Saxon Court; Chopin’s variations on La ci darem la mano and Krakowiak, rondeau de concert (both for pianoforte and orchestra), for the latter of which the composer substituted an improvisation; and a short ballet. Chopin, in a letter to his people dated August 12, 1829, describes the proceedings thus:–
Yesterday–i.e., Tuesday, at 7 p.m., I made my debut in the Imperial Opera-house before the public of Vienna. These evening concerts in the theatre are called here “musical academies.” As I claimed no honorarium, Count Gallenberg hastened on my appearance.
In a letter to Titus Woyciechowski, dated September 12, 1829, he says:–
The sight of the Viennese public did not at all excite me, and I sat down, pale as I was, at a wonderful instrument of Graff’s, at the time perhaps the best in Vienna. Beside me I had a painted young man, who turned the leaves for me in the Variations, and who prided himself on having rendered the same service to Moscheles, Hummel, and Herz. Believe me when I say that I played in a desperate mood; nevertheless, the Variations produced so much effect that I was called back several times. Mdlle. Veltheim sang very beautifully. Of my improvisation I know only that it was followed by stormy applause and many recalls.
To the cause of the paleness and the desperate mood I shall advert anon. Chopin was satisfied, nay, delighted with his success; he had a friendly greeting of “Bravo!” on entering, and this “pleasant word” the audience repeated after each Variation so impetuously that he could not hear the tuttis of the orchestra. At the end of the piece he was called back twice. The improvisation on a theme from La Dame blanche and the Polish tune Chmiel, which he substituted for the Krakowiak, although it did not satisfy himself, pleased, or as Chopin has it, “electrified” the audience. Count Gallenberg commended his compositions, and Count Dietrichstein, who was much with the Emperor, came to him on the stage, conversed with him a long time in French, complimented him on his performance, and asked him to prolong his stay in Vienna. The only adverse criticism which his friends, who had posted themselves in different parts of the theatre, heard, was that of a lady who remarked, “Pity the lad has not a better tournure.” However, the affair did not pass off altogether without unpleasant incidents:–
The members of the orchestra [Chopin writes to his friend Titus Woyciechowski] showed me sour faces at the rehearsal; what vexed them most was that I wished to make my debut with a new composition. I began with the Variations which are dedicated to you; they were to be followed by the Rondo Krakowiak. We got through the Variations well, the Rondo, on the other hand, went so badly that we had to begin twice from the beginning; the cause of this was said to be the bad writing. I ought to have placed the figures above and not below the rests (that being the way to which the Viennese musicians are accustomed). Enough, these gentlemen made such faces that I already felt inclined to send word in the evening that I was ill. Demar, the manager, noticed the bad disposition of the members of the orchestra, who also don’t like Wurfel. The latter wished to conduct himself, but the orchestra refused (I don’t know for what reason) to play under his direction. Mr. Demar advised me to improvise, at which proposal the orchestra looked surprised. I was so irritated by what had happened that in my desperation I agreed to it; and who knows if my bad humour and strange mood were not the causes of the great success which my playing obtained.
Although Chopin passes off lightly the grumbling and grimacing of the members of the orchestra respecting the bad writing of his music, they seem to have had more serious reasons for complaint than he alleges in the above quotation. Indeed, he relates himself that after the occurrence his countryman Nidecki, who was very friendly to him and rejoiced at his success, looked over the orchestral parts of the Rondo and corrected them. The correction of MSS. was at no time of his life a strong point of Chopin’s. That the orchestra was not hostile to him appears from another allusion of his to this affair:–
The orchestra cursed my badly-written music, and was not at all favourably inclined towards me until I began the improvisation; but then it joined in the applause of the public. From this I saw that it had a good opinion of me. Whether the other artists had so too I did not know as yet; but why should they be against me? They must see that I do not play for the sake of material advantages.
After such a success nothing was more natural than that Chopin should allow himself to be easily persuaded to play again–il n’y a que le premier pas qui coute–but he said he would not play a third time. Accordingly, on August 18, he appeared once more on the stage of the Karnthnerthor Theatre. Also this time he received no payment, but played to oblige Count Gallenberg, who, indeed, was in anything but flourishing circumstances. On this occasion Chopin succeeded in producing the Krakowiak, and repeated, by desire of the ladies, the Variations. Two other items of the programme were Lindpaintner’s Overture to Der Bergkonig and a polonaise of Mayseder’s played by the violinist Joseph Khayl, a very young pupil of Jansa’s.
The rendering of the Rondo especially [Chopin writes] gave me pleasure, because Gyrowetz, Lachner, and other masters, nay, even the orchestra, were so charmed–excuse the expression– that they called me back twice.
In another letter he is more loquacious on the subject:–
If the public received me kindly on my first appearance, it was yesterday still more hearty. When I appeared on the stage I was greeted with a twice-repeated, long-sustained “Bravo!” The public had gathered in greater numbers than at the first concert. The financier of the theatre, Baron–I do not remember his name–thanked me for the recette and said that if the attendance was great, it was not on account of the ballet, which had already been often performed. With my Rondo I have won the good opinion of all professional musicians– from Capellmeister Lachner to the pianoforte-tuner, all praise my composition.
The press showed itself not less favourable than the public. The fullest account of our artist’s playing and compositions, and the impression they produced on this occasion, I found on looking over the pages of the Wiener Theaterzeitung. Chopin refers to it prospectively in a letter to his parents, written on August 19. He had called on Bauerle, the editor of the paper, and had been told that a critique of the concert would soon appear. To satisfy his own curiosity and to show his people that he had said no more than what was the truth in speaking of his success, he became a subscriber to the Wiener Theaterzeitung, and had it sent to Warsaw. The criticism is somewhat long, but as this first step into the great world of art was an event of superlative importance to Chopin, and is one of more than ordinary interest to us, I do not hesitate to transcribe it in full so far as it relates to our artist. Well, what we read in the Wiener Theaterzeitung of August 20, 1829, is this:–
[Chopin] surprised people, because they discovered in him not only a fine, but a really very eminent talent; on account of the originality of his playing and compositions one might almost attribute to him already some genius, at least, in so far as unconventional forms and pronounced individuality are concerned. His playing, like his compositions–of which we heard on this occasion only variations–has a certain character of modesty which seems to indicate that to shine is not the aim of this young man, although his execution conquered difficulties the overcoming of which even here, in the home of pianoforte virtuosos, could not fail to cause astonishment; nay, with almost ironical naivete he takes it into his head to entertain a large audience with music as music. And lo, he succeeded in this. The unprejudiced public rewarded him with lavish applause. His touch, although neat and sure, has little of that brilliance by which our virtuosos announce themselves as such in the first bars; he emphasised but little, like one conversing in a company of clever people, not with that rhetorical aplomb which is considered by virtuosos as indispensable. He plays very quietly, without the daring elan which generally at once distinguishes the artist from the amateur. Nevertheless, our fine-feeling and acute-judging public recognised at once in this youth, who is a stranger and as yet unknown to fame, a true artist; and this evening afforded the unprejudiced observer the pleasing spectacle of a public which, considered as a moral person, showed itself a true connoisseur and a virtuoso in the comprehension and appreciation of an artistic performance which, in no wise grandiose, was nevertheless gratifying.
There were defects noticeable in the young man’s playing, among which are perhaps especially to be mentioned the non- observance of the indication by accent of the commencement of musical phrases. Nevertheless, he was recognised as an artist of whom the best may be expected as soon as he has heard more….As in his playing he was like a beautiful young tree that stands free and full of fragrant blossoms and ripening fruits, so he manifested as much estimable individuality in his compositions, where new figures, new passages, new forms unfolded themselves in the introduction, in the first, second, and fourth Variations, and in the concluding metamorphosis of Mozart’s theme into a polacca.
Such is the ingenuousness of the young virtuoso that he undertook to come forward at the close of the concert with a free fantasia before a public in whose eyes few improvisers, with the exception of Beethoven and Hummel, have as yet found favour. If the young man by a manifold change of his themes aimed especially at amusement, the calm flow of his thoughts and their firm connection and chaste development were nevertheless a sufficient proof of his capability as regards this rare gift. Mr. Chopin gave to-day so much pleasure to a small audience that one cannot help wishing he may at another performance play before a larger one….
Although the critic of the Wiener Theaterzeitung is more succinct in his report (September 1, 1829) of the second concert, he is not less complimentary. Chopin as a composer as well as an executant justified on this occasion the opinion previously expressed about him.
He is a young man who goes his own way, and knows how to please in this way, although his style of playing and writing differs greatly from that of other virtuosos; and, indeed chiefly in this, that the desire to make good music predominates noticeably in his case over the desire to please. Also to-day Mr. Chopin gave general satisfaction.
These expressions of praise are so enthusiastic that a suspicion might possibly arise as to their trustworthiness. But this is not the only laudatory account to be found in the Vienna papers. Der Sammler, for instance, remarked: “In Mr. Chopin we made the acquaintance of one of the most excellent pianists, full of delicacy and deepest feeling.” The Wiener Zeitschrift fur Kunst, Literatur, Theater und Mode, too, had appreciative notices of the concerts.
He executes the greatest difficulties with accuracy and precision, and renders all passages with neatness. The tribute of applause which the public paid to this clever artist was very great; the concert-piece with orchestra (the Variations) especially pleased.
This was written after the first concert, and printed on August 22, 1829. From the criticism on the second concert, which appeared in the same paper a week later (August 29), I cull the following sentences:–
Chopin performed a new Rondo for pianoforte and orchestra of his own composition. This piece is written throughout in the chromatic style, rarely rises to geniality, but has passages which are distinguished by depth and thoughtful working-out. On the whole, however, he seems to be somewhat lacking in variety. The master showed in it his dexterity as a pianist to perfection, and conquered the greatest difficulties with felicity. A longer stay in Vienna might be to the advantage of his touch as well as of his ensemble playing with the orchestra. He received much applause, and was repeatedly called back….At the close Mr. Chopin played to-day the Variations on a theme of Mozart’s, which he had already performed with so much bravura and felicity at his first concert. The pleasing and yet substantial variety of this composition as well as the fine, successful playing obtained also to-day loud applause for the pianist. Connoisseurs and amateurs manifested joyously and loudly their recognition of his clever playing. This young man…shows in his compositions a serious striving to interweave by interesting combinations the orchestra with the pianoforte.
In conclusion, let me quote one other journal, this time a purely musical one–namely, the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung (No. 46, November 18, 1829). The notice, probably written by that debauched genius F.A. Kanne, runs thus:–
Mr. Chopin, a pianist from Warsaw, according to report a pupil of Wurfel’s [which report was of course baseless], came before us a master of the first rank. The exquisite delicacy of his touch, his indescribable mechanical dexterity, his finished shading and portamento, which reflect the deepest feeling; the lucidity of his interpretation, and his compositions, which bear the stamp of great genius– variazioni di bravura, rondo, free fantasia–reveal a virtuoso most liberally endowed by nature, who, without previous blasts of trumpets, appears on the horizon like one of the most brilliant meteors.
