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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/76904-0.txt b/76904-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d939ad9 --- /dev/null +++ b/76904-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7638 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76904 *** + + + [Illustration: CHOPIN. From a Drawing by George Sand.] + + + + + FREDERICK CHOPIN: + A MAN OF SOLITUDE + + _By_ + GUY DE POURTALÈS + + _Translated from the French by_ + CHARLES BAYLY, JR. + + + THORNTON BUTTERWORTH LIMITED + 15 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C.2 + + + + + _First published . . . 1927_ + + + _All rights reserved_ + MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN + + + + + _“He used his art only to play + to himself his own tragedy.”_ + Liszt. + + + + + DEDICATION + + +When I suggested the example of Liszt to a soul stricken but still +capable of enthusiasm, I thought also of offering him this story +of Chopin. Not that this latter should serve to discount whatever +slight exuberance there might be in the former. On the contrary: they +complement and complete each other, and show, the one concave and the +other convex, the twofold visage of that symbolic being whom we call +the artist. Or, the sensitive man, the cognizant—he, in short, whom we +envy. + +One of these masks portrays glory and passion: the other, sorrow and +loneliness. + +I quite realize the romantic sound of these four words in an age when +they are so out-moded. But if I agree that in our time every thing +possible has been tried, indeed, to eliminate from our orchestra those +harps, those tremolos, those rubatos, those great billows of harmony +that transported three admiring generations with the struggles between +heaven and hell, it is nevertheless necessary only to open a newspaper +at the section on the courts of law, to gaze into the show windows of +the picture dealers, or to hear a saxophone, to convince myself that +the themes of the human legend have in no degree changed. The rhythm, +the harmonies, are different, but our responsive vibrations are just +the same as they were in the most guileless epochs. + +The real disaccord between our parents and us is that the ugly—or what +they called the ugly—has been incorporated to-day in the beautiful—or +what we call the beautiful. In other words, there are to-day no such +things as beauty and ugliness, harmony and discord, there is no longer +any æsthetic prohibition. As one of our sages, Paul Valéry, has +written: “I see the modern man as a man with an idea of himself and of +the world that is no longer fixed.... It has become impossible for him +to be a man of a single viewpoint, to hold, really, to one language, +to one nation, to one faith, to one physical type.” Let us add: to one +music. + +Thanks to the rigorous method of science, it has become easy to believe +everything, or nothing. To love everyone, or no one. But do we gain +other than in childishness and dotage? I question whether this new +abundance enriches us more than their apparent poverty fertilized our +fathers. This mass of sensations and perceptions has not increased our +lucidity any more than the steam siren and the typewriter have added +new notes to our scale. And yet we should hardly consent to the loss of +one of these recent contributions. + +But if a very ironic, very cynical jazz enchants me, it in no way +removes the pleasure I feel in hearing Chopin. I should be sorry not +to be able to savour two such different forms of modern sadness, the +one born in New Orleans and the other in a Warsaw garret. To pursue +still further the little problem which the two parallel existences of +Liszt and Chopin pose for our reflection, let us say that on certain +days we are more apt for action, for youth, for expenditure in any +form; on other days for reserve, for shrinking, for incertitude, for +concentration, and—even though the word has lost its beauty—for mystery. + +The life of Liszt is an open book. He wrote it everywhere in ink and +in adventure. Of the life of Chopin almost nothing remains. His nature +protected him from needless experiences, and fate furthermore decreed +that a great many of his letters and relics should be burned in a +house in which his sister lived at Warsaw in 1863. We can discover him +therefore only in his music, in a few scraps of correspondence, and in +the memories of his friends. Meanwhile, his life was always so simple +and so logical that a slight commentary is necessary to understand +it, as an _appoggiatura_ enhances the value of a note. Save for two +or three journeys, the outside world had little chance to penetrate +this imagination that ever turned inward. Its poetry lies in whatever +qualities of possibility and of song that were added to the illusions +of his days. Badly served in love, in friendship, in everything that +demanded blindness or excessive pedal, this clear-sighted sufferer saw +himself in only one mirror: the ebony of his piano. “Piano, marvellous +instrument,” he said. Naturally, since the piano is an orchestra in +itself. But it is something