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Unknown - "The Bible, Douay Rheims, Book 73: Apocalypse"

Frank R. Stockton - "The Great Stone of Sardis"

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Frederick Chopin as a Man and Musician

F >> Frederick Niecks >> Frederick Chopin as a Man and Musician




This description is so graphic that one seems to see the actual
scene, and imagines one's self one of the audience. It also
points out a very characteristic feature of these concerts--
namely, the preponderance of the fair sex. As regards Chopin's
playing, the writer remarks that the genre of execution which
aims at the imitation of orchestral effects suits neither
Chopin's organisation nor his ideas:--

In listening to all these sounds, all these nuances, which
follow each other, intermingle, separate, and reunite to
arrive at one and the same goal, melody, do you not think you
hear little fairy voices sighing under silver bells, or a rain
of pearls falling on crystal tables? The fingers of the
pianist seem to multiply ad infinitum; it does not appear
possible that only two hands can produce effects of rapidity
so precise and so natural...

I shall now try to give the reader a clearer idea of what
Chopin's style of playing was like than any and all of the
criticisms and descriptions I have hitherto quoted can have done.
And I do this not only in order to satisfy a natural curiosity,
but also, and more especially, to furnish a guide for the better
understanding and execution of the master's works. Some, seeing
that no music reflects more clearly its author's nature than that
of Chopin, may think that it would be wiser to illustrate the
style of playing by the style of composition, and not the style
of composition by the style of playing. Two reasons determine me
to differ from them. Our musical notation is an inadequate
exponent of the conceptions of the great masters--visible signs
cannot express the subtle shades of the emotional language; and
the capabilities of Chopin the composer and of Chopin the
executant were by no means coextensive--we cannot draw
conclusions as to the character of his playing from the character
of his Polonaises in A major (Op. 40) and in A flat (Op. 53), and
certain movements of the Sonata in B flat minor (Op. 35). The
information contained in the following remarks is derived partly
from printed publications, partly from private letters and
conversations; nothing is admitted which does not proceed from
Chopin's pupils, friends, and such persons as have frequently
heard him.

What struck everyone who had the good fortune to hear Chopin was
the fact that he was a pianist sui generis. Moscheles calls him
an unicum; Mendelssohn describes him as "radically original"
(Gruneigentumlich); Meyerbeer said of him that he knew no
pianist, no composer for the piano, like him; and thus I could go
on quoting ad infinitum. A writer in the "Gazette musicale" (of
the year 1835, I think), who, although he places at the head of
his article side by side the names of Liszt, Hiller, Chopin, and-
-Bertini, proved himself in the characterisation of these
pianists a man of some insight, remarks of Chopin: "Thought,
style, conception, even the fingering, everything, in fact,
appears individual, but of a communicative, expansive
individuality, an individuality of which superficial
organisations alone fail to recognise the magnetic influence."
Chopin's place among the great pianists of the second quarter of
this century has been felicitously characterised by an anonymous
contemporary: Thalberg, he said, is a king, Liszt a prophet,
Chopin a poet, Herz an advocate, Kalkbrenner a minstrel, Madame
Pleyel a sibyl, and Doehler a pianist.

But if our investigation is to be profitable, we must proceed
analytically. It will be best to begin with the fundamental
technical qualities. First of all, then, we have to note the
suppleness and equality of Chopin's fingers and the perfect
independence of his hands. "The evenness of his scales and
passages in all kinds of touch," writes Mikuli, "was unsurpassed,
nay, prodigious." Gutmann told me that his master's playing was
particularly smooth, and his fingering calculated to attain this
result. A great lady who was present at Chopin's last concert in
Paris (1848), when he played among other works his Valse in D
flat (Op. 64, No. 1), wished to know "le secret de Chopin pour
que les gammes fussent si COULEES sur le piano." Madame Dubois,
who related this incident to me, added that the expression was
felicitous, for this "limpidite delicate" had never been
equalled. Such indeed were the lightness, delicacy, neatness,
elegance, and gracefulness of Chopin's playing that they won for
him the name of Ariel of the piano. The reader will remember how
much Chopin admired these qualities in other artists, notably in
Mdlle. Sontag and in Kalkbrenner.