Still, the sweets of success were not altogether without some admixture of bitterness, as we may perceive from the following remarks of Chopin’s:–
I know that I have pleased the ladies and the musicians. Gyrowetz, who sat beside Celinski, made a terrible noise, and shouted “Bravo.” Only the out-and-out Germans seem not to have been quite satisfied.
And this, after having a few days before attributed the applause to the Germans, who “could appreciate improvisations.” Tantae animis coelestibus irae? But what was the reason of this indignation? Simply this: a gentleman, who after the second concert came into the coffee-room of the hotel where Chopin was staying, on being asked by some of the guests how he liked the performance, answered laconically, “the ballet was very pretty”; and, although they put some further questions, he would say no more, having no doubt noticed a certain person. And hinc illae lacrimae. Our sensitive friend was indeed so much ruffled at this that he left the room in a pet and went to bed, so as not to hinder, as he explains, the outpouring of the gentleman’s feelings. The principal stricture passed on the virtuoso was that he played too softly, or, rather, too delicately. Chopin himself says that on that point all were unanimous. But the touchy artist, in true artist fashion– or shall we be quite just and say “in true human fashion”? adds:–
They are accustomed to the drumming of the native pianoforte virtuosos. I fear that the newspapers will reproach me with the same thing, especially as the daughter of an editor is said to drum frightfully. However, it does not matter; as this cannot be helped, I would rather that people say I play too delicately than too roughly.
When Count Moritz Lichnowski, to whom Chopin was introduced by Wurfel, learned after the first concert that the young virtuoso was going to play again, he offered to lend him his own piano for the occasion, for he thought Chopin’s feebleness of tone was owing to the instrument he had used. But Chopin knew perfectly the real state of the matter: “This is my manner of playing, which pleases the ladies so very much.” Chopin was already then, and remained all his life, nay, even became more and more, the ladies’ pianist par excellence. By which, however, I do not mean that he did not please the men, but only that no other pianist was equally successful in touching the most tender and intimate chords of the female heart. Indeed, a high degree of refinement in thought and feeling combined with a poetic disposition are indispensable requisites for an adequate appreciation of Chopin’s compositions and style of playing. His remark, therefore, that he had captivated the learned and the poetic natures, was no doubt strictly correct with regard to his success in Vienna; but at the same time it may be accepted as a significant foreshadowing of his whole artistic career. Enough has now been said of these performances, and, indeed, too much, were it not that to ascertain the stage of development reached by an original master, and the effect which his efforts produced on his artistically- cultivated contemporaries, are objects not undeserving a few pages of discussion.
During the twenty days which Chopin spent in Vienna he displayed great activity. He was always busy, and had not a moment to spare. His own public performances did not make him neglect those of others. He heard the violinist Mayseder twice, and went to representations of Boieldieu’s “La Dame blanche,” Rossini’s “Cenerentola,” Meyerbeer’s “Crociato in Egitto,” and other operas. He also visited the picture gallery and the museum of antiquities, delivered letters of introduction, made acquaintances, dined and drank tea with counts and countesses, &c. Wherever Chopin goes we are sure to see him soon in aristocratic and in Polish society.
Everybody says that I have pleased the nobility here exceedingly The Schwarzenbergs, Wrbnas, &c., were quite enraptured by the delicacy and elegance of my playing. As a further proof I may mention the visit which Count Dietrichstein paid me on the stage.
Chopin called repeatedly on the “worthy old gentleman” Count Hussarzewski and his “worthy lady,” with whom he dined once, and who wished him to stay for dinner when he made his farewell call. With the Countess Lichnowska and her daughter he took tea two days after the first concert. They were inexpressibly delighted to hear that he was going to give a second, asked him to visit them on his way through Vienna to Paris, and promised him a letter of introduction to a sister of the Count’s. This Count Lichnowski was Count Moritz Lichnowski, the friend of Beethoven, to whom the great master dedicated the Variations, Op. 35, and the Sonata, Op. 90, in which are depicted the woes and joys of the Count’s love for the singer Mdlle. Strammer, who afterwards became his wife, and, in fact, was the Countess Lichnowska with whom Chopin became acquainted.
[Footnote: Count Moritz Lichnowski must not be confounded with his elder brother Prince Carl Lichnowski, the pupil and friend of Mozart, and the friend and patron of Beethoven, to whom the latter dedicated his Op. 1, and who died in 1814.]
Among the letters of introduction which Chopin brought with him there was also one for Schuppanzigh, whose name is in musical history indissolubly connected with those of Beethoven and Lichnowski. The eminent quartet leader, although his quartet evenings were over, held out to Chopin hopes of getting up another during his visitor’s stay in Vienna–he would do so, he said, if possible. To no one, however, either professional or amateur, was Chopin so much indebted for guidance and furtherance as to his old obliging friend Wurfel, who introduced him not only to Count Gallenberg, Count Lichnowski, and Capellmeister Seyfried, but to every one of his acquaintances who either was a man of influence or took an interest in musical matters. Musicians whose personal acquaintance Chopin said he was glad to make were: Gyrowetz, the author of the concerto with which little Frederick made his debut in Warsaw at the age of nine, an estimable artist, as already stated, who had the sad misfortune to outlive his popularity; Capellmeister Seyfried, a prolific but qualitatively poor composer, best known to our generation as the editor of Albrechtsberger’s theoretical works and Beethoven’s studies; Conradin Kreutzer, who had already distinguished himself as a virtuoso on the clarinet and pianoforte, and as a conductor and composer, but had not yet produced his “Nachtlager”; Franz Lachner, the friend of Franz Schubert, then a young active conductor and rising composer, now one of the most honoured veterans of his art. With Schuppanzigh’s pupil Mayseder, the prince of the Viennese violinists of that day, and indeed one of the neatest, most graceful, and elegant, although somewhat cold, players of his instrument, Chopin had a long conversation. The only critical comments to be found in Chopin’s letters on the musicians he came in contact with in the Austrian capital refer to Czerny, with whom he got well acquainted and often played duets for two pianos. Of him the young Polish musician said, “He is a good man, but nothing more.” And after having bidden him farewell, he says, “Czerny was warmer than all his compositions.” However, it must not be supposed that Chopin’s musical acquaintances were confined to the male sex; among them there was at least one belonging to the better and fairer half of humanity- -a pianist-composer, a maiden still in her teens, and clever and pretty to boot, who reciprocated the interest he took in her. According to our friend’s rather conceited statement I ought to have said–but it would have been very ungallant to do so–he reciprocated the interest she took in him. The reader has no doubt already guessed that I am speaking of Leopoldine Blahetka.
On the whole, Chopin passed his time in Vienna both pleasantly and profitably, as is well shown by his exclamation on the last day of his stay: “It goes crescendo with my popularity here, and this gives me much pleasure.” The preceding day Schuppanzigh had said to him that as he left so soon he ought not to be long in coming back. And when Chopin replied that he would like to return to perfect himself, the by-standers told him he need not come for that purpose as he had no longer anything to learn. Although the young musician remarks that these were compliments, he cannot help confessing that he likes to hear them; and of course one who likes to hear them does not wholly disbelieve them, but considers them something more than a mere flatus vocis. “Nobody here,” Chopin writes exultingly, “will regard me as a pupil.” Indeed, such was the reception he met with that it took him by surprise. “People wonder at me,” he remarked soon after his arrival in Vienna, “and I wonder at them for wondering at me.” It was incomprehensible to him that the artists and amateurs of the famous musical city should consider it a loss if he departed without giving a concert. The unexpected compliments and applause that everywhere fell upon his ear, together with the many events, experiences, and thoughts that came crowding upon him, would have caused giddiness in any young artist; Chopin they made drunk with excitement and pleasure. The day after the second concert he writes home: “I really intended to have written about something else, but I can’t get yesterday out of my head.” His head was indeed brimful, or rather full to overflowing, of whirling memories and expectations which he poured into the news–budgets destined for his parents, regardless of logical sequence, just as they came uppermost. The clear, succinct accounts of his visit which he gives to his friend Titus after his return to Warsaw contrast curiously with the confused interminable letters of shreds and patches he writes from Vienna. These latter, however, have a value of their own; they present one with a striking picture of the state of his mind at that time. The reader may consider this part of the biography as an annotated digest of Chopin’s letters, of those addressed to his parents as well as of those to his friend Woyciechowski.
At last came the 19th of August, the day of our travelling- party’s departure. Chopin passed the whole forenoon in making valedictory visits, and when in the afternoon he had done packing and writing, he called once more on Haslinger–who promised to publish the Variations in about five weeks–and then went to the cafe opposite the theatre, where he was to meet Gyrowetz, Lachner, Kreutzer, and others. The rest shall be told in Chopin’s own words:–
After a touching parting–it was really a touching parting when Miss Blahetka gave me as a souvenir her compositions bearing her own signature, and her father sent his compliments to you [Chopin’s father] and dear mother, congratulating you on having such a son; when young Stein [one of the well-known family of pianoforte-manufacturers and musicians] wept, and Schuppanzigh, Gyrowetz, in one word, all the other artists, were much moved–well then, after this touching parting and having promised to return soon, I stepped into the stage-coach.
This was at nine o’clock in the evening, and Chopin and his fellow-travellers, accompanied for half-an-hour by Nidecki and some other Poles, leaving behind Vienna and Vienna friends, proceeded on their way to Bohemia.
Prague was reached by our travellers on August 21. The interesting old town did not display its beauties in vain, for Chopin writes admiringly of the fine views from the castle hill, of the castle itself, of “the majestic cathedral with a silver statue of St. John, the beautiful chapel of St. Wenceslas, inlaid with amethysts and other precious stones,” and promises to give a fuller and more detailed description of what he has seen by word of mouth. His friend Maciejowski had a letter of introduction to Waclaw Hanka, the celebrated philologist and librarian of the National Museum, to whom Chopin introduced himself as the godson of Count Skarbek. On visiting the museum they were asked, like all on whom the librarian bestowed his special attention, to write their names in the visitors’ book. Maciejowski wrote also four mazurka strophes eulogising Hanka’s scientific achievements, and Chopin set them to music. The latter brought with him from Vienna six letters of introduction–one from Blahetka and five from Wurfel–which were respectively addressed to Pixis, to the manager of the theatre, and to other musical big-wigs. The distinguished violin-virtuoso, professor at the Conservatorium, and conductor at the theatre, Frederick Pixis (1786–1842), received Chopin very kindly, gave up some lessons that he might keep him longer and talk with him, and invited him to come again in the afternoon, when he would meet August Alexander Klengel, of Dresden, whose card Chopin had noticed on the table. For this esteemed pianist and famous contrapuntist he had also a letter of introduction, and he was glad to meet him in Prague, as he otherwise would have missed seeing him, Klengel being on his way to Vienna and Italy. They made each other’s acquaintance on the stairs leading to Pixis’ apartments.
I heard him play his fugues for two hours; I did not play, as they did not ask me to do so. Klengel’s rendering pleased me, but I must confess I had expected something better (but I beg of you not to mention this remark of mine to others).