more: it is an instrument. Hence a soul. +It was the only one Chopin ever knew; and he made his piano his only +legatee. + +If Liszt has given you the daring to seize the joys of the moment and a +little confidence in yourself, Chopin can become not less a brotherly +companion. His life is that of your anxious shadow. His music is +perhaps nothing but the risen song of your inner loneliness. + +All art is rich above all in the measure of what you yourself bring +to it. Every soul possesses you in the measure of the effort you make +to receive it. Welcome this one as the purest expression, for which +there are no words, of what there is in love that must remain for ever +inexpressible. + + G. de P. + + + + + CONTENTS + + + CHAP. PAGE + + I “An angel, fair of face as a tall, sad woman” 17 + + II The Childhood of Chopin 20 + + III The Birth of the Poet 25 + + IV “Sorrow” and “Ideal” 30 + + V Revolution at Warsaw and Solitude at Vienna 43 + + VI “I doubt whether there is a city on Earth where more + pianists are to be found than in Paris” 55 + + VII Happy Years, Working Years 67 + + VIII Marie Wodzinska and the Dusk 76 + + IX First Sketch of George Sand 94 + + X Letters of Two Novelists 103 + + XI The Chartreuse of Valdemosa 127 + + XII “If music be the food of love, play on” 144 + + XIII On some Friendships of Chopin, and on his Æsthetics 159 + + XIV Misunderstandings, Loneliness 177 + + XV Chagrin, Hate 192 + + XVI The Story of an Estrangement 205 + + XVII Swan Song 228 + + XVIII “The Cypresses have their caprices” 247 + + XIX The Death of Chopin 251 + + XX An Epitaph for a Poet 257 + + Sources 263 + + Index 267 + + + + + CHAPTER I + + “An angel, fair of face as a tall, sad woman” + + +“An angel, fair of face as a tall, sad woman...” This portrait of +Chopin, penned by a hand he loved, should stand as the frontispiece of +this study. Naïve painters in the Middle Ages—who also came to pray for +pardon—hung their expiatory offerings in the shadows of the cathedrals. +This once caressing woman’s hand, now dead, surely yielded, while +writing these words, to the inner necessity of knowing absolution. It +added: “There was never anything more pure and at the same time more +exalted than his thoughts...” + +And perhaps with faint trembling: “... but this being only understood +that which was inherent within himself. One would have needed a +microscope to peer into his soul, where so little light of the living +ever penetrated.” + +A microscope has never helped to reveal a soul. No optical instruments +are necessary in order to follow the teaching of Liszt: let us try to +see with our hearts. + + * * * * * + +At the head of these pages must stand a name; because that name +breathes life into the whole being of whom we write: Poland. Ever +since 1795 that unhappy country had been completely dismembered, until +Napoleon, that great poet of geography, after his first campaign in +Prussia, created the Duchy of Warsaw (1807). This was to last until the +fall of the Emperor, that is, barely eight years. Yet these eight years +were sufficient to endow the Poles with a singularly youthful hero +worship for France. + +Now in 1806, a certain M. Nicolas Chopin, professor of French, +entrusted with the education of the son of the Countess Skarbek, +married in the village of Zelazowa Wola, six leagues from Warsaw, +a Mlle. Justine Krzyzanowska. He was of French origin, a native of +Marainville, a small village near the Hill of Sion, in the heart of +Lorraine, the history of which is so curiously interwoven with that of +Poland. The fiancée of this one-time clerk who had become a teacher +was a girl of twenty-four, of an impoverished noble family. In the +household of the Countess she held, as did others of rank, the position +of attendant and lady-in-waiting, according to the tradition of such +proud, poor seigneurs. + +Close to the seigneurial dwelling, which was screened by a group of +trees, stood a small house flanked by an outside staircase. Right +through it ran a passage, at the end of which could be seen the court, +the stables, and, at a distance, the fields of alfalfa and of colza. +Here the young couple settled down. At the right of the entrance were +three low rooms where one could touch the ceiling. After a time a +girl was born, and was named Louise. This obscure event was rapidly +succeeded by the French campaign in Prussia—Tilsit, Austerlitz, Jéna, +Wagram, and the Polish eagles flying in the train of the Imperial +eagles. Haydn died while the cannon of Napoleon were thundering for +the second time under the walls of Vienna. When four shells had fallen +close to him, the old composer said to his terrified servants, “Why +this panic? Remember that wherever Haydn is no accident can happen.” +Stendhal, a commissioner in the army, was present at his obsequies. He +afterwards made the following note: “Why is it that all Frenchmen who +are really great in literature—La Fontaine, Corneille, Molière, Racine, +Bossuet—should have met together about 1660? Why should all the great +painters have appeared about 1510? Why, since these two happy periods, +has nature been so