CHAPTER XVI.
RETURN TO PARIS. MOSCHELES AND LISZT. CHOPIN AS A PIANOFORTE TEACHER.
FTER spending a fine summer at Nohant, the country residence of George Sand, Chopin returned to Paris in the autumn. His health and spirits had been excellent during the whole time, and if not perfectly restored he was yet sufficiently strong to resume his usual occupations. It appeared that the doctors had been mistaken; what they took for consumption turned out to be bronchitis; they, therefore, strongly advised the artist to spare his strength as much as possible and lead a very regular life.
A tender mother or sister, or a loving and beloved wife, would doubtless have succeeded in inducing Frederic, who was naturally gentle and tractable, to pay more regard to the delicacy of his constitution and pursue quieter habits; but in Paris, where he spent every evening at assemblies which lasted late on into the night, he could not make up his mind to stay at home and go to bed early. This exciting life was very injurious to him; the first symptoms of consumption appeared, and increased in severity year by year.
Chopin lived first in the Rue Tronchet, but he soon moved to the Quai dʼOrleans, where he occupied the “pavilion” of a house inhabited by George Sand. “Chopin was very pleased to have a drawing room in which he could play and dream; but he was very fond of society, and used it chiefly to give lessons in,” says George Sand; “it was only while he was at Nohant that he composed.” His pupils welcomed him back with great pleasure, and were charmed with the preludes and the host of new compositions which he brought with him.[32]
In 1839 Moscheles, who had been desirous of knowing the Polish virtuoso, arrived in Paris from London. The two artists met for the first time at an evening party at the house of Monsieur Leo, to whom Chopin dedicated the Polonaise, op. 53. As polished men of the world, they saluted each other with the utmost courtesy, but went no further. After this first brief meeting they were both invited by King Louis Philippe to a concert at St. Cloud, on November 29th.
A CONCERT AT ST. CLOUD. Chopin played before the royal family a nocturne and some studies, and was, as Moscheles says, “admired and petted as a favourite.” The German artist then played some drawing-room pieces, and, in conclusion, his Duet Sonata, with Chopin. Moscheles thought Chopinʼs playing full of charm and life, and in a letter to his wife he says:—
“Chopinʼs appearance corresponds exactly with his music; both are delicate and fanciful (schwärmerisch.) He played to me at my request, and then for the first time I really understood his music and saw the explanation of the ladiesʼ enthusiasm. The ad libitum which with his interpreters degenerates into bad time, is, when he himself performs, the most charming originality of execution; the harsh and dilettante-like modulations, which I could never get over when playing his compositions, ceased to offend when his delicate fairy-like fingers glided over them; his piano is so delicate that no very strong forte is required to give the desired contrast. Thus we do not miss the orchestral effects which the German school demands from a pianist, but feel ourselves carried away as by a singer who, paying little heed to the accompaniment, abandons himself to his feelings. He is quite unique in the pianistic world. He declared he liked my music very much; at any rate he is well acquainted with it. He played his Studies, and his last new work, the ‘Preludes,’ and I played several of my works to him. Who would have thought that, with all his sentimentality, Chopin had also a comic vein? He was lively, merry, and extremely comic in his mimicry of Pixis, Liszt, and a hunch-backed pianoforte amateur.”
Chopinʼs imitative talent displayed itself, as the reader knows, in early youth, and increased so much in after years that the French players, Boccage and Madame Dorval, declared that they had never seen anything of the kind so excellent before. My friend, Joseph Nowakowski, a fellow-student of Chopin, relates the following anecdotes:—
CHOPIN AN EXCELLENT MIMIC. “When I visited Chopin in Paris, I asked him to introduce me to Kalkbrenner, Liszt, and Pixis, ‘That is unnecessary,’ answered Chopin, ‘wait a moment, and I will present them to you, but each separately.’ Then he sat down to the piano after the fashion of Liszt, played in his style and imitated all his movements to the life; after which he impersonated Pixis. The next evening I went to the theatre with Chopin. He left his box for a short time, and turning round I saw Pixis beside me. I thought it was Chopin, and I laughingly clapped him on the shoulder, exclaiming, leave off your mimicry. My neighbour was quite flabbergasted by such familiarity on the part of a total stranger, but fortunately at that moment Chopin returned to the box, and we had a hearty laugh over the comical mistake. Then, with his own peculiar grace of manner, he apologized both for himself and me to the real Pixis.
