Surveying the mazurkas in their totality, we cannot but notice that there is a marked difference between those up to and those above Op. 41. In the later ones we look in vain for the beautes sauvages which charm us in the earlier ones—they strike us rather by their propriety of manner and scholarly elaboration; in short, they have more of reflective composition and less of spontaneous effusion about them. This, however, must not be taken too literally. There are exceptions, partial and total. The "native wood-notes wild" make themselves often heard, only they are almost as often stifled in the close air of the study. Strange to say, the last opus (63) of mazurkas published by Chopin has again something of the early freshness and poetry. Schumann spoke truly when he said that some poetical trait, something new, was to be found in every one of Chopin's mazurkas. They are indeed teeming with interesting matter. Looked at from the musician's point of view, how much do we not see that is novel and strange, and beautiful and fascinating withal? Sharp dissonances, chromatic passing notes, suspensions and anticipations, displacements of accent, progressions of perfect fifths (the horror of schoolmen), [FOOTNOTE: See especially the passage near the close of Op. 30, No. 4, where there are four bars of simultaneous consecutive fifths and sevenths.] sudden turns and unexpected digressions that are so unaccountable, so out of the line of logical sequence, that one's following the composer is beset with difficulties, marked rhythm picture to us the graceful motions of the dancers, and suggest the clashing of the spurs and the striking of heels against the ground. The second mazurka might be called "the request." All the arts of persuasion are tried, from the pathetic to the playful, and a vein of longing, not unmixed with sadness, runs through the whole, or rather forms the basis of it. The tender commencement of the second part is followed, as it were, by the several times repeated questions—Yes? No? (Bright sunshine? Dark clouds?) But there comes no answer, and the poor wretch has to begin anew. A helpless, questioning uncertainty and indecision characterise the third mazurka. For a while the composer gives way (at the beginning of the second part) to anger, and speaks in a defiant tone; but, as if perceiving the unprofitableness of it, returns soon to his first strain. Syncopations, suspensions, and chromatic passing notes form here the composer's chief stock in trade, displacement of everything in melody, harmony, and rhythm is the rule. Nobody did anything like this before Chopin, and, as far as I know, nobody has given to the world an equally minute and distinct representation of the same intimate emotional experiences. My last remarks hold good with the fourth mazurka, which is bleak and joyless till, with the entrance of A major, a fairer prospect opens. But those jarring tones that strike in wake the dreamer pitilessly. The commencement of the mazurka, as well as the close on the chord of the sixth, the chromatic glidings of the harmonies, the strange twirls and skips, give a weird character to this piece.
The origin of the polonaise (Taniec Polski, Polish dance), like that of the, no doubt, older mazurka, is lost in the dim past. For much credit can hardly be given to the popular belief that it developed out of the measured procession, to the sound of music, of the nobles and their ladies, which is said to have first taken place in 1574, the year after his election to the Polish throne, when Henry of Anjou received the grandees of his realm. The ancient polonaises were without words, and thus they were still in the time of King Sobieski (1674-96). Under the subsequent kings of the house of Saxony, however, they were often adapted to words or words were adapted to them. Celebrated polonaises of political significance are: the Polonaise of the 3rd of May, adapted to words relative to the promulgation of the famous constitution of the 3rd of May, 1791; the Kosciuszko Polonaise, with words adapted to already existing music, dedicated to the great patriot and general when, in 1792, the nation rose in defence of the constitution; the Oginski Polonaise, also called the Swan's song and the Partition of Poland, a composition without words, of the year 1793 (at the time of the second partition), by Prince Michael Cleophas Oginski. Among the Polish composers of the second half of the last century and the beginning of the present whose polonaises enjoyed in their day, and partly enjoy still, a high reputation, are especially notable Kozlowski, Kamienski, Elsner, Deszczynski, Bracicki, Wanski, Prince Oginski, Kurpinski, and Dobrzynski. Outside Poland the polonaise, both as an instrumental and vocal composition, both as an independent piece and part of larger works, had during the same period quite an extraordinary popularity. Whether we examine the productions of the classics or those of the inferior virtuosic and drawing-room composers, [FOOTNOTE: I should have added "operatic composers.">[ everywhere we find specimens of the polonaise. Pre-eminence among the most successful foreign cultivators of this Polish dance has, however, been accorded to Spohr and Weber. I said just now "this dance," but, strictly speaking, the polonaise, which has been called a marche dansante, is not so much a dance as a figured walk, or procession, full of gravity and a certain courtly etiquette. As to the music of the polonaise, it is in 3/4 time, and of a moderate movement (rather slow than quick). The flowing and more or less florid melody has rhythmically a tendency to lean on the second crotchet and even on the second quaver of the bar (see illustration No. 1, a and b), and generally concludes each of its parts with one of certain stereotyped formulas of a similar rhythmical cast (see illustration No. 2, a, b, c, and d). The usual accompaniment consists of a bass note at the beginning of the bar followed, except at the cadences, by five quavers, of which the first may be divided into semiquavers. Chopin, however, emancipated himself more and more from these conventionalities in his later poetic polonaises.
