordering on madness.

Thus, although comprising thoughts that in beauty and grandeur equal--I would almost say surpa.s.s-anything Chopin has written, the work stands, on account of its pathological contents, outside the sphere of art.

Chopin's waltzes, the most popular of his compositions, are not poesie intime like the greater number of his works. [FOOTNOTE: Op. 34, No.

2, and Op. 64, No. 2, however, have to be excepted, to some extent at least.] In them the composer mixes with the world-looks without him rather than within--and as a man of the world conceals his sorrows and discontents under smiles and graceful manners. The bright brilliancy and light pleasantness of the earlier years of his artistic career, which are almost entirely lost in the later years, rise to the surface in the waltzes. These waltzes are salon music of the most aristocratic kind.

Schumann makes Florestan say of one of them, and he might have said it of all, that he would not play it unless one half of the female dancers were countesses. But the aristocraticalness of Chopin's waltzes is real, not conventional; their exquisite gracefulness and distinction are natural, not affected. They are, indeed, dance-poems whose content is the poetry of waltz-rhythm and movement, and the feelings these indicate and call forth. In one of his most extravagantly-romantic critical productions Schumann speaks, in connection with Chopin's Op. 18, "Grande Valse brillante," the first-published (in June, 1834) of his waltzes, of "Chopin's body and mind elevating waltz," and its "enveloping the dancer deeper and deeper in its floods." This language is altogether out of proportion with the thing spoken of; for Op. 18 differs from the master's best waltzes in being, not a dance-poem, but simply a dance, although it must be admitted that it is an exceedingly spirited one, both as regards piquancy and dash. When, however, we come to Op. 34, "Trois Valses brillantes" (published in December, 1838), Op. 42, "Valse"

(published in July, 1840), and Op. 64, "Trois Valses" (published in September, 1847), the only other waltzes published by him, we find ourselves face to face with true dance-poems. Let us tarry for a moment over Op. 34. How brisk the introductory bars of the first (in A flat major) of these three waltzes! And what a striking manifestation of the spirit of that dance all that follows! We feel the wheeling motions; and where, at the seventeenth bar of the second part, the quaver figure enters, we think we see the flowing dresses sweeping round. Again what vigour in the third part, and how coaxingly tender the fourth! And, lastly, the brilliant conclusion--the quavers intertwined with triplets!

The second waltz (in A minor; Lento) is of quite another, of a more retired and private, nature, an exception to the rule. The composer evidently found pleasure in giving way to this delicious languor, in indulging in these melancholy thoughts full of sweetest, tenderest loving and longing. But here words will not avail. One day when Stephen h.e.l.ler--my informant--was at Schlesinger's music-shop in Paris, Chopin entered. The latter, hearing h.e.l.ler ask for one of his waltzes, inquired of him which of them he liked best. "It is difficult to say which I like best," replied h.e.l.ler, "for I like them all; but if I were pressed for an answer I would probably say the one in A minor." This gave Chopin much pleasure. "I am glad you do," he said; "it is also my favourite."

And in an exuberance of amiability he invited h.e.l.ler to lunch with him, an invitation which was accepted, the two artists taking the meal together at the Cafe Riche. The third waltz (in F major; Vivace) shows a character very different from the preceding one. What a stretching of muscles! What a whirling! Mark the giddy motions of the melody beginning at bar seventeen! Of this waltz of Chopin's and the first it is more especially true what Schumann said of all three: "Such flooding life moves within these waltzes that they seem to have been improvised in the ball-room." And the words which the same critic applies to Op. 34 may be applied to all the waltzes Chopin published himself--"They must please; they are of another stamp than the usual waltzes, and in the style in which they can only be conceived by Chopin when he looks in a grandly-artistic way into the dancing crowd, which he elevates by his playing, thinking of other things than of what is being danced." In the A flat major waltz which bears the opus number 42, the duple rhythm of the melody along with the triple one of the accompaniment seems to me indicative of the loving nestling and tender embracing of the dancing couples. Then, after the smooth gyrations of the first period, come those sweeping motions, free and graceful like those of birds, that intervene again and again between the different portions of the waltz.

