Frederick Chopin, as a Man and Musician — Complete

by Frederick Niecks

Dark and olive-complexioned Lelia! [writes Liszt] thou hast
walked in solitary places, sombre as Lara, distracted as
Manfred, rebellious as Cain, but more fierce [farouche], more
pitiless, more inconsolable than they, because thou hast found
among the hearts of men none feminine enough to love thee as
they have been loved, to pay to thy virile charms the tribute
of a confiding and blind submission, of a silent and ardent
devotion, to suffer his allegiance to be protected by thy
Amazonian strength!

The enthusiasm with which the Poles of her acquaintance spoke of their countrywomen, and the amorous suavity, fulness of feeling, and spotless nobleness which she admired in the Polish composer's inspirations, seem to have made her anticipate, even before meeting Chopin, that she would find in him her ideal lover, one whose love takes the form of worship. To quote Liszt's words: "She believed that there, free from all dependence, secure against all inferiority, her role would rise to the fairy-like power of some being at once the superior and the friend of man." Were it not unreasonable to regard spontaneous utterances—expressions of passing moods and fancies, perhaps mere flights of rhetoric—as well-considered expositions of stable principles, one might be tempted to ask: Had George Sand found in Chopin the man who was "bold or vile enough" to accept her "hard and clear" conditions? [FOOTNOTE: See extract from one of her letters in the preceding chapter, Vol. I., p. 334.]

While the ordinary position of man and woman was entirely reversed in this alliance, the qualities which characterised them can nevertheless hardly ever have been more nearly diametrically opposed. Chopin was weak and undecided; George Sand strong and energetic. The former shrank from inquiry and controversy; the latter threw herself eagerly into them. [FOOTNOTE: George Sand talks much of the indolence of her temperament: we may admit this fact, but must not overlook another one—namely, that she was in possession of an immense fund of energy, and was always ready to draw upon it whenever speech or action served her purpose or fancy.] The one was a strict observer of the laws of propriety and an almost exclusive frequenter of fashionable society; the other, on the contrary, had an unmitigated scorn for the so-called proprieties and so-called good society. Chopin's manners exhibited a studied refinement, and no woman could be more particular in the matter of dress than he was. It is characteristic of the man that he was so discerning a judge of the elegance and perfection of a female toilette as to be able to tell at a glance whether a dress had been made in a first-class establishment or in an inferior one. The great composer is said to have had an unlimited admiration for a well-made and well-carried (bien porte) dress. Now what a totally different picture presents itself when we turn to George Sand, who says of herself, in speaking of her girlhood, that although never boorish or importunate, she was always brusque in her movements and natural in her manners, and had a horror of gloves and profound bows. Her fondness for male garments is as characteristic as Chopin's connoisseurship of the female toilette; it did not end with her student life, for she donned them again in 1836 when travelling in Switzerland.

The whole of Chopin's person was harmonious. "His appearance," says Moscheles, who saw him in 1839, "is exactly like his music [ist identificirt mit seiner Musik], both are tender and schwarmerisch."

[FOOTNOTE: I shall not attempt to translate this word, but I will give the reader a recipe. Take the notions "fanciful," "dreamy," and "enthusiastic" (in their poetic sense), mix them well, and you have a conception of schwarmerisck.]

A slim frame of middle height; fragile but wonderfully flexible limbs; delicately-formed hands; very small feet; an oval, softly-outlined head; a pale, transparent complexion; long silken hair of a light chestnut colour, parted on one side; tender brown eyes, intelligent rather than dreamy; a finely-curved aquiline nose; a sweet subtle smile; graceful and varied gestures: such was the outward presence of Chopin. As to the colour of the eyes and hair, the authorities contradict each other most thoroughly. Liszt describes the eyes as blue, Karasowski as dark brown, and M. Mathias as "couleur de biere." [FOOTNOTE: This strange expression we find again in Count Wodzinski's Les trois Romans de Frederic Chopin, where the author says: "His large limpid, expressive, and soft eyes had that tint which the English call auburn, which the Poles, his compatriots, describe as piwne (beer colour), and which the French would denominate brown.">[ Of the hair Liszt says that it was blonde, Madame Dubois and others that it was cendre, Miss L. Ramann that it was dark blonde, and a Scotch lady that it was dark brown. [FOOTNOTE: Count Wodzinski writes: "It was not blonde, but of a shade similar to that of his eyes: ash-coloured (cendre), with golden reflections in the light.">[ Happily the matter is settled for us by an authority to which all others must yield—namely, by M. T. Kwiatkowski, the friend and countryman of Chopin, an artist who has drawn and painted the latter frequently. Well, the information I received from him is to the effect that Chopin had des yeux bruns tendres (eyes of a tender brown), and les cheveux blonds chatains (chestnut-blonde hair). Liszt, from whose book some of the above details are derived, completes his portrayal of Chopin by some characteristic touches. The timbre of his voice, he says, was subdued and often muffled; and his movements had such a distinction and his manners such an impress of good society that one treated him unconsciously like a prince. His whole appearance made one think of that of the convolvuli, which on incredibly slender stems balance divinely-coloured chalices of such vapourous tissue that the slightest touch destroys them.