Elsewhere he writes:–
Of all the artists whose acquaintance I have made, Klengel pleased me most. He played me his fugues (one may say that they are a continuation of those of Bach. There are forty- eight of them, and the same number of canons). What a difference between him and Czerny!
Klengel’s opus magnum, the “Canons et Fugues dans tons les tons majeurs et mineurs pour le piano, en deux parties,” did not appear till 1854, two years after his death, although it had been completed some decades previously. He carried it about with him on all his travels, unceasingly improving and perfecting it, and may be said to have worked at it for the space of half his life. The two artists who met at Pixis’ house got on well together, unlike as they were in their characters and aims. Chopin called on Klengel before the latter’s departure from Prague, and spent two hours with him in conversation, neither of them being for a moment at a loss for material to talk about. Klengel gave Chopin a letter of introduction to Morlacchi, the address of which ran: Al ornatissimo Signore Cavaliere Morlacchi, primo maestro della capella Reale, and in which he asked this gentleman to make the bearer acquainted with the musical life of Dresden. How favourably Klengel had impressed his younger brother in art may be gathered from the above-quoted and the following remarks: “He was to me a very agreeable acquaintance, whom I esteem more highly than Czerny, but of this also don’t speak, my beloved ones.”
[FOOTNOTE: Their disparity of character would have revealed itself unpleasantly to both parties if the grand seigneur Chopin had, like Moritz Hauptmann, been the travelling-companion of the meanly parsimonious Klengel, who to save a few bajocchi left the hotels with uncleaned boots, and calculated the worth of the few things he cared for by scudi.–See Moritz Hauptmann’s account of his “canonic” travelling-companion’s ways and procedures in the letters to Franz Hauser, vol. i., p. 64, and passim.]
The reader will no doubt notice and admire the caution of our young friend. Remembering that not even Paganini had escaped being censured in Prague, Chopin felt no inclination to give a concert, as he was advised to do. A letter in which he describes his Prague experiences reveals to us one of his weaknesses–one, however, which he has in common with many men of genius. A propos of his bursting into a wrong bedroom he says: “I am absent- minded, you know.”
After three pleasant days at Prague the quatrefoil of friends betook themselves again to the road, and wended their way to Teplitz, where they arrived the same evening, and stopped two nights and one day. Here they fell in with many Poles, by one of whom, Louis Lempicki, Chopin was introduced to Prince Clary and his family, in whose castle he spent an evening in very aristocratic society. Among the guests were an Austrian prince, an Austrian and a Saxon general, a captain of the English navy, and several dandies whom Chopin suspected to be Austrian princes or counts. After tea he was asked by the mother of the Princess Clary, Countess Chotek, to play something. Chopin at once went to the piano, and invited those present to give him a theme to improvise upon.
Hereupon [he relates] I heard the ladies, who had taken seats near a table, whisper to each other: “Un theme, un theme.” Three young princesses consulted together and at last turned to Mr. Fritsche, the tutor of Prince Clary’s only son, who, with the approbation of all present, said to me: “The principal theme of Rossini’s ‘Moses’.” I improvised, and, it appears, very successfully, for General Leiser [this was the Saxon general] afterwards conversed with me for a long time, and when he heard that I intended to go to Dresden he wrote at once to Baron von Friesen as follows: “Monsieur Frederic Chopin est recommande de la part du General Leiser a Monsieur le Baron de Friesen, Maitre de Ceremonie de S.M. le Roi de Saxe, pour lui etre utile pendant son sejour a Dresde et de lui procurer la connaissance de plusieurs de nos artistes.” And he added, in German: “Herr Chopin is himself one of the most excellent pianists whom I know.”
In short, Chopin was made much of; had to play four times, received an invitation to dine at the castle the following day, &c., &c. That our friend, in spite of all these charming prospects, leaving behind him three lovely princesses, and who knows what other aristocratic amenities, rolled off the very next morning at five o’clock in a vehicle hired at the low price of two thalers–i.e., six shillings–must be called either a feat of superhuman heroism or an instance of barbarous insensibility–let the reader decide which. Chopin’s visit to Teplitz was not part of his original plan, but the state of his finances was so good that he could allow himself some extravagances. Everything delighted him at Teplitz, and, short as his stay was, he did the sight-seeing thoroughly–we have his own word for it that he saw everything worth seeing, among the rest Dux, the castle of the Waldsteins, with relics of their ancestor Albrecht Waldstein, or Wallenstein.
Leaving Teplitz on the morning of August 26, he arrived in the evening of the same day in Dresden in good health and good humour. About this visit to Dresden little is to be said. Chopin had no intention of playing in public, and did nothing but look about him, admiring nature in Saxon Switzerland, and art in the “magnificent” gallery. He went to the theatre where Goethe’s Faust (the first part), adapted by Tieck, was for the first time produced on the stage, Carl Devrient impersonating the principal part. “An awful but grand imagination! In the entr’actes portions from Spohr’s opera “Faust” were performed. They celebrated today Goethe’s eightieth birthday.” It must be admitted that the master- work is dealt with rather laconically, but Chopin never indulges in long aesthetical discussions. On the following Saturday Meyerbeer’s “Il Crociato” was to be performed by the Italian Opera–for at that time there was still an Italian Opera in Dresden. Chopin, however, did not stay long enough to hear it, nor did he very much regret missing it, having heard the work already in Vienna. Although Baron von Friesen received our friend most politely, he seems to have been of no assistance to him. Chopin fared better with his letter of introduction to Capellmeister Morlacchi, who returned the visit paid him and made himself serviceable. And now mark this touch of boyish vanity: “Tomorrow morning I expect Morlacchi, and I shall go with him to Miss Pechwell’s. That is to say, I do not go to him, but he comes to me. Yes, yes, yes!” Miss Pechwell was a pupil of Klengel’s, and the latter had asked Morlacchi to introduce Chopin to her. She seems to have been not only a technically skilful, fine- feeling, and thoughtful musician, but also in other respects a highly-cultivated person. Klengel called her the best pianist in Dresden. She died young, at the age of 35, having some time previously changed her maiden name for that of Madame Pesadori. We shall meet her again in the course of this biography.
Of the rest of Chopin’s journey nothing is known except that it led him to Breslau, but when he reached and left it, and what he did there, are open questions, and not worth troubling about. So much, however, is certain, that on September 12, 1829, he was settled again in his native city, as is proved by a letter bearing that date.
CHAPTER VIII
THE WORKS OF CHOPIN’S FIRST PERIOD.
The only works of Chopin we have as yet discussed are–if we leave out of account the compositions which the master neither published himself nor wished to be published by anybody else–the “Premier Rondeau,” Op. 1, the “Rondeau a la Mazur,” Op. 5, and “Variations sur un air allemand” (see Chapter III). We must retrace our steps as far back as 1827, and briefly survey the composer’s achievements up to the spring of 1829, when a new element enters into his life and influences his artistic work. It will be best to begin with a chronological enumeration of those of Chopin’s compositions of the time indicated that have come down to us. In 1827 came into existence or were finished: a Mazurka (Op. 68, No. 2), a Polonaise (Op. 71, No. 1), and a Nocturne (Op. 72); in 1828, “La ci darem la mano, varie” for piano and orchestra (Op. 2), a Polonaise (Op. 71, No. 2), a Rondo for two pianos (Op. 73), a Sonata (Op. 4), a Fantasia on Polish airs for piano and orchestra (Op. 13), a Krakowiak, “Grand Rondeau de Concert,” likewise for piano and orchestra (Op. 14), and a Trio for piano, violin, and violoncello (Op. 8); in 1829, a Polonaise (Op. 71, No. 3), a Waltz (Op. 69, No. 2), another Waltz (in E major, without opus number), and a Funeral March (Op. 726). I will not too confidently assert that every one of the last four works was composed in the spring or early summer of 1829; but whether they were or were not, they may be properly ranged with those previously mentioned of 1827 and 1828. The works that bear a higher opus number than 65 were published after the composer’s death by Fontana. The Waltz without opus number and the Sonata, Op. 4, are likewise posthumous publications.
The works enumerated above may be divided into three groups, the first of which comprises the Sonata, the Trio, and the Rondo for two pianos.
The Sonata (in C minor) for piano, Op. 4, of which Chopin wrote as early as September 9, 1828, that it had been for some time in the hands of Haslinger at Vienna, was kept by this publisher in manuscript till after the composer’s death, being published only in July, 1851. “As a pupil of his I dedicated it to Elsner,” says Chopin. It is indeed a pupil’s work–an exercise, and not a very successful one. The exigencies of the form overburdened the composer and crushed all individuality out of him. Nowhere is Chopin so little himself, we may even say so unlike himself. The distribution of keys and the character of the themes show that the importance of contrast in the construction of larger works was still unsuspected by him. The two middle movements, a Menuetto and a Larghetto–although in the latter the self-imposed fetters of the 5-4 time prevent the composer from feeling quite at his ease–are more attractive than the rest. In them are discernible an approach to freedom and something like a breath of life, whereas in the first and the last movement there is almost nothing but painful labour and dull monotony. The most curious thing, however, about this work is the lumbering passage-writing of our graceful, light-winged Chopin.
Infinitely superior to the Sonata is the Trio for piano, violin, and violoncello, Op. 8, dedicated to Prince Anton Radziwill, which was published in March, 1833. It was begun early in 1828, was “not yet finished” on September 9, and “not yet quite finished” on December 27 of that year. Chopin tried the first movement in the summer of 1828, and we may assume that, a few details and improvements excepted, the whole was completed at the beginning of 1829. A considerable time, however, elapsed before the composer declared it ready for the press. On August 31, 1830, he writes:–
I tried the Trio last Sunday and was satisfied with it, perhaps because I had not heard it for a long time. I suppose you will say, “What a happy man!” Something occurred to me on hearing it–namely, that it would be better to employ a viola instead of the violin, for with the violin the E string dominates most, whilst in my Trio it is hardly ever used. The viola would stand in a more proper relation to the violoncello. Then the Trio will be ready for the press.
