ONE of the most mysterious and poetic appearances in the history of music is that of Frédéric Francois Chopin, born on the 22d of February, 1810, in the village of Zelazowa-Wola, Poland. How explain the haunting perfume, the astonishing perfection of his art? It seems like an improvisation, until you examine it and find under the surface a structure, delicate but logical, and durable as tempered steel. It is difficult to believe it was made by the hand of man. Other composers show you how they worked. You hear them laboring mightily at the forge. You observe where edges, rough-hewn, were joined together. Chopin, apparently without an effort, achieves a masterpiece. He seems to stand a little aloof from his brethren, as might a favored being from another world.
The father of Chopin was French professor at the University of Warsaw. His mother was a Pole. Frédéric grew up a delicate child, whose morbid sensitiveness to impressions was tempered by the society of charming sisters, the frequent presence at his home of many of the most interesting people of his district, and by the nature about him. His talent was manifested very early and he had to beware of the hallucinations which music frequently caused him visions, sometimes beautiful, at others terrible and painfully distinct. He often frightened the servants at night-time by jumping up in his room at the top of the house, going to the piano, and noting down ideas which he was afraid of forgetting if he waited till the morrow. He began to compose before he knew enough of the art to write out the ideas that came to him, and his teacher, Zwyny, an excellent pedagogue who gave Chopin his first lessons when he was about seven years old, had to take down his improvisations for him. Chopin commenced the study of composition with Ellsner, who called himself, in a letter written his pupil in 1834, "your teacher of harmony and counterpoint, of little merit but fortunate." Liszt put it happily when he said that Chopin's teachers taught him those things which are most difficult and valuable to learn "to be exacting with one's self and to feel the advantages that are only obtained by dint of patience and labor."
It is interesting to consider the manner in which Chopin displayed his remarkable originality in his music. Other composers explored unknown paths. He kept almost entirely to forms already fixed, particularly dance forms, such as the polonaise and the mazurka, and within their limits did entirely new things. It was as if a jeweler should put a different jewel in an old setting. The waltzes are not dances for the ballroom, but the emotions of the waltz, the waltz spiritualized. The one in E flat, with its brilliant opening, its gaiety and caprice, its sentimental dialogues, is surely a ballroom scene. The conclusion is very poetic, when the initial melody is heard once more, as in a dream.
" Valse Brillante," Op. 34, No. 1
Played by Xaver Scharwenka
Columbia Record A 5260
The waltz in G flat, published after Chopin died, is distinguished by grace and elegance rather than deep feeling.
Waltz in G Flat
Played by Leopold Godowsky
Columbia Record A 5597
Greatest of all the waltzes is the one in A flat major, Op. 42. Again in the glitter and whirl of the opening is the thought of a brilliant throng. It is a very piquant passage. Later the waltz becomes more melancholy in mood and more personal in sentiment. Measures of strong feeling alternate with those which convey the swing of the dance. Now occurs a simple but very strange effect. The waltz suddenly stops, there is a phrase, laconic, unemotional, but arresting because of its very lack of expression a passage of six notes, played "in octave" without harmony to support the theme, which appears for a moment like a ghost in the midst of the festivity. Indeed, this curious moment, no sooner come than it is gone, has always reminded the writer of the fantastical tale of Edgar Allan Poe, "The Mask of the Red Death," in which, at midnight, the Red Death suddenly confronts a mot-ley gathering of revelers, who flee from his presence in dismay; and so, in this waltz, the effect just referred to is followed by a wild conclusion in which the music crashes recklessly to its end.
Waltz in A Flat, Op. 42
Played by Leopold Godowsky Columbia Record A 5791
Played by Percy Grainger Columbia Record A 6027
The poetic style of Chopin is most gracefully displayed in these waltzes, and in the nocturnes, which express the dreamy side of his genius. The nocturne in E flat is in the manner of a serenade, a simple melody, ornamented profusely with varieties of delicate arabesques which are woven about the principal theme. Nothing is more indicative of the manner in which Chopin turned everything that he touched to gold than a consideration of these musical ornamentations which have a refinement, an originality, a poetry, that no other composer achieved in the same way. Further-more, this melodic style of Chopin's, this manner of singing on the piano as though some brilliant coloratura soprano with the soul of a poet were improvising, as no human throat ever could improvise, was undoubtedly derived from the music of the old Italian school. No wonder that Chopin so loved the music of Bellini.