And whilst Liszt attributes to Chopin all sorts of feminine graces and beauties, he speaks of George Sand as an Amazon, a femme-heros, who is not afraid to expose her masculine countenance to all suns and winds. Merimee says of George Sand that he has known her "maigre comme un clou et noire comme une taupe." Musset, after their first meeting, describes her, to whom he at a subsequent period alludes as femme a l'oeil sombre, thus:—

She is very beautiful; she is the kind of woman I like—brown,
pale, dull-complexioned with reflections as of bronze, and
strikingly large-eyed like an Indian. I have never been able
to contemplate such a countenance without inward emotion. Her
physiognomy is rather torpid, but when it becomes animated it
assumes a remarkably independent and proud expression.

The most complete literary portrayal of George Sand that has been handed down to us, however, is by Heine. He represents her as Chopin knew her, for although he published the portrait as late as 1854 he did not represent her as she then looked; indeed, at that time he had probably no intercourse with her, and therefore was obliged to draw from memory. The truthfulness of Heine's delineation is testified by the approval of many who knew George Sand, and also by Couture's portrait of her:—

George Sand, the great writer, is at the same time a beautiful
woman. She is even a distinguished beauty. Like the genius
which manifests itself in her works, her face is rather to be
called beautiful than interesting. The interesting is always a
graceful or ingenious deviation from the type of the
beautiful, and the features of George Sand bear rather the
impress of a Greek regularity. Their form, however, is not
hard, but softened by the sentimentality which is suffused
over them like a veil of sorrow. The forehead is not high, and
the delicious chestnut-brown curly hair falls parted down to
the shoulders. Her eyes are somewhat dim, at least they are
not bright, and their fire may have been extinguished by many
tears, or may have passed into her works, which have spread
their flaming brands over the whole world, illumined many a
comfortless prison, but perhaps also fatally set on fire many
a temple of innocence. The authoress of "Lelia" has quiet,
soft eyes, which remind one neither of Sodom nor of Gomorrah.
She has neither an emancipated aquiline nose nor a witty
little snub nose. It is just an ordinary straight nose. A good-
natured smile plays usually around her mouth, but it is not
very attractive; the somewhat hanging under-lip betrays
fatigued sensuality. The chin is full and plump, but
nevertheless beautifully proportioned. Also her shoulders are
beautiful, nay, magnificent. Likewise her arms and hands,
which, like her feet, are small. Let other contemporaries
describe the charms of her bosom, I confess my incompetence.
The rest of her bodily frame seems to be somewhat too stout,
at least too short. Only her head bears the impress of
ideality; it reminds one of the noblest remains of Greek art,
and in this respect one of our friends could compare the
beautiful woman to the marble statue of the Venus of Milo,
which stands in one of the lower rooms of the Louvre. Yes, she
is as beautiful as the Venus of Milo; she even surpasses the
latter in many respects: she is, for instance, very much
younger. The physiognomists who maintain that the voice of man
reveals his character most unmistakably would be much at a
loss if they were called upon to detect George Sand's
extraordinary depth of feeling [Innigkeit] in her voice. The
latter is dull and faded, without sonority, but soft and
agreeable. The naturalness of her speaking lends it some
charm. Of vocal talent she exhibits not a trace! George Sand
sings at best with the bravura of a beautiful grisette who has
not yet breakfasted or happens not to be in good voice. The
organ of George Sand has as little brilliancy as what she
says. She has nothing whatever of the sparkling esprit of her
countrywomen, but also nothing of their talkativeness. The
cause of this taciturnity, however, is neither modesty nor
sympathetic absorption in the discourse of another. She is
taciturn rather from haughtiness, because she does not think
you worth squandering her cleverness [Geist] upon, or even
from selfishness, because she endeavours to absorb the best of
your discourse in order to work it up afterwards in her works.
That out of avarice George Sand knows how never to give
anything and always to take something in conversation, is a
trait to which Alfred de Musset drew my attention. "This gives
her a great advantage over us," said Musset, who, as he had
for many years occupied the post of cavaliere servente to the
lady, had had the best opportunity to learn to know her
thoroughly. George Sand never says anything witty; she is
indeed one of the most unwitty Frenchwomen I know.