“Liszt frequently met Chopin in society and had many opportunities of observing his imitative talent. He looked quietly on while Chopin mimicked him, and, far from being offended, he laughed and seemed really amused by it. There was not the slightest jealousy between these two artists, and their friendship remained unbroken.
“One day Chopin was asked at a party to play some of his latest works, and Liszt joined in the request. On sitting down to the piano, Chopin noticed that there were no pedals, and the hostess then remembered that they had been sent away for repair and had not been brought back. Liszt laughingly declared that he would furnish them himself, and crawling under the piano he knelt there while Chopin played, and completely supplied the place of the pedals.[33]
“Some years afterwards, in June, 1843, a large number of artists were assembled at Nohant. Among them were Liszt, the celebrated Pauline Viardot-Garcia, whose incomparable power of ideal expression made her the best interpreter of Chopinʼs Polish songs; the painter, Eugène Delacroix, many of the best actors and several eminent literary people. The hostess, with her son and daughter and some married couples from the neighbourhood, completed the party, all of whom were young enough to be enthusiastic about art, and full of hope.
DIFFERENCE BETWEEN CHOPIN AND LISZT. “One evening, when they were all assembled in the salon, Liszt played one of Chopinʼs nocturnes, to which he took the liberty of adding some embellishments. Chopinʼs delicate intellectual face, which still bore the traces of recent illness, looked disturbed; at last he could not control himself any longer, and in that tone of sang froid which he sometimes assumed he said, ‘I beg you, my dear friend, when you do me the honour of playing my compositions, to play them as they are written or else not at all.’ ‘Play it yourself then,’ said Liszt, rising from the piano, rather piqued. ‘With pleasure,’ answered Chopin. At that moment a moth fell into the lamp and extinguished it. They were going to light it again when Chopin cried, ‘No, put out all the lamps, the moonlight is quite enough.’ Then he began to improvise and played for nearly an hour. And what an improvisation it was! Description would be impossible, for the feelings awakened by Chopinʼs magic fingers are not transferable into words.
“When he left the piano his audience were in tears; Liszt was deeply affected, and said to Chopin, as he embraced him, ‘Yes, my friend, you were right; works like yours ought not to be meddled with; other peopleʼs alterations only spoil them. You are a true poet.’ ‘Oh, it is nothing,’ returned Chopin, gaily, ‘We have each our own style; that is all the difference between us. You know, quite well, that nobody can play Beethoven and Weber like you. Do play the Adagio from Beethovenʼs C sharp minor Sonata, but nicely, as you can do when you choose.’ Liszt began his Adagio, his hearers were moved deeply, but in quite another manner. They wept, but not tears of such sweetness as Chopin had caused them to shed. Lisztʼs playing was less elegiac, but more dramatic.”
“Some days afterwards,” writes Charles Rollinat, in Le Temps, “We were once more the guests of George Sand. Liszt asked Chopin to play, and, after a little pressure, he consented. Liszt then desired the lights to be put out and the curtains drawn that it might be perfectly dark. This was done, and just as Chopin was sitting down to the piano Liszt whispered something to him and took his place. Chopin seated himself in the nearest arm chair, not dreaming of his friendʼs intention. Liszt immediately began to improvise in the same manner as Chopin had done on the former evening, and so faithfully copied both sentiment and style that the deception was perfect. The same signs of emotion were again perceptible among the audience, and just as the feeling reached its height Liszt lighted the candles on the piano. A general cry of astonishment echoed through the room. ‘What, it is you?’ ‘As you see,’ said Liszt, with a laugh. ‘But we made sure it was Chopin playing,’ rejoined the company. In this ingenious way Liszt revenged himself on his dangerous rival.
“Comedies were sometimes performed, or improvised recitations delivered, the latter spontaneous and poetical, as all true improvisations ought to be. There was a theatre in George Sandʼs chateau, and also a great variety of costumes. Only the subject of the piece and the number of scenes needed to be given; the actors improvised the dialogue. Liszt and Chopin were the orchestra; they sat at two pianos right and left of the stage behind some drapery, and followed the play with appropriate music.