The D flat major part bubbles over with joyousness. In the sostenuto, on the other hand, the composer becomes sentimental, protests, and heaves sighs. But at the very height of his rising ardour he suddenly plunges back into that wild, self-surrendering, heaven and earth-forgetting joyousness--a stroke of genius as delightful as it is clever. If we do not understand by the name of scherzo a fixed form, but rather a state of mind, we may say that Chopin's waltzes are his scherzos and not the pieces to which he has given that name. None of Chopin's waltzes is more popular than the first of Op. 64 (in D flat major). And no wonder! The life, flow, and oneness are unique; the charm of the multiform motions is indescribable. That it has been and why it has been called valse au pet.i.t chien need here only be recalled to the reader's recollection (see Chapter XXVI., p. 142). No. 2 (in C sharp minor); different as it is, is in its own way nearly as perfect as No. 1. Tender, love-sick longing cannot be depicted more truthfully, sweetly, and entrancingly. The excellent No. 3 (in A flat major), with the exquisite serpentining melodic lines, which play so important a part in Chopin's waltzes, and other beautiful details, is in a somewhat trying position beside the other two waltzes. The non-publication by the composer of the waltzes which have got into print, thanks to the zeal of his admirers and the avidity of publishers, proves to me that he was a good judge of his own works. Fontana included in his collection of posthumous compositions five waltzes--"Deux Valses," Op. 69 (in F minor, of 1836; in B minor, of 1829);. and "Trois Valses," Op. 70 (in G flat major, of 1835; in F minor, of 1843; in D flat major, of 1830). There are further a waltz in E minor and one in E major (of 1829). [FOOTNOTE: The "Deux Valses melancoliques" (in F minor and B minor), ecrits sur l'alb.u.m de Madame la Comtesse P., 1844 (Cracow: J. Wildt), the English edition of which (London: Edwin Ashdown) is ent.i.tled "Une soiree en 1844," "Deux Valses melancoliques," are Op. 70. No. 2, and Op. 69, No. 2, of the works of Chopin posthumously published by Fontana.] Some of these waltzes I discussed already when speaking of the master's early compositions, to which they belong. The last-mentioned waltz, which the reader will find in Mikuli's edition (No. 15 of the waltzes), and also in Breitkopf and Hartel's (No. 22 of the Posthumous works), is a very weak composition; and of all the waltzes not published by the composer himself it may be said that what is good in them has been expressed better in others.

We have of Chopin 27 studies: Op. 10, "Douze Etudes," published in July, 1833; Op. 25, "Douze Etudes," published in October, 1837; and "Trois nouvelles Etudes," which, before being separately published, appeared in 1840 in the "Methode des Methodes pour le piano" by F. J. Fetis and I.

Moscheles. The dates of their publication, as in the case of many other works, do not indicate the approximate dates of their composition.

Sowinski tells us, for instance, that Chopin brought the first book of his studies with him to Paris in 1831. A Polish musician who visited the French capital in 1834 heard Chopin play the studies contained in Op.

25. And about the last-mentioned opus we read in a critical notice by Schumann, who had, no doubt, his information directly from Chopin: "The studies which have now appeared [that is, those of Op. 25] were almost all composed at the same time as the others [that is, those of Op. 10]

and only some of them, the greater masterliness of which is noticeable, such as the first, in A flat major, and the splendid one in C minor [that is, the twelfth] but lately." Regarding the Trois nouvelles Etudes without OPUS number we have no similar testimony. But internal evidence seems to show that these weakest of the master's studies--which, however, are by no means uninteresting, and certainly very characteristic--may be regarded more than Op. 25 as the outcome of a gleaning. In two of Chopin's letters of the year 1829, we meet with announcements of his having composed studies. On the 20th of October he writes: "I have composed a study in my own manner"; and on the 14th of November: "I have written some studies." From Karasowski learn that the master composed the twelfth study of Op. 10 during his stay in Stuttgart, being inspired by the capture of Warsaw by the Russians, which took place on September 8, 1831. Whether looked at from the aesthetical or technical point of view, Chopin's studies will be seen to be second to those of no composer. Were it not wrong to speak of anything as absolutely best, their excellences would induce one to call them unequalled. A striking feature in them compared with Chopin's other works is their healthy freshness and vigour. Even the slow, dreamy, and elegiac ones have none of the faintness and sickliness to be found in not a few of the composer's pieces, especially in several of the nocturnes. The diversity of character exhibited by these studies is very great. In some of them the aesthetical, in others the technical purpose predominates; in a few the two are evenly balanced: in none is either of them absent. They give a summary of Chopin's ways and means, of his pianoforte language: chords in extended positions, wide-spread arpeggios, chromatic progressions (simple, in thirds, and in octaves), simultaneous combinations of contrasting rhythms, &c--nothing is wanting. In playing them or hearing them played Chopin's words cannot fail to recur to one's mind: "I have composed a study in my own manner."

