CHAPTER VIII.
GERMAN AND ITALIAN MUSIC IN THE YEARS 1827—1831. JOHANN MATUSZYNSKI.
he goal of Chopinʼs travels was Italy, the land still glorious in fame, the land of love, the cradle of the arts. In the home of the great masters, where sweet melodies are heard in every mouth, he hoped to perfect himself in the practice of his art, and to gather fresh thoughts for new works.
POPULARITY OF ITALIAN MUSIC. In Germany, music had, by the first quarter of the present century, attained a high position; such men as Handel, Glück, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and Weber had enriched the world with masterpieces; all the larger towns possessed a good opera house, and the best singers and instrumentalists were heard in the concert halls. But the repertoires consisted almost exclusively of Italian music, especially of the works of that most prolific writer and universal favourite, Gioacchino Rossini. Mozartʼs operas were rarely heard: “Der Freischütz” was the only German opera that had attained any popularity; “Fidelio” met with so little success that, after one performance in Vienna, it was withdrawn, and, as was then thought, finally.
Beethovenʼs immortal works, however highly connoisseurs might esteem them, were lying unheeded in libraries. The chefs dʼorchestres, either from indolence, personal grudge, or because they were envious of the master who had surpassed all other composers, showed little readiness to study his wonderful creations; besides which, the players of that time were seldom technically qualified for the difficult task of adequately rendering Beethovenʼs Symphonies. The more easily comprehensible music of the Italian school was received by the public with great gusto, and only a few isolated voices were heard asking for deeper and more earnest works.
Although Beethoven had been sleeping three years in the Währinger churchyard, at Vienna, nothing of his music was heard beyond an occasional performance of his larger works at the Vienna “Spirituel oder Gesellschafts-Concerten,” or the production of one of the last quartets by Schuppanzigh, who received but little thanks for his pains.[67] Beethovenʼs Sonatas had as completely vanished from the piano as if they had been buried with their author. By a considerable section of the public his glorious
Pianoforte Concertos, and the Violin Concerto were thought wearisome, and almost unplayable; only by a very small and select minority was the master sincerely reverenced and warmly admired. Through their exertions to make his works accessible to the general public, his fame gradually increased, till, like the sun long struggling through its clouds, it shone over the whole civilised world.
How often must the master have been cut to the heart at seeing how small was the number of those who understood him, and how many of his countrymen exclusively preferred Italian music. But every lofty genius is aware of the real measure of its own greatness: mediocre ability over-estimates itself, great talent knows what are its capacities, but genius despite much or long misunderstanding, and uninfluenced by praise or blame, goes on its way, trusting to the voice within which ever and again cries, “your time is coming.”
Beethoven made no secret of his opinions, and, regardless of giving offence, spoke out plainly against the French and Italian music of his day. To this Schindler, in his Biography of Beethoven, refers as follows: “At the beginning of the third decade of the present century, when the flood of Italian music was at its height, Beethoven was one day conversing with some friends on the almost desperate prospects of musical art, when we heard him say decisively, ‘But they cannot deprive me of my place in the history of art.’” This clearly shows that sure confidence about the future consoled him for the lack of present success.
Under such circumstances the generality of compositions were, of course, of an insipid kind, designed only for external effect. The famous pianists of the day—Field, Cramer, Klengel (pupils of Clementi), and Hummel (pupil of Dionys Weber)[68]—gradually disappeared from the scene of the triumphs of Field as a virtuoso, and of Hummel as a composer and tasteful player. Among a younger generation of musicians, Kalkbrenner bore the palm; after him came Moscheles, Herz, Thalberg, and Mendelsohn. Liszt had not made a name till some years later. Felix Mendelssohn had attracted attention by his instrumental works, but his fame was then merely in the bud. Franz Schubert[69] was only known in Vienna and Prague as a song-writer. In Vienna, where he was born and lived for the whole of his short life, people knew nothing, or cared nothing, about his C major Symphony.
AN ATTEMPTED MUSICAL REFORM. A little band of true lovers of art, men to whom music was something sacred, strove to bring about a reform, and shrunk not from material sacrifices in the cause of earnest music. Deeming the encouragement of young and struggling artists a desideratum they offered prizes for the best symphony, which were competed for from time to time, as, in 1834, when Lachner won the first prize. Attracted by the honour and pecuniary advantages there was no lack of competitors, but although most of the compositions displayed knowledge, industry, and conscientious work, none of them were illumined by the immortal spark of genius. It was at length perceived that no amount of prize-giving would produce genius, or even talent; that the true musician, like the poet, must be born; and the scheme was abandoned.
