Poe ever professed in daily life, whatever he may have practised, the highest reverence for “das ewig Weibliche” and not less so Chopin, who was fastidious and a very stickler for the more minute proprieties of life. Am I far fetched in my simile when I compare the natures of Poe and Chopin! Take the latter’s preludes for example, tiny poems, and parallel them to such verse of Poe’s as the Haunted Palace, Eulalie, Annabel Lee, Eldorado, The Conquered Worm or that incomparable bit, Israfel:
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
Whose heart-strings are a lute
None sing so wildly well
As the Angel Israfel.
Poe’s haunting melodies, his music for music’s sake, often remind us of Chopin. The euphonious, the well sounding, the wohlklang, was carried almost beyond the pitch of endurance, by both artists. They had however some quality of self-restraint as well as the vices of their virtues; we may no longer mention The Raven or The Bells with equanimity, nor can we endure listening to the E flat nocturne or the D flat valse. In the latter case repetition has dulled the ears for enjoyment; in the former case the obvious artificiality of both poems, despite their many happy conceits, jars on the spiritual ear. The bulk of Chopin’s work is about comparable to Poe’s. Neither man was a copious producer and both carried the idea of perfection to insanity’s border. Both have left scores of imitators but in Poe’s case a veritable school has been founded; in Chopin’s the imitations have been feeble and sterile.
Following Poe we have unquestionably Algernon Charles Swinburne, who is doubly a reflection of Poe, for he absorbed Poe’s alliterative system, and from Charles Baudelaire his mysticism, plus Baudelaire’s malificence, to which compound he added the familiar Swinburnian eroticism. Tennyson and Elizabeth Barrett-Browning felt Poe’s influence, if but briefly, while in France and Belgium he has produced a brood of followers beginning with the rank crudities of Gaboriau, in his detective stories, modelled after The Murder in the Rue Morgue; the Belgian Maeterlinck, who juggles with Poe’s motives of fear and death, Baudelaire, a French Poe with an abnormal flavor of Parisian depravity super-added and latterly that curious group, the decadents, headed by Verlaine, and Stephen Mallarmé. Poe has made his influence felt in England too, notably upon James Thomson, the poet of The City of Dreadful Night and in Ireland, in the sadly sympathetic figure of James Clarence Mangan. Of Chopin’s indirect influence on the musical world I would not care to dilate fearing you would accuse me of exaggeration. Liszt would not have been a composer—at least for the piano, if he had not nested in Chopin’s brain. As I said before, I certainly believe that Wagner profited greatly by Chopin’s discoveries in chromatic harmonies, discoveries without which modern music would yet be in diatonic swaddling clothes.
On one point Poe and Chopin were as dissimilar as the poles; the point of nationality. Poe wrote in the English tongue but beyond that he was no more American than he was English. His milieu was unsympathetic, and he refused to be assimilated by it. His verse and his prose depict character and situations that belong to no man’s land—to that region East of the moon and West of the sun. In his Eldorado he poetically locates the country wherein his soul dramas occur. Thus he sings:
“Over the mountains
Of the moon
Down the valley of the shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,”
The shade replied,
“If you seek for Eldorado.”
His creations are mostly bodiless and his verse suggests the most subtile imagery. Shadow of shadows, his prose possesses the same spectral quality. Have you read those two perfect pastels—Silence and Shadow? If not, you know not the genius of Edgar Allan Poe. Chopin is more human than Poe, inasmuch as he is patriotic. His polonaises are, as Schumann said, “cannons buried in flowers.” He is Chopin and he is also Poland though Poland is by no means Chopin. In his polonaises, in his mazourkas, the indefinable Polish Zãl lurks, a drowsy perfume. Chopin struck many human chords; some of his melodies belong to that Poe-like region wherein beauty incarnate reigns and is worshipped for itself. This then is the great dissimilarity between the artist in tone and the artist in words. Poe had no country; Chopin had Poland. If Chopin’s heart had been exposed “Poland” might have been found blazoned upon it.
But, if Poe lacked political passion he had the passion for the beautiful. Both men resembled one another strangely, in their intensity of expression. Both had the power of expressing the weird, the terrific, and Chopin in his scherzi, thunders from heights that Poe failed to scale. The ethical motif was, curiously enough, absent in both and both despised the “heresy of instruction.” Art for art’s sake, beauty for beauty’s sake alone, was their shibboleth.
Will the music of Chopin ever age? Louis Ehlert thinks that music ages rapidly like the beauty of Southern women, and Baudelaire says, “Nothing here below is certain, no building on strong hearts, both love and beauty go.” An English critic, Mr. Vernon Blackburn, puts the case plainly: “I do not merely and baldly mean,” he writes, “that an artistic production, like man, like the flowers, like the sun, grows older as the years go; I mean that those years do actually steal from it an absolute quality which it once possessed.”
Much of the early Chopin has become faded, but the greater Chopin, like Bach and Beethoven, will last as long as the voice of the piano is heard throughout the land.