Chopin was a Pole. He had the melancholy of his race, but also its verve. Profoundly affected by his country’s sorrow, he also had its haughty spirit. In Paris, where he spent the most significant years of his life, he was surrounded by the aristocracy of his own country who were in exile, and by the aristocracy of the arts. Liszt speaks of an evening at his salon where he met, besides some of the Polish aristocrats, people like Heinrich Heine, Meyerbeer, Delacroix, Nourrit, 120 the tenor, and Bellini. Chopin admired Bellini’s music, its clear and beautiful melodiousness, and I myself think that Chopin’s melody often has Italian characteristics, although it is combined with harmony that is German in its seriousness, but wholly Chopinesque in all its essentials. In those numerous groups of ornamental, or rather semi-ornamental, notes, so many of them chromatic, and all of them usually designated by the technical term “passing notes,” signifying that they are merely incidental to the melody and to the harmonic structure, there are nevertheless many that have far greater importance than if they were merely “passing.” It is in bringing out this significance by slight accelerations and retards, by allowing a few of them to flash out here while the others remain slightly veiled, that the inspired Chopin player shows his true conception of what the composer meant by tempo rubato.
It was Liszt, afterward the first to recognize Wagner, who was the first to recognize Chopin. It was Liszt also who introduced him to George Sand (Mme. Dudevant), the great passion of his life. Chopin was the friend of many women. They adored his poetic nature, and there is much in his music that is effeminate, delicate and sensitive; but altogether too much has been made of this side of his art, and of certain morbid pieces like some of the Nocturnes. The affair with George Sand was not only a passion, but was a tragedy, and like all such tragedies it left on his music the imprint of something deeper and greater than mere delicacy and morbidity. Then, too, we have to count with his patriotism and his sympathy with his struggling 121 country, and there is much more of the virile and heroic in his music than either the average virtuoso or the average listener allows for.
The Études.
These contrasts in his music can readily be recognized when a great pianist makes up the Chopin group on his program from the Études, which are among the greatest compositions of all times, whether we consider them as pianoforte music or as music in general. They touch the soul in many places, and in many and varied ways, and they reflect the alternate delicacy and daintiness of his genius as well as its vigor and nobility. Suppose, for the sake of a brilliant beginning, the virtuoso chooses to start off with the fifth, the so-called “Étude on Black Keys,” and flashes it in our eyes, making the pianoforte play the part of a mirror held in the sunlight. This gives us one side of Chopin’s music, its brilliancy; and it is noticeable that while the tempo of the piece is given as vivace, the style in which it is to be played is indicated by the direction brillante.
If the pianist continues with the third Étude, we shall hear one of the most tender and beautiful melodies that Chopin ever composed. Let him follow this with number thirteen, the one in A flat major, and we are reminded of what Schumann said, in his review of this book of Études, in which he speaks of the A flat major as “an æolian harp, possessed of all the musical scales, the hand of the artist causing them all to intermingle in many varieties of fantastic embellishment, 122 yet in such a way as to leave everywhere audible a deep fundamental tone and a soft continuously singing upper voice.”
Schumann heard Chopin himself play this Étude, and he says that whoever will play it in the way described will get the correct idea of Chopin’s performance. “But it would be an error to think that Chopin permitted every one of the small notes to be distinctly heard. It was rather an undulation of the A flat major chord here and there thrown aloft anew by the pedal. Throughout all the harmonies one always heard in great tones a wondrous melody, while once only in the middle of the piece, besides that chief song, a tenor voice became prominent in the midst of the chords. After the Étude, a feeling came over one as of having seen in a dream a beatific picture which, when half awake, one would gladly recall.”
Vigor, Passion, and Impetus.
If now the pianist wishes to show by contrast Chopin in his full vigor, passionate and impetuous, let him take the great C Minor Étude, the twelfth, Allegro con fuoco. “Great in outline, pride, force and velocity, it never relaxes its grim grip from the first shrill dissonance to the overwhelming chordal close,” says Huneker, adding that “this end rings out like the crack of creation.” It is supposed to be an expression of the alternating wrath and despair with which Chopin received the tidings of the taking of Warsaw by the Russians in September, 1831, for it was shortly after this that the Étude was composed. No wonder, to 123 quote again from Huneker, that “all sweeps along in tornadic passion.”
A pianist hardly can go amiss in making his selection from the twenty-seven Études, for the contrasts which he can effect are obvious, and there is among these compositions not one which has not its special merits. There is the tenth, of which Von Bülow said whoever could play it in a really finished manner might congratulate himself on having climbed to the highest point of the pianist’s Parnassus, and that the whole repertory of music for the pianoforte does not contain a study of perpetual motion so full of genius and fancy as this especial one is universally acknowledged to be, excepting, possibly, Liszt’s “Feux Follets.” Then there is number nineteen in C sharp minor, like a nocturne with the melody in the left hand, with the right hand answering as a flute would a ’cello. For contrast take number twenty-one, the so-called “Butterfly Étude”—a wretched misnomer, because a pianist gifted with true musical clairvoyance can work up such a gust of passion in this Étude that any butterfly would be swept away as if by a hurricane. Nor, in order to accomplish this, is it necessary to make such a bravura piece of the Étude as so many pianists ignorantly do. We have, too, the “Winter Wind Étude,” in A minor, Opus 25, number eleven—the twenty-third in the collection as usually published—planned on a grand scale and carried out in a manner equal to the plan.
Von Bülow calls attention to the fact that, with all its sonorousness, “the greatest fullness of sound imaginable,” it nowhere trespasses upon the domain of 124 the orchestra, but remains pianoforte music in the strictest sense of the word. “To Chopin,” says Von Bülow, in referring to this Étude, “is due the honor and credit of having set fast the boundary between piano and orchestral music which, through other composers of the romantic school, especially Robert Schumann, has been defaced and blotted out, to the prejudice and damage of both species.” While agreeing with Von Bülow that Chopin was the great liberator of the pianoforte, I cannot agree with the exception he takes to the music of Robert Schumann. If he had referred back to the unpianistic classical sonata form, he would have been more accurate.