Frederick Chopin as a Man and Musician

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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.