“Both artists were endowed with an astonishing memory. They had at their command all the Italian, French, and German operas of importance, and could select, with marvellous readiness, motives adapted to the particular situation, and work them out so effectively and with such fervour that the actors—whose own achievements were by no means inconsiderable—called out from the stage, ‘Hold, you are too lavish with your beauties.’
A MUSICAL ECHO.“In the middle of the garden was an esplanade, commanding a view of the whole valley. A table, some stone benches, and a light garden seat seemed to invite the loiterer to stay and rest. The esplanade was surrounded by a strong iron railing, to prevent the children who played there from falling into the brook. The spot was noted for a wonderful echo, which repeated every word three or four times with perfect clearness. The children often amused themselves in what they called making the echo talk. One evening the thought occurred to somebody of bringing out the piano and letting the echo repeat fragments of romantic music. The idea met with universal approval, and the magnificent Erard Instrument was taken out on to the esplanade.
“It was a clear, still night in June; there was no moon, but in the place of her silvery light shone a countless host of stars. The piano was opened towards the valley, and Lisztʼs energetic hands performed the well-known hunting chorus from ‘Euryanthe.’ He stopped, of course, to wait for the echo after each pause. Even after the first we were all wild with enthusiasm; there was something marvellously poetic in nature thus echoing art. The musical phrase was too long both the first and second time for the echo to give it back clearly; but the third and fourth time the echo of the echo in the chorus was beautifully repeated, without missing a note, by the natural echo. Liszt himself felt the spell and quickened the time. Every phrase excited the liveliest curiosity and the most intense expectancy. One in particular swept with a sweet melancholy sound over the tops of the trees in the valley; but the last announced the triumph of the human will over the obstacles opposed by nature.
“After this most artistically managed Fanfare, Chopin took Lisztʼs place and made the echo sing and weep. He played some scraps from an impromptu which he was at that time composing. Fredericʼs delight over this diaphanous Æolian music knew no bounds; he continued his converse with the spirits of the valley much longer than Liszt had; it was a strange communion, a whispering and a murmuring like a magic incantation.
“The hostess was almost obliged to draw him by force from the piano; he was in a state of feverish excitement. When Chopin had finished playing, Pauline Garcia sang the lovely naïve romance, ‘Nel cor piu non mi sento.’ It was an excellent choice, for every phrase consisted of only two notes, which, to the intense delight of us all, the echo repeated with astonishing clearness. Aurora had already begun to spread her rosy veil before the party broke up, carrying with them not only a delicious impression but, doubtless, an undying recollection.”
As is so often the case in life, the warm friendship between Liszt and Chopin grew very cool in after years, and finally died out altogether. On whose side the fault lay I will not venture to decide, but in some of the letters to his parents Chopin complains bitterly of Liszt.
CHOPIN AS A TEACHER. Having given up performing in public Chopin occupied himself with giving lessons. His handsome gentlemanly appearance, his great talents and brilliant fame, and his gift for teaching caused him to be greatly esteemed and sought after, particularly by the aristocracy. In taking pupils he always gave the preference to his compatriots, and trained many of his own countrywomen who have more or less acquired his style and manner. Especially to be mentioned are, Princess Marcelline Czartoryska née Radziwill, the Countess Pauline Plater, Countess L. Czosnowska, Countess Delphine Potocka, Princess Beauvau, Madame Rosengart-Zaleska, Emilie Hofmann, Baroness Bronicka, &c. Among his non-Polish pupils were: Madame Kalergi née Countess Nesselrode, afterwards Madame de Muchanoff, Mdlles. Emma and Laura Harsford, Mademoiselle Caroline Hartmann, Mademoiselle Lina Freppa, Countess Flahault, Baroness C. de Rothschild, Miss J. W. Sterling, Mademoiselle de Noailles, Mademoiselle L. Duperré, Mademoiselle R. de Könneritz, Princess Elizabeth Czernicheff, Countess dʼAgoult, Princess C. de Souzzo, Countess dʼAppony, Baroness dʼEst, Mdlle. J. de Caraman, Mdlle. C. Maberly, Countess de Perthuis, Countess de Lobau, Countess Adele de Fürstenstein, and Mdlle. F. Müller, to whom Chopin dedicated his Allegro de Concert op. 46, and who has frequently been spoken of as his most gifted and favourite lady pupil.