sparing? Will music have the same fate?” + +Yet Beethoven at that date was writing the _Quatuor serioso_ and +the sonata in E flat major, which is called _The Farewells_. He +had already composed six of his symphonies, the _Kreutzer Sonata_, +the _Appassionata_, and _Fidélio_. Liszt, Schumann and Wagner were +approaching. Goethe was flourishing; Byron was publishing his first +verses. Shelley and Keats were outlining theirs. Balzac, Hugo, Berlioz +were warming the school benches. And on the 22nd of February, 1810, at +six o’clock in the evening, in the little house in Zelazowa Wola, was +born Frederick François Chopin. + +He came into a world of music. For exactly at that moment, under the +windows of his mother, rustic violins were giving a serenade for a +village wedding. + + + + + CHAPTER II + + The Childhood of Chopin + + +On the first of October of that same year, Nicolas Chopin was made +professor of French at the Warsaw High School, and the whole family +moved to the capital. They were immediately absorbed into the urban +life and never returned to the country. Warsaw was indeed a fertile +soil where one quickly took root among its Italian palaces and its +wooden huts. Its swarming population mingled Asiatic pomp with the +filth of Esquimaux. Here were to be met the bearded Jew, the nun, the +young girl in a silken cloak, and the mustachioed Pole, in caftan, with +belt, sword, and high red boots. + +M. Chopin bestirred himself to increase his income, because his family +had grown. After Louise and Frederick, Isabelle and then Emilie +were born. In 1812 he became professor at the School of Artillery +and Engineers and in 1815 obtained the same post in the Preparatory +Military Academy. Finally he turned his own home into a small +boarding-school for the children of the rich. + +It is not difficult to imagine the surroundings, the manners, and +the customs among which Frederick grew up in this united and busy +household. A somewhat rigid modesty and the domestic virtues of the +family protected him from rough contacts with reality. It was thus, +said Liszt, that “his imagination took on the velvety texture of plants +which are never exposed to the dust of the highways.” + +Here, then, was a child, very gentle, very pale, sprightly, with the +sensibilities of a little girl, and dominated by two passions: his +love for his mother and his love for the piano. He had been placed +before the keyboard at a very early age and had returned to it of his +own accord, drawn by the keys. Music drew tears and cries from him. It +became at once a necessary evil. He was also very fond of his sisters, +and chose four friends among his father’s pupils: Fontana, Titus +Woyciechowski, and the Wodzinski brothers. + +To celebrate his eighth birthday, he played at the benefit of the poet, +Niemcewicz. He had been dressed in the English fashion, with a velvet +coat and a large turn-over collar. And when his mother, afterwards, +questioned him about his success, asking what the audience had liked +best, he replied with pride, “My collar.” + +The Polish aristocracy, and even the Grand Duke Constantin himself, the +Governor of Warsaw, became interested in the child. He was commanded to +appear before this redoubtable prince—and played for him a march of his +own composition. + +“Child,” asked the brother of the Tsar, “why do you always look +upwards?” + +But is it not heavenward that poets look? Chopin was “neither an +intellectual prodigy nor a little thinking animal,” writes one of +his biographers, “but a simple, modest child who played the piano as +naturally as the birds sing....” + +He had teachers. First Zywny, a venerable gentleman of over sixty, a +native of Bohemia, a violinist and a good teacher. He was absorbed in +the cult of Bach, a passion which he instilled in his pupil; and the +depth of such childish enthusiasms is well known. Then, in 1824, at the +time when Frederick was sent to college, his father replaced Zywny by +Elsner, a Silesian professor who taught him harmony and composition. +Without being a very famous musician, Elsner was something of a +personage, a composer of operas, symphonies, masses, and a Director +of the Conservatory. He had the virtue of never suppressing Chopin’s +personal gifts: “Let him alone,” he said. “If he leaves the main +road and the traditional methods, it is because he has his own ways, +and some day his work will show an originality that no one possesses +to-day. He follows a unique path because his gifts are unique.” + +One can applaud this happy prophet. Elsner was a retiring man. He +lived in two cells in an old monastery in the rue des Jésuites. His +pupils saluted him on the right shoulder, according to the Polish +fashion, and he responded by a kiss on each cheek. In his annual report +to the Conservatory he writes: “Chopin, Frederick (3rd year pupil), +astonishing capability, musical genius.” + +Chopin worked well at college also, and took prizes; in short, he was +a fluent and charming youth, and gay to the point of clownishness, +like many melancholics. His comrades adored him, above all because of +his talent for mimicry and