Frederick Chopin as a Man and Musician

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As a further confirmation of the supposed origin of the Allegro
de Concert, I may mention the arrangement of it for piano and
orchestra (also for two pianos) by Jean Louis Nicode.

[FOOTNOTE: Nicode has done his work well so far as he kept close
to the text of Chopin; but his insertion of a working-out section
of more than seventy bars is not justifiable, and, moreover,
though making the work more like an orthodox first movement of a
concerto, does not enhance its beauty and artistic value.]

To the Sonata in B flat minor, Op. 35 (published in May, 1840),
this most powerful of Chopin's works in the larger forms, Liszt's
remark, "Plus de volonte que d'inspiration," is hardly
applicable, although he used the expression in speaking of
Chopin's concertos and sonatas in general; for there is no lack
of inspiration here, nor are there traces of painful, unrewarded
effort. Each of the four pieces of which the sonata consists is
full of vigour, originality, and interest. But whether they can
be called a sonata is another question. Schumann, in his playful
manner, speaks of caprice and wantonness, and insinuates that
Chopin bound together four of his maddest children, and entitled
them sonata, in order that he might perhaps under this name
smuggle them in where otherwise they would not penetrate. Of
course, this is a fancy of Schumann's. Still, one cannot help
wondering whether the composer from the first intended to write a
sonata and obtained this result--amphora coepit institui;
currente rota cur urceus exit?--or whether these four movements
got into existence without any predestination, and were
afterwards put under one cover. [FOOTNOTE: At any rate, the march
was finished before the rest of the work. See the quotation from
one of Chopin's letters farther on.] With all Schumann's
admiration for Chopin and praise of this sonata, it appears to me
that he does not give Chopin his due. There is something gigantic
in the work which, although it does not elevate and ennoble,
being for the most part a purposeless fuming, impresses one
powerfully. The first movement begins with four bars grave, a
groan full of pain; then the composer, in restless, breathless
haste, is driven by his feelings onward, ever onward, till he
comes to the lovely, peaceful second subject (in D flat major, a
real contrast this time), which grows by-and-by more passionate,
and in the concluding portion of the first part transcends the
limits of propriety--VIDE those ugly dissonances. The connection
of the close of the first part with the repetition of this and
the beginning of the second part by means of the chord of the
dominant seventh in A flat and that in D flat with the suspended
sixth, is noteworthy. The strange second section, in which the
first subject is worked out, has the appearance rather of an
improvisation than of a composition. After this a few bars in 6/4
time, fiercely wild (stretto) at first, but gradually subsiding,
lead to the repeat in B flat major of the second subject--the
first subject does not appear again in its original form. To the
close, which is like that of the corresponding section in the
first part (6/4), is added a coda (2/2) introducing the
characteristic motive of the first subject. In the scherzo, the
grandest movement and the climax of the sonata, the gloom and the
threatening power which rise to a higher and higher pitch become
quite weird and fear-inspiring; it affects one like lowering
clouds, rolling of thunder, and howling and whistling of the wind-
-to the latter, for instance, the chromatic successions of chords
of the sixth may not inappropriately be likened. The piu lento is
certainly one of the most scherzo-like thoughts in Chopin's
scherzos--so light and joyful, yet a volcano is murmuring under
this serenity. The return of this piu lento, after the repeat of
the first section, is very fine and beneficently refreshing, like
nature after a storm. The Marche funebre ranks among Chopin's
best-known and most highly-appreciated pieces. Liszt mentions it
with particular distinction, and grows justly eloquent over it. I
do not altogether understand Schumann's objection: "It is still
more gloomy than the scherzo," he says, "and contains even much
that is repulsive; in its place an adagio, perhaps in D flat,
would have had an incomparably finer effect." Out of the dull,
stupefied brooding, which is the fundamental mood of the first
section, there rises once and again (bars 7 and 8, and 11 and 12)
a pitiable wailing, and then an outburst of passionate appealing
(the forte passage in D flat major), followed by a sinking
helplessness (the two bars with the shakes in the bass),
accompanied by moans and deep breathings. The two parts of the
second section are a rapturous gaze into the beatific regions of
a beyond, a vision of reunion of what for the time is severed.
The last movement may be counted among the curiosities of
composition--a presto in B flat minor of seventy-five bars, an
endless series of triplets from beginning to end in octaves. It
calls up in one's mind the solitude and dreariness of a desert.
"The last movement is more like mockery than music," says
Schumann, but adds, truly and wisely--

and yet one confesses to one's self that also out of this
unmelodious and joyless movement a peculiar dismal spirit
breathes upon us, who keeps down with a strong hand that which
would revolt, so that we obey, as if we were charmed, without
murmuring, but also without praising, for that is no music.
Thus the sonata concludes, as it began, enigmatically, like a
sphinx with a mocking smile.