The German masters of that day were more successful in the domain of opera than in that of symphony; Winterʼs “Das unterbrochene Opferfest,” Weiglʼs “Schweizerfamilie,” Spohrʼs “Jessonda,” “Azor und Zemire,” and “Faust,” were favourably received for upwards of twenty years. Of Kreutzerʼs works, “Das Nachtlager von Granada” has alone been preserved, of Marschnerʼs (the greatest opera composer of the three we have mentioned) “Der Templar und die Judin” and “Hans Heiling” have remained on the stage. Lortzing, a writer of comic operas, came out later, as also did Flotow. Meyerbeer, whose “Robert le Diable,” and “Les Huguenots” have now been over the whole world, had then, with the exception of his “Ritter des Kreuzes,” only written operas for the Italian stage, but had been unable to compete with the highly-admired Rossini.
PAGANINIʼS PLAYING. Italy could no longer boast illustrious virtuosi like Corelli, Tartini, Viotti, Scarlatti, and Clementi, whose genius had attracted the eyes of all Europe; but she possessed a Paganini, the greatest violinist of the century, as Catalini was the greatest singer. Spohr, in his autobiography, says a great deal in disparagement of Paganini, not, indeed, from jealousy, for, being himself one of the greatest violinists musical history can produce, he adhered as closely to the principles of the Classic School as Paganini did to those of the Romantic. Those who heard them both say, that although they could not but admire Spohr, he never carried them away with the same force, or produced such a deep undying impression as Paganini.
In 1829, Paganini appeared at several concerts in Warsaw, and Chopin was entranced by his playing. He never ceased to speak with enthusiasm of the Paganini evenings, which seemed to carry him out of the real world into a land of happy dreams.
Lipinski,[70] who had made Paganiniʼs acquaintance at Piacenza, met him again in Warsaw, and the two artists greeted each other with the sincerest pleasure. In spite of all the honour paid to the great Italian, it was felt that Polish patriotism was in question, and this showed itself very warmly. A competition was proposed, which the two artists accepted; they each played their favourite pieces in turn, and concluded with a double Concerto by Kreutzer,[71] amid frantic shouts of applause.
The modesty of Chopinʼs character and his freedom from jealousy appear from a remark which he made on this occasion, “If I were such a pianist as Paganini is a violinist I should like to engage in a similar competition with a pianist of equal powers.” That evening he made up his mind to pay a long visit to Paganiniʼs fatherland; no less did the singers attract him “to the land where the citrons bloom,” for Italy had at that day a more brilliant array of vocal artists than any country in Europe. The mild climate of those happy regions is favourable to the development of fine voices; but the Italian singing masters understand also the art of bringing out the voice to the best advantage.
ITALIAN MUSIC. The Italian composers, Rossini, Mercadente, Vaccai, Bellini, and Donizetti wrote excellently for the voice, but they not only required a fine, rich organ, but an artistic culture, such as in these days, unfortunately, is rare. What a stimulus to fresh effort Chopin hoped to receive from hearing Rubini, Mario, Galli, Lablache, Tamburin, Pasta, Judith, Grusi, and Palazzesi!
In Poland, Italian opera was considered the finest in the world. Every great city, like London, Paris, Vienna, St. Petersburg, or Stockholm, had an Italian opera house; even in such cities as Dresden and Münich there was an Italian as well as a German opera, or at least Italian singers were engaged besides German ones.
Had Chopin gone to Italy his playing would undoubtedly have captivated a people so sensitive to artistic beauty, and it is possible that the voice of praise might have rendered him insensible to other influences; but as a mere listener he had been learning to admire, and criticise the achievements of others.
Mozart, to whom Chopin looked up with reverence, had visited Italy when fourteen years of age, and won great triumphs as a pianist, but as soon as he had heard the glorious voices and perfect vocalization of the operatic singers, he felt stirred by the desire of writing an opera. In 1770, he composed “Midritate Rè di Ponta,” and the success of this work made him resolve to devote his energies thenceforth more especially to the stage. In no other country could a composer attain such operatic triumphs; the report of a new and well-received opera ran like wild-fire from town to town, and the fame of a young composer spread from the Italian cities over the whole world.