[Two music score excerpts here, labeled No. 1 and No. 2]
The polonaise [writes Brodzinski] is the only dance which
suits mature age, and is not unbecoming to persons of elevated
rank; it is the dance of kings, heroes, and even old men; it
alone suits the martial dress. It does not breathe any
passion, but seems to be only a triumphal march, an expression
of chivalrous and polite manners. A solemn gravity presides
always at the polonaise, which, perhaps, alone recalls neither
the fire of primitive manners nor the gallantry of more
civilised but more enervated ages. Besides these principal
characteristics, the polonaise bears a singularly national and
historical impress; for its laws recall an aristocratic
republic with a disposition to anarchy, flowing less from the
character of the people than from its particular legislation.
In the olden times the polonaise was a kind of solemn
ceremony. The king, holding by the hand the most distinguished
personage of the assembly, marched at the head of a numerous
train of couples composed of men alone: this dance, made more
effective by the splendour of the chivalrous costumes, was
only, strictly speaking, a triumphal march.
If a lady was the object of the festival, it was her privilege
to open the march, holding by the hand another lady. All the
others followed until the queen of the ball, having offered
her hand to one of the men standing round the room, induced
the other ladies to follow her example.
The ordinary polonaise is opened by the most distinguished
person of the gathering, whose privilege it is to conduct the
whole file of the dancers or to break it up. This is called in
Polish rey wodzic, figuratively, to be the leader, in some
sort the king (from the Latin rex). To dance at the head was
also called to be the marshal, on account of the privileges of
a marshal at the Diets. The whole of this form is connected
with the memories and customs of raising the militia
(pospolite), or rather of the gathering of the national
assemblies in Poland. Hence, notwithstanding the deference
paid to the leaders, who have the privilege of conducting at
will the chain of dancers, it is allowable, by a singular
practice made into a law, to dethrone a leader every time any
bold person calls out odbiianego, which means retaken by force
or reconquered; he who pronounces this word is supposed to
wish to reconquer the hand of the first lady and the direction
of the dance; it is a kind of act of liberum veto, to which
everyone is obliged to give way. The leader then abandons the
hand of his lady to the new pretender; every cavalier dances
with the lady of the following couple, and it is only the
cavalier of the last couple who finds himself definitively
ousted if he has not the boldness to insist likewise upon his
privilege of equality by demanding odbiianego, and placing
himself at the head.
But as a privilege of this nature too often employed would
throw the whole ball into complete anarchy, two means are
established to obviate this abuse—namely, the leader makes
use of his right to terminate the polonaise, in imitation of a
king or marshal dissolving a Diet, or else, according to the
predominating wish, all the cavaliers leave the ladies alone
in the middle, who then choose new partners and continue the
dance, excluding the disturbers and discontented, which
recalls the confederations employed for the purpose of making
the will of the majority prevail.
The polonaise breathes and paints the whole national
character; the music of this dance, while admitting much art,
combines something martial with a sweetness marked by the
simplicity of manners of an agricultural people. Foreigners
have distorted this character of the polonaises; the natives
themselves preserve it less in our day in consequence of the
frequent employment of motives drawn from modern operas. As to
the dance itself, the polonaise has become in our day a kind
of promenade which has little charm for the young, and is but
a scene of etiquette for those of a riper age. Our fathers
danced it with a marvellous ability and a gravity full of
nobleness; the dancer, making gliding steps with energy, but
without skips, and caressing his moustache, varied his
movements by the position of his sabre, of his cap, and of
his tucked-up coat-sleeves, distinctive signs of a free man
and warlike citizen. Whoever has seen a Pole of the old school
dance the polonaise in the national costume will confess
without hesitation that this dance is the triumph of a well-
made man, with a noble and proud tournure, and with an air at
once manly and gay.