J. W. Davison, in the preface to an edition of Chopin's mazurkas,
relates that Mendelssohn, on being questioned about the finale of
one of Chopin's sonatas (I think it must have been the one before
us), said briefly and bitterly, "Oh, I abhor it!" H. Barbedette
remarks in his "Chopin," a criticism without insight and
originality, of this finale, "C'est Lazare grattant de ses ongles
la pierre de son tombeau et tombant epuise de fatigue, de faim et
de desespoir." And now let the reader recall the words which
Chopin wrote from Nohant to Fontana in the summer of 1839:--

I am composing here a Sonata in B flat minor, in which will be
the funeral march which you have already. There is an Allegro,
then a Scherzo, in E flat minor, the March, and a short Finale
of about three pages. The left hand unisono with the right
hand are gossiping after the March [ogaduja po Marszu].

The meaning of which somewhat obscure interpretation seems to be,
that after the burial the good neighbours took to discussing the
merits of the departed, not without a spice of backbiting.

The Sonata in B minor, Op. 58, the second of Chopin's notable
pianoforte sonatas (the third if we take into account the
unpalatable Op. 4), made its appearance five years later, in
June, 1845. Unity is as little discernible in this sonata as in
its predecessor. The four movements of which the work consists
are rather affiliated than cognate; nay, this may be said even of
many parts of the movements. The first movement by far surpasses
the other three in importance: indeed, the wealth of beautiful
and interesting matter which is here heaped up--for it is rather
an unsifted accumulation than an artistic presentation and
evolution--would have sufficed many a composer for several
movements. The ideas are very unequal and their course very jerky
till we come to the second subject (D major), which swells out
into a broad stream of impassioned melody. Farther on the matter
becomes again jerky and mosaic-like. While the close of the first
part is very fine, the beginning of the second is a comfortless
waste. Things mend with the re-entrance of the subsidiary part of
the second subject (now in D flat major), which, after being
dwelt upon for some time and varied, disappears, and is followed
by a repetition of portions of the first subject, the whole
second subject (in B major), and the closing period, which is
prolonged by a coda to make the close more emphatic and
satisfying. A light and graceful quaver figure winds with now
rippling, now waving motion through the first and third sections
of the scherzo; in the contrasting second section, with the
sustained accompaniment and the melody in one of the middle
parts, the entrance of the bright A major, after the gloom of the
preceding bars, is very effective. The third movement has the
character of a nocturne, and as such cannot fail to be admired.
In the visionary dreaming of the long middle section we imagine
the composer with dilated eyes and rapture in his look--it is
rather a reverie than a composition. The finale surrounds us with
an emotional atmosphere somewhat akin to that of the first
movement, but more agitated. After eight bold introductory bars
with piercing dissonances begins the first subject, which, with
its rhythmically differently-accompanied repetition, is the most
important constituent of the movement. The rest, although finely
polished, is somewhat insignificant. In short, this is the old
story, plus de volonte que d'inspiration, that is to say,
inspiration of the right sort. And also, plus de volonte que de
savoir-faire.