So high a degree and so peculiar a kind of excellence was of
course attainable only under exceptionally favourable conditions,
physical as well as mental. The first and chief condition was a
suitably formed hand. Now, no one can look at Chopin's hand, of
which there exists a cast, without perceiving at once its
capabilities. It was indeed small, but at the same time it was
thin, light, delicately articulated, and, if I may say so, highly
expressive. Chopin's whole body was extraordinarily flexible.
According to Gutmann, he could, like a clown, throw his legs over
his shoulders. After this we may easily imagine how great must
have been the flexibility of his hands, those members of his body
which he had specially trained all his life. Indeed, the
startlingly wide-spread chords, arpeggios, &c., which constantly
occur in his compositions, and which until he introduced them had
been undreamt-of and still are far from being common, seemed to
offer him no difficulty, for he executed them not only without
any visible effort, but even with a pleasing ease and freedom.
Stephen Heller told me that it was a wonderful sight to see one
of those small hands expand and cover a third of the keyboard. It
was like the opening of the mouth of a serpent which is going to
swallow a rabbit whole. In fact, Chopin appeared to be made of
caoutchouc.

In the criticisms on Chopin's public performances we have met
again and again with the statement that he brought little tone
out of the piano. Now, although it is no doubt true that Chopin
could neither subdue to his sway large audiences nor successfully
battle with a full orchestra, it would be a mistake to infer from
this that he was always a weak and languid player. Stephen
Heller, who declared that Chopin's tone was rich, remembered
hearing him play a duet with Moscheles (the latter's duet, of
which Chopin was so fond), and on this occasion the Polish
pianist, who insisted on playing the bass, drowned the treble of
his partner, a virtuoso well known for his vigour and brilliancy.
Were we, however, to form our judgment on this single item of
evidence, we should again arrive at a wrong conclusion. Where
musical matters--i.e., matters generally estimated according to
individual taste and momentary impressibility alone--are
concerned, there is safety only in the multitude of witnesses.
Let us, therefore, hear first what Chopin's pupils have got to
say on this point, and then go and inquire further. Gutmann said
that Chopin played generally very quietly, and rarely, indeed
hardly ever, fortissimo. The A flat major Polonaise (Op. 53), for
instance, he could not thunder forth in the way we are accustomed
to hear it. As for the famous octave passages which occur in it,
he began them pianissimo and continued thus without much increase
in loudness. And, then, Chopin never thumped. M. Mathias remarks
that his master had extraordinary vigour, but only in flashes.
Mikuli's preface to his edition of the works of Chopin affords
more explicit information. We read there:--

The tone which Chopin brought out of the instrument was
always, especially in the cantabiles, immense (riesengross),
only Field could perhaps in this respect be compared to him. A
manly energy gave to appropriate passages overpowering effect--
energy without roughness (Rohheit); but, on the other hand,
he knew how by delicacy--delicacy without affectation--to
captivate the hearer.

We may summarise these various depositions by saying with Lenz
that, being deficient in physical strength, Chopin put his all in
the cantabile style, in the connections and combinations, in the
detail. But two things are evident, and they ought to be noted:
(1) The volume of tone, of pure tone, which Chopin was capable of
producing was by no means inconsiderable; (2) he had learnt the
art of economising his means so as to cover his shortcomings.
This last statement is confirmed by some remarks of Moscheles
which have already been quoted--namely, that Chopin's piano was
breathed forth so softly that he required no vigorous forte to
produce the desired contrasts; and that one did not miss the
orchestral effects which the German school demanded from a
pianist, but allowed one's self to be carried away as by a singer
who takes little heed of the accompaniment and follows his own
feelings.

In listening to accounts of Chopin's style of playing, we must
not leave out of consideration the time to which they refer. What
is true of the Chopin of 1848 is not true of the Chopin of 1831
nor of 1841. In the last years of his life he became so weak that
sometimes, as Stephen Heller told me, his playing was hardly
audible. He then made use of all sorts of devices to hide the
want of vigour, often modifying the original conception of his
compositions, but always producing beautiful effects. Thus, to
give only one example (for which and much other interesting
information I am indebted to Mr. Charles Halle), Chopin played at
his last concert in Paris (February, 1848) the two forte passages
towards the end of the Barcarole, not as they are printed, but
pianissimo and with all sorts of dynamic finesses. Having
possessed himself of the most recondite mysteries of touch, and
mastered as no other pianist had done the subtlest gradations of
tone, he even then, reduced by disease as he was, did not give
the hearer the impression of weakness. At least this is what Mr.
Otto Goldschmidt relates, who likewise was present at this
concert. There can be no doubt that what Chopin aimed at chiefly,
or rather, let us say, what his physical constitution permitted
him to aim at, was quality not quantity of tone. A writer in the
"Menestrel" (October 21, 1849) remarks that for Chopin, who in
this was unlike all other pianists, the piano had always too much
tone; and that his constant endeavour was to SENTIMENTALISE the
timbre, his greatest care to avoid everything which approached
the fracas pianistique of the time.

