1850.] FREDERIC CHOPIN, THE PIANIST. 543 From Bentley's Miscellany. FREDERIC CHOPIN, THE PIANIST. It is possible to be too late, as well as too early, in beginning to note down traits and memories belonging to those with whom we have been conversant. Languor and depression naturally come over the spirits of persons who have lost many friends, when, invited to look far back, they see betwixt the past and the present too large a portion of Mirza's bridge thickly sown with pitfalls. No wonder if then the hand is apt to perform its task mechanically rather than with the animation of quickened feeling. But it is one thing to make the record before men's indifference shall have come on, and another to minister to vacant curiosity by the random and indelicate haste of "the parish gossip." Let me try to avoid the latter offence while I trace, before they fade, a few forms and scenes belonging to the world of Music in which Time and Fate have been so strangely | busy, and in which I have spent so many hours during the last twenty years. Who would not like to know something concerning the habits and sayings of the Venetian Patrician Marcello? or to possess richer materials than any before the world for forming our own judgment of the man Beethoven? The literary men who have written concerning musicians have too generally thought contemptuously of the art, never troubling themselves to ascertain in what the professor thereof agreed with or differed from the man of genius, belonging to other worlds or to reflect how far the acceptation of his class in society may have stamped him with, and limited him within, those peculiarities of which complaint has been again and again made by prosers lacking wit, and rhymesters without reason. While the subject is fresh in my mind I wish to speak a little concerning one of the most graceful, delicate, and original artists who ever added treasure to the stores of instrumental music,-I mean Frederic Chopin. Those who knew him during his many years' residence in Paris, or who divined him (for comes almost impossible) during the hurries and confusions of the London season of 1848, will bear me out in stating that he well merited his memorial. Perhaps it may serve the purpose of drawing a stranger or two more within the enchanted circle of his music. For enchantment there is in Chopin's works: which implies that their beauty has something fantastic, capricious, delicate-not altogether natural.-In no other world of art, I have often fancied, is connoisseurship so curiously limited as in Music. To hear the fanatici wrangle, it might be fancied that admiration for Handel deprived Mozart of his just merit, or that the listener who moved by "the Delirious Lady" of Purcell (and let me commemorate how especially magnificent that cantata was when sung by Miss Masson) must needs abominate Rossini's brilliant "Non piu mesta," or others of the giddily and gracefully sparkling bravuras, in which the Italian master makes the mere sensual pleasure of sound stand in the place of the more spiritual enjoyments of sense and sound worthily mated. I have known amateurs in no respect stupid or ill-educated who could not bear a particular rhythm, or particular key; and the jealousy betwixt vocal and instrumental players is "old as time and clear as day." But apart from all these barriers which Bigotry and Self-conceit delight in throwing up betwixt good Christians and their pleasures, I have often remarked that in some persons of taste a relish for what is fantastic, elvish, delicate, humorous, is totally wanting. They are distanced by fairy tales-find Hood's whims far-fetched, and not entertaining,-will bear in architecture nothing but pure Doric, or harmonious Palladian, and reject Gothic grotesques with an active hatred. On such amateurs (and probably they might be devout Handelians, or severely dramatic Gluckists, or implicit believers in Mozart as the one idol), the music of Chopin would be wasted; and the name in their Pantheon of half-a-dozen divinities, | any means of comparison can be much more whereof self is not the smallest. The obituaries have already told the public that Frederic Chopin was born in the year 1810, at Zelazowawola, near Warsaw, that he was taught composition by Herr Elsner, and pianoforte playing by M. Zywni, and that in 1831, almost contemporaneously with any mention of his name as a musician of original and promising genius, he appeared in Paris, and established himself there. This was no child's nor tyro's task to accomplish, for the French metropolis was just then in its fullest glory of musical life, competition, and activity. Liszt was there, with his stupendous ten fingers, and that brilliant wit of his which "cut its bright way through" in circles where his fantasias and tarentelles and studies were not really cared for. Ferdinand Hiller, too, was there, both as a pianist and as a composer, giving promise which he has since been tardy of fulfilling. The monotony of Thalberg's magnificence as a performer had not as yet been found out; and the old, urbane and sweet-spoken Kalkbrenner (most courteous of the courteous, and vainest of the vain) still retained a certain congregation among persons who, as poor Lady once put it, "passed their lives in cultivating elegance. What was more, it became soon clear that Chopin could not and would not make his way as a public performer; that his health was delicate almost to the point of perpetual invalidism,-that his social pretensions (not gifts) were small, that his delicacy of mind was great. There was every chance of his music being thrown by as baroque and vague. Just then, however, it happened that Paris was Hoffmann madJean Paul mad-Esmeralda mad-mad for everything that was parcel