II
It is evident that in many respects Chopin’s innovations sprang from instinct. They are not the conscious putting to test of a theory of reform, as are, in a small way, the Carnaval of Schumann, and in a more grandiose one, the B minor sonata of Liszt. As regards form, for example, he was in many cases not in the least dependent upon past or contemporary standards. Such pieces as the Ballades and the Barcarolle are without precedent. But they are the spontaneous growth of his genius; not the product of an experimental intelligence. The intellectually formal element which Berlioz, Schumann, and Liszt made bold with, Chopin quite ignored.
The theories of those of his contemporaries just mentioned have been made convenient apologies by many of their subsequent critics. Though the present day is beginning to show a wisdom free of controversy, it is still difficult to judge Liszt’s sonata solely from the standpoint of musical vitality. If one is left by it cold or suspicious, one cannot wholly disregard, in estimating its worth, the scheme upon which it is devised. In perhaps no music is there less need of such an intellectual justification than in Chopin’s. The man’s instinct was his only guide, and in most cases the results of it were singularly faultless.
Therefore, attempts to reduce such pieces as the Ballades and the Barcarolles to one of the few orthodox formal schemes are gratuitous. In the first place the music is positively in no need of such a justification as many still believe the respectable names of sonata or fugue or rondo provide. In the second place, though a work like the Ballade in F minor can be forced into the mold of the triplex or sonata-form, it can be so forced only by distorting the lovely features which make it the thing of beauty that it is. It is only fair to recognize that Chopin has created something new, in forms of a graceful and subtle proportion that speaks of a higher force than theory. The mind of man has yet to understand the logic of their beauty. Chopin is still unique.
The very elusiveness of the formal element in Chopin’s music persistently raises a question as to the extent of his mental grasp on the materials of his art. It is foolish to discuss how much of great genius is intellectual, how much emotional. It would seem as if the great emotion gave the spark of life to any work of art, that the powerful mind gave it shape. But in the music of Chopin an instinct rather than a thought gives shape. It is interesting to observe the working of this instinct in forms to the grasp of which an intellectual power has generally been considered essential; namely, in the sonatas. Of these there are three: an early one in C minor, published posthumously; one in B-flat minor, opus 35; and one in B minor, opus 58.
The first of these is almost in no way representative of the composer. It was completed by 1828 and sent to Vienna for publication; but it did not appear in print until two years after Chopin’s death. Neither in melodiousness nor in harmonic richness does it show the mark of his genius. It is ordinary in treatment of the piano. One can hardly attach even an historical significance to it, since works composed at or about the same time give more than a suggestion of his future greatness. For example, it was in connection with the contemporary variations on Mozart’s aria, La ci darem la mano, that Schumann wrote, ‘Hats off, gentlemen: a genius!’ It is true that the return of the first theme, at the beginning of the last section of the first movement, in B-flat minor instead of C minor, is at variance with conventional usage; but this was by no means unprecedented. The 5/4 rhythm of the Largo is evidently an attempt at originality; but it is self-conscious, not spontaneous. In spite of these features the work goes to prove only one thing: that in such a familiar and well-established form as the sonata, Chopin at that time either dared not or felt he should not trust to his own instinct, even as to the treatment of the instrument.
But the other two sonatas are worthy of his full maturity, and they show, like the Études, the Scherzi and the Ballades, the perfection and sureness of his art of self-expression. And in thus revealing himself he could not but be an innovator. He brought something new to the sonata. Consequently the opinion that he is ill at ease in the form, which may be interpreted to mean (or generally is so interpreted) that he had not the intellectual grasp of music necessary to the composing of a great sonata. This, it is to be feared, is one of the ready-made opinions in music. There are many such at hand. A few great critics have given the hint. Liszt, in writing of the concertos, ventured to say that they showed plus de volonté que d’inspiration. The remark has been applied to explain the uneasiness of the two great sonatas. Mr. J. S. Shedlock in his book on the pianoforte sonata wrote that ‘the real Chopin is to be found in his nocturnes, mazurkas, and ballads, not in his sonatas.’ But, though it is nearly absurd to pick from many supremely great works one that is superior to the others, and we do not in the least wish to infer that Chopin’s B-flat minor sonata is his masterpiece, we think it may be fairly questioned whether he ever wrote anything greater. It is thoroughly impregnated with his unique spirit. There is not a note of it that is not of the ‘real’ Chopin. Furthermore, the B minor sonata is not less thoroughly Chopin.