Of course, a true artist's touch has besides its mechanical also
its spiritual aspect. With regard to this it is impossible to
overlook the personal element which pervaded and characterised
Chopin's touch. M. Marmontel does not forget to note it in his
"Pianistes Celebres." He writes:--

In the marvellous art of carrying and modulating the tone, in
the expressive, melancholy manner of shading it off, Chopin
was entirely himself. He had quite an individual way of
attacking the keyboard, a supple, mellow touch, sonorous
effects of a vaporous fluidity of which only he knew the
secret.

In connection with Chopin's production of tone, I must not omit
to mention his felicitous utilisation of the loud and soft
pedals. It was not till the time of Liszt, Thalberg, and Chopin
that the pedals became a power in pianoforte-playing. Hummel did
not understand their importance, and failed to take advantage of
them. The few indications we find in Beethoven's works prove that
this genius began to see some of the as yet latent possibilities.
Of the virtuosi,

Moscheles was the first who made a more extensive and artistic
use of the pedals, although also he employed them sparingly
compared with his above-named younger contemporaries. Every
pianist of note has, of course, his own style of pedalling.
Unfortunately, there are no particulars forthcoming with regard
to Chopin's peculiar style; and this is the more to be regretted
as the composer was very careless in his notation of the pedals.
Rubinstein declares that most of the pedal marks in Chopin's
compositions are wrongly placed. If nothing more, we know at
least thus much: "No pianist before him [Chopin] has employed the
pedals alternately or simultaneously with so much tact and
ability," and "in making constantly use of the pedal he obtained
des harmonies ravissantes, des bruissements melodiques qui
etonnaient et charmaient." [FOOTNOTE: Marmontel: "Les Pianistes
celebres."]

The poetical qualities of Chopin's playingare not so easily
defined as the technical ones. Indeed, if they are definable at
all they are so only by one who, like Liszt, is a poet as well as
a great pianist. I shall, therefore, transcribe from his book
some of the most important remarks bearing on this matter.

After saying that Chopin idealised the fugitive poesy inspired by
fugitive apparitions like "La Fee aux Miettes," "Le Lutin
d'Argail," &c., to such an extent as to render its fibres so thin
and friable that they seemed no longer to belong to our nature,
but to reveal to us the indiscreet confidences of the Undines,
Titanias, Ariels, Queen Mabs, and Oberons, Liszt proceeds thus:--

When this kind of inspiration laid hold of Chopin his playing
assumed a distinctive character, whatever the kind of music he
executed might be--dance-music or dreamy music, mazurkas or
nocturnes, preludes or scherzos, waltzes or tarantellas,
studies or ballades. He imprinted on them all one knows not
what nameless colour, what vague appearance, what pulsations
akin to vibration, that had almost no longer anything material
about them, and, like the imponderables, seemed to act on
one's being without passing through the senses. Sometimes one
thought one heard the joyous tripping of some amorously-
teasing Peri; sometimes there were modulations velvety and
iridescent as the robe of a salamander; sometimes one heard
accents of deep despondency, as if souls in torment did not
find the loving prayers necessary for their final deliverance.
At other times there breathed forth from his fingers a despair
so mournful, so inconsolable, that one thought one saw Byron's
Jacopo Foscari come to life again, and contemplated the
extreme dejection of him who, dying of love for his country,
preferred death to exile, being unable to endure the pain of
leaving Venezia la bella!

It is interesting to compare this description with that of
another poet, a poet who sent forth his poetry daintily dressed
in verse as well as carelessly wrapped in prose. Liszt tells us
that Chopin had in his imagination and talent something "qui, par
la purete de sa diction, par ses accointances avec La Fee aux
Miettes et Le Lutin d'Argail, par ses rencon-tres de Seraphine et
de Diane, murmurant a son oreille leurs plus confidentielles
plaintes, leurs reves les plus innommes," [FOOTNOTE: The
allusions are to stories by Charles Nodier. According to Sainte-
Beuve, "La Fee aux Miettes" was one of those stories in which the
author was influenced by Hoffmann's creations.] reminded him of
Nodier. Now, what thoughts did Chopin's playing call up in Heine?