The composer did not make the intended alteration, and in this he was well advised. For his remarks betray little insight; what preciousness they possess they owe for the most part to the scarcity of similar discussions of craftsmanship in his letters. From the above dates we see that the composer bestowed much time, care, and thought upon the work. Indeed, there can be no doubt that as regards conventional handling of the sonata-form Chopin has in no instance been more successful. Were we to look upon this work as an exercise, we should have to pronounce it a most excellent one. But the ideal content, which is always estimable and often truly beautiful as well as original, raises it high above the status of an exercise. The fundamental fault of the Trio lies in this, that the composer tried to fill a given form with ideas, and to some extent failed to do so–the working-out sections especially testify to the correctness of this opinion. That the notion of regarding form as a vessel–a notion oftener acted upon than openly professed–is a mischievous one will hardly be denied, and if it were denied, we could not here discuss so wide a question as that of “What is form?” The comparatively ineffective treatment of the violin and violoncello also lays the composer open to censure. Notwithstanding its weaknesses the work was received with favour by the critics, the most pronounced conservatives not excepted. That the latter gave more praise to it than to Chopin’s previously-published compositions is a significant fact, and may be easily accounted for by the less vigorous originality and less exclusive individuality of the Trio, which, although superior in these respects to the Sonata, Op. 4, does not equal the composer’s works written in simpler forms. Even the most hostile of Chopin’s critics, Rellstab, the editor of the Berlin musical journal Iris, admits–after censuring the composer’s excessive striving after originality, and the unnecessarily difficult pianoforte passages with their progressions of intervals alike repellent to hand and ear–that this is “on the whole a praiseworthy work, which, in spite of some excursions into deviating bye-paths, strikes out in a better direction than the usual productions of the modern composers” (1833, No. 21). The editor of the Leipzig “Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung,” a journal which Schumann characterises as “a sleepy place,” is as eulogistic as the most rabid Chopin admirer could wish. Having spoken of the “talented young man” as being on the one hand under the influence of Field, and on the other under that of Beethoven, he remarks:–
In the Trio everything is new: the school, which is the neo- romantic; the art of pianoforte-playing, the individuality, the originality, or rather the genius–which, in the expression of a passion, unites, mingles, and alternates so strangely with that amiable tenderness [Innigkeit] that the shifting image of the passion hardly leaves the draughtsman time to seize it firmly and securely, as he would fain do; even the position of the phrases is unusual. All this, however, would be ambiguous praise did not the spirit, which is both old and new, breathe through the new form and give it a soul.
I place these criticisms before the reader as historical documents, not as final decisions and examples of judicial wisdom. In fact, I accept neither the strictures of the one nor the sublimifications of the other, although the confident self- assertion of the former and the mystic vagueness of the latter ought, according to use and wont, to carry the weight of authority with them. Schumann, the Chopin champion par excellence, saw clearer, and, writing three years later (1836), said that the Trio belonged to Chopin’s earlier period when the composer still allowed the virtuoso some privileges. Although I cannot go so far as this too admiring and too indulgent critic, and describe the work as being “as noble as possible, more full of enthusiasm than the work of any other poet [so schwarmerisch wie noch kein Dichter gesungen], original in its smallest details, and, as a whole, every note music and life,” I think that it has enough of nobility, enthusiasm, originality, music, and life, to deserve more attention than it has hitherto obtained.
Few classifications can at one and the same time lay claim to the highest possible degree of convenience–the raison d’etre of classifications–and strict accuracy. The third item of my first group, for instance, might more properly be said to stand somewhere between this and the second group, partaking somewhat of the nature of both. The Rondo, Op. 73, was not originally written for two pianos. Chopin wrote on September 9, 1828, that he had thus rearranged it during a stay at Strzyzewo in the summer of that year. At that time he was pretty well pleased with the piece, and a month afterwards talked of playing it with his friend Fontana at the Ressource. Subsequently he must have changed his opinion, for the Rondo did not become known to the world at large till it was published posthumously. Granting certain prettinesses, an unusual dash and vigour, and some points of interest in the working-out, there remains the fact that the stunted melodies signify little and the too luxuriant passage- work signifies less, neither the former nor the latter possessing much of the charm that distinguishes them in the composer’s later works. The original in this piece is confined to the passage- work, and has not yet got out of the rudimentary stage. Hence, although the Rondo may not be unworthy of finding occasionally a place in a programme of a social gathering with musical accompaniments and even of a non-classical concert, it will disappoint those who come to it with their expectations raised by Chopin’s chefs-d’oeuvre, where all is poetry and exquisiteness of style.
The second group contains Chopin’s concert-pieces, all of which have orchestral accompaniments. They are: (1) “La ci darem la mano, varie pour le piano,” Op. 2; (2) “Grande Fantaisie sur des airs polonais,” Op. 13; (3) “Krakowiak, Grande Rondeau de Concert,” Op. 14. Of these three the first, which is dedicated to Titus Woyciechowski, has become the most famous, not, however, on account of its greater intrinsic value, but partly because the orchestral accompaniments can be most easily dispensed with, and more especially because Schumann has immortalised it by–what shall I call it ?–a poetic prose rhapsody. As previously stated, the work had already in September, 1828, been for some time at Vienna in the hands of Haslinger; it was probably commenced as far back as 1827, but it did not appear in print till 1830. [FOOTNOTE: It appeared in a serial publication entitled Odeon, which was described on the title-page as: Ausgewahlte grosse Concertstucke fur verschiedene Instrumente (Selected Grand Concert-Pieces for different instruments).] On April 10 of that year Chopin writes that he expects it impatiently. The appearance of these Variations, the first work of Chopin published outside his own country, created a sensation. Of the impression which he produced with it on the Viennese in 1829 enough has been said in the preceding chapter. The Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung received no less than three reviews of it, two of them–that of Schumann and one by “an old musician”–were accepted and inserted in the same number of the paper (1831, Vol. xxxiii., No. 49); the third, by Friedrich Wieck, which was rejected, found its way in the following year into the musical journal Caecilia. Schumann’s enthusiastic effusion was a prophecy rather than a criticism. But although we may fail to distinguish in Chopin’s composition the flirting of the grandee Don Juan with the peasant-girl Zerlina, the curses of the duped lover Masetto, and the jeers and laughter of the knavish attendant Leporello, which Schumann thought he recognised, we all obey most readily and reverently his injunction, “Hats off, gentlemen: a genius!” In these words lies, indeed, the merit of Schumann’s review as a criticism. Wieck felt and expressed nearly the same, only he felt it less passionately and expressed it in the customary critical style. The “old musician,” on the other hand, is pedantically censorious, and the redoubtable Rellstab (in the Iris) mercilessly condemnatory. Still, these two conservative critics, blinded as they were by the force of habit to the excellences of the rising star, saw what their progressive brethren overlooked in the ardour of their admiration–namely, the super-abundance of ornament and figuration. There is a grain of truth in the rather strong statement of Rellstab that the composer “runs down the theme with roulades, and throttles and hangs it with chains of shakes.” What, however, Rellstab and the “old musician”–for he, too, exclaims, “nothing but bravura and figuration!”–did not see, but what must be patent to every candid and unprejudiced observer, are the originality, piquancy, and grace of these fioriture, roulades, &c., which, indeed, are unlike anything that was ever heard or seen before Chopin’s time. I say “seen,” for the configurations in the notation of this piece are so different from those of the works of any other composer that even an unmusical person could distinguish them from all the rest; and there is none of the timid groping, the awkward stumbling of the tyro. On the contrary, the composer presents himself with an ease and boldness which cannot but command admiration. The reader will remember what the Viennese critic said about Chopin’s “aim”; that it was not to dazzle by the superficial means of the virtuoso, but to impress by the more legitimate ones of the genuine musician. This is true if we compare the Chopin of that day with his fellow-virtuosos Kalkbrenner, Herz, &c.; but if we compare him with his later self, or with Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Schumann, &c., the case is different. Indeed, there can be no doubt but that in this and the other pieces of this group, Chopin’s aim was that of the virtuoso, only his nature was too rich, too noble, to sink into the inanity of an insipid, conventional brilliancy. Moreover, whilst maintaining that in the works specified language outruns in youthful exuberance thought and emotion, I hasten to add that there are premonitory signs– for instance, in the Op. 2 under discussion, more especially in the introduction, the fifth variation, and the Finale–of what as yet lies latent in the master’s undeveloped creative power.
The Grande Fantaisie sur des airs polonais (A major) for the pianoforte and orchestra, Op. 13, dedicated to J. P. Pixis, and published in April, 1834, and the Krakowiak, Grand Rondeau de Concert (F major) for the pianoforte and orchestra, Op. 14, dedicated to the Princesse Adam Czartoryska, and published in June, 1834, are the most overtly Polish works of Chopin. Of the composition of the former, which, according to Karasowski, was sketched in 1828, the composer’s letters give no information; but they contain some remarks concerning the latter. We learn that the score of the Krakowiak was finished by December 27, 1828, and find the introduction described as having “as funny an appearance as himself in his pilot-cloth overcoat.” In the Fantasia the composer introduces and variates a Polish popular song (Juz miesiac zaszedl), and an air by the Polish composer Kurpinski, and concludes with a Kujawiak, a dance of the mazurka species, in 3-4 time, which derives its name from the district called Kujawia. In connection with this composition I must not omit to mention that the first variation on the Polish popular song contains the germ of the charming Berceuse (Op. 57). The Rondo, Op. 14, has the character of a Krakowiak, a dance in 2-4 time which originated in Cracovia. In no other compositions of the master do the national elements show themselves in the same degree of crudity; indeed, after this he never incorporates national airs and imitates so closely national dances. Chopin remains a true Pole to the end of his days, and his love of and attachment to everything Polish increase with the time of absence from his native country. But as the composer grows in maturity, he subjects the raw material to a more and more thorough process of refinement and development before he considers it fit for artistic purposes; the popular dances are spiritualised, the national characteristics and their corresponding musical idioms are subtilised and individualised. I do not agree with those critics who think it is owing to the strongly-marked, exclusive Polish national character that these two works have gained so little sympathy in the musical world; there are artistic reasons that account for the neglect, which is indeed so great that I do not remember having heard or read of any virtuoso performing either of these pieces in public till a few years ago, when Chopin’s talented countrywoman Mdlle. Janotha ventured on a revival of the Fantasia, without, however, receiving, in spite of her finished rendering, much encouragement. The works, as wholes, are not altogether satisfactory in the matter of form, and appear somewhat patchy. This is especially the case in the Fantasia, where the connection of parts is anything but masterly. Then the arabesk-element predominates again quite unduly. Rellstab discusses the Fantasia with his usual obtuseness, but points out correctly that Chopin gives only here and there a few bars of melody, and never a longer melodic strain. The best parts of the works, those that contain the greatest amount of music, are certainly the exceedingly spirited Kujawiak and Krakowiak. The unrestrained merriment that reigns in the latter justifies, or, if it does not justify, disposes us to forgive much. Indeed, the Rondo may be said to overflow with joyousness; now the notes run at random hither and thither, now tumble about head over heels, now surge in bold arpeggios, now skip from octave to octave, now trip along in chromatics, now vent their gamesomeness in the most extravagant capers.
The orchestral accompaniments, which in the Variations, Op. 2, are of very little account, show in every one of the three works of this group an inaptitude in writing for any other instrument than the piano that is quite surprising considering the great musical endowments of Chopin in other respects. I shall not dwell on this subject now, as we shall have to consider it when we come to the composer’s concertos.