Indeed, the composer's demands on the technique of the executant were so novel at the time when the studies made their first public appearance that one does not wonder at poor blind Rellstab being staggered, and venting his feelings in the following uncouthly-jocular manner: "Those who have distorted fingers may put them right by practising these studies; but those who have not, should not play them, at least not without having a surgeon at hand." In Op. 10 there are three studies especially noteworthy for their musical beauty. The third (Lento ma non troppo, in E major) and the sixth (Andante, in E flat minor) may be reckoned among Chopin's loveliest compositions. They combine cla.s.sical chasteness of contour with the fragrance of romanticism. And the twelfth study (Allegro con fuoco, in C minor), the one composed at Stuttgart after the fall of Warsaw, how superbly grand! The composer seems to be fuming with rage: the left hand rushes impetuously along and the right hand strikes in with pa.s.sionate e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns. With regard to the above-named Lento ma non troppo (Op. 10, No. 3), Chopin said to Gutmann that he had never in his life written another such beautiful melody (CHANT); and on one occasion when Gutmann was studying it the master lifted up his arms with his hands clasped and exclaimed: "O, my fatherland!" ("O, me patrie!") I share with Schumann the opinion that the total weight of Op. 10 amounts to more than that of Op. 25. Like him I regard also Nos. 1 and 12 as the most important items of the latter collection of studies: No. 1 (Allegro sostenuto, in A flat major)--a tremulous mist below, a beautiful breezy melody floating above, and once or twice a more opaque body becoming discernible within the vaporous element--of which Schumann says that "after listening to the study one feels as one does after a blissful vision, seen in a dream, which, already half-awake, one would fain bring back": [FOOTNOTE: See the whole quotation, Vol. I., p. 310.] and No. 12 (in C minor, Allegro molto con fuoco), in which the emotions rise not less than the waves of arpeggios (in both hands) which symbolise them. Stephen h.e.l.ler's likings differ from Schumann's. Discussing Chopin's Op. 25 in the Gazette musicale of February 24, 1839, he says:--

What more do we require to pa.s.s one or several evenings in as perfect a happiness as possible? As for me, I seek in this collection of poesy (this is the only name appropriate to the works of Chopin) some favourite pieces which I might fix in my memory rather than others. Who could retain everything? For this reason I have in my note book quite particularly marked the numbers 4, 5, and 7 of the present poems. Of these twelve much-loved studies (every one of which has a charm of its own) these three numbers are those I prefer to all the rest.

In connection with the fourth, h.e.l.ler points out that it reminds him of the first bar of the Kyrie (rather the Requiem aeternam) of Mozart's Requiem. And of the seventh study he remarks:--

It engenders the sweetest sadness, the most enviable torments; and if in playing it one feels one's self insensibly drawn towards mournful and melancholy ideas, it is a disposition of the soul which I prefer to all others. Alas! how I love these sombre and mysterious dreams, and Chopin is the G.o.d who creates them.

This No. 7 (in C sharp minor, lento), a duet between a HE and a SHE, of whom the former shows himself more talkative and emphatic than the latter, is, indeed, very sweet, but perhaps, also somewhat tiresomely monotonous, as such tete-a-tete naturally are to third parties. As a contrast to No. 7, and in conclusion--leaving several aerial flights and other charming conceptions undiscussed--I will yet mention the octave study, No. 10, which is a real pandemonium; for a while holier sounds intervene, but finally h.e.l.l prevails.

The genesis of the Vingt-quatre Preludes, Op. 28, published in September, 1839, I have tried to elucidate in the twenty-first chapter.

I need, therefore, not discuss the question here. The indefinite character and form of the prelude, no doubt, determined the choice of the t.i.tle which, however, does not describe the contents of this OPUS.

Indeed, no ONE name could do so. This heterogeneous collection of pieces reminds me of nothing so much as of an artist's portfolio filled with drawings in all stages of advancement--finished and unfinished, complete and incomplete compositions, sketches and mere memoranda, all mixed indiscriminately together. The finished works were either too small or too slight to be sent into the world separately, and the right mood for developing, completing, and giving the last touch to the rest was gone, and could not be found again. Schumann, after expressing his admiration for these preludes, as well he might, adds: "This book contains morbid, feverish, and repellent matter." I do not think that there is much that could justly be called repellent; but the morbidity and feverishness of a considerable portion must be admitted.

I described the preludes [writes Schumann] as remarkable. To confess the truth, I expected they would be executed like the studies, in the grandest style. Almost the reverse is the case; they are sketches, commencements of studies, or, if you will, ruins, single eagle-wings, all strangely mixed together.

But in his fine nonpareil there stands in every piece:-- "Frederick Chopin wrote it." One recognises him by the violent breathing during the rests. He is, and remains, the proudest poet-mind of the time.

The almost infinite and infinitely-varied beauties collected in this treasure-trove denominated Vingt-quatre Preludes could only be done justice to by a minute a.n.a.lysis, for which, however, there is no room here. I must content myself with a word or two about a few of them, picked out at random. No. 4 is a little poem the exquisitely-sweet languid pensiveness of which defies description. The composer seems to be absorbed in the narrow sphere of his ego, from which the wide, noisy world is for the time being shut out. In No. 6 we have, no doubt, the one of which George Sand said that it occurred to Chopin one evening while rain was falling, and that it "precipitates the soul into a frightful depression." [FOOTNOTE: See George Sand's account and description in Chapter XXI., p. 43.] How wonderfully the contending rhythms of the accompaniment, and the fitful, jerky course of the melody, depict in No. 8 a state of anxiety and agitation! The premature conclusion of that bright vivacious thing No. 11 fills one with regret.