Yes, one must admit that Chopin has genius in the full sense
of the word; he is not only a virtuoso, he is also a poet; he
can embody for us the poesy which lives within his soul, he is
a tone-poet, and nothing can be compared to the pleasure which
he gives us when he sits at the piano and improvises. He is
then neither a Pole, nor a Frenchman, nor a German, he reveals
then a higher origin, one perceives then that he comes from
the land of Mozart, Raphael, and Goethe, his true fatherland
is the dream-realm of poesy. When he sits at the piano and
improvises I feel as though a countryman from my beloved
native land were visiting me and telling me the most curious
things which have taken place there during my
absence...Sometimes I should like to interrupt him with
questions: And how is the beautiful little water-nymph who
knows how to fasten her silvery veil so coquettishly round her
green locks? Does the white-bearded sea-god still persecute
her with his foolish, stale love? Are the roses at home still
in their flame-hued pride? Do the trees still sing as
beautifully in the moonlight?

But to return to Liszt. A little farther on than the passage I
quoted above he says:--

In his playing the great artist rendered exquisitely that kind
of agitated trepidation, timid or breathless, which seizes the
heart when one believes one's self in the vicinity of
supernatural beings, in presence of those whom one does not
know either how to divine or to lay hold of, to embrace or to
charm. He always made the melody undulate like a skiff borne
on the bosom of a powerful wave; or he made it move vaguely
like an aerial apparition suddenly sprung up in this tangible
and palpable world. In his writings he at first indicated this
manner which gave so individual an impress to his virtuosity
by the term tempo rubato: stolen, broken time--a measure at
once supple, abrupt, and languid, vacillating like the flame
under the breath which agitates it, like the corn in a field
swayed by the soft pressure of a warm air, like the top of
trees bent hither and thither by a keen breeze.

But as the term taught nothing to him who knew, said nothing
to him who did not know, understand, and feel, Chopin
afterwards ceased to add this explanation to his music, being
persuaded that if one understood it, it was impossible not to
divine this rule of irregularity. Accordingly, all his
compositions ought to be played with that kind of accented,
rhythmical balancement, that morbidezza, the secret of which
it was difficult to seize if one had not often heard him play.

Let us try if it is not possible to obtain a clearer notion of
this mysterious tempo rubato. Among instrumentalists the "stolen
time" was brought into vogue especially by Chopin and Liszt. But
it is not an invention of theirs or their time. Quanz, the great
flutist (see Marpurg: "Kritische Beitrage." Vol. I.), said that
he heard it for the first time from the celebrated singer Santa
Stella Lotti, who was engaged in 1717 at the Dresden Opera, and
died in 1759 at Venice. Above all, however, we have to keep in
mind that the tempo rubato is a genus which comprehends numerous
species. In short, the tempo rubato of Chopin is not that of
Liszt, that of Liszt is not that of Henselt, and so on. As for
the general definitions we find in dictionaries, they can afford
us no particular enlightenment. But help comes to us from
elsewhere. Liszt explained Chopin's tempo rubato in a very
poetical and graphic manner to his pupil the Russian pianist
Neilissow:--"Look at these trees!" he said, "the wind plays in
the leaves, stirs up life among them, the tree remains the same,
that is Chopinesque rubato." But how did the composer himself
describe it? From Madame Dubois and other pupils of Chopin we
learn that he was in the habit of saying to them: "Que votre main
gauche soit votre maitre de chapelle et garde toujours la mesure"
(Let your left hand be your conductor and always keep time).
According to Lenz Chopin taught also: "Angenommen, ein Stuck
dauert so und so viel Minuten, wenn das Ganze nur so lange
gedauert hat, im Einzelnen kann's anders sein!" (Suppose a piece
lasts so and so many minutes, if only the whole lasts so long,
the differences in the details do not matter). This is somewhat
ambiguous teaching, and seems to be in contradiction to the
preceding precept. Mikuli, another pupil of Chopin's, explains
his master's tempo rubato thus:--"While the singing hand, either
irresolutely lingering or as in passionate speech eagerly
anticipating with a certain impatient vehemence, freed the truth
of the musical expression from all rhythmical fetters, the other,
the accompanying hand, continued to play strictly in time." We
get a very lucid description of Chopin's tempo rubato from the
critic of the Athenaeum who after hearing the pianist-composer at
a London matinee in 1848 wrote:--"He makes free use of tempo
rubato; leaning about within his bars more than any player we
recollect, but still subject to a presiding measure such as
presently habituates the ear to the liberties taken." Often, no
doubt, people mistook for tempo rubato what in reality was a
suppression or displacement of accent, to which kind of playing
the term is indeed sometimes applied. The reader will remember
the following passage from a criticism in the "Wiener
Theaterzeitung" of 1829:--"There are defects noticeable in the
young man's [Chopin's] playing, among which is perhaps especially
to be mentioned the non-observance of the indication by accent of
the commencement of musical phrases." Mr. Halle related to me an
interesting dispute bearing on this matter. The German pianist
told Chopin one day that he played in his mazurkas often 4/4
instead of 3/4 time. Chopin would not admit it at first, but when
Mr. Halle proved his case by counting to Chopin's playing, the
latter admitted the correctness of the observation, and laughing
said that this was national. Lenz reports a similar dispute
between Chopin and Meyerbeer. In short, we may sum up in
Moscheles' words, Chopin's playing did not degenerate into
Tactlosigkeit [lit., timelessness], but it was of the most
charming originality. Along with the above testimony we have,
however, to take note of what Berlioz said on the subject:
"Chopin supportait mal le frein de la mesure; il a pousse
beaucoup trap loin, selon moi, l'independance rhythmique."
Berlioz even went so far as to say that "Chopin could not play
strictly in time [ne pouvait pas jouer regulierement]."