Unlike other great artists, Chopin felt no dislike to giving lessons, but, on the contrary, took evident pleasure in this laborious occupation, when he met with talented and diligent pupils. He noticed the slightest fault, but always in the kindest and most encouraging manner, and never displayed anger towards a dull pupil. But later on, when increasing illness had made his nerves extremely irritable, he would fling the music from the desk and make use of very severe expressions. Not pencils merely, but even chairs were broken by Chopinʼs apparently weak hand; however, these outbursts of temper never lasted long; a tear in the eye of the culprit at once appeased the masterʼs wrath, and his kind heart was anxious to make amends.
He could not endure thumping, and on one occasion jumped up during a lesson, exclaiming, “What was that, a dog barking?” Owing to the delicacy of his nerves his playing was not so powerful as that of other pianists, Liszt especially. This rendered the first few lessons a real torture to his pupils. He found most fault with a too noisy touch; his own thin slender fingers rested horizontally on the keys, which he seemed to stroke rather than strike. Nevertheless he was quite able to produce vigorous tones. It is a great error to suppose that his playing was invariably soft and tender, although, in after years, when he had not sufficient physical power for performing the energetic passages, it lacked contrast, but in his youth he displayed considerable fire and energy, of which he never made any misuse.
Moscheles, in speaking of his playing at a soirée at the Palace of King Louis Philippe in 1839, says, “The audience must, I think, have caught the enthusiasm which Chopin threw into the piece throughout.”
CHOPINʼS METHOD. He would not take a pupil who had not some amount of technical skill, yet he made them all alike begin with Clementiʼs “Gradus ad Parnassum.” We see from this that his chief object was the cultivation of the touch. The pre-eminence attached to technical superiority by pianists of the present day obliges them to devote their whole time to acquiring mechanical dexterity and enormous force. Thus they frequently lose their softness and lightness of touch, and neglect the finer nuances and the artistic finish of the phrasing.
The second requirement that Chopin made of a new pupil was perfect independence of the fingers; he, therefore, insisted on the practising of exercises, and more especially the major and minor scales from piano up to fortissimo, and with the staccato as well as the legato touch, also with a change of accent, sometimes marking the second, sometimes the third or fourth note. By this means he obtained the perfect independence of the fingers, and an agreeable equality and delicacy of touch. Chopin thought of embodying in a theoretical work the results of his long years of study, experience, and observation of pianoforte playing; but he had only written a few pages when he fell ill. Unfortunately he destroyed the manuscript shortly before his death.
Every poetical composition is a revelation of the beautiful which the player ought to recognise, and as far as possible interpret in the spirit of the composer. To the many requests made to him for advice Chopin invariably replied, “Play as you feel and you will play well.” One day, when one of his pupils was playing in a stiff, feelingless, mechanical manner, he impatiently exclaimed, “Mettez y donc toute votre âme.”
His friends relate that he used to lament greatly over one pupil, who studied with indefatigable diligence and perseverance, and possessed all the qualities for becoming an artist of the first rank except the most essential of all—feeling.
Yet how much mischief may arise from following this true and simple maxim, “Play as you feel.” How many celebrated pianists exaggerate or misunderstand the meaning of Chopinʼs works! His principle is only a sure and infallible guide when the player has the capacity of perceiving the intentions of the composer. This, unfortunately, is a rare gift, and its absence in the rendering of Chopinʼs compositions is doubly painful. He felt this himself, and when one of his French pupils was being overwhelmed with praise for his performance of one of his masterʼs works, Chopin said, quickly, that he had played the piece very well, but had quite missed the Polish element and the Polish enthusiasm. Nor did he confine this criticism to the interpretation of distinctively Polish works, such as mazurkas and polonaises, but applied it also to his concertos, nocturnes, ballads, and studies.
FEW GOOD INTERPRETERS OF CHOPIN. La Mara[34] was not wrong in saying that a correct performance of Chopinʼs works was rarely to be had. No one, be he ever so great a pianist, who cannot sympathise with the misfortunes which have been and are still the lot of the Pole, no one who does not understand the melancholy characteristic of the whole nation, can interpret Chopin with faithfulness.