Of the beautifully-melodious No. 13, the piu lento and the peculiar closing bars are especially noteworthy. No. 14 invites a comparison with the finale of the B flat minor Sonata. In the middle section (in C sharp minor) of the following number (in D flat major), one of the larger pieces, rises before one's mind the cloistered court of the monastery of Valdemosa, and a procession of monks chanting lugubrious prayers, and carrying in the dark hours of night their departed brother to his last resting-place. It reminds one of the words of George Sand, that the monastery was to Chopin full of terrors and phantoms. This C sharp minor portion of No. 15 affects one like an oppressive dream; the re-entrance of the opening D flat major, which dispels the dreadful nightmare, comes upon one with the smiling freshness of dear, familiar nature--only after these horrors of the imagination can its serene beauty be fully appreciated. No. 17, another developed piece, strikes one as akin to Mendelssohn's Songs without Words. I must not omit to mention No. 21, one of the finest of the collection, with its calming cantilena and palpitating quaver figure. Besides the set of twenty-four preludes, Op.

28, Chopin published a single one, Op. 45, which appeared in December, 1841. This composition deserves its name better than almost anyone of the twenty-four; still, I would rather call it an improvisata. It seems unpremeditated, a heedless outpouring when sitting at the piano in a lonely, dreary hour, perhaps in the twilight. The quaver figure rises aspiringly, and the sustained parts swell out proudly. The piquant cadenza forestalls in the progression of diminished chords favourite effects of some of our more modern composers. The modulation from C sharp minor to D major and back again (after the cadenza) is very striking and equally beautiful.

It can hardly be said, although Liszt seemed to be of a different opinion, that Chopin created a new type by his preludes--they are too unlike each other in form and character. On the other hand, he has done so by his four scherzos--Op. 20 (in B minor), published in February, 1835; Op. 31 (B flat minor), published in December, 1837; Op. 39 (C sharp minor), published in October, 1840; and Op. 54 (in E major), published in December, 1843. "How is 'gravity' to clothe itself, if 'jest' goes about in dark veils?" exclaims Schumann. No doubt, scherzo, if we consider the original meaning of the word, is a misnomer. But are not Beethoven's scherzos, too, misnamed? To a certain extent they are.

But if Beethoven's scherzos often lack frolicsomeness, they are endowed with humour, whereas Chopin's have neither the one nor the other. Were it not that we attach, especially since Mendelssohn's time, the idea of lightness and light-heartedness to the word capriccio, this would certainly be the more descriptive name for the things Chopin ent.i.tled SCHERZO. But what is the use of carping at a name? Let us rather look at the things, and thus employ our time better. Did ever composer begin like Chopin in his Premier Scherzo, Op. 20? Is this not like a shriek of despair? and what follows, bewildered efforts of a soul shut in by a wall of circ.u.mstances through which it strives in vain to break? at last sinking down with fatigue, dreaming a dream of idyllic beauty?

but beginning the struggle again as soon as its strength is recruited?

Schumann compared the second SCHERZO, Op. 31, to a poem of Byron's, "so tender, so bold, as full of love as of scorn." Indeed, scorn--an element which does not belong to what is generally understood by either frolicsomeness or humour--plays an important part in Chopin's scherzos.

The very beginning of Op. 31 offers an example.

[FOOTNOTE: "It must be a question [the doubled triplet figure A, B flat, d flat, in the first bar], taught Chopin, and for him it was never question enough, never piano enough, never vaulted (tombe) enough, as he said, never important enough. It must be a charnel-house, he said on one occasion." (W. von Lenz, in Vol. XXVI. of the Berliner Musikzeitung.)]

And then, we do not meet with a phrase of a more cheerful nature which is not clouded by sadness. Weber--I mention his name intentionally--would, for instance, in the D flat major portion have concluded the melodic phrase in diatonic progression and left the harmony pure. Now see what Chopin does. The con anima has this mark of melancholy still more distinctly impressed upon it. After the repet.i.tion of the capricious, impulsively-pa.s.sionate first section (in B flat minor and D flat major) follows the delicious second, the expression of which is as indescribable as that of Leonardo da Vinci's "La Gioconda." It is a pondering and wondering full of longing. In the deep, tender yearning, with the urging undercurrent of feeling, of the C sharp minor portion, the vague dreaming of the preceding portion of the section grows into wakefulness, and the fitful imagination is concentrated on one object.

Without continuing the emotional or entering on a formal a.n.a.lysis of this scherzo, I venture to say that it is a very important composition, richer and more varied in emotional incidents than the other works of Chopin which bear the same name. More than to any one of the master's scherzos, the name capriccio would be suitable to his third "Scherzo,"

Op. 39, with its capricious starts and changes, its rudderless drifting.