Indeed, so strange was Chopin's style that when Mr. Charles Halle
first heard him play his compositions he could not imagine how
what he heard was represented by musical signs. But strange as
Chopin's style of playing was he thinks that its peculiarities
are generally exaggerated. The Parisians said of Rubinstein's
playing of compositions of Chopin: "Ce n'est pas ca!" Mr. Halle
himself thinks that Rubinstein's rendering of Chopin is clever,
but not Chopinesque. Nor do Von Bulow's readings come near the
original. As for Chopin's pupils, they are even less successful
than others in imitating their master's style. The opinion of one
who is so distinguished a pianist and at the same time was so
well acquainted with Chopin as Mr. Halle is worth having. Hearing
Chopin often play his compositions he got so familiar with that
master's music and felt so much in sympathy with it that the
composer liked to have it played by him, and told him that when
he was in the adjoining room he could imagine he was playing
himself.

But it is time that we got off the shoals on which we have been
lying so long. Well, Lenz shall set us afloat:--

In the undulation of the motion, in that suspension and unrest
[Hangen und Bangen], in the rubato as he understood it, Chopin
was captivating, every note was the outcome of the best taste
in the best sense of the word. If he introduced an
embellishment, which happened only rarely, it was always a
kind of miracle of good taste. Chopin was by his whole nature
unfitted to render Beethoven or Weber, who paint on a large
scale and with a big brush. Chopin was an artist in crayons
[Pastellmaler], but an INCOMPARABLE one! By the side of Liszt
he might pass with honour for that master's well-matched wife
[ebenburtige Frau, i.e., wife of equal rank]. Beethoven's B
flat major Sonata, Op. 106, and Chopin exclude each other.

One day Chopin took Lenz with him to the Baronne Krudner and her
friend the Countess Scheremetjew to whom he had promised to play
the variations of Beethoven's Sonata in A flat major (Op. 26).
And how did he play them?

Beautifully [says Lenz], but not so beautifully as his own
things, not enthrallingly [packend], not en relief, not as a
romance increasing in interest from variation to variation. He
whispered it mezza voce, but it was incomparable in the
cantilena, infinitely perfect in the phrasing of the
structure, ideally beautiful, but FEMININE! Beethoven is a man
and never ceases to be one!

Chopin played on a Pleyel, he made it a point never to give
lessons on another instrument; they were obliged to get a
Pleyel. All were charmed, I also was charmed, but only with
the tone of Chopin, with his touch, with his sweetness and
grace, with the purity of his style.

Chopin's purity of style, self-command, and aristocratic reserve
have to be quite especially noted by us who are accustomed to
hear the master's compositions played wildly, deliriously,
ostentatiously. J. B. Cramer's remarks on Chopin are significant.
The master of a bygone age said of the master of the then
flourishing generation:--

I do not understand him, but he plays beautifully and
correctly, oh! very correctly, he does not give way to his
passion like other young men, but I do not understand him.

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