One evening, in 1833 or 1834, there were assembled at the house of the Castellan Count Plater three great artists: Liszt, Hiller, and Chopin. A lively discussion arose on national music, Chopin maintaining, that no one who had not been in Poland and inhaled the perfume of its meadows could have any true sympathy with its folk-songs. As a test of this it was proposed to play the well-known Mazurka, “Poland is not lost yet.” Liszt played first, then Hiller, each giving a different interpretation. Several pianists followed; last of all came Chopin, whom both Liszt and Hiller were obliged to admit far surpassed them in comprehending the spirit of the Mazurka.
There is, undoubtedly, a growing interest among the public in Chopinʼs original compositions, but the number of his interpreters who really understand him is still very small. In some we find a certain affectation and coquetry, in others only the poetic frenzy (schwärmerei) which is infused into most of his works, while others again seek expression by means of violent contrasts. These apparent diversities are rarely combined in one individual, but it is only in their union that we find the true Chopin stamp of genius.
As the best means for acquiring a natural style our master recommended the frequent hearing of Italian singers, among whom there were at that time many celebrities in Paris. He always applauded their broad, simple style and the easy manner in which they used and consequently preserved their voices, as worthy the imitation of all pianists, especially of those who hoped to attain perfection. He advised his pupils not to break up the musical thoughts, but to let them pour out in a broad stream; he liked to hear in a player what in a singer is understood by portamento. He hated any exaggeration of accent which, in his opinion, destroyed all the poetry of playing and made it appear pedantic.
CHARACTERISTICS OF CHOPINʼS PLAYING. Chopinʼs soft velvety fingers could evoke the most exquisite effects. No other pianist of the day possessed his executive skill and refined taste, or equalled him in those passing embellishments which he interwove into his playing, and which resembled filagree work or the most delicate Brabant lace. He was very fond of playing to himself or some favourite pupil the works of Sebastian Bach, which he had studied with the utmost accuracy and completely mastered.[35] The tempo rubato was a special characteristic of Chopinʼs playing. He would keep the bass quiet and steady, while the right hand moved in free tempo, sometimes with the left hand, and sometimes quite independently, as, for example, when it plays quaver, trills, or those magic, rhythmical runs and fioritures peculiar to Chopin. “The left hand,” he used to say, “should be like a bandmaster, and never for a moment become unsteady or falter.”
By this means his playing was free from the trammels of measure and acquired its peculiar charm. The outlines, like those in a good painting of a winter landscape, shade off into a transparent mist. He used the tempo rubato with great effect, not only in his nocturnes but also in many of his mazurkas. Those who have entered into the spirit of Chopinʼs works will easily see when to use the rubato. Chopin rendered the tremolo to perfection, making the melody float like a boat on the bosom of the waters. Liszt says:—
“Chopin was the first to use the tempo rubato, which gave such an original stamp to his compositions: an evanescent, interrupted measure, ductile, abrupt, yet languishing, and flickering like a flame in the breeze. In his later works he left off marking tempo rubato at the commencement of a piece, considering that whoever understood it would of himself discover this law of latitude. Chopinʼs works require to be played with a certain accent and swing which it is difficult for anyone to acquire who has not had frequent opportunities of hearing him play. He seemed very anxious to impart this style to his pupils, and especially to his compatriots. His Polish pupils, particularly the ladies, acquired this method with all the quick sensitiveness which they possess for poetic feeling; and their innate perception of his thoughts enabled them to follow faithfully all the undulations on his azure sea of sentiment.”
While Chopin was strong and healthy, as during the first years of his residence in Paris, he used to play on an Erard piano; but after his friend Camillo Pleyel had made him a present of one of his splendid instruments, remarkable for their metallic ring and very light touch, he would play on no other makerʼs. If he were engaged for a soirée at one of his Polish or French friends, he would often send his own instrument, if there did not happen to be a Pleyel in the house. “Quand je suis mal disposé,” said Chopin, “je joue sur un piano dʼErard et jʼy trouve facilement un son fait. Mais quand je me sens en verve et assez fort, pour trouver mon propre son à moi, il me faut un piano de Pleyel.”
CHOPINʼS REVERENCE FOR ART. Chopin sacredly cherished art as one of heavenʼs best gifts, as a gentle comforter in sorrow, and would never put it to any common-place purpose. There are, unfortunately, plenty of famous artists who regard their art merely as a means of subsistence. What Schiller says of men of science is no less true of artists:—
“Einem ist sie die hohe, die himmlische Göttin, dem Andern
Eine Tüchtige Kuh, die ihn mit Butter versorgt.”