Peevishness, a fierce scornfulness, and a fretful agitation, may be heard in these sounds, of jest and humour there is nothing perceptible.

At any rate, the curled lip, as it were, contradicts the jesting words, and the careless exterior does not altogether conceal the seething rage within. But with the meno mosso (D flat major) come pleasanter thoughts.

The hymn-like s.n.a.t.c.hes of sustained melody with the intervening airy interludes are very lovely. These are the princ.i.p.al features, to describe all the whims is of course impossible. You may call this work an extravaganza, and point out its grotesqueness; but you must admit that only by this erratic character of the form and these spasmodic movements, could be expressed the peculiar restiveness, fitfulness, and waywardness of thought and feeling that characterise Chopin's individuality. To these uncla.s.sical qualities--for cla.s.sical art is above all plastic and self-possessed--combined as they are with a high degree of refinement and delicacy, his compositions owe much of their peculiar charm. The absence of scorn distinguishes the fourth "Scherzo,"

Op. 54, from the other three; but, like them, although less closely wrapped, it wears dark veils. The tripping fairy steps which we find in bars 17-20 and in other places are a new feature in Chopin. As to the comparative value of the work, it seems to me inferior to its brothers.

The first section is too fragmentary to give altogether satisfaction.

One is hustled from one phrase to another, and they are as unlike each other as can well be imagined. The beauty of many of the details, however, must be acknowledged; indeed, the harmonic finesses, the melodic cunning, and rhythmical piquancy, are too potent to be ignored. The resting-place and redeeming part of this scherzo is the sweetly-melodious second section, with its long, smooth, gently and beautifully-curved lines. Also the return to the repet.i.tion of the first section is very interesting. This scherzo has the appearance of being laboured, painfully hammered and welded together. But as the poet is born, not made-which "being born" is not brought about without travail, nor makes the less desirable a careful bringing-up--so also does a work of art owe what is best in it to a propitious concurrence of circ.u.mstances in the natal hour.

The contents of Chopin's impromptus are of a more pleasing nature than those of the scherzos. Like the latter they are wayward, but theirs is a charming, lovable waywardness. The composer's three first impromptus were published during his lifetime: Op. 29 in December, 1837; Op. 36 in May, 1840; and Op. 51 in February, 1843. The fourth impromptu ("Fantaisie-Impromptu"), Op. 66, is a posthumous publication. What name has been more misapplied than that of impromptu? Again and again we meet with works thus christened which bear upon them the distinct marks of painful effort and anxious filing, which maybe said to smell of the mid-night lamp, and to be dripping with the hard-working artificer's sweat. How Chopin produced the "Impromptu," Op. 29 (in A flat major), I do not know. Although an admired improviser, the process of composition was to him neither easy nor quick. But be this as it may, this impromptu has quite the air of a spontaneous, unconstrained outpouring. The first section with its triplets bubbles forth and sparkles like a fountain on which the sunbeams that steal through the interstices of the overhanging foliage are playing. The F minor section is sung out clearly and heartily, with graces beautiful as nature's. The song over, our attention is again attracted by the harmonious murmuring and the changing lights of the water. The "Deuxieme Impromptu," Op. 36 (in F sharp major), is, like the first, a true impromptu, but while the first is a fresh and l.u.s.ty welling forth of joy amidst the pleasures of a present reality, this is a dreamy lingering over thoughts and scenes of the imagination that appear and vanish like dissolving views. One would wish to have a programme of this piece. Without such a.s.sistance the D major section of the impromptu is insignificant. We want to see, or at least to know, who the persons that walk in the procession which the music accompanies are. Some bars in the second half of this section remind one of Schumann's "Fantasia" in C. After this section a curious transition leads in again the theme, which first appeared in F sharp major, in F major, and with a triplet accompaniment. When F sharp major is once more reached, the theme is still further varied (melodically), till at last the wondrous, fairy-like phrase from the first section brings the piece to a conclusion. This impromptu is inferior to the first, having less pith in it; but its tender sweetness and euphony cannot be denied. The idle forgetfulness of the more serious duties and the deep miseries of life in the enjoyment of a dolce far niente recalls Schubert and the "Fantasia," Op. 78, and other works of his. In the "Troisieme Impromptu" (in G flat major), Op. 51, the rhythmical motion and the melodical form of the two parts that serpentine their lines in opposite directions remind one of the first impromptu (in A flat), but the characters of these pieces are otherwise very unlike. The earlier work is distinguished by a brisk freshness; the later one by a feverish restlessness and faint plaintiveness. After the irresolute flutter of the relaxing and enervating chromatic progressions and successions of thirds and sixths, the greater steadiness of the middle section, more especially the subdued strength and pa.s.sionate eloquence at the D flat major, has a good effect. But here, too, the languid, lamenting chromatic pa.s.sing and auxiliary notes are not wanting, and the anxious, breathless accompaniment does not make things more cheerful. In short, the piece is very fine in its way, but the unrelieved, or at least very insufficiently relieved, morbidezza is anything but healthy. We may take note of the plain chord progressions which intervene in the first and last sections of the impromptu; such progressions are of frequent occurrence in Chopin's works. Is there not something pleonastic in the t.i.tle "Fantaisie-Impromptu?" Whether the reader may think so or not, he will agree with me that the fourth impromptu (in C sharp minor), Op. 66, is the most valuable of the compositions published by Fontana; indeed, it has become one of the favourites of the pianoforte-playing world.