Nocturne in E Flat
Played by Kathleen Parlow, violinist
Columbia Record A 5431
A Chopin nocturne which is peculiarly well adapted for performance on the violin indeed, one of the very few compositions of Chopin which sound well on any instrument other than the piano is the nocturne in E minor, published after his death, and one of the most poetic of all his. works in this form.
Nocturne in E Minor Played by Eddy Brown Columbia Record A 5810
Chopin, more particularly when he played the nocturnes, was what some robust souls would call a "delicate" performer. He persuaded rather than commanded the instrument. He drew from it secrets which no one else had realized it possessed. His system of fingering was so original that, like the majority of his innovations, it greatly annoyed his contemporaries. Without this fingering the performance of a piece such as the exquisite "Berceuse" (cradle-song) would be an impossibility. The "Berceuse" is the treatment by an inspired master of a very simple melody of a few notes, accompanied by a bass which is practically unchanging throughout the entire piece. Over the gentle rocking motion of this bass is woven a series of variations of extraordinary originality and charm, until the theme is buried, as it were, under beautiful tonal ornamentation. Slower and slower rocks the cradle, and the child sleeps.
" Berceuse "
Played by Leopold Godowsky
Columbia Record A 5597
Let no one think, however, because Chopin lacked physical strength, and explored confidently the realms that lie on the borderland of the human consciousness, that he was incapable of dramatic intensity and epic greatness of utterance. The body was weak, but the spirit was strong, and the composer dipped his pen in his heart's blood. So it was when Chopin, who in 1830 settled in Paris, received the news of Poland's downfall at the hands of treacherous foes. The stricken man vacillated miserably between the impulse to take a musket and the consciousness of his physical inability for warfare. The time for action soon passed. Poland was ruined; her poet and prophet was saved. In the polonaises, the great B minor sonata, and kindred compositions, he chanted her fame.
The A major, or "Military Polonaise," is a picture of the pomp and panoply, the gallantry and heroism of a chivalrous people going forth to war.
A Major Polonaise
Played by Josef Hofmann Columbia Record A 5419
Played by Columbia Symphony Orchestra Columbia Record A 5997
On a grander scale is the polonaise in A fiat major. This is in itself a complete drama of war. It opens with crashing chords and defiant challenges, after which the polonaise proper enters with a lordly swing. The middle portion is a moment in which Chopin draws him-self up to his full height as a patriot, where, inspired, he smites the lyre like a bard of old chanting the glories of his native land. Six mighty chords, the invocation of the heroic past, and the tale begins. The left hand, playing octaves, suggests the tread of armed legions springing from the earth at Poland's call. This effect is repeated and is followed by a passage in which some have found a mood of indecision, hesitation. If this is so, it quickly passes. Little by little, the rhythm of the polonaise gathers force and fury, and the work comes to an end in a mood of passionate defiance. It is said that Chopin, composing this heroic music, was terrified by the vision of a procession of knights and warriors advancing upon him.
Polonaise in A Flat Major Played by Percy Grainger Columbia Record A 6027
It is from the testimony of his friends and commentators rather than from the composer that we know what he intended to say when he wrote the B flat minor sonata, which contains the great "Funeral March." This sonata is really an elegy on Poland's downfall at the hands of her enemies. The "Funeral March" needs no description. It has been heard at a thousand ceremonies for the dead, on a thousand occasions when the fate not only of men, but of nations, hung in the balance.