eccentric, parcel sentimental-mad with Polish sympathies, and for Polish poets. The pallid and fraillooking young artist, too, modest and gentle as he was, had, in addition to quiet polish of manners, that boon of irony and humorthat power of placing a mot which then at least (Heaven knows what the fashions are now!) never failed to command for its owner a hearing and a position in the select coteries of the French metropolis. Further, Chopin resigning all pretensions to the career of a traveling virtuoso, pitched his tent and furnished his appartement in Paris, a thing particularly agreeable to our neighbors: who in Art either love to discover what every one has found out, or else to monopolize that which they assume no one else is worthy to enjoy. Nothing to a thinker who has had pregnant with diversion than the connoisseurship of Paris: what it adopts, what it repudiates, the "why" of its takings, and the "wherefore" of its leavings. But more of this, perhaps, some other day, when scandal is in the ascendant. Enough for the moment to state that Parisian taste did itself honor and credit in making a home-a position—a career for Chopin. I believe that in London his Mazurkas, Scherzi, Ballades, Polonoises, Notturni, or Studies, if then put forth, would have been wasted on the empty air. In Paris they became the high fashion (as distinguished from the rage), and their composer the favorite master of the most refined and poetically disposed pianoforte players. Nor did this merited reputation dwindle on its becoming known, in the progress of time, that Chopin had a history, and that the strangest and most poetical of female authors or reformers, that "large-brained woman and large-hearted man" (as Miss Barrett finely described George Sand), had given the young composer a fauteuil in her singular salon, as an intimate and valued family friend. It is needless to advert to the interpretation which was sure to be passed upon such an intimacy by our shrewd and malicious neighbors save to advert to its probable baselessness. But when I was in Paris, in 1839-40, Madame Dudevant's mot, describing her inmate as mon beau cadavre," was in every one's mouth-and, strange though her description may sound in the ears of English friendship, steady and deep I believe to have been their mutual regard; until that happened, which mostly befalls in such casestoo frequent intercourse becoming in the end burdensome; and the two separating finally after many years of affectionate counsel. It was mainly to Chopin's bad health, and tendency to pulmonary and asthmatic disorders, that we owe one of George Sand's most charming books of picture-writing- her Winter in the South of Europe," --otherwise the Island of Majorca. 66 Writing of the man, rather than of the musician, I will not indulge in any longdrawn or technical analysis of the peculiarities of Chopin's compositions. Never has so long a series of works more intensely individual been produced-his Mazurkas, how rationally, pensively, quaintly freakish!-his ballads, Notturni and Preludies, how tenderly and melodiously poetical!-his Polonoises, how pompous and stately! There is one in A major, of grandeur as yet unequaled, which I never hear without its calling up some coronation-festival, so gorgeously regal is its step. His Studies, again, are of the highest order and this not solely as finger-exercises, but also as compositions-in spite of the peculiar notation adopted, which renders them sometimes needlessly difficult to decipher. Two remarks, however, must be offered since they will supply a key to Chopin's peculiar manner to those whom Chopin's music in any respect attracts. The left hand of the player is never to be out of tempo: the right hand may almost always (save in the case of some distinctly formal instrumental figure) indulge in tempo rubato. Again, whereas other pianoforte masters insist on the equality of the fingers-in spite of the anatomical lock and key put by Nature on the motion of the third digit,-Chopin provided for their inequality wishing, as he once told me, so far as was possible, to develop, not to destroy, the individuality of each member of the hand. Hence a system of fingering, which might possibly have made the Clementis and Hummels as irate as such gentlemen are apt to become when anything in the least new is broached, and the wisdom of which is open to controversy, -but which is still a system. Those, however, who knew and who loved the man (for the two things were one), will best taste and render the peculiar humor of Chopin's music-will best understand how it will bear a certain dash of private judgment on the part of the player-but not the slightest touch of exaggeration. Pianists of the hammer-and-tongs school-or who can do nothing without a metronome, are warned off Chopin's fairy-land. His interpreters ought to have hands as long as Perugino's angels, and as delicately firm as though they were framed on adamant. The uttermost precision and the most sensitive ease are all too little to play Chopin's music as he played it himself. For, though anything but foolish-anything but weak (there is iron in the rose)-he was a curious compound of fantasy, feeling, and strength-one of the most wayward, tender, spirituel persons I have ever conversed with. Alike remarkable for his simplicity and for his self-consciousness--he could be as eagerly irritable as a child about some little mistake in a concert-programme, as eagerly entertained over the toys of art or luxury, with which his appartement was filled by his friends and pupils. He could divert himself with trifling courtesies and mysteries-making genial sport, to those who were in his confidence, of his own interest in such things. Yet never did