Meyerbeer also began his career as a pianist, and as such achieved a brilliant success. Salieri, hearing him improvise at Vienna, at once discerned his ability, and said to him, “What are you going to do? Go to Italy, and study the operatic style, and the Italian method of singing.” Through the influence of his wealthy family, Meyerbeerʼs first operatic attempts had been produced at the Royal Theatre in Berlin, but had excited little interest. To the somewhat dispirited young writer, Salieriʼs advice seemed very acceptable. He acted upon it, and when he had been some months in Milan, wrote an operetta, which had a very favourable reception. After an interval of a year he produced the “Crociato in Egitto,” which carried the name of Meyerbeer all over Italy. Although not quite twenty years of age, the doors of the Royal Academy of Music in Paris were opened to him, and they were the key to those of the entire musical world.
Many of Chopinʼs friends and admirers used to say, “Our Frederic will do likewise, and become a first rate operatic composer.” For him, however, a different though a still splendid destiny was in store. The non-fulfilment of these expectations, to which his rare musical gifts had given rise, may be explained by external circumstances.
WHY HE DID NOT WRITE AN OPERA. It seems at first sight a matter of surprise that Chopin did not produce one dramatic work during his many yearsʼ residence in Paris, where there is such an abundance of good models and first-rate artists; besides which there was at that time not only the Grand Opera, but the Comic and Italian operas. But no one fully acquainted with the circumstances will be astonished that, in Paris, Chopin should have held aloof from the stage. In Italy, a new opera can be mounted without much expense, for the public care little about costumes and scenery. They attend the opera solely for the music; if this finds favour and the singers are good a new work may be performed, several nights in succession, and the fortune of the composer is made. But in Paris a new opera necessitates a large outlay, besides which—and particularly in the case of a foreigner—a famous reputation and influential patronage are requisite for the acceptance of any great operatic work. The Parisians demand a mounting at once tasteful and gorgeous, and every opera—whatever the excellence of the music—must include some brilliant dances in order to produce a due effect. Otherwise a fiasco may be predicted with something like certainty.
When Chopin settled in Paris he had to take thought for means of subsistence, in order to render needless any further pecuniary sacrifices on the part of his parents. In spite of his masterly skill he did not find it easy to gain a footing in a city, where there were already many pianists of talent and celebrity. In the winter famous performers from all parts of Europe resorted to the capital of the continent to let their light shine before the leaders of fashion. To keep abreast of such competitors Chopin was compelled to study continuously, and only a virtuoso knows what this means. Neither could he abandon society, although this would have been better for his delicate health. If he could have lived according to his inclinations as a composer, not as an executant, and a Scribe had written a libretto for him, an opera might then have been included among his productions in Paris.
But we have been anticipating and must return to our artist, whose beautiful, dreamy eyes beamed with delight as he thought of Italy, the ideal land of his imagination. He was subject, of course, to seasons of depression, and yearning after his beloved family, for his was not one of those superficial natures which soon forgets what is not before its eyes. He thought fondly of parents and sisters, and of his adored Constantia with all the passionate ardour of his poetic soul. Her sweet voice was ever ringing in his ears, and in his dreams he saw her eyes suffused with tears; while the ring which she had slipped on his finger at parting was his dearest jewel. His letters to his confidential friend, Johann Matuszynski, show how noble and fervent was his love, yet Constantiaʼs name never once appears in his letters to his family, from whom he kept secret his attachment. He used earnestly to beg his friend to send him frequent news of his “angel of peace,” as he called his Constantia, that he might not perish with longing and unrest.
JOHANN MATUSZYNSKI As this friend faithfully fulfilled what was required of him, a brief reference may be made to his life. Johann Matuszynski was born in Warsaw, December 9th, 1809, and, after passing through the Lyceum, went to the University to study medicine. At the end of six terms of diligent study, he was appointed regimental surgeon in 1830, just when the war of freedom broke out in Poland. Four years later he graduated at Tübingen, and received the diploma of doctor of medicine and surgery. At the same time he wrote a treatise on “Plica Polonica,” which was highly commended. He next went to Paris, where he immediately visited his friend Chopin, whom he had not seen for five years. They had been schoolfellows at the Lyceum, and as the doctor was an excellent flautist they had as boys played duets together. A weakness of the chest obliged Matuszynski, in after years, to abandon his instrument.
In Paris he soon attracted the attention of the first physicians, and, what for a foreigner is very rare, was made professor at the “Ecole de Médicine.” Proud of this position, he devoted himself to his profession with an assiduity injurious to his delicate health, and he died of consumption, April 20th, 1842.