" Funeral March " from B Flat Minor Sonata
Played by Prince's Band
Columbia Record A 5150
In 1836 Chopin was introduced to the novelist George Sand—some say, by Liszt. She was a theorist before her time, an extravagant and romantic writer who rode horseback astride, at times wore trousers, and even smoked cigars, which used to disgust Chopin to the bottom of his soul. She was not accounted an exceptionally beautiful woman, but she had an arresting personality and almost masculine assertiveness. At her house were such men as the poet Musset, one of her many admirers, the artist Delacroix, the poet Heine, Balzac, Gautier, the Goncourt brothers, the great Liszt, and other lesser figures of a feverish artistic epoch. George Sand, the indefatigable, often wrote her affairs into her novels. Chopin was fascinated. There were times when he turned away in despair; but back he came. In the summer of 1838 he was ill, and George Sand, who was going with her family to the island of Majorca, suggested that Chopin accompany them. He knew a few moments of happiness on an island that was full of flowers, under a blue sky, with a thermometer at 74. Unfortunately, the thermometer changed. When the skies grew gray, and the temperature was 36, and the wind howled at night in a dismal and terrifying manner, and the plaster gave way in the walls, it was Chopin who shivered and complained, and George Sand and her son who built the fires, which smoked.
Chopin's cough troubled him and he again saw strange visions. In this place he wrote some of his most dramatic and imaginative compositions. Among them were the greater number of the short pieces which he called "preludes." George Sand said that in these pieces Chopin compressed into a page more feeling than many a composer succeeded in putting into an act of an opera. One can imagine what one likes as the preludes are being played. The one in A flat is idyllic, a dream-picture of a far-off, wondrous land. It might be a memory of Majorca with its glowing skies and gorgeous flowers. At the last a deep bass tone reverberates through upper harmonies that seem suspended in mid-air. Perhaps Chopin, contemplating a peaceful scene, heard the ringing of the bell of a nearby convent.
Prelude in A Flat
Played by Percy Grainger
Columbia Record A 6060
The scherzi are among the most powerful and fantastic of Chopin's compositions. The scherzo in B flat minor is one of the most frequently one might say too frequently played of the four pieces in this form, yet it seems strangely misunderstood by audiences and even by many concert pianists; for it is anything but a gay and brilliant concert piece, as many performers seem to think. The music is possessed of a restless, driving energy, an inner demon of discontent, which will not allow it to rest. The opening is volcanic; a short motive of four notes is answered by a cry of_ anger in the upper register of the piano. There are beautiful melodies, but their sweetness is poison. A quieter middle portion reminds one of the boudoir of the unhappy Lady of the Camellias. The end is choleric in its rage.
Scherzo in B Flat Minor (Parts I and II) Played by Arthur Friedheim Columbia Record A 5458
Let us consider the conclusion of Chopin's career. It was marked by increasing artistic mastery and increasing bitterness with life. The visit to Majorca with Madame Sand was not, as we have seen, over-successful. Chopin was not the man to exalt love in a cottage. If he had one supreme weakness, it was not his desire, but his actual need, of luxury. In discomfort he could not exist, much less compose. Both he and George Sand were happier when they found themselves back in Paris. Relations became strained between the two, and in 1844 there were mutual reproaches and they parted. George Sand promptly "wrote up" Chopin as the Prince Karol in her novel, Lucrezia Florian. She dissected him as she had previously dissected the disillusioned De Musset. Chopin never spoke to Madame Sand again, though they had mutually sworn that he should die only in her arms. "Dying! He was dying all his life!" said the impetuous Hector Berlioz, who could not tolerate the melancholy Chopin.
In 1848 and 1849 he visited England and Scotland, attended devotedly by an English girl who had come to love him. A characteristic picture of him is drawn by an eye-witness, who watched the little man (this under-size was his most sensitive point) as he moved about from group to group of charming, chattering women, consulting occasionally a tiny jeweled watch as exquisitely fashioned as himself.
He had wavy hair of a chestnut color, delicately penciled eyebrows, a nose with a distinguished crook, a sensitive mouth. He was always attired with scrupulous respect to the prevailing mode. His hands and feet were small and perfectly formed. He was the incarnation of that which was poetical and distinguished. This was Frédéric François Chopin.
The following year he died of lung disease. He died surrounded by friends, pupils, and one or two women who loved him, among whom was not George Sand. Of her he complained to the last hour. So passed the supreme poet of the piano. "Poets," said Percy Bysshe Shelley, "are the unacknowledged legislators of the world."