artist more VOL XIX. NO. IV. quietly trust in his own genius as sufficient for his own success, nor more worthily hold himself remote from the intrigues, and the littleness, and the fevers, with which the intercourse betwixt performer and public, the connection betwixt art and letters, are now spoiled and mixed up in France-than Chopin. There was in his nature a mixture of delicacy and pride, which cleared him of any possible participation in the practices of Parisian journalism. Traffic he could notdirectly or indirectly. He was loved and admired as a bon camarade, but it was said of him truly, that "into the shop he would not, could not, go." Hence arose his extreme aversion to playing in public, and not altogether, as some have stated it, from his physical weakness. It was further his fancy that the best artists are unequal, and that it is only perfect mediocrity which can be perfect always-and when the clock strikes. And he knew, too, that the wayward, quaint, mournful playfulness of his Mazurkas, and ballads, and Notturni, ought always to have not only the air, but, in some degree, the reality of improvisation, which few men can control. I have never been thoroughly satisfied in the playing of Chopin's more poetical music by any performer, save by Liszt; when Liszt is in his gentler mood, and sits dreaming away at the piano,-calling upon his supernatural memory to give up its treasures for the delight of one or two intimates and of himself. But as the best written account of playing is about as unsatisfactory as the lessons for dancing printed in a book, the solemn perusal of which (with illustrative diagrams) once surprised me into a hearty laugh, greatly to the offence of its author-let us come away from the piano. 66 In his intercourse with his friends, Chopin had established certain ways and caprices of his own, against which all remonstrance was fruitless. To write letters, or to answer notes, did not seem to him so much difficult as impossible. Neither from his dictation, nor from his own pen, was there any means of extracting a written reply-even when the question concerned his own interests. How his pupils managed, I could never imagine; but I know that, save by word of mouth, it was utterly useless to introduce a pupil to him—still more to induce him to make any appointment for an interview. This in one, the largest portion of whose revenues was derived from teaching, was, to say the best of it, an uncomfortable peculiarity. Chopin had, however, as many delightfully ingenious reasons in its defence, as most people com 35 mand, who, from indolence indulged till it | When Chopin was thus excited his countebecomes a system, neglect what Anna Se-nance was full of beauty; and one then ward called the "epistolary interchange of gave one's self up to the hopeful fallacy that courtesies." Had the fates pleased to have his health was less bad than it appeared to allowed him a few years' residence in Eng-be-that other men worse bested than he land, he would possibly have sacrificed so in- had struggled on to old age, and that a deliconvenient and unpolite an eccentricity. For verance from the hot-bed life in which he there is a certain sober high-breeding in our had been enervated, might be followed by a atmosphere, which, let newly-arrived or dis- slow return to a healthier and more manly tant foreigners rail at it as they will, rarely condition of health and strength. Alas! in the end fails to penetrate them as some- the wonder was that such shattered fragthing better, more to be relied upon, nay, ments could be made to assume even the and absolutely more conducive to easy enjoy- semblance of consistency and volition-that ment, than either the faux brillant of old such a life could be prolonged from evening French politeness, or the laissez aller of mo- to evening by any spell! Even before he dern French philosophy! It is only the came to our rude climate, Chopin was so mock-genius, and the mock-gentleman, whom weak, and a pulmonary or asthmatic affecour life, and our manners, and our sense of tion had gained such ground, that he was mutual obligation, fail, sooner or later, to compelled to be carried up stairs; and it was impress. a distressing sight to see him (as I have more than once done) shivering and trembling with eagerness among the arriving or departing guests of a London rout, arrested by the apparition of so very peculiar a shadow, until some friend came by, who could explain or provide for his infirmity. At all events, no two things could be more entirely different than Madame Dudevant's intimate circle, with its eccentric ordinances and artificial usages-parcel savage, parcel super-civilized-and its intensely exciting conversation, in which every feverish opinion and false principle found its most eloquent and refined representative-from the matter-of-fact, bustling, unsympathetic drawing-rooms of London; where Mrs. Leo Hunters may be found by the score eager alike to stare at a Bastardella or a Prince Lee Boo, and into which refined, and intelligent, and appreciating admirers of instrumental music rarely enter. Yet so far from bearing the change badly-or from making a sulky, or cynical, or mournful "lion" Chopin (in spite of his being driven hither ward by no choice of his own, but simply by the total destruction of Art in Paris by the Revolution) seemed heartily to be amused in London-and to enjoy his power of appreciating the good qualities of our fine ladies and our plain gentlemen. He was neither touchy in withholding nor tiresome in giving too much of his playing. If a good listener or two was near the pianoforte he was easily prevailed upon to begin, and always ended too soon. Over himself his art exercised a great charm. I have