Spontaneity of emotional expression and effective treatment of the pianoforte distinguish the Fantaisie-Impromptu. In the first section we have the restless, surging, gushing semiquavers, carrying along with them a pa.s.sionate, urging melody, and the simultaneous waving triplet accompaniment; in the second section, where the motion of the accompaniment is on the whole preserved, the sonorous, expressive cantilena in D flat major; the third section repeats the first, which it supplements with a coda containing a reminiscence of the cantilena of the second section, which calms the agitation of the semiquavers.

According to Fontana, Chopin composed this piece about 1834. Why did he keep it in his portfolio? I suspect he missed in it, more especially in the middle section, that degree of distinction and perfection of detail which alone satisfied his fastidious taste.

Among Chopin's nocturnes some of his most popular works are to be found.

Nay, the most widely-prevailing idea of his character as a man and musician seems to have been derived from them. But the idea thus formed is an erroneous one; these dulcet, effeminate compositions ill.u.s.trate only one side of the master's character, and by no means the best or most interesting. Notwithstanding such precious pearls as the two Nocturnes, Op. 37, and a few others, Chopin shows himself greater both as a man and a musician in every other cla.s.s of pieces he has originated and cultivated, more especially in his polonaises, ballades, and studies. That, however, there is much to be admired in the cla.s.s now under consideration will be seen from the following brief comments on the eighteen nocturnes (leaving out of account the one of the year 1828 published by Fontana as Op. 72, No. 1, and already discussed in an earlier chapter) which Chopin gave to the world--Op. 9, Trois Nocturnes, in January, 1833; Op. 15, Trois Nocturnes, in January, 1834; Op. 27, Deux Nocturnes, in May, 1836; Op. 32, Deux Nocturnes, December, 1837; Op. 37, Deux Nocturnes, in May, 1840; Op. 48, Deux Nocturnes, in November, 1841; Op. 55, Deux Nocturnes, in August, 1844; and Op. 62, Deux Nocturnes, in September, 1846. Rellstab remarked in 1833 of the Trois Nocturnes, Op. 9, that Chopin, without borrowing directly from Field, copied the latter's melody and manner of accompaniment. There is some truth in this; only the word "copy" is not the correct one. The younger received from the elder artist the first impulse to write in this form, and naturally adopted also something of his manner. On the whole, the similitude is rather generic than specific. Even the contents of Op. 9 give Chopin a just claim to originality; and the Field reminiscences which are noticeable in Nos. 1 and 2 (most strikingly in the commencement of No. 2) of the first set of nocturnes will be looked for in vain in the subsequent ones.

Where Field smiles [said the above-mentioned critic], Chopin makes a grinning grimace; where Field sighs, Chopin groans; where Field shrugs his shoulders, Chopin twists his whole body; where Field puts some seasoning into the food, Chopin empties a handful of Cayenne pepper...In short, if one holds Field's charming romances before a distorting concave mirror, so that every delicate expression becomes a coa.r.s.e one, one gets Chopin's work...We implore Mr. Chopin to return to nature.

Now, what remains of this statement after subtracting prejudices and narrow-mindedness? Nothing but that Chopin is more varied and pa.s.sionate than Field, and has developed to the utmost some of the means of expression used by the latter. No. 1 (in B flat minor) of Op. 9 is pervaded by a voluptuous dreaminess and cloying sweetness: it suggests twilight, the stillness of night, and thoughts engendered thereby. The tone of sentiment and the phraseology of No. 2 (in E fiat major) have been made so common by fashionable salon composers that one cannot help suspecting that it is not quite a natural tone--not a tone of true feeling, but of sentimentality. The vulgar do not imitate the true and n.o.ble, but the false and ostentatious. In this piece one breathes drawing-room air, and ostentation of sentiment and affectation of speech are native to that place. What, however, the imitations often lack is present in every tone and motion of the original: eloquence, grace, and genuine refinement.

[FOOTNOTE: Gutmann played the return of the princ.i.p.al subject in a way very different from that in which it is printed, with a great deal of ornamentation, and said that Chopin played it always in that way. Also the cadence at the end of the nocturne (Op. 9, No. 2) had a different form. But the composer very frequently altered the ornamentions of his pieces or excogitated alternative readings.]