There is one work of Chopin's to which Liszt's dictum, plus de
volnte que d'inspiratio, applies in all, and even more than all
its force. I allude to the Sonata (in G minor) for piano and
violoncello, Op. 65 (published in September, 1847), in which
hardly anything else but effort, painful effort, manifests
itself. The first and last movements are immense wildernesses
with only here and there a small flower. The middle movements, a
Scherzo and an Andante, do not rise to the dignity of a sonata,
and, moreover, lack distinction, especially the slow movement, a
nocturne-like dialogue between the two instruments. As to the
beauties--such as the first subject of the first movement (at the
entrance of the violoncello), the opening bars of the Scherzo,
part of the ANDANTE, &c.--they are merely beginnings, springs
that lose themselves soon in a sandy waste. Hence I have not the
heart to controvert Moscheles who, in his diary, says some
cutting things about this work: "In composition Chopin proves
that he has only isolated happy thoughts which he does not know
how to work up into a rounded whole. In the just published sonata
with violoncello I find often passages which sound as if someone
were preluding on the piano and knocked at all the keys to learn
whether euphony was at home." [FOOTNOTE: Aus Moscheles' Leben;
Vol. II., p. 171.] An entry of the year 1850 runs as follows:
"But a trial of patience of another kind is imposed on me by
Chopin's Violoncello Sonata, which I am arranging for four hands.
To me it is a tangled forest, through which now and then
penetrates a gleam of the sun." [FOOTNOTE: Ibid., Vol. II., p.
216.] To take up after the last-discussed work a composition like
the Grand Duo Concertant for piano and violoncello, on themes
from "Robert le Diable," by Chopin and A. Franchomme, is quite a
relief, although it is really of no artistic importance. Schumann
is right when he says of this DUO, which saw the light of
publicity (without OPUS number) in 1833:14 [FOOTNOTE: The first
performance of Meyerbeer's "Robert le Diable" took place at the
Paris Opera on November 21, 1831.] "A piece for a SALON where
behind the shoulders of counts and countesses now and then rises
the head of a celebrated artist." And he may also be right when
he says:--

It seems to me that Chopin sketched the whole of it, and that
Franchomme said "yes" to everything; for what Chopin touches
takes his form and spirit, and in this minor salon-style he
expresses himself with grace and distinction, compared with
which all the gentility of other brilliant composers together
with all their elegance vanish into thin air.

The mention of the DUO is somewhat out of place here, but the
Sonata, Op. 65, in which the violoncello is employed, naturally
suggested it.

We have only one more work to consider before we come to the
groups of masterpieces in the smaller forms above enumerated. But
this last work is one of Chopin's best compositions, and in its
way no less a masterpiece than these. Unfettered by the scheme of
a definite form such as the sonata or concerto, the composer
develops in the Fantaisie, Op. 49 (published in November, 1841),
his thought with masterly freedom. There is an enthralling
weirdness about this work, a weirdness made up of force of
passion and an indescribable fantastic waywardness. Nothing more
common than the name of Fantasia, here we have the thing! The
music falls on our ears like the insuppressible outpouring of a
being stirred to its heart's core, and full of immeasurable love
and longing. Who would suspect the composer's fragility and
sickliness in this work? Does it not rather suggest a Titan in
commotion? There was a time when I spoke of the Fantasia in a
less complimentary tone, now I bow down my head regretfully and
exclaim peccavi. The disposition of the composition may be thus
briefly indicated. A tempo di marcia opens the Fantasia--it forms
the porch of the edifice. The dreamy triplet passages of the poco
a poco piu mosso are comparable to galleries that connect the
various blocks of buildings. The principal subject, or
accumulation of themes, recurs again and again in different keys,
whilst other subjects appear only once or twice between the
repetitions of the principal subject.

The mazurkas of Chopin are a literature in themselves, said Lenz,
and there is some truth in his saying. They may, indeed, be
called a literature in themselves for two reasons--first, because
of their originality, which makes them things sui generis; and
secondly, because of the poetical and musical wealth of their
contents. Chopin, as I have already said, is most national in the
mazurkas and polonaises, for the former of which he draws not
only inspiration, but even rhythmic, melodic, and harmonic
motives from his country's folk-music. Liszt told me, in a
conversation I had with him, that he did not care much for
Chopin's mazurkas. "One often meets in them with bars which might
just as well be in another place." But he added, "And yet as
Chopin puts them, perhaps nobody else could have put them." And
mark, those are the words of one who also told me that when he
sometimes played half-an-hour for his amusement, he liked to
resort to Chopin. Moscheles, I suspect, had especially the
mazurkas in his mind when, in 1833, [FOOTNOTE: At this time the
published compositions of Chopin were, of course, not numerous,
but they included the first two books of Mazurkas, Op. 6 and 7.]
he said of the Polish master's compositions that he found "much
charm in their originality and national colouring," and that "his
thoughts and through them the fingers stumbled over certain hard,
inartistic modulations." Startling progressions, unreconciled
contrasts, and abrupt changes of mood are characteristic of
Slavonic music and expressive of the Slavonic character. Whether
they ought to be called inartistic or not, we will leave time to
decide, if it has not done so already; the Russian and other
Slavonic composers, who are now coming more and more to the
front, seem to be little in doubt as to their legitimacy. I
neither regard Chopin's mazurkas as his most artistic
achievements nor recommend their capriciousness and
fragmentariness for general imitation. But if we view them from
the right stand-point, which is not that of classicism, we cannot
help admiring them. The musical idiom which the composer uses in
these, notwithstanding their capriciousness and fragmentariness,
exquisitely-finished miniatures, has a truly delightful piquancy.
Yet delightful as their language is, the mazurkas have a far
higher claim to our admiration. They are poems--social poems,
poems of private life, in distinction from the polonaises, which
are political poems. Although Chopin's mazurkas and polonaises
are no less individual than the other compositions of this most
subjective of subjective poets, they incorporate, nevertheless, a
good deal of the poetry of which the national dances of those
names are the expression or vehicle. And let it be noted, in
Poland so-called civilisation did not do its work so fast and
effectually as in Western Europe; there dancing had not yet
become in Chopin's days a merely formal and conventional affair,
a matter of sinew and muscle.