imitation, which showed to what a point he +felt the grimaces of souls. He acted plays with his sisters, who wrote +comedies for the children. He edited a paper. + +These minor events enamelled the surface of a life without scratches. +Three facts alone should be remarked. In May and June, 1825, in two +concerts at the Conservatory, Chopin played an _Allegro_ of Moschelès’ +and improvised for the Emperor Alexander, who gave him a ring. During +the course of the same year, he published his _Premier Rondo in C +minor_ (op. 1), dedicated to Mme. Linde, the wife of the Head of the +school. Then, the next summer, he was invited to the Château d’Antonin +by Prince Radziwill. + +Playing in public had already lost its novelty. On the other hand, +publishing his music was a new joy, which he tasted with naïve ardour. +And if the piece was neither very profound nor very scholarly, it had +at any rate his personal imprint. “A lady,” said Schumann somewhat +later in speaking of this little work, “would find it most delicate, +most charming....” Note how already they hasten the advent of the +ladies! Such is the first blossom of this chaste soul. + +The stay at the Château d’Antonin, in the summer of 1826, revealed to +Chopin the pleasures that can come from material plenty and refinements +of the spirit, when these are linked together by skilled hands. This +was precisely what the young aristocrat needed to awaken his æsthetic +response. It is a luxury which the strong scorn; but a sensitive heart +would have difficulty in dispensing with a judicious distribution +of these amenities, ranging from perfect food to works of art, from +physical luxury to the subtleties of the mind, and subduing this heart, +despite itself, to the domination of the delicious. I myself should +think it very interesting to know all about the furnishings, the +pictures, the guests, the conversations to be seen and heard during +the summer of 1826 at Prince Radziwill’s. Unfortunately, these details +cannot be known with any degree of certainty. After all, it may be +sufficiently enlightening that Chopin called Antonin “a paradise” and +that he found the young princesses “divine.” But it is certain that +from that time on his nostalgia for that perfect harmony derived from +the union of fatherland, a sumptuous dwelling and radiant young beings, +shattered his transport into invincible regrets. + + + + + CHAPTER III + + The Birth of the Poet + + +When he was asked, after one of his improvisations at the piano, +improvisations that were a mixture of brilliance that was always +slightly sombre, and of tenderness that was at once poignant and +dramatic, by what name this atavistic desolation that seemed too old +for his young existence should be called, he replied with the Polish +word _zal_. It was a word that he repeated, that he loved, a word +susceptible of varied meanings and which included sometimes every +tenderness and all humility, and sometimes only rancour, revolt, and +glacial vengeance. It is a word also that holds at one and the same +time connotations of inconsolable sorrow, and menace, or fruitless +bitterness, a word, in short, that could be applied to all those cruel +and poet Hamlets whom we call Slavs. From his sixteenth year _zal_ was +the bright enemy of his fortune, an enemy armed each day anew when one +has a romantic heart and when the destruction of oneself seems the most +brilliant solution of life. In knowing himself and then in cultivating +himself without opposition, Chopin accomplished the rare miracle of +becoming absolutely himself before life had taught him anything. +Himself against life, in spite of life. The sum of knowledge that was +necessary to him he possessed at sixteen. It was reduced to the seven +notes of the scale, which were sufficient for the expression of all +his thoughts. He was tortured by the need of no other nourishment than +the search for his own style. That was his method of attaining the +truth. Apart from his piano, the universe, indeed, was but literature. + +Furthermore, his father allowed him to leave school at seventeen to +give himself up entirely to his music. He was given a little attic +study with an old piano and a table. There he wrote his first works. +And it was at this time that, testing his powers, he acquired the +astonishingly original touch and style that were soon to amaze the +artistic world. The following year, he composed his _Variations_ on +the _La ci darem la mano_ of Mozart, of which Schumann said as he +thumbed it over: “Eusebius came in softly the other day. You know +that ironic smile with which he tries to intrigue you. I was at the +piano... Eusebius put a piece of music before us, with these words, +‘Hats off, gentlemen—a genius!’ We were not to see the title. I turned +over the pages mechanically. The veiled joy of music without sound is +like something magical. And then, it has always seemed to me that each +composer offers to the eyes a physiognomy of notes that is the essence +of the man. Beethoven has a different look from Mozart, on paper. But +here I fancied that quite strange eyes, the eyes of a flower, the +eyes of a basilisk, the eyes of a peacock, the eyes of a virgin were +marvellously regarding me. But what was the astonishment of the hearers +on reading the title: opus 2... Chopin? I had never heard the name.” + +Listen to the almost prophetic tone of that surprise: “Eyes of a +flower, eyes of a basilisk, eyes of a peacock, eyes of a virgin.” This +splendid musical portrait paints in completely the Polish swan testing +for the first time the flutter of his wings. + +He took flight very shortly after, at the beginning of September, 1828, +on his first journey. A friend of his father’s, Professor Jaroçki, took +him to Berlin, where the professor had to attend a scientific meeting. +Frederick was in an ecstasy of enthusiasm. After five days of jolting +in the diligence the travellers reached the Prussian capital and put +up at the Hôtel du Kronprinz. Chopin’s first visit was to the factory +of the Kisting pianos, his second to the Academy of Singing, his third +to the Opera, where they were giving _Ferdinand Cortez_ by Spontini, +and _The Secret Marriage_ by Cimarosa. “I followed these operas with +great pleasure,” he wrote home, “but I must admit that the music of +Handel approaches most nearly the musical ideal that I have adopted.... +To-morrow they give _Freyschutz_; that is exactly the music that I +want.” He saw Spontini at a distance, and the young Mendelssohn. He +dined at the Congress of Naturalists. “Yesterday there was a banquet +in honour of the scholars. What caricatures! I divided them into three +groups.” At the table he sat next a professor from Hamburg, who, +talking to Jaroçki, so far forgot himself as to take Chopin’s plate +for his own and begin drumming on it. “A true scientist, eh? Nothing +was lacking, not even the big deformed nose. I was on pins and needles +during the drumming, and when it was finished had nothing better to +do than to rub off the finger-marks with a napkin.” This incident was +the object of a long report in which can be seen his stubborn disgust. +Then there were the toilettes of the ladies. Details? None. That struck +closer home than the compulsory visits to the Geological Museum. + +Finally, after a fortnight, they re-entered their travelling carriage +to take once more the road for Warsaw. Arriving at Zullichau, between +Frankfurt-am-Oder and Posen, they found a shortage of horses and were +obliged to stop and wait for fresh ones. What should they do? By chance +the postal relay station was also the tavern. Professor Jaroçki seized +the opportunity to dine. Chopin spied a piano. He opened it, sat +down and began to let his fingers wander. An old traveller came and +sat quietly near him, then another, then silently all the household, +the postmaster, his wife, his daughters, and the neighbours. What +a surprise was this nightingale blown by the wind from fairyland! +Suddenly the head of the postillion was framed in the window, and he +thundered out: + +“All aboard! The horses are harnessed.” + +“Devil take the spoil-sport,” replied the postmaster furiously. + +They begged the young man, who had already arisen, to sit down again. + +“Go on, _please_ go on,” said the ladies. + +“I’ll give you extra horses if necessary,” added the postmaster. + +And the old traveller said in his turn: + +“Sir, I am an old-fashioned musician and I know what I am talking +about. I, also, play the piano. If Mozart had heard you, sir, he would +have taken your hand. I, a nobody, dare not....” + +When Chopin stopped, this curious audience seized him and carried him +out in triumph. + +A Schumann overwhelmed, that enthusiastic postmaster, that timid +musicaster trembling with emotion, these were the signs that a new poet +was born among men. + + + + + CHAPTER IV + + “Sorrow” and “Ideal” + + +But it was not until the following year that he was to find his voice. +One evening at the Opera, he noticed in a small part a young singer +with a clear tone, fair hair, and an attractive mouth. He learned that +her name was Constance Gladkowska, and that she was still a pupil at +the Conservatory. The impression this girl produced on him was strong, +but altogether pure and childlike. To get the ribbon that tied her +hair, to die holding it hidden on his breast, would have satisfied his +longings. And so delicate was this sentiment that at first he confided +it to no one. Besides, another thought wrung him more: the thought of +leaving Warsaw, because he well knew that he had exhausted its musical +resources. + +In July, 1829, his father furnished him with a little money, which +had been saved with difficulty, and the young composer, on whom from +all sides so many hopes were now centred, was able to leave for +Vienna. His first visit there was to Haslinger, the music publisher, +a great eulogist who received him with open arms and already called +him “the new star of the North.” But Chopin, who was not yet twenty, +was cautious and sceptical. He was presented to Count Gallenberg, +the superintendent of the Imperial theatres; he was urged to give a +concert. “What reassures Count Gallenberg,” he wrote to his family, “is +that I shall not tax his purse. I am going