The third is, like the preceding nocturne, exquisite salon music. Little is said, but that little very prettily. Although the atmosphere is close, impregnated with musk and other perfumes, there is here no affectation. The concluding cadenza, that twirling line, reads plainly "Frederic Chopin." Op. 15 shows a higher degree of independence and poetic power than Op. 9. The third (in G minor) of these nocturnes is the finest of the three. The words languido e rubato describe well the wavering pensiveness of the first portion of the nocturne, which finds its expression in the indecision of the melodic progressions, harmonies, and modulations. The second section is marked religiose, and may be characterised as a trustful prayer, conducive to calm and comfort. The Nocturnes in F major and F sharp major, Op. 15, are more pa.s.sionate than the one we just now considered, at least in the middle sections. The serene, tender Andante in F major, always sweet, and here and there with touches of delicate playfulness, is interrupted by thoughts of impetuous defiance, which give way to sobs and sighs, start up again with equal violence, and at last die away into the first sweet, tender serenity.

The contrast between the languid dreaming and the fiery upstarting is striking and effective, and the practical musician, as well as the student of aesthetics, will do well to examine by what means these various effects are produced. In the second nocturne, F sharp major, the brightness and warmth of the world without have penetrated into the world within. The fioriture flit about as lightly as gossamer threads.

The sweetly-sad longing of the first section becomes more disquieting in the doppio movimento, but the beneficial influence of the sun never quite loses its power, and after a little there is a relapse into the calmer mood, with a close like a hazy distance on a summer day. The second (in D flat major) of Op. 27 was, no doubt, conceived in a more auspicious moment than the first (in C sharp minor), of which the extravagantly wide-meshed netting of the accompaniment is the most noteworthy feature. [FOOTNOTE: In most of the pieces where, as in this one, the left-hand accompaniment consists of an undulating figure, Chopin wished it to be played very soft and subdued. This is what Gutmann said.] As to the one in D flat, nothing can equal the finish and delicacy of execution, the flow of gentle feeling, lightly rippled by melancholy, and spreading out here and there in smooth expansiveness.

But all this sweetness enervates; there is poison in it. We should not drink in these thirds, sixths, &c., without taking an antidote of Bach or Beethoven. Both the nocturnes of Op. 32 are pretty specimens of Chopin's style of writing in the tender, calm, and dreamy moods. Of the two (in B major and A flat major) I prefer the quiet, pellucid first one. It is very simple, ornaments being very sparingly introduced.

The quietness and simplicity are, however, at last disturbed by an interrupted cadence, sombre sounds as of a kettle-drum, and a pa.s.sionate recitative with intervening abrupt chords. The second nocturne has less originality and pith. Deux Nocturnes (in G minor and G major), Op. 37, are two of the finest, I am inclined to say, the two finest, of this cla.s.s of Chopin's pieces; but they are of contrasting natures. The first and last sections of the one in G minor are plaintive and longing, and have a wailing accompaniment; the chord progressions of the middle section glide along hymn-like. [FOOTNOTE: Gutmann played this section quicker than the rest, and said that Chopin forgot to mark the change of movement.] Were it possible to praise one part more emphatically than another without committing an injustice, I would speak of the melodic exquisiteness of the first motive. But already I see other parts rise reproachfully before my repentant conscience. A beautiful sensuousness distinguishes the nocturne in G major: it is luscious, soft, rounded, and not without a certain degree of languor. The successions of thirds and, sixths, the semitone progressions, the rocking motion, the modulations (note especially those of the first section and the transition from that to the second), all tend to express the essential character. The second section in C major reappears in E major, after a repet.i.tion of part of the first section; a few bars of the latter and a reminiscence of the former conclude the nocturne. But let us not tarry too long in the treacherous atmosphere of this Capua--it bewitches and unmans. The two nocturnes (in C minor and F sharp minor) which form Op. 48 are not of the number of those that occupy foremost places among their companions. Still, they need not be despised. The melody of the C minor portion of the first is very expressive, and the second has in the C sharp minor portion the peculiar Chopinesque flebile dolcezza.