The fundamental characteristics of Chopin’s style–the loose- textured, wide-meshed chords and arpeggios, the serpentine movements, the bold leaps–are exaggerated in the works of this group, and in their exaggeration become grotesque, and not unfrequently ineffective. These works show us, indeed, the composer’s style in a state of fermentation; it has still to pass through a clearing process, in which some of its elements will be secreted and others undergo a greater or less change. We, who judge Chopin by his best works, are apt to condemn too precipitately the adverse critics of his early compositions. But the consideration of the luxuriance and extravagance of the passage-work which distinguish them from the master’s maturer creations ought to caution us and moderate our wrath. Nay more, it may even lead us to acknowledge, however reluctantly, that amidst the loud braying of Rellstab there occurred occasionally utterances that were by no means devoid of articulation and sense. Take, for instance, this–I do not remember just now a propos of which composition, but it is very appropriate to those we are now discussing:–“The whole striving of the composer must be regarded as an aberration, based on decided talent, we admit, but nevertheless an aberration.” You see the most hostile of Chopin’s critics does not deny his talent; indeed, Rellstab sometimes, especially subsequently, speaks quite patronisingly about him. I shall take this opportunity to contradict the current notion that Chopin had just cause to complain of backwardness in the recognition of his genius, and even of malicious attacks on his rising reputation. The truth of this is already partly disproved by the foregoing, and it will be fully so by the sequel.
The pieces which I have formed into a third group show us the composer free from the fetters that ambition and other preoccupations impose. Besides Chopin’s peculiar handling we find in them more of his peculiar sentiment. If the works of the first group were interesting as illustrating the development of the student, those of the second group that of the virtuoso, and those of both that of the craftsman, the works of the third group furnish us most valuable documents for the history of the man and poet. The foremost in importance of the pieces comprised in this group are no doubt the three polonaises, composed respectively in the years 1827, 1828, and 1829. The bravura character is still prominent, but, instead of ruling supreme, it becomes in every successive work more and more subordinate to thought and emotion. These polonaises, although thoroughly Chopinesque, nevertheless differ very much from his later ones, those published by himself, which are generally more compact and fuller of poetry. Moreover, I imagine I can see in several passages the influence of Weber, whose Polonaise in E flat minor, Polacca in E major, Sonata in A flat major, and Invitation a la Valse (to mention a few apposite instances), respectively published in 1810, 1819, 1816, and 1821, may be supposed to have been known to Chopin. These reminiscences, if such they are, do not detract much from the originality of the compositions; indeed, that a youth of eighteen should have attained such a strongly-developed individuality as the D minor Polonaise exhibits, is truly wonderful.
The Nocturne of the year 1827 (Op. 72, No. 1, E minor) is probably the poorest of the early compositions, but excites one’s curiosity as the first specimen of the kind by the incomparable composer of nocturnes. Do not misunderstand me, however, and imagine that I wish to exalt Chopin at the expense of another great musician. Field has the glory not only of having originated the genre, but also of having produced examples that have as yet lost nothing, or very little, of their vitality. His nocturnes are, indeed, a rich treasure, which, undeservedly neglected by the present generation, cannot be superseded by those of his illustrious, and now favoured successor. On the other hand, although Field’s priority and influence on Chopin must be admitted, the unprejudiced cannot but perceive that the latter is no imitator. Even where, as for instance in Op. 9, Nos. 1 and 2, the mejody or the form of the accompaniment shows a distinct reminiscence of Field, such is the case only for a few notes, and the next moment Chopin is what nobody else could be. To watch a great man’s growth, to trace a master’s noble achievements from their humble beginnings, has a charm for most minds. I, therefore, need not fear the reader’s displeasure if I direct his attention to some points, notable on this account–in this case to the wide-meshed chords and light-winged flights of notes, and the foreshadowing of the Coda of Op. 9.
Of 1827 we have also a Mazurka in A minor, Op. 68, No. 2. It is simple and rustic, and at the same time graceful. The trio (poco piu mosso), the more original portion of the Mazurka, reappears in a slightly altered form in later mazurkas. It is these foreshadowings of future beauties, that make these early works so interesting. The above-mentioned three polonaises are full of phrases, harmonic, progressions, &c., which are subsequently reutilised in a. purer, more emphatic, more developed, more epigrammatic, or otherwise more perfect form. We notice the same in the waltzes which remain yet to be discussed here.
Whether these Waltzes (in B minor, Op. 69, No. 2; and in E major, without opus number) were really written in the early part of 1829, or later on in the year, need not be too curiously inquired into. As I have already remarked, they may certainly be classed along with the above-discussed works. The first is the more interesting of them. In both we meet with passages that point to more perfect specimens of the kind–for instance, certain rhythmical motives, melodic inflections, and harmonic progressions, to the familiar Waltzes in E flat major (Op. 18) and in A flat major (Op. 34, No. 1); and the D major portion of the Waltz in B minor, to the C major part of the Waltz in A minor (Op. 34, No. 2). This concludes our survey of the compositions of Chopin’s first period.
In the legacy of a less rich man, the Funeral March in C minor, Op. 72b, composed (according to Fontana) in 1829, [FOOTNOTE: In Breitkopf and Hartel’s Gesammtausgabe of Chopin’s works will be found 1826 instead of 1829. This, however, is a misprint, not a correction.]would be a notable item; in that of Chopin it counts for little. Whatever the shortcomings of this composition are, the quiet simplicity and sweet melancholy which pervade it must touch the hearer. But the master stands in his own. light; the famous Funeral March in B flat minor, from the Sonata in B flat minor, Op. 35, composed about ten years later, eclipses the more modest one in C minor. Beside the former, with its sublime force and fervency of passion and imposing mastery of the resources of the art, the latter sinks into weak insignificance, indeed, appears a mere puerility. Let us note in the earlier work the anticipation, (bar 12) of a motive of the chef-d’ceuvre (bar 7), and reminiscences of the Funeral March from Beethoven’s. Sonata in A flat major, Op. 26.
CHAPTER IX.
CHOPIN’S FIRST LOVE.–FRIENDSHIP WITH TITUS WOYCIECHOWSKI.–LIFE IN WARSAW AFTER RETURNING FROM VIENNA.–VISIT TO PRINCE RADZIWILL AT ANTONIN (OCTOBER, 1829).–NEW COMPOSITIONS.–GIVES TWO CONCERTS.
IN the preceding chapter I alluded to a new element that entered into the life of Chopin and influenced his artistic work. The following words, addressed by the young composer on October 3, 1829, to his friend Titus Woyciechowski, will explain what kind of element it was and when it began to make itself felt:–
Do not imagine that [when I speak of the advantages and desirability of a stay in Vienua] I am thinking of Miss Blahetka, of whom I have written to you; I have–perhaps to my misfortune–already found my ideal, which I worship faithfully and sincerely. Six months have elapsed, and I have not yet exchanged a syllable with her of whom I dream every night. Whilst my thoughts were with her I composed the Adagio of my Concerto, and early this morning she inspired the Waltz which I send along with this letter.
The influence of the tender passion on the development of heart and mind cannot be rated too highly; it is in nine out of ten, if not in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases that which transforms the rhymer into a poet, the artificer into an artist. Chopin confesses his indebtedness to Constantia, Schumann his to Clara. But who could recount all the happy and hapless loves that have made poets? Countless is the number of those recorded in histories, biographies, and anecdotes; greater still the number of those buried in literature and art, the graves whence they rise again as flowers, matchless in beauty, unfading, and of sweetest perfume. Love is indeed the sun that by its warmth unfolds the multitudinous possibilities that lie hidden, often unsuspected, in the depths of the human soul. It was, then, according to Chopin, about April, 1829, that the mighty power began to stir within him; and the correspondence of the following two years shows us most strikingly how it takes hold of him with an ever-increasing firmness of grasp, and shakes the whole fabric of his delicate organisation with fearful violence. The object of Chopin’s passion, the being whom he worshipped and in whom he saw the realisation of his ideal of womanhood, was Constantia Gladkowska, a pupil at the Warsaw Conservatorium, of whom the reader will learn more in the course of this and the next chapter.
What reveals perhaps more distinctly than anything else Chopin’s idiosyncrasy is his friendship for Titus Woyciechowski. At any rate, it is no exaggeration to say that a knowledge of the nature of Chopin’s two passions, his love and his friendship–for this, too, was a passion with him–gives into our hands a key that unlocks all the secrets of his character, of his life, and of their outcome–his artistic work. Nay more, with a full comprehension of, and insight into, these passions we can foresee the sufferings and disappointments which he is fated to endure. Chopin’s friendship was not a common one; it was truly and in the highest degree romantic. To the sturdy Briton and gay Frenchman it must be incomprehensible, and the German of four or five generations ago would have understood it better than his descendant of to-day is likely to do. If we look for examples of such friendship in literature, we find the type nowhere so perfect as in the works of Jean Paul Richter. Indeed, there are many passages in the letters of the Polish composer that read like extracts from the German author: they remind us of the sentimental and other transcendentalisms of Siebenkas, Leibgeber, Walt, Vult, and others. There was somethine in Chopin’s warm, tender, effusive friendship that may be best characterised by the word “feminine.” Moreover, it was so exacting, or rather so covetous and jealous, that he had often occasion to chide, gently of course, the less caressing and enthusiastic Titus. Let me give some instances.
December 27th, 1828.–If I scribble to-day again so much nonsense, I do so only in order to remind you that you are as much locked in my heart as ever, and that I am the same Fred I was. You do not like to be kissed; but to-day you must permit me to do so.
The question of kissing is frequently brought up.
September 12th, 1829.–I embrace you heartily, and kiss you on your lips if you will permit me.
October 20th, 1829.–I embrace you heartily–many a one writes this at the end ol his letter, but most people do so with little thought of what they are writing. But you may believe me, my dearest friend, that I do so sincerely, as truly as my name is Fred.
September 4th, 1830.–Time passes, I must wash myself…do not kiss me now…but you would not kiss me in any case–even if I anointed myself with Byzantine oils–unless I forced you to do so by magnetic means.
Did we not know the writer and the person addressed, one might imagine that the two next extracts were written by a lover to his mistress or vice versa.
November 14th, 1829.–You, my dearest one, do not require my portrait. Believe me I am always with you, and shall not forget you till the end of my life.
May 15th, 1830.–You have no idea how much I love you! If I only could prove it to you! What would I not give if I could once again right heartily embrace you!
One day he expresses the wish that he and his friend should travel together. But this was too commonplace a sentiment not to be refined upon. Accordingly we read in a subsequent letter as follows:–
September 18th, 1830.–I should not like to travel with you, for I look forward with the greatest delight to the moment when we shall meet abroad and embrace each other; it will be worth more than a thousand monotonous days passed with you on the journey.
From another passage in one of these letters we get a good idea of the influence Titus Woyciechowski exercised on his friend.
April 10, 1830.–Your advice is good. I have already refused some invitations for the evening, as if I had had a presentiment of it–for I think of you in almost everything I undertake. I do not know whether it comes from my having learned from you how to feel and perceive; but when I compose anything I should much like to know whether it pleases you; and I believe that my second Concerto (E minor) will have no value for me until you have heard it and approved of it.