to play for nothing. I am +acting the disinterested and the dilettante. I am a musician for love +of the art.” + +The concert took place at the Imperial Theatre on the 11th of August, +at seven in the evening. The orchestra played a Beethoven overture, +some airs of Rossini. Then the delicate Chopin, already sickly looking, +came on to the platform. An old lady sitting in the first row said in a +whisper, “What a pity the young man doesn’t make a better appearance!” +But Chopin’s whiteness was from rage rather than nervousness, because +the orchestra, not having been able to decipher his _Variations_, had +forced him to change the programme. He therefore improvised on a theme +from _The White Lady_, then on the Polish air, _Chmiel_. + +With the one exception of Liszt, no one has ever improvised like +Chopin. Under his elegant hand there opened a new world of velvet +tragedies, of ravishing sorrows, where each hearer trembled as he +discovered a memory of his own griefs. And old men as well as young +schoolgirls followed with delight these exquisite whisperings. But the +power of poets—what is it, if not to draw singing from one’s own soul, +the secret of which they know better than oneself? + +So successful was this first concert that Chopin resolved to give +another a week later. This time he played his _Krakoviak_, which the +orchestra had rehearsed, and his _Variations_ on the _La ci darem_. +Count Lichnowsky, Beethoven’s friend, was present and applauded wildly. +The public, the musicians, and the critics could not conceal their +surprise, for everything was new about Chopin, both the substance and +the form. “The public recognized a great artist in this young man... On +the ground of the originality of his playing and of his compositions +one could almost attribute genius to him,” said the _Wiener +Theaterzeitung_; and the _Allgemeine Musikalische_: “The exquisite +delicacy of his touch, the indescribable dexterity of his technique, +the finish of his _nuances_, which reflect the deepest sensitiveness, +the clarity of his interpretation and of his compositions, which +bear the marks of a great genius, all reveal a virtuoso favoured by +nature, who has flashed above the horizon without previous heralding, +like one of the most brilliant meteors.” One single criticism, that +Chopin made of himself: he plays too softly, he lacks brilliance and +resonance. “They are almost of one voice in saying I play too softly, +too tenderly, rather, for this public,” he writes to his family. “They +are accustomed to the great drums of their virtuosos. But I prefer them +to say that I played too softly than too brutally.” And in another +letter: “It is my way of playing, and I know it gives infinite pleasure +to women and artists.” + +Thereupon he left for Prague, accompanied to the diligence by all +the Viennese musicians, whom he had conquered in so short a time. +Even Czerny, with whom Chopin had several times played duets, was +there. Chopin thought him “a fine man and more sensitive than his +compositions.” He visited Prague, where he made the acquaintance of +the famous violinist Pixis, and of Alexandre Klengel, the composer +of forty-eight fugues considered the finest since Bach. Klengel +interested Chopin greatly, and they spent half a dozen hours together, +at the piano and in conversation. Then Frederick left for Dresden, viâ +Teplitz, a watering-place on the frontier of Bohemia and Saxony, where +he passed the evening at the château of Prince Clary. + +A small but “respectable” company were assembled there: the men of the +house, an Austrian general, an English naval captain, a Saxon general +sewed up in decorations, some young men and girls. After tea, the +Princess asked Chopin if he would “deign” to seat himself at the piano. +The artist replied that he would “deign,” and asked for a subject +for improvisation. The Prince’s _maître de musique_ proposed a theme +from Rossini’s _Moses_, and Chopin launched forth upon embroideries +so lovely that he was obliged to return to the piano four times. They +tried to keep him at Teplitz, but he would not consent. A restlessness, +a certain nervousness, pushed him on to continue his journey. Something +was working deeply in him. Dresden hardly interested him. He stayed +there a few days doing nothing, then left for Breslau, and returned at +length to Warsaw on September 12th. + +Three weeks later, while writing a waltz, he found out what ailed him. +“I have, perhaps to my sorrow, found my ideal. For six months now I +have dreamed of her each night, and I have never spoken a word to her. +It was for her that I composed the _Adagio_ of my _Concerto_ (in F +minor, op. 21), as well as the _Waltz_ (op. 70, no. 3), written only +this morning and which I am sending to you. Notice the passage marked +with a cross. No one, except you, will know the meaning of it. How +happy I should be, my dear friend, if I could play it to you! In the +fifth bar of the trio, the bass carries the melody as far as the high +E flat, in the key of G flat. I should not tell you this, as I am sure +you would have noticed it for yourself.” + +This confidence