After this Brodzinski goes on to describe the way in which the polonaise used to be danced. But instead of his description I shall quote a not less true and more picturesque one from the last canto of Mickiewicz's "Pan Tadeusz":—
It is time to dance the polonaise. The President comes
forward; he lightly throws back the fausses manches of his
overcoat, caresses his moustache, presents his hand to Sophia:
and, by a respectful salute, invites her for the first couple.
Behind them range themselves the other dancers, two and two;
the signal is given, the dance is begun, the President directs
it.
His red boots move over the green sward, his belt sends forth
flashes of light; he proceeds slowly, as if at random: but in
every one of his steps, in every one of his movements, one can
read the feelings and the thoughts of the dancer. He stops as
if to question his partner; he leans towards her, wishes to
speak to her in an undertone. The lady turns away, does not
listen, blushes. He takes off his cap, and salutes her
respectfully. The lady is not disinclined to look at him, but
persists in being silent. He slackens his pace, seeks to read
in her eyes, and smiles. Happy in her mute answer, he walks
more quickly, looking proudly at his rivals; now he draws his
cap with the heron-feathers forward, now he pushes it back. At
last he puts it on one side and turns up his moustaches. He
withdraws; all envy him, all follow his footsteps. He would
like to disappear with his lady. Sometimes he stops, raises
politely his hand, and begs the dancers to pass by him.
Sometimes he tries to slip dexterously away, changing the
direction. He would like to deceive his companions; but the
troublesome individuals follow him with a nimble step, entwine
him with more and more tightened loops. He becomes angry; lays
his right hand on his sword as if he wished to say: "Woe to
the jealous!" He turns, pride on his countenance, a challenge
in his air, and marches straight on the company, who give way
at his approach, open to him a passage, and soon, by a rapid
evolution, are off again in pursuit of him.
On all sides one hears the exclamation: "Ah! this is perhaps
the last. Look, young people, perhaps this is the last who
will know how to conduct thus the polonaise!"
Among those of Chopin's compositions which he himself published are, exclusive of the "Introduction et Polonaise brillante" for piano and violoncello, Op. 3, eight polonaises—namely: "Grande Polonaise brillante" (in E flat major), "precedee d'un Andante spianato" (in G major), "pour le piano avec orchestre," Op. 22; "Deux Polonaises" (in C sharp minor and E flat minor), Op. 26; "Deux Polonaises" (in A major and C minor), Op. 40; "Polonaise" (F sharp minor), Op. 44; "Polonaise" (in A flat major), Op. 53; [FOOTNOTE: This polonaise is called the "eighth" on the title-page, which, of course, it is only by including the "Polonaise," Op. 3, for piano and violoncello.] and "Polonaise-Fantaisie" (in A flat major), Op. 61. The three early polonaises posthumously-published by Fontana as Op. 71 have already been discussed in Chapter VIII. Other posthumously-published polonaises—such as the Polonaise in G sharp minor, to be found in Mikuli's edition, and one in B flat minor of the year 1826, first published in the supplement of the journal "Echo Muzyczne"—need not be considered by us. [FOOTNOTE: Both polonaises are included in the Breitkopf and Hartel edition, where the one in G sharp minor bears the unlikely date 1822. The internal evidence speaks against this statement.]