In playing these nocturnes there occurred to me a remark of Schumann's, made when he reviewed some nocturnes by Count Wielhorski. He said, on that occasion, that the quicker middle movements which Chopin frequently introduces into his nocturnes are often weaker than his first conceptions, meaning the first portions of the nocturnes. Now, although the middle parts in the present instances are, on the contrary, slower movements, yet the judgment holds good; at least, with respect to the first nocturne, the middle part of which has nothing to recommend it but the effective use of a full and sonorous instrumentation, if I may use this word in speaking of one instrument. The middle part of the second (f, D flat, Molto piu lento), however, is much finer; in it we meet again, as we did in some other nocturnes, with soothing, simple chord progressions. When Gutmann studied the C sharp minor nocturne with Chopin, the master told him that the middle section (the Molto piu lento, in D flat major) should be played as a recitative: "A tyrant commands" (the first two chords), he said, "and the other asks for mercy." Regarding the first nocturne (in F minor) of Op. 55, we will note only the flebile dolcezza of the first and the last section, and the inferiority of the more impa.s.sioned middle section. The second nocturne (in E flat major) differs in form from the other nocturnes in this, that it has no contrasting second section, the melody flowing onward from begining to end in a uniform manner. The monotony of the unrelieved sentimentality does not fail to make itself felt. One is seized by an ever-increasing longing to get out of this oppressive atmosphere, to feel the fresh breezes and warm sunshine, to see smiling faces and the many-coloured dress of Nature, to hear the rustling of leaves, the murmuring of streams, and voices which have not yet lost the clear, sonorous ring that joy in the present and hope in the future impart. The two nocturnes, Op. 62, seem to owe their existence rather to the sweet habit of activity than to inspiration. At any rate, the tender flutings, trills, roulades, syncopations, &c., of the first nocturne (in B major), and the sentimental declarations and confused, monotonous agitation of the second (in E major), do not interest me sufficiently to induce me to discuss their merits and demerits.

One day Tausig, the great pianoforte-virtuoso, promised W. von Lenz to play him Chopin's "Barcarolle," Op. 60 (published in September, 1846), adding, "That is a performance which must not be undertaken before more than two persons. I shall play you my own self (meinen Menschen). I love the piece, but take it up only rarely." Lenz, who did not know the barcarolle, thereupon went to a music-shop and read it through attentively. The piece, however, did not please him at all; it seemed to him a long movement in the nocturne-style, a Babel of figuration on a lightly-laid foundation. But he found that he had made a mistake, and, after hearing it played by Tausig, confessed that the virtuoso had infused into the "nine pages of enervating music, of one and the same long-breathed rhythm (12/8), so much interest, so much motion, and so much action," that he regretted the long piece was not longer. And now let us hear what remarks Tausig made with regard to the barcarolle:--

There are two persons concerned in the affair; it is a love- scene in a discrete gondola; let us say this mise en scene is the symbol of a lovers' meeting generally. This is expressed in the thirds and sixths; the dualism of two notes (persons) is maintained throughout; all is two-voiced, two-souled. In this modulation here in C sharp major (superscribed dolce sfogato), there are kiss and embrace! This is evident! When, after three bars of introduction, the theme, lightly rocking in the ba.s.s solo, enters in the fourth, this theme is nevertheless made use of throughout the whole fabric only as an accompaniment, and on this the cantilena in two parts is laid; we have thus a continuous, tender dialogue.

Both Lenz's first and last impressions were correct. The form of the barcarolle is that of most of Chopin's nocturnes--consisting of three sections, of which the third is a modified repet.i.tion of the first--only everything is on a larger scale, and more worked out. Unfortunately, the contrast of the middle section is not great enough to prevent the length, in spite of the excellence of the contents, from being felt.

Thus we must also subscribe to the "nine pages of enervating music."

Still, the barcarolle is one of the most important of Chopin's compositions in the nocturne-style. It has distinctive features which decidedly justify and make valuable its existence. Local colouring is not wanting. The first section reminded me of Schumann's saying that Chopin in his melodies leans sometimes over Germany towards Italy. If properly told, this love-laden romance cannot fail to produce effect.

Of the pieces that bear the name "Berceuse," Chopin's Op. 57 (published in June, 1845) is the finest, or at least one of the finest and happiest conceptions. It rests on the harmonic basis of tonic and dominant. The triad of the tonic and the chord of the dominant seventh divide every bar between them in a brotherly manner. Only in the twelfth and thirteenth bars from the end (the whole piece contains seventy) the triad of the subdominant comes forward, and gives a little breathing time to the triad of the tonic, the chord of the dominant having already dropped off. Well, on this basis Chopin builds, or let us rather say, on this rocking harmonic fluid he sets afloat a charming melody, which is soon joined by a self-willed second part. Afterwards, this melody is dissolved into all kinds of fioriture, colorature, and other trickeries, and they are of such fineness, subtlety, loveliness, and gracefulness, that one is reminded of Queen Mab, who comes--

In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the fore-finger of an alderman.

Drawn with a team of little atomies Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep; Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs, The cover of the wings of gra.s.shoppers; The traces of the smallest spider's web; The collars of the moonshine's watery beams; Her whip of cricket's bone; the lash of film; Her waggoner a small grey-coated gnat.

[FOOTNOTE: Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, I., iv., 59-68]

But who does not know the delightful description of the fairy in her hazel-nut coach, and the amusing story of her frolics and pranks?

By-and-by the nimble motions of the colorature become slower, and finally glide into the original form of the melody, which, however, already after the third bar comes to a stand-still, is resumed for a short phrase, then expires, after a long-drawn chord of the dominant seventh, on the chord of the tonic, and all is rest and silence.