was addressed to Titus, the friend beloved above all +others because he too was a musician, and Chopin found at once the two +words that were henceforth to be the keys to his whole life: “sorrow” +and “ideal.” They give an atmosphere. Perhaps they give too much; but +if they have since then lost something of their meaning, can we not +give back to them in spirit a living poetical value? In this Europe +which was open to romanticism and fervently breathed a too magnificent +vocabulary lived the faith that moves and the candour that engenders +deeds of love and of history. An evil age, “An age of fools and +follies,” says M. Charles Maurras. Perhaps. But an age in which ideas +and dreams have more than a rhetorical value puts a high price on art. +And no one was less satisfied than Chopin with mere words. Those which +he himself used translate exactly the accents of his piano. When he +wrote that to his sorrow he had discovered his ideal, doubtless he did +not suspect what a true note he had struck. Here, fixed for ever, is +the musical theme in which, thanks to him, millions of beings were to +discover the joys of hopelessness. + +In this sorrow, in this ideal, he was of course thinking of Constance +Gladkowska. He wrote again some time later: “You cannot imagine how sad +Warsaw seems to me. If I were not so happy with my family, I would not +care for this place. Oh! how bitter it is to have no one with whom to +share sorrow and joy! How dreadful when the heart is oppressed to be +unable to unfold it. You know what I mean. Many times I pour into my +piano what I should like to confide to you.” + +He heard much music, and was greatly struck by the last of Beethoven’s +trios. Never, he said, had he heard anything greater. He composed. He +went to the Opera. Mlle. Gladkowska made her debut in Paër’s _Agnes_ +and he admired her playing, her beauty, the range of her voice. “Her +phrasing and _nuance_ are delicious. At first her voice trembled +slightly, but she soon got over that. She was overwhelmed with +applause.” He made her acquaintance, accompanied her at the piano, +felt that he should die of sadness and uncertainty. Ought he to leave? +Must he stay? He decided to accept an invitation from Prince Radziwill +and went to spend one autumn week at Antonin. He was received as a +personage, and played duets with the Prince, who was the author of an +orchestration of _Faust_. + +Two charming Eves graced this paradise—“I mean the two young +princesses, pleasant, musical, and gentle creatures. As for the +Princess Mother, she knows that it is not birth that makes a man.” + +The young princesses knew it, too, and they amused themselves by taking +lessons from this artist with the complexion of a girl. Wanda allowed +him to play with her fingers, to which he had to teach the correct +position. Elise did his portrait. “Princess Wanda has a real musical +instinct. There is no need to be constantly saying to her: here, +_crescendo_, there, _piano_... here more slowly, there faster... I had +to promise to send her my _Polonaise in F minor_.” He wrote another +Polonaise, for piano and violoncello. “It is a brilliant piece for +women to play.” He did not forget Constance, even though Princess Elise +was so ravishing. But he realized the possibility of being charmed in +all innocence by two beings at once. Nor did he forget his dear Titus +of the silent, savage heart. In a moment of expansion he wrote to him: +“I might anoint my body with the rarest perfumes of Byzantium and you +would still refuse to embrace me if I had not bound you by a kind of +magnetic attraction. But there are secret forces in nature....” + +Returning to Warsaw, he decided to give a concert which Constance would +attend. She could not fail to understand that it was to her alone that +he dedicated his young fame. The concert actually took place on the +17th of March, 1830, when he had just completed his twentieth year. +The event aroused an extraordinary amount of attention. The hall was +crowded. The programme, of the usual variegated order, announced music +by Elsner, Kurpinski, a hunting-horn solo, some singing. Chopin’s part +consisted of his _Concerto in F minor_ and a fantasia on national +airs. But the effect was not all that he had hoped. The connoisseurs +alone had realized and appreciated his originality as an artist. But +Constance, sitting in the front row, smiled at him and he felt repaid. + +A second concert, several days after the first, was a more brilliant +success, and the _Rondo à la Krakoviak_ aroused acclamations. From +all over the house came cries: “A third concert! A third concert!” +This time it really seemed as though the critics, the crowd, and the +musicians were of one accord in declaring Chopin Poland’s greatest +pianist and composer. But the weeks slipped by without bringing him +real happiness. His love for Titus and Constance both sustained and +tormented him. He carried their letters next his heart. For them alone +he composed, and his latest music seemed to him worthless till they +had heard it. “Work drives me on. I am composing hard. Often I turn +night into day and day