Chopin's Polonaises Op. 26, 40, 53, and 61 are pre-eminently political, they are the composer's expression of his patriotic feelings. It is not difficult to recognise in them proud memories of past splendours, sad broodings over present humiliations, bright visions of a future resurrection. They are full of martial chivalry, of wailing dejection, of conspiracy and sedition, of glorious victories. The poetically-inferior Polonaise, Op. 22, on the other hand, while unquestionably Polish in spirit, is not political. Chopin played this work, which was probably composed, or at least sketched, in 1830, [FOOTNOTE: See Vol. I., Chapter xiii., pp. 201, 202.] and certainly published in July, 1836, for the first time in public at a Paris Conservatoire concert for the benefit of Habeneck on April 26, 1835; and this was the only occasion on which he played it with orchestral accompaniments. The introductory Andante (in G major, and 6/8 time), as the accompanying adjective indicates, is smooth and even. It makes one think of a lake on a calm, bright summer day. A boat glides over the pellucid, unruffled surface of the water, by-and-by halts at a shady spot by the shore, or by the side of some island (3/4 time), then continues its course (f time), and finally returns to its moorings (3/4). I can perceive no connection between the Andante and the following Polonaise (in E flat major) except the factitious one of a formal and forced transition, with which the orchestra enters on the scene of action (Allegro molto, 3/4). After sixteen bars of tutti, the pianoforte commences, unaccompanied, the polonaise. Barring the short and in no way attractive and remarkable test's, the orchestra plays a very subordinate and often silent role, being, indeed, hardly missed when the pianoforte part is played alone. The pronounced bravura character of the piece would warrant the supposition that it was written expressly for the concert-room, even if the orchestral accompaniments were not there to prove the fact. A proud bearing, healthful vigour, and sprightly vivacity distinguish Chopin on this occasion. But notwithstanding the brave appearance, one misses his best qualities. This polonaise illustrates not only the most brilliant, but also the least lovable features of the Polish character—ostentatiousness and exaggerated rhetoric. In it Chopin is discovered posturing, dealing in phrases, and coquetting with sentimental affectations. In short, the composer comes before us as a man of the world, intent on pleasing, and sure of himself and success. The general airiness of the style is a particularly-noticeable feature of this piece of Chopin's virtuosic period.
The first bars of the first (in C sharp minor) of the two Polonaises, Op. 26 (published in July, 1836), fall upon one's ear like a decision of irresistible, inexorable fate. Indignation flares up for a moment, and then dies away, leaving behind sufficient strength only for a dull stupor (beginning of the second part), deprecation, melting tenderness (the E major in the second part, and the closing bars of the first and second parts), and declarations of devotion (meno mosso). While the first polonaise expresses weak timidity, sweet plaintiveness, and a looking for help from above, the second one (in E flat minor) speaks of physical force and self-reliance—it is full of conspiracy and sedition. The ill-suppressed murmurs of discontent, which may be compared to the ominous growls of a volcano, grow in loudness and intensity, till at last, with a rush and a wild shriek, there follows an explosion. The thoughts flutter hither and thither, in anxious, helpless agitation. Then martial sounds are heard—a secret gathering of a few, which soon grows in number and in boldness. Now they draw nearer; you distinguish the clatter of spurs and weapons, the clang of trumpets (D flat major). Revenge and death are their watchwords, and with sullen determination they stare desolation in the face (the pedal F with the trebled part above). After an interesting transition the first section returns. In the meno mosso (B major) again a martial rhythm is heard; this time, however, the gathering is not one for revenge and death, but for battle and victory. From the far-off distance the winds carry the message that tells of freedom and glory. But what is this (the four bars before the tempo I.)? Alas! the awakening from a dream. Once more we hear those sombre sounds, the shriek and explosion, and so on. Of the two Polonaises, Op. 26, the second is the grander, and the definiteness which distinguishes it from the vague first shows itself also in the form.
A greater contrast than the two Polonaises, Op. 40 (published in November, 1840), can hardly be imagined. In the first (in A major) the mind of the composer is fixed on one elating thought—he sees the gallantly-advancing chivalry of Poland, determination in every look and gesture; he hears rising above the noise of stamping horses and the clash of arms their bold challenge scornfully hurled at the enemy. In the second (in C minor), on the other hand, the mind of the composer turns from one depressing or exasperating thought to another—he seems to review the different aspects of his country's unhappy state, its sullen discontent, fretful agitation, and uncertain hopes. The manly Polonaise in A major, one of the simplest (not easiest) compositions of Chopin, is the most popular of his polonaises. The second polonaise, however, although not so often heard, is the more interesting one, the emotional contents being more varied, and engaging more our sympathy. Further, the pianoforte, however fully and effectively employed, cannot do justice to the martial music of the one, while its capacities are well suited for the rendering of the less material effect of the other. In conclusion, let me point out in the C minor Polonaise the chafing agitation of the second part, the fitful play between light and shade of the trio-like part in A flat major, and the added wailing voice in the recurring first portion at the end of the piece. [FOOTNOTE: In connection with the A major Polonaise, see last paragraph on next page.]