Throughout his life art was to Chopin a lofty goddess. He was frequently asked by wealthy and aristocratic personages to give instruction to them or to their relations, but the largest honorarium could not induce him to teach anyone devoid of talent; although at that time he had long ceased to receive anything from his parents, was very particular about the appointments of his household, fond of giving presents, and always dispensed a most liberal hospitality. In a pleasant manner—and, indeed, no other was possible to him—Chopin would refuse on the score of not increasing the number of his pupils. Young people of talent he would encourage with the sincerest kindness, lending them books, music, and sometimes money even, when he found their means were limited; many he taught gratuitously. One of his most talented pupils was Filtsch,[36] a young Hungarian; Chopin thought a great deal of him, and always delighted in his company. His premature death made a deep and painful impression on our master. All who knew Filtsch intimately, and had heard his beautiful playing, say that he would have fulfilled the most splendid hopes, and unite in deploring his death as a sad loss to the musical world.
Among Chopinʼs best pupils we must name: Gutmann, Guntsberg; Telefsen; George Mathias, who is now a professor at the Paris Conservatoire; Charles Mikuli, director of the Musical Union, at Lemberg; Casimir Wernick, who died young, at St. Petersburg, in 1859; and Gustav Schumann, a much esteemed pianist in Berlin, who only went to Paris for a short time to receive instruction from Chopin.
Chopin was not only respected but loved by all his pupils for his warm sympathy and exceedingly fascinating manners. To Polish artists he was especially amiable and kind, and ever ready to serve them in any way; thus, showing that his love for his fatherland was as warm as when a dreamy, gentle boy, his parentsʼ house in Poland was all the world to him. So it came to pass that many artists, who were only spending a short time in Paris, but were anxious to acquire fame and popularity, gave themselves out as Chopinʼs pupils, although he did not even know their names. When asked if such a one were his pupil, he would answer, “I never taught him, but if it is any benefit to him to be called my pupil, let him enjoy it in peace.” Chopin was not only a kind, but also a conscientious teacher. He never gave more than four or, at the utmost, five lessons a day for his healthʼs sake, but he attended regularly to those and never put off his pupils, except when he was very ill, or when friends and acquaintances from Poland came to see him. Carriages were frequently sent for him by those of his pupils living at a distance, but in the last years of his life they were obliged to come to him, and when he became so weak that he could scarcely sit up, he would give lessons lying on a chaise longue before a pianette, with the pupil seated at another instrument. If a passage were played wrongly or not according to his taste, he would raise himself up and play it, and then lie down again.
SCHULHOFF INTRODUCED TO CHOPIN. His noble character and truly artistic nature appeared on all occasions; the following episode is a proof of his excellent disposition. Julius Schulhoff came to Paris when a young man, and completely unknown. One day he heard that Chopin, who was at that time in very bad health and difficult of access, was going to Mercierʼs[37] piano manufactory to see a newly invented transpositeur. This was in 1844. Schulhoff availed himself of this opportunity for making the masterʼs acquaintance, and was among the little band awaiting the arrival of Chopin, who came accompanied by an old friend, a Russian bandmaster. Seizing a favourable moment, Schulhoff asked a lady present to introduce him. To her request that he should play something to Chopin, the great artist, who was frequently tormented by the visitations of dilettanti, reluctantly acceded by a slight nod. Schulhoff sat down to the piano, while Chopin, with his back to him, leant against it. But after the first few chords he turned his head to Schulhoff, who was playing his new “Allegro brillant en forme de Sonate,” which he afterwards dedicated to Chopin as op. 1.[38] Chopin drew nearer and nearer, listening with growing interest to the refined, poetical playing of the young Bohemian; his pale face lighted up, and by look and gesture he testified his warm approval. When Schulhoff had finished, Chopin held out his hand, saying, “Vous êtes un vrai artiste—un collègue.” A few days afterwards Schulhoff paid him a visit, and begged him to accept the dedication of the “Allegro;” the master thanked him in his most winning manner, and some ladies present heard him say, “Je suis très flatté de lʼhonneur que vous me faites.”