I quoted the above passage to show how Chopin felt that this friendship had been a kind of education to him, and how he valued his friend’s opinion of his compositions–he is always anxious to make Titus acquainted with anything new he may have composed. But in this passage there is another very characteristic touch, and it may easily be overlooked, or at least may not receive the attention which it deserves–I allude to what Chopin says of having had “a presentiment.” In superstitiousness he is a true child of his country, and all the enlightenment of France did not succeed in weaning him from his belief in dreams, presentiments, good and evil days, lucky and unlucky numbers, &c. This is another romantic feature in the character of the composer; a dangerous one in the pursuit of science, but advantageous rather than otherwise in the pursuit of art. Later on I shall have to return to this subject and relate some anecdotes, here I shall confine myself to quoting a short passage from one of his early letters.
April 17, 1830.–If you are in Warsaw during the sitting of the Diet, you will come to my concert–I have something like a presentiment, and when I also dream it, I shall firmly believe it.
And now, after these introductory explanations, we will begin the chapter in right earnest by taking up the thread of the story where we left it. On his return to Warsaw Chopin was kept in a state of mental excitement by the criticisms on his Vienna performances that appeared in German papers. He does not weary of telling his friend about them, transcribing portions of them, and complaining of Polish papers which had misrepresented the drift and mistranslated the words of them. I do not wonder at the incorrectness of the Polish reports, for some of these criticisms are written in as uncouth, confused, and vague German as I ever had the misfortune to turn into English. One cannot help thinking, in reading what Chopin says with regard to these matters, that he showed far too much concern about the utterances of the press, and far too much sensitiveness under the infliction of even the slightest strictures. That, however, the young composer was soon engaged on new works may be gathered from the passage (Oct. 3, 1829), quoted at the commencement of this chapter, in which he speaks of the Adagio of a concerto, and a waltz, written whilst his thoughts were with his ideal. These compositions were the second movement of the F minor Concerto and the Waltz, Op. 70, No. 3. But more of this when we come to discuss the works which Chopin produced in the years 1829 and 1830.
One of the most important of the items which made up our friend’s musical life at this time was the weekly musical meetings at the house of Kessler, the pianist-composer characterised in Chapter X. There all the best artists of Warsaw assembled, and the executants had to play prima vista whatever was placed before them. Of works performed at two of these Friday evening meetings, we find mentioned Spohr’s Octet, described by Chopin as “a wonderful work”; Ries’s Concerto in C sharp minor (played with quartet accompaniment), Hummel’s Trio in E major, Prince Louis Ferdinand of Prussia’s Quartet, and Beethoven’s last Trio, which, Chopin says, he could not but admire for its magnificence and grandeur. To Brzezina’s music-shop he paid a visit every day, without finding there, however, anything new, except a Concerto by Pixis, which made no great impression upon him. That Chopin was little satisfied with his situation may be gathered from the following remarks of his:–
You cannot imagine how sad Warsaw is to me; if I did not feel happy in my home circle I should not like to live here. Oh, how bitter it is to have no one with whom one can share joy and sorrow; oh, how dreadful to feel one’s heart oppressed and to be unable to express one’s complaints to any human soul! You know full well what I mean. How often do I tell my piano all that I should like to impart to you!
Of course the reader, who is in the secret, knows as well as Titus knew, to whom the letter was addressed, that Chopin alludes to his love. Let us mark the words in the concluding sentence about the conversations with his piano. Chopin was continually occupied with plans for going abroad. In October, 1829, he writes that, wherever fate may lead him, he is determined not to spend the winter in Warsaw. Nevertheless, more than a year passed away before he said farewell to his native city. He himself wished to go to Vienna, his father seems to have been in favour of Berlin. Prince Radziwill and his wife had kindly invited him to come to the Prussian capital, and offered him apartments in their palais. But Chopin was unable to see what advantages he could derive from a stay in Berlin. Moreover, unlike his father, he believed that this invitation was no more than “de belles paroles.” By the way, these remarks of Chopin’s furnish a strong proof that the Prince was not his patron and benefactor, as Liszt and others have maintained. While speaking of his fixed intention to go somewhere, and of the Prince’s invitation, Chopin suddenly exclaims with truly Chopinesque indecision and capriciousness:–
But what is the good of it all? Seeing that I have begun so many new works, perhaps the wisest thing I can do is to stay here.
Leaving this question undecided, he undertook in October, 1829, a journey to Posen, starting on the 20th of that month. An invitation from Prince Radziwill was the inducement that led him to quit the paternal roof so soon after his return to it. His intention was to remain only a fortnight from home, and to visit his friends, the Wiesiolowskis, on the way to Antonin. Chopin enjoyed himself greatly at the latter place. The wife of the Prince, a courteous and kindly lady, who did not gauge a man’s merits by his descent, found the way to the heart of the composer by wishing to hear every day and to possess as soon as possible his Polonaise in F minor (Op. 71, No. 3). The young Princesses, her daughters, had charms besides those of their beauty. One of them played the piano with genuine musical feeling.
I have written [reports Chopin to his friend Titus on November 14, 1829] during my visit at Prince Radziwill’s an Alla Polacca with violoncello. It is nothing more than a brilliant salon piece, such as pleases ladies. I would like Princess Wanda to practise it, so that it might be said that I had taught her. She is only seventeen years old and beautiful; it would be delightful to have the privilege of placing her pretty fingers on the keys. But, joking apart, her soul is endowed with true musical feeling, and one does not need to tell her whether she is to play crescendo, piano, or pianissimo.
According to Liszt, Chopin fondly remembered his visits to Antonin, and told many an anecdote in connection with them.
The Princess Elisa, one of the daughters of Prince Radziwill, who died in the first bloom of her life, left him [Chopin] the sweet image of an angel exiled for a short period here below.
A passage in the letter of Chopin from which I last quoted throws also a little light on his relation to her.
You wished one of my portraits; if I could only have pilfered one of Princess Elisa’s, I should certainly have sent it; for she has two portraits of me in her album, and I am told that these drawings are very good likenesses.
The musical Prince would naturally be attracted by, and take an interest in, the rising genius. What the latter’s opinion of his noble friend as a composer was, he tells Titus Woyciechowski at some length. I may here say, once for all, that all the letters from which extracts are given in this chapter are addressed to this latter.
You know how the Prince loves music; he showed me his “Faust” and I found in it some things tnat are really beautiful, indeed, in part even grandly conceived. In confidence, I should not at all have credited the Namiestnik [governor, lord-lieutenant] with such music! Among other things I was struck by a scene in which Mephistopheles allures Margaret to the window by his singing and guitar-playing, while at the same time a chorale is heard from the neighbouring church. This is sure to produce a great effect at a performance. I mention this only that you may form an idea of his musical conceptions. He is a great admirer of Gluck. Theatrical music has, in his opinion, significance only in so far as it illustrates the situation and emotion; the overture, therefore, has no close, and leads at once into the introduction. The orchestra is placed behind the stage and is always invisible, in order that the attention of the audience may not be diverted by external, such as the movements of the conductor and executants.
Chopin enjoyed himself so much at Antonin that if he had consulted only his pleasure he would have stayed till turned out by his host. But, although he was asked to prolong his visit, he left this “Paradise” and the “two Eves” after a sojourn of eight days. It was his occupations, more especially the F minor Concerto, “impatiently waiting for its Finale,” that induced him to practise this self-denial. When Chopin had again taken possession of his study, he no doubt made it his first business, or at least one of the first, to compose the wanting movement, the Rondo, of his Concerto; as, however, there is an interval of more than four months in his extant letters, we hear no more about it till he plays it in public. Before his visit to Antonin (October 20, 1829) he writes to his friend that he has composed “a study in his own manner,” and after the visit he mentions having composed “some studies.”
Chopin seems to have occasionally played at the Ressource. The reader will remember the composer’s intention of playing there with Fontana his Rondo for two pianos. On November 14, 1829, Chopin informs his friend Titus that on the preceding Saturday Kessler performed Hummel’s E major Concerto at the Ressource, and that on the following Saturday he himself would perhaps play there, and in the case of his doing so choose for his piece his Variations, Op. 2. Thus composing, playing, and all the time suffering from a certain loneliness–“You cannot imagine how everywhere in Warsaw I now find something wanting! I have nobody with whom I can speak, were it only two words, nobody whom I can really trust”–the day came when he gave his first concert in his native city. This great event took place on March 17, 1830, and the programme contained the following pieces:–
PART I
1. Overture to the Opera “Leszek Bialy,” by Elsner.
2. Allegro from the Concerto in F minor, composed and played by F. Chopin.
3. Divertissement for the French horn, composed and played by Gorner.
4. Adagio and Rondo from the Concerto in F minor, composed and played by Chopin.
PART II
1. Overture to the Opera “Cecylja Piaseczynska,” by Kurpinski.
2. Variations by Paer, sung by Madame Meier.
3. Pot-pourri on national airs, composed and played by Chopin.
Three days before the concert, which took place in the theatre, neither box nor reserved seat was to be had. But Chopin complains that on the whole it did not make the impression he expected. Only the Adagio and Rondo of his Concerto had a decided success. But let us see the concert-giver’s own account of the proceedings.
The first Allegro of the F minor Concerto (not intelligible to all) received indeed the reward of a “Bravo,” but I believe this was given because the public wished to show that it understands and knows how to appreciate serious music. There are people enough in all countries who like to assume the air of connoisseurs! The Adagio and Rondo produced a very great effect. After these the applause and the “Bravos” came really from the heart; but the Pot-pourri on Polish airs missed its object entirely. There was indeed some applause, but evidently only to show the player that the audience had not been bored.
We now hear again the old complaint that Chopin’s playing was too delicate. The opinion of the pit was that he had not played loud enough, whilst those who sat in the gallery or stood in the orchestra seem to have been better satisfied. In one paper, where he got high praise, he was advised to put forth more energy and power in the future; but Chopin thought he knew where this power was to be found, and for the next concert got a Vienna instrument instead of his own Warsaw one. Elsner, too, attributed the indistinctness of the bass passages and the weakness of tone generally to the instrument. The approval of some of the musicians compensated Chopin to some extent for the want of appreciation and intelligence shown by the public at large “Kurpinski thought he discovered that evening new beauties in my Concerto, and Ernemann was fully satisfied with it.” Edouard Wolff told me that they had no idea in Warsaw of the real greatness of Chopin. Indeed, how could they? He was too original to be at once fully understood. There are people who imagine that the difficulties of Chopin’s music arise from its Polish national characteristics, and that to the Poles themselves it is as easy as their mother-tongue; this, however, is a mistake. In fact, other countries had to teach Poland what is due to Chopin. That the aristocracy of Paris, Polish and native, did not comprehend the whole Chopin, although it may have appreciated and admired his sweetness, elegance, and exquisiteness, has been remarked by Liszt, an eye and ear-witness and an excellent judge. But his testimony is not needed to convince one of the fact. A subtle poet, be he ever so national, has thoughts and corresponding language beyond the ken of the vulgar, who are to be found in all ranks, high and low. Chopin, imbued as he was with the national spirit, did nevertheless not manifest it in a popularly intelligible form, for in passing through his mind it underwent a process of idealisation and individualisation. It has been repeatedly said that the national predominates over the universal in Chopin’s music; it is a still less disputable truth that the individual predominates therein over the national. There are artist-natures whose tendency is to expand and to absorb; others again whose tendency is to contract and to exclude. Chopin is one of the most typical instances of the latter; hence, no wonder that he was not at once fully understood by his countrymen. The great success which Chopin’s subsequent concerts in Warsaw obtained does not invalidate E. Wolff’s statement, which indeed is confirmed by the composer’s own remarks on the taste of the public and its reception of his compositions. Moreover, we shall see that those pieces pleased most in which, as in the Fantasia and Krakowiak, the national raw material was merely more or less artistically dressed up, but not yet digested and assimilated; if the Fantasia left the audience cold at the first concert, this was no doubt owing to the inadequacy of the performance.