It is, therefore, advisable that we should make ourselves
acquainted with the principal Polish dances; such an
acquaintance, moreover, will not only help us to interpret aright
Chopin's mazurkas and polonaises, but also to gain a deeper
insight into his ways of feeling and seeing generally. Now the
reader will become aware that the long disquisitions on Poland
and the Poles at the commencement of this biography were not
superfluous accessories. For completeness' sake I shall preface
the description of the mazurka by a short one of the krakowiak,
the third of the triad of principal Polish dances. The informants
on whom I shall chiefly rely when I am not guided by my own
observations are the musician Sowinski and the poet Brodzinski,
both Poles:

The krakowiak [says Albert Sowinski in chant polonais] bubbles
over with esprit and gaiety; its name indicates its origin. It
is the delight of the salons, and especially of the huts. The
Cracovians dance it in a very agitated and expressive manner,
singing at the same time words made for the occasion of which
they multiply the stanzas and which they often improvise.
These words are of an easy gaiety which remind one strangely
of the rather loose [semi-grivoises] songs so popular in
France; others again are connected with the glorious epochs of
history, with the sweet or sad memories which it calls up, and
are a faithful expression of the character and manners of the
nation.

Casimir Brodzinski describes the dance as follows:--

The krakowiak resembles in its figures a simplified polonaise;
it represents, compared with the latter, a less advanced
social state. The boldest and strongest takes the position of
leader and conducts the dance; he sings, the others join in
chorus; he dances, they imitate him. Often also the krakowiak
represents, in a kind of little ballet, the simple course of a
love-affair: one sees a couple of young people place
themselves before the orchestra; the young man looks proud,
presumptuous, preoccupied with his costume and beauty. Before
long he becomes meditative, and seeks inspiration to improvise
verses which the cries of his companions ask for, and which
the time beaten by them provoke, as well as the manoeuvre of
the young girl, who is impatient to dance. Arriving before the
orchestra after making a round, the dancer generally takes the
liberty of singing a refrain which makes the young girl blush;
she runs away, and it is in pursuing her that the young man
displays all his agility. At the last round it is the young
man who pretends to run away from his partner; she tries to
seize his arm, after which they dance together until the
ritornello puts an end to their pleasure.

As a technical supplement to the above, I may say that this
lively dance is in 2/4 time, and like other Polish dances has the
rhythmical peculiarity of having frequently the accent on a
usually unaccented part of the bar, especially at the end of a
section or a phrase, for instance, on the second quaver of the
second and the fourth bar, thus:--

[Here, the author illustrates with a rhythm diagram consisting of
a line of notes divided in measures: 1/8 1/16 1/16 1/8 1/8 | 1/8
1/4 1/8 | 1/8 1/16 1/16 1/8 1/8 | 1/8 1/4 dot]

Chopin has only once been inspired by the krakowiak--namely, in
his Op. 14, entitled Krakowiak, Grand Rondeau de Concert, a
composition which was discussed in Chapter VIII. Thus much of the
krakowiak; now to the more interesting second of the triad.

The mazurek [or mazurka], whose name comes from Mazovia, one
of our finest provinces, is the most characteristic dance-tune
--it is the model of all our new tunes. One distinguishes,
however, these latter easily from the ancient ones on account
of their less original and less cantabile form. There are two
kinds of mazureks: one, of which the first portion is always
in minor and the second in major, has a romance-like
colouring, it is made to be sung, in Polish one says "to be
heard" (do sludninin); the other serves as an accompaniment to
a dance, of which the figures arc multiplied passes and
coiuluiles. Its movement is in time, and yet less quick than
the waltz. The motive is in dotted notes, which must be
executed with energy and warmth, but not without a certain
dignity.