It may be reserved to the trained critical mind to decide what is great art of any kind; but the decision as to what is great music must ultimately rest with time and its changing voice of expression—the general world. Upon no sonatas, except some of those of Beethoven, does the public set such store as upon these two of Chopin. The sonatas of Weber, Schubert, Schumann and Brahms hold no such place in the general favor. In the case of the first three of these men a looseness in the grasp of form is responsible for the gradual degradation of their long works. It is logical to infer, then, that a similar looseness is not evident in the sonatas of Chopin. At any rate it has not yet become palpable to the public, whatever critics may have said. And the sonatas have undergone and are still undergoing a tremendous test. Therefore, however much men may declare the intellectual weakness in Chopin’s music, one must conclude that his instinct gave sufficient vitality even to his sonatas to enable them, alone among sonatas, to hold their public place with those of Beethoven. And it would seem that the undisputed intellectual power of Brahms failed where the instinct of Chopin succeeded.
Of course it will be urged in explanation of the popular acceptance of the sonatas of Chopin, that they are eminently gratifying to the pianist, suitable to the instrument, and consequently delicious to the public. At the most this is but a grace which no other sonatas have in so great measure. It is not a virtue by which alone music endures. Music cannot last without a positive strength of form; and this, no matter what the source of it, the Chopin sonatas have.
So then, what do men mean when they state, in the face of the enduring strength and beauty of these works, that Chopin has shown himself ill at ease in them? Chiefly that these sonatas are different from those of Beethoven. For the most part they choose to condemn the difference, rather than to understand and appreciate it. But if the verdict of time is worthy of consideration, this difference is not condemnable, and an analysis of it will bring us face to face with Chopin the innovator, not Chopin the insufficient.
It is usually in the first movement of a sonata that a composer either proves his skill or discloses his weakness. It is the first movements of these two sonatas that are brought into question before the courts of theory. They will be found to differ in at least two distinct if not radical features from movements of similar form by Beethoven. First, in the self-sufficient breadth and splendor of the second themes. Through these themes the composer speaks with his most intense meaning; on them the music soars to its highest, flaming pinnacle of beauty. This is obviously at variance with what we may call the classical procedure. Early in the evolution of the triplex form, a powerful tendency became evident to give to the first theme a vigorous, declarative character, and to the second a softer, more songful one. The first theme usually dominated the movement, and the development of its significance was the life and flow of the music. Generally the second theme, by reason of its contrasting character, served to accentuate the meanings of the first. Chopin handled his material otherwise. Though he preserved in a measure the conventional character of the two themes, the first undergoes no logical development, but whirls here and there in a sort of tempestuous chaos for which the second theme offers sublime justification. Except in the opening measures, the first theme is given no definite shape. Neither in the B-flat minor sonata nor in the B minor sonata does it reappear at the beginning of the third section. In the development section of both sonatas it is but a fragment tossed here and there on stormy harmonies.
The result is of course a lack of logical coherence. But one may well ask if the hot intensity of utterance has not welded the notes and parts of these movements into a complete fusion, if there is need of logic in such molten music.
In the second place, the Chopin sonatas owe not a little of their unique appearance to the composer’s great gift of harmony. The foundation of the classical sonata form was harmonic, and, be it said with due regard to exceptions, was rigid. Nothing was more characteristic of it, both in the early and late stages of its use, than the harmonic clearness of what one may call the approach to themes, episodes, or sections, and the sharp definition of these sections by what were fundamentally conventional cadences. Chopin in his sonatas obliterated at least one of these sectional lines. It is impossible to decide in the first movements where the middle section ends and the last section begins. It is not only that the first theme fails to make its reappearance. The harmonies surge on from the development section into the last section with no trace of break in their current. Even the cadences at the end of the first sections are incomplete, and the modulations by which they progress sudden and remote. Such procedures foretell unmistakably the endless harmonies of Wagner. So does the treatment of the development section in both sonatas, with the scattering of motives over never-ending progressions of chords.
No sonatas, not even those of Beethoven, present such radical variations from the accepted form; and naturally the question arises whether such movements as these of Chopin’s are properly in sonata form at all. One can only answer that Chopin named them sonatas, and that they represent at least what he felt a sonata should be. Mr. Shedlock has said of Beethoven that in aiming at a higher organization, he actually became a disorganizer. One cannot attribute such a conscious aim to Chopin; yet it is plain that his instinct led him to the complete demolition of one or two of the conventional restrictions of the sonata form.