No sooner was the first concert over than, with his head still full of it, Chopin set about making preparations for a second, which took place within a week after the first. The programme was as follows:–
PART I
1. Symphony by Nowakowski.
2. Allegro from the Concerto in F minor, composed and played by Chopin.
3. Air Varie by De Beriot, played by Bielawski.
4. Adagio and Rondo from the Concerto in F minor, composed and played by Chopin.
PART II
1. Rondo Krakowiak, composed and played by Chopin.
2. Aria from “Elena e Malvina” by Soliva, sung by Madame Meier.
3. Improvisation on national airs.
This time the audience, which Chopin describes as having been more numerous than at any other concert, was satisfied. There was no end to the applause, and when he came forward to bow his acknowledgments there were calls of “Give another concert!” The Krakowiak produced an immense effect, and was followed by four volleys of applause. His improvisation on the Polish national air “W miescie dziwne obyczaje” pleased only the people in the dress- circle, although he did not improvise in the way he had intended to do, which would not have been suitable for the audience that was present. From this and another remark, that few of the haute volee had as yet heard him, it appears that the aristocracy, for the most part living on their estates, was not largely represented at the concert. Thinking as he did of the public, he was surprised that the Adagio had found such general favour, and that he heard everywhere the most flattering remarks. He was also told that “every note sounded like a bell,” and that he had “played much better on the second than on the first instrument.” But although Elsner held that Chopin could only be judged after the second concert, and Kurpinski and others expressed their regret that he did not play on the Viennese instrument at the first one, he confesses that he would have preferred playing on his own piano. The success of the concerts may be measured by the following facts: A travelling virtuoso and former pupil of the Paris Conservatoire, Dunst by name, offered in his enthusiasm to treat Chopin with champagne; the day after the second concert a bouquet with a poem was sent to him; his fellow-student Orlowski wrote mazurkas and waltzes on the principal theme of the Concerto, and published them in spite of the horrified composer’s request that he should not do so; Brzezina, the musicseller, asked him for his portrait, but, frightened at the prospect of seeing his counterfeit used as a wrapper for butter and cheese, Chopin declined to give it to him; the editor of the “Courier” inserted in his paper a sonnet addressed to Chopin. Pecuniarily the concerts were likewise a success, although the concert-giver was of a different opinion. But then he seems to have had quite prima donna notions about receipts, for he writes very coolly: “From the two concerts I had, after deduction of all expenses, not as much as 5,000 florins (about 125 pounds).” Indeed, he treats this part of the business very cavalierly, and declares that money was no object with him. On the utterances of the papers, which, of course, had their say, Chopin makes some sensible and modest comments.
After my concerts there appeared many criticisms; if in them (especially in the “Kuryer Polski”) abundant praise was awarded to me, it was nevertheless not too extravagant. The “Official Journal” has also devoted some columns to my praise; one of its numbers contained, among other things, such stupidities–well meant, no doubt–that I was quite desperate till I had read the answer in the “Gazeta Polska,” which justly takes away what the other papers had in their exaggeration attributed to me. In this article it is said that the Poles will one day be as proud of me as the Germans are of Mozart, which is palpable nonsense. But that is not all, the critic says further: “That if I had fallen into the hands of a pedant or a Rossinist (what a stupid expression!) I could not have become what I am.” Now, although I am as yet nothing, he is right in so far that my performance would be still less than it actually is if I had not studied under Elsner.
Gratifying as the praise of the press no doubt was to Chopin, it became a matter of small account when he thought of his friend’s approving sympathy. “One look from you after the concert would have been worth more to me than all the laudations of the critics here.” The concerts, however, brought with them annoyances as well as pleasures. While one paper pointed out Chopin’s strongly- marked originality, another advised him to hear Rossini, but not to imitate him. Dobrzynski, who expected that his Symphony would be placed on one of the programmes, was angry with Chopin for not doing so; a lady acquaintance took it amiss that a box had not been reserved for her, and so on. What troubled our friend most of all, and put him quite out of spirits, was the publication of the sonnet and of the mazurkas; he was afraid that his enemies would not let this opportunity pass, and attack and ridicule him. “I will no longer read what people may now write about me,” he bursts out in a fit of lachrymose querulousness. Although pressed from many sides to give a third concert, Chopin decided to postpone it till shortly before his departure, which, however, was farther off than he imagined. Nevertheless, he had already made up his mind what to play–namely, the new Concerto (some parts of which had yet to be composed) and, by desire, the Fantasia and the Variations.
CHAPTER X.
1829-1830.
MUSIC IN THE WARSAW SALONS.–MORE ABOUT CHOPIN’S CAUTION.– MUSICAL VISITORS TO THE POLISH CAPITAL: WORLITZER, MDLLE. DE BELLEVILLE, MDLLE. SONTAG, &c.–SOME OF CHOPIN’S ARTISTIC AND OTHER DOINGS; VISIT TO POTURZYN.–HIS LOVE FOR CONSTANTIA GLADKOWSKA.–INTENDED AND FREQUENTLY-POSTPONED DEPARTURE FOR ABROAD; IRRESOLUTION.–THE E MINOR CONCERTO AND HIS THIRD CONCERT IN WARSAW.–DEPARTS AT LAST.
After the turmoil and agitation of the concerts, Chopin resumed the even tenor of his Warsaw life, that is to say, played, composed, and went to parties. Of the latter we get some glimpses in his letters, and they raise in us the suspicion that the salons of Warsaw were not overzealous in the cultivation of the classics. First we have a grand musical soiree at the house of General Filipeus, [F-
ootnote: Or Philippeus] the intendant of the Court of the Grand Duke Constantine. There the Swan of Pesaro was evidently in the ascendant, at any rate, a duet from “Semiramide” and a buffo duet from “Il Turco in Italia” (in this Soliva took a part and Chopin accompanied) were the only items of the musical menu thought worth mentioning by the reporter. A soiree at Lewicki’s offers matter of more interest. Chopin, who had drawn up the programme, played Hummel’s “La Sentinelle” and his Op. 3, the Polonaise for piano and violoncello composed at Antonin with a subsequently-added introduction; and Prince Galitzin was one of the executants of a quartet of Rode’s. Occasionally, however, better works were performed. Some months later, for instance, at the celebration of a gentleman’s name-day, Spohr’s Quintet for piano, flute, clarinet, horn, and bassoon was played. Chopin’s criticism on this work is as usual short:–
Wonderfully beautiful, but not quite suitable for the piano. Everything Spohr has written for the piano is very difficult, indeed, sometimes it is impossible to find any fingering for his passages.
On Easter-day, the great feasting day of the Poles, Chopin was invited to breakfast by the poet Minasowicz. On this occasion he expected to meet Kurpinski; and as in the articles which had appeared in the papers a propos of his concerts the latter and Elsner had been pitted against each other, he wondered what would be the demeanour of his elder fellow-countryman and fellow- composer towards him. Remembering Chopin’s repeated injunctions to his parents not to mention to others his remarks on musicians, we may be sure that in this as in every other case Chopin proceeded warily. Here is another striking example of this characteristic and highly-developed cautiousness. After hearing the young pianist Leskiewicz play at a concert he writes:–
It seems to me that he will become a better player than Krogulski; but I have not yet dared to express this opinion, although I have been often asked to do so.
In the first half of April, 1830, Chopin was so intent on finishing the compositions he had begun that, greatly as he wished to pay his friend Titus Woyciechowski a visit at his country-seat Poturzyn, he determined to stick to his work. The Diet, which had not been convoked for five years, was to meet on the 28th of May. That there would be a great concourse of lords and lordlings and their families and retinues followed as a matter of course. Here, then, was an excellent opportunity for giving a concert. Chopin, who remembered that the haute voice had not yet heard him, did not overlook it. But be it that the Concerto was not finished in time, or that the circumstances proved less favourable than he had expected, he did not carry out his plan. Perhaps the virtuosos poured in too plentifully. In those days the age of artistic vagrancy had not yet come to an end, and virtuosity concerts were still flourishing most vigorously. Blahetka of Vienna, too, had a notion of coming with his daughter to Warsaw and giving some concerts there during the sitting of the Diet. He wrote to Chopin to this effect, and asked his advice. The latter told him that many musicians and amateurs had indeed often expressed a desire to hear Miss Blahetka, but that the expenses of a concert and the many distinguished artists who had arrived or were about to arrive made the enterprise rather hazardous.
Now [says Chopin, the cautious, to his friend] he [Blahetka] cannot say that I have not sufficiently informed him of the state of things here! It is not unlikely that he will come. I should be glad to see them, and would do what I could to procure a full house for his daughter. I should most willingly play with her on two pianos, for you cannot imagine how kindly an interest this German [Mr. Blahetka] took in me at Vienna.
Among the artists who came to Warsaw were: the youthful Worlitzer, who, although only sixteen years of age, was already pianist to the King of Prussia; the clever pianist Mdlle. de Belleville, who afterwards became Madame Oury; the great violinist Lipinski, the Polish Paganini; and the celebrated Henrietta Sontag, one of the brightest stars of the time. Chopin’s intercourse with these artists and his remarks on them are worth noting: they throw light on his character as a musician and man as well as on theirs. He relates that Worlitzer, a youth of Jewish extraction, and consequently by nature very talented, had called on him and played to him several things famously, especially Moscheles’ “Marche d’Alexandre variée.” Notwithstanding the admitted excellence of Worlitzer’s playing, Chopin adds–not, however, without a “this remains between us two”–that he as yet lacks much to deserve the title of Kammer- Virtuos. Chopin thought more highly of Mdlle. de Belleville, who, he says, “plays the piano beautifully; very airily, very elegantly, and ten times better than Worlitzer.” What, we may be sure, in no wise diminished his good opinion of the lady was that she had performed his Variations in Vienna, and could play one of them by heart. To picture the object of Chopin’s artistic admiration a little more clearly, let me recall to the reader’s memory Schumann’s characterisation of Mdlle. de Belleville and Clara Wieck.
They should not be compared. They are different mistresses of different schools. The playing of the Belleville is technically the finer of the two; Clara’s is more impassioned. The tone of the Belleville caresses, but does not penetrate beyond the ear; that of Clara reaches the heart. The one is a poetess; the other is poetry itself.
