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.