seen him look fifty when he took his place, and twenty-five when he quitted it sit down a meagre, worn, livid, panting man (his face, as some one described it, seamed with pain and anxiety"), and as he proceeded, shadow after shadow gradually dissolve, and fold after fold soften, and the flush of health come back into the cheek, and the dim glassy eyes brighten with a cheerful and living intelligence 66 Chopin's death was probably hastened by a visit to Scotland, which he was induced to make at the close of the London musical season of 1848. The climate, he said, "pierced him through like a spear;" but his enjoyment of our vie de chateau, and his wonderful power of endurance, carried him through. He himself, on his return to London, described with sad humor the utter amazement testified by a party of sportsmen in rude health, on stumbling over him as he lay gasping for breath on the deck of a steamer, covered with warm wrappings,and their doubt (he said) as to his species.' It became too evident to every one that his decay had been cruelly accelerated by his lingering too late in the North; and, for a fortnight, in November, he lay in that state of prostration from which some of us conceived he could never rally. Will it be believed that, in this state of death-in-life, Chopin was solicited by the charity-mongers and philanthropical patriots (well acquainted with the intensity of his national affections) to appear at Guildhall on the night of the Polish Ball, and to perform at the concert, which on such occasions must be hurried through before the dancing begins? Some of his friends interfered, by pointing out the peril of such exposure to the dying man, and by advancing the harder and more selfish argument that his playing would produce not the slightest effect, heard under 1850.] FREDERIC CHOPIN, THE PIANIST. such circumstances, nor his name in the bill attract, his celebrity as a musician being select rather than universal. It was of no avail,—remonstance was unheeded by the enthusiastic promoters of the scheme, whose callous disregard of everything save the contents of the begging-box to be filled at other people's cost is laid by for "the rainy day," on which the charity extorted from musicians by mendicant persons of quality is to be repaid by the critic and historian. Chopin was got out of bed and patched up, and blistered, and drugged,-and carried off to the City; and after all this, as another musician who was present on the occasion described it, "hardly one of the audience cared when he began, or knew when he ended." But the Polish cause was served, and the thing made a show in the morning papers! I saw Chopin once again in Paris in April last, a stage or two further down the hill; then so feeble as to converse with difficulty, having been for many weeks compelled to give up playing. Nevertheless, he managed to rally under the spell of the strong interest of Meyerbeer's "Prophète," and in order to be present at the first appearance of Madame Viardot Garcia, for whom he entertained a deep friendship. I think this must have been the last music he ever heard, for shortly afterward we learned that his disease had made such progress that he was removed to Chaillot for the sake of the better air. Once or twice he might be seen driving in the Bois de Boulogne by the side of Mlle. Jenny Lind; but soon came the time when his own carriage came to the door every day by his orders, to be sent away after an hour's waiting. He was always to be better-to drive out "to-morrow!" Before this period his sister had arrived from Warsaw to attend upon him, and it became evident soon that her detention in Paris would not be a long one. New symptoms of disease appeared; new pains had to be suffered-but as death approached and agony deepened, all little whimsies and manifestations of irritabi upon 547 lity dropped away from the invalid and utterly disappeared; and an affectionate and touching patience (the real nature of the man) to the end sustained him, and made the task of watching his death-bed easy. Something of the poet, too, broke out in Chopin's last hours. Among the friends who attended him were M. Franchomme, the admirable violoncellist, and M. Guttmann, a favorite pupil. On the eve of his death, the 16th of October, he turned to them and entreated them "never to play anything save good music," adding earnestly, "Pray give me this pleasure-I am sure I shall hear you." About five o'clock in the morning of the 17th, a. Polish lady, with whom he had long maintained an intimate friendship, arrived. Chopin smiled when he saw her enter, and though then almost inarticulate, said, "Ever since yesterday evening I have been asking, why God was so long in calling me to him. But now I know it was that I might have the pleasure of seeing you once again." He then entreated Madame de P- to sing, and while she was singing sunk away and expired. It had always been Chopin's wish that "the Requiem of Mozart should be per formed over his remains. This was done in La Madeleine with as much musical splendor as was attainable; and more real sorrow and sympathy than is common (dare I say it?) at Parisian ceremonials. The choir was led by Madame Castellan, Madame Viardot Garcia, M. Alexis Dupont, and Signor Lablache. The funeral march from Chopin's own first pianoforte Sonata, and one of his Preludes, were played;-and after this the remains were transferred to that strangest and most theatrical of Golgothas, the cemetery of Pere la Chaise. A monument to his memory is projected; but do what sculptor or epitaph-monger will, they will not better the old adage, that Chopin's best monument is in his music. His death leaves us almost without a composer for his instrument meriting the name. |