Chopin’s warmest admiration and longest comments were, however, reserved for Mdlle. Sontag. Having a little more than a year before her visit to Warsaw secretly married Count Rossi, she made at the time we are speaking of her last artistic tour before retiring, at the zenith of her fame and power, into private life. At least, she thought then it was her last tour; but pecuniary losses and tempting offers induced her in 1849 to reappear in public. In Warsaw she gave a first series of five or six concerts in the course of a week, went then by invitation of the King of Prussia to Fischbach, and from there returned to Warsaw. Her concerts were remarkable for their brevity. She usually sang at them four times, and between her performances the orchestra played some pieces. She dispensed altogether with the assistance of other virtuosos. But Chopin remarks that so great was the impression she made as a vocalist and the interest she inspired as an artist that one required some rest after her singing. Here is what the composer writes to his friend about her (June 5, 1830):–
…It is impossible for me to describe to you how great a pleasure the acquaintance with this “God-sent one” (as some enthusiasts justly call her) has given me. Prince Radziwitt introduced me to her, for which I feel greatly obliged to him. Unfortunately, I profited little by her eight days’ stay with us, and I saw how she was bored by dull visits from senators, woyewods, castellans, ministers, generals, and adjutants, who only sat and stared at her while they were talking about quite indifferent things. She receives them all very kindly, for she is so very good-natured that she cannot be unamiable to anyone. Yesterday, when she was going to put on her bonnet previously to going to the rehearsal, she was obliged to lock the door of her room, because the servant in the ante-room could not keep back the large number of callers. I should not have one to her if she had not sent for me, Radziwill having asked me to write out a song which he has arranged for her. This is an Ukraine popular song (“Dumka”) with variations. The theme and finale are beautiful, but the middle section does not please me (and it pleases Mdlle. Sontag even less than me). I have indeed made some alterations, but it is still good for nothing. I am glad she leaves after to-day’s concert, because I shall pet rid of this business, and when Radziwill comes at the close of the Diet he may perhaps relinquish his variations.
Mdlle. Sontag is not beautiful, but in the highest degree captivating; she enchants all with her voice, which indeed is not very powerful, but magnificently cultivated. Her diminuendo is the non plus ultra that can be heard; her portamento wonderfully fine; her chromatic scales, especially toward the upper part of her voice, unrivalled. She sang us an aria by Mercadante, very, very beautifully; the variations by Rode, especially the last roulades, more than excellently. The variations on the Swiss theme pleased so much that, after having several times bowed her acknowledgments for the applause, she had to sing them da capo. The same thing happened to her yesterday with the last of Rode’s variations. She has, moreover, performed the cavatina from “Il Barbiere”, as well as several arias from “La Gazza ladra” and from “Der Freischutz”. Well, you will hear for yourself what a difference there is between her erformances and those we have hitherto heard here. On one occasion was with her when Soliva came with the Misses Gladkowska [the idea!] and Wolkaw, who had to sing to her his duet which concludes with the words “barbara sorte”–you may perhaps remember it. Miss Sontag remarked to me, in confidence, that both voices were really beautiful, but already somewhat worn, and that these ladies must change their method of singing entirely if they did not wish to run the risk of losing their voices within two years. She said, in my presence, to Miss Wolkow that she possessed much facility and taste, but had une voix trop aigue. She invited both ladies in the most friendly manner to visit her more frequently, promising to do all in her power to show and teach them her own manner of singing. Is this not a quite unusual politeness? Nay, I even believe it is coquetry so great that it made upon me the impression of naturalness and a certain naivete; for it is hardly to be believed that a human being can be so natural unless it knows all the resources of coquetry. In her neglige Miss Sontag is a hundred times more beautiful and pleasing than in full evening-dress. Nevertheless, those who have not seen her in the morning are charmed with her appearance at the concert. On her return she will give concerts up to the 22nd of the month; then, as she herself told me, she intends to go to St. Petersburg. Therefore, be quick, dear friend, and come at once, so that you may not miss more than the five concerts she has already given.
From the concluding sentence it would appear that Chopin had talked himself out on the subject; this. however, is not the case, for after imparting some other news he resumes thus:–
But I have not yet told you all about Miss Sontag. She has in her rendering some entirely new broderies, with which she produces great effect, but not in the same way as Paganini. Perhaps the cause lies in this, that hers is a smaller genre. She seems to exhale the perfume of a fresh bouquet of flowers over the parterre, and, now caresses, now plays with her voice; but she rarely moves to tears. Radziwill, on the other hand, thinks that she sings and acts the last scene of Desdemona in Othello in such a manner that nobody can refrain from weeping. To-day I asked her if she would sing us sometime this scene in costume (she is said to be an excellent actress); she answered me that it was true that she had often seen tears in the eyes of the audience, but that acting excited her too much, and she had resolved to appear as rarely as possible on the stage. You have but to come here if you wish to rest from your rustic cares. Miss Sontag will sing you something, and you will awake to life again and will gather new strength for your labours.
Mdlle. Sontag was indeed a unique artist. In power and fulness of voice, in impassioned expression, in dazzling virtuosity, and in grandeur of style, she might be inferior to Malibran, Catalani, and Pasta; but in clearness and sweetness of voice, in purity of intonation, in airiness, neatness, and elegance of execution, and in exquisiteness of taste, she was unsurpassed. Now, these were qualities particularly congenial to Chopin; he admired them enthusiastically in the eminent vocalist, and appreciated similar qualities in the pleasing pianist Mdlle. de Belleville. Indeed, we shall see in the sequel that unless an artist possessed these qualities Chopin had but little sympathy to bestow upon him. He was, however, not slow to discover in these distinguished lady artists a shortcoming in a direction where he himself was exceedingly strong–namely, in subtlety and intensity of feeling. Chopin’s opinion of Mdlle. Sontag coincides on the whole with those of other contemporaries; nevertheless, his account contributes some details which add a page to her biography, and a few touches to her portraiture. It is to be regretted that the arrival of Titus Woyciechowski in Warsaw put for a time an end to Chopin’s correspondence with him, otherwise we should, no doubt, have got some more information about Mdlle. Sontag and other artists.
While so many stars were shining, Chopin’s light seems to have been under an eclipse. Not only did he not give a concert, but he was even passed over on the occasion of a soiree musicale at court to which all the most distinguished artists then assembled at Warsaw were invited–Mdlle. Sontag, Mdlle. de Belleville, Worlitzer, Kurpinski, &c. “Many were astonished,” writes Chopin,” that I was not invited to play, but _I_ was not astonished.” When the sittings of the Diet and the entertainments that accompanied them came to a close Chopin paid a visit to his friend Titus at Poturzyn, and on his return thence proceeded with his parents to Zelazowa Wola to stay for some time at the Count of Skarbek’s. After leaving Poturzyn the picture of his friend’s quiet rural life continually rose up in Chopin’s mind. A passage in one of his letters which refers to his sojourn there seems to me characteristic of the writer, suggestive of moods consonant with his nocturnes and many cantilene in his other works:–
I must confess that I look back to it with great pleasure; I feel always a certain longing for your beautiful country- seat. The weeping-willow is always present to my mind; that arbaleta! oh, I remember it so fondly! Well, you have teased me so much about it that I am punished thereby for all my sins.
And has he forgotten his ideal? Oh, no! On the contrary, his passion grows stronger every day. This is proved by his frequent allusions to her whom he never names, and by those words of restless yearning and heart-rending despair that cannot be read without exciting a pitiful sympathy. As before long we shall get better acquainted with the lady and hear more of her–she being on the point of leaving the comparative privacy of the Conservatorium for the boards that represent the world–it may be as well to study the symptoms of our friend’s interesting malady.
The first mention of the ideal we find in the letter dated October 3, 1829, wherein he says that he has been dreaming of her every night for the past six months, and nevertheless has not yet spoken to her. In these circumstances he stood in need of one to whom he might confide his joys and sorrows, and as no friend of flesh and blood was at hand, he often addressed himself to the piano. And now let us proceed with our investigation.
March 27, 1830.–At no time have I missed you so much as now. I have nobody to whom I can open my heart.
April 17, 1830.–In my unbearable longing I feel better as soon as I receive a letter from you. To-day this comfort was more necessary than ever. I should like to chase away the thoughts that poison my joyousness; but, in spite of all, it is pleasant to play with them. I don’t know myself what I want; perhaps I shall be calmer after writing this letter.
Farther on in the same letter he says:–
How often do I take the night for the day, and the day for the night! How often do I live in a dream and sleep during the day, worse than if I slept, for I feel always the same; and instead of finding refreshment in this stupor, as in sleep, I vex and torment myself so that I cannot gain strength.
It may be easily imagined with what interest one so far gone in love watched the debut of Miss Gladkowska as Agnese in Paer’s opera of the same name. Of course he sends a full account of the event to his friend. She looked better on the stage than in the salon; left nothing to be desired in her tragic acting; managed her voice excellently up to the high j sharp and g; shaded in a wonderful manner, and charmed her slave when she sang an aria with harp accompaniment. The success of the lady, however, was not merely in her lover’s imagination, it was real; for at the close of the opera the audience overwhelmed her with never-ending applause. Another pupil of the Conservatorium, Miss Wolkow, made her debut about the same time, discussions of the comparative merits of the two ladies, on the choice of the parts in which they were going to appear next, on the intrigues which had been set on foot for or against them, &c., were the order of the day. Chopin discusses all these matters with great earnestness and at considerable length; and, while not at all stingy in his praise of Miss Wolkow, he takes good care that Miss Gladkowska does not come off a loser:–
Ernemann is of our opinion [writes Chopin] that no singer can easily be compared to Miss Gladkowska, especially as regards just intonation and genuine warmth of feeling, which manifests itself fully only on the stage, and carries away the audience. Miss Wolkow made several times slight mistakes, whereas Miss Gladkowska, although she has only been heard twice in Agnese, did not allow the least doubtful note to pass her lips.
The warmer applause given to Miss Wolkow did not disturb so staunch a partisan; he put it to the account of Rossini’s music which she sang.
When Chopin comes to the end of his account of Miss Gladkowska’s first appearance on the stage, he abruptly asks the question: “And what shall I do now?” and answers forthwith: “I will leave next month; first, however, I must rehearse my Concerto, for the Rondo is now finished.” But this resolve is a mere flash of energy, and before we have proceeded far we shall come on words which contrast strangely with what we have read just now. Chopin has been talking about his going abroad ever so long, more especially since his return from Vienna, and will go on talking about it for a long time yet. First he intends to leave Warsaw in the winter of 1829-1830; next he makes up his mind to start in the summer of 1830, the question being only whether he shall go to Berlin or Vienna; then in May, 1830, Berlin is already given up, but the time of his departure remains still to be fixed. After this he is induced by the consideration that the Italian Opera season at Vienna does not begin till September to stay at home during the hot summer months. How he continues to put off the evil day of parting from home and friends we shall see as we go on. I called Chopin’s vigorously-expressed resolve a flash of energy. Here is what he wrote not much more than a week after (on August 31, 1830):–
I am still here; indeed, I do not feel inclined to go abroad. Next month, however, I shall certainly go. Of course, only to follow my vocation and reason, which latter would be in a sorry plight if it were not strong enough to master every other thing in my head.