Before leaving the sonatas there is a word to be said of Chopin’s comprehension of the group of four movements as a whole. It is such a comprehension on the part of a Beethoven that makes many of his later sonatas and a few of his earlier ones indisputably grand. In his case the successive dependence of the various movements on each other is often made plain either by the actual merging of one into the other, or by the employment of the same or cognate thematic materials in all. Of such structural unity there is no trace in the two great sonatas of Chopin. The separate movements are formally complete in themselves, and not materially related. Any other union between the separate movements of suite, sonata, or symphony, if, indeed, it is not a matter of familiarity with the whole work, or of respect for the composer, exists only in the mind of the hearer according to his or her sensibilities. Of the Chopin sonatas that in B-flat minor will probably impress most people as an impassioned and powerful whole; that in B minor as less unified.
The Funeral March of the former has a double existence, one within and one without the sonata. It is known that it was completed perhaps before the sonata was thought of; and that certainly the other movements were written in some sort of relation to it. The finale which follows it cannot possibly be dissociated from the sonata; and the first and second movements share a common intensity of passion. Organic unity the series may not have, but its phases of emotion lead, and almost blend, one into the other.
The two concertos, written as Chopin was on the verge of manhood, have evidently not held, if ever they won, so high a place in pianoforte literature as the two great sonatas. For one thing, Chopin’s treatment of the orchestra is, according to most critics, uninspired and unsatisfactory. But for another thing, their form is conventional, and in submitting to a conventional ideal Chopin is unquestionably ill at ease. Ten years later when he wrote the B-flat minor sonata he was all past his age of submission, and made of the form something new, shaped it fearlessly to his need of self-expression. The Fantasia in F minor, written about this time (1840), is longer than any single movements in the sonatas. Though unconventional in structure it is none the less faultless.
There still remains a profoundly moving work of Chopin’s, which, from the point of view of form, is astonishing. This is the Polonaise-Fantaisie, opus 61, seemingly his last work for the piano in large proportions. The Barcarolle, opus 60, was written probably about the same time; and it is worthy of note that this perfect piece escapes the grasp of most who would play it—i.e., interpret it in the only way that music can be truly interpreted. The difficulty is usually ascribed to its apparently rambling structure. But here, as in most cases where the composer may seem to be at fault, the imperfection exists in the player, not in the music. The right touch and the right quality of fervid yet delicate poetic imagination will reveal in the Barcarolle a poem in music of the most exquisite proportions. It is a work of matchless beauty. But the Polonaise-Fantaisie is not lyrical; it is intensely dramatic. It builds itself out of the strength, the weakness, the despair of unnamed forces in conflict. It is the cry of Poland in her agony, the pride of her people, crushed and tormented, in a broken voice.
The clashing moods of the piece are not of the sort that can be regulated and made orderly within even the expanded forms of conventional art. The grief and despair, the wrath, the pity, the unconquerable pride and hope of Chopin, shuddering like a great harp in the wind of destruction that has swept over his country, here demand and take on unfettered freedom of expression. The result is a work which reaches over Liszt to the symphonic poems of modern writers. It is probably not of historical importance; but it is of great significance as testimony to Chopin’s constructive originality. Liszt said of it that because of its ‘pathological contents,’ it must be excluded from the realm of art. If Chopin had chosen to supplement the piece with a few words as to its meaning, a program, as the phrase goes, Liszt would have had to judge differently, or else by the same token exclude other great works from the hallowed aristocracy to which he denied this one entrance.
At the other extreme of Chopin’s achievements stand the twenty-four Préludes. Some of these, like the eighth, fifteenth, sixteenth, nineteenth, for example, are well-rounded and completed pieces, which have not more of the spirit of improvisation which one associates with the term ‘prelude’ than his longer works. But many others are hardly more than fragments, or sketches, or instantaneous impressions. In pieces of such length, form is of no importance. What is perhaps unparalleled is their vividness. They seem now like a veiled glow, fading into darkness, now like a momentary flash from that region of secret fire in the light of which Chopin ever lived.
So Chopin’s power of expression showed itself new, fine, and broad. He is a master of presentation. There are but three or four of his considerable works of which one may say that they show uncertainty in judgment, an awkwardness in line, a clumsiness in balance. The vast majority of his compositions are perfect in shape and form, and flawlessly put together. If only we at this day might hear them unfold through his magic fingers! For, no doubt, what seems weak or unstable to the cautious judgment that relies upon standards of more rational genius, seems so only because the key is lost that will open to view the delicate machinery in all its perfect assemblage.