Now the mazurka is generally written in 3/4-time; Chopin's are
all written thus. The dotted rhythmical motive alluded to by
Sowinski is this, or similar to this--

[Another rhythm diagram: 1/8 dot 1/16 1/4 1/4 | 1/8 dot 1/16 1/2]

But the dotted notes are by no means de rigueur. As motives like
the following--

[Another rhythm diagram: 1/4 1/2 | 1/8 1/8 1/4 1/4 | triplet 1/4
1/4 | triple 1/8 1/8 1/8 1/8]

are of frequent occurrence, I would propose a more comprehensive
definition--namely, that the first part of the bar consists
mostly of quicker notes than the latter part. But even this more
comprehensive definition does not comprehend all; it is a rule
which has many exceptions. [FOOTNOTE: See the musical
illustrations on pp. 217-218.] Le Sowinski mentions only one
classification of mazurkas. Several others, however, exist.
First, according to the district from which they derive--mazurkas
of Kujavia, of Podlachia, of Lublin, &c.; or, secondly, according
to their character, or to the purpose or occasion for which they
were composed: wedding, village, historical, martial, and
political mazurkas. And now let us hear what the poet Brodzinski
has to say about the nature of this dance:-

The mazurek in its primitive form and as the common people
dance is only a kind of krakowiak, only less lively and less
sautillant. The agile Cracovians and the mountaineers of the
Carpathians call the mazurek danced by the inhabitants of the
plain but a dwarfed krakowiak. The proximity of the Germans,
or rather the sojourn of the German troops, has caused the
true character of the mazurek among the people to be lost;
this dance hap become a kind of awkward waltz.

With the people of the capital the real dances of the country
are disfigured not only by the influx of foreigners, but
especially also by the unfortunate employment of barrel-
organs....It is this instrument which crushes among the people
the practice of music, and takes the means of subsistence from
the village fiddler, who becomes more and more rare since
every tavern-keeper, in buying a barrel-organ, easily puts an
end to all competition. We see already more and more disappear
from our country sides these sweet songs and improvised
refrains which the rustic minstrels remembered and repeated,
and the truly national music gives way, alas! to the themes
borrowed from the operas most in vogue.

The mazurek, thus degenerated among the people, has been
adopted by the upper classes who, in preserving the national
allures, perfected it to the extent of rendering it, beyond
doubt, one of the most graceful dances in Europe. This dance
has much resemblance with the French quadrille, according to
what is analogous in the characters of the two nations; in
seeing these two dances one might say that a French woman
dances only to please, and that a Polish woman pleases by
abandoning herself to a kind of maiden gaiety--the graces
which she displays come rather from nature than from art. A
French female dancer recalls the ideal of Greek statues; a
Polish female dancer has something which recalls the
shepherdesses created by the imagination of the poets; if the
former charms us, the latter attaches us.

As modern dances lend themselves especially to the triumph of
the women, because the costume of the men is so little
favourable, it is noteworthy that the mazurek forms here an
exception; for a young man, and especially a young Pole,
remarkable by a certain amiable boldness, becomes soon the
soul and hero of this dance. A light and in some sort pastoral
dress for the women, and the Polish military costume so
advantageous for the men, add to the charm of the picture
which the mazurek presents to the eye of the painter. This
dance permits to the whole body the most lively and varied
movements, leaves the shoulders full liberty to bend with that
ABANDON which, accompanied by a joyous laisser-aller and a
certain movement of the foot striking the floor, is
exceedingly graceful.

One finds often a magic effect in the animated enthusiasm
which characterises the different movements of the head--now
proudly erect, now tenderly sunk on the bosom, now lightly
inclined towards the shoulder, and always depicting in large
traits the abundance of life and joy, shaded with simple,
graceful, and delicate sentiments. Seeing in the mazurek the
female dancer almost carried away in the arms and on the
shoulders of her cavalier, abandoning herself entirely to his
guidance, one thinks one sees two beings intoxicated with
happiness and flying towards the celestial regions. The female
dancer, lightly dressed, scarcely skimming the earth with her
dainty foot, holding on by the hand of her partner, in the
twinkling of an eye carried away by several others, and then,
like lightning, precipitating herself again into the arms of
the first, offers the image of the most happy and delightful
creature. The music of the mazurek is altogether national and
original; through its gaiety breathes usually something of
melancholy--one might say that it is destined to direct the
steps of lovers, whose passing sorrows are not without charm.