into night. I live in a dream and sleep while +I am awake. Yes, worse still, it is as though I must sleep for ever, +for I am for ever feeling the same thing. But instead of gathering +strength from this somnolence, I am tortured further and weaken myself +the more....” He worked on his _Adagio in E major_, which was to be +“romantic, calm, melancholy,” and to evoke “crowds of gentle memories. +It should be like a reverie on a moonlit spring night.... What does it +matter if it is bad? You will see in it my fault of doing badly against +my will. But that is because, also against my will, something has +entered my heart by way of my eyes. It drives me, torments me, although +I love it and cherish it.” + +An unexpected treat was given him by the arrival of a celebrated German +singer, Sontag, who gave a series of six concerts. To her Prince +Radziwill presented Chopin, who experienced a moment of enthusiasm. She +was not beautiful, but charming beyond description, and she enchanted +the circle in which she moved. Frederick was allowed the honour of +seeing her in her morning peignoir, and brought Constance to her. But +the transit of the singer was no more than a meteoric interlude and +Chopin slid back into his uncertainties. Departure seemed more and more +necessary for his musical development, and on the other hand the fear +of losing his love paralysed him. On September 4th he wrote to Titus: + + “I have fits of fury. I still have not budged. I haven’t the + strength to name a day for leaving. I have a presentiment that if + I leave Warsaw I shall never see my home again. I believe that I + am going away to die. How sad it must be not to die where one has + always lived! How dreadful it would be for me to see at my deathbed + an indifferent doctor or servant instead of all my own folk! I + should like to stay with you for a few days; perhaps I might find + some peace again. But as I cannot, I limit myself to roaming the + streets, crushed by my sadness, and I return—but why? To pursue my + fancies. Man is rarely happy. If he is destined to only a few short + hours of bliss, why should he renounce his illusions. They too are + fugitive.” + +More curious still is his letter of September 18th, where he makes this +singular confession: + + “You are mistaken in thinking, like so many others, that my heart + is the reason for my prolonging my stay here. Be assured that I + could rise above all if it were a question of my own self, and + that, if I were in love, I could manage to dominate for several + more years my sad and sterile passion. Be convinced of one thing, I + beg, that is, that I too consider my own good and that I am ready + to sacrifice everything for the world. For the world;—I mean, for + the eye of the world; in order that this public opinion which has + so much weight with us may contribute to my sorrow. Not to that + secret suffering that we hide within ourselves, but to what I might + call our outward pain... As long as I am in good health, I shall + work willingly all my life. But must I work more than my strength + permits? If it is necessary, I can do twice what I do to-day. You + may not be master of your own thoughts, but I am always. Nothing + could make me drop them as the leaves from the trees. For me, even + in winter, there is always verdure. Of course, I am speaking only + of the head! In the heart, on the other hand... good Lord! there is + tremendous heat! No wonder the vegetation there is luxurious.... + Your letters lie upon my heart, next to the ribbon (Constance’s), + for though they do not know each other, these inanimate objects + nevertheless feel that they come from friendly hands.” + +In short, this irresolute knew well that the very base of his nature +was his musical instinct; that this instinct would conquer all, his +desires, his comfort, his peace; that his “secret suffering,” if it was +inevitably necessary, still amounted to less than that stubborn march +towards a future of melody and solitude. + +Coming out of church one day he saw Constance. “My eyes caught her +glance. I tore off into the street and it took a quarter of an hour to +pull myself together. Sometimes I am so mad that it is terrifying. But +on Saturday week I leave, come what may. I shall pack my music in my +trunk, her ribbon in my soul, my soul under my arm and,—away I go, in +the diligence!” + +Finally, on October 11th, he gave a last concert, in which Mlle. +Gladkowska assisted. Frederick played his whole _Concerto in E minor_, +a work that he had just finished, and a _Fantasia on Polish Airs_. +Mlle. Gladkowska, dressed in white and crowned with roses, sang the +cavatine from Rossini’s _Lady of the Lake_. “You know the theme: _O +quante lagrime per te versai_,” wrote Chopin to Titus. “She rendered +the _tutto detesto_ to the G flat admirably. Zielinski said the G +alone was worth a thousand ducats. After leading her off the stage I +played my _Fantasia_ on the setting of the moon. This time at least I +understood myself, the orchestra understood itself and the audience +understood us.... Now nothing remains but to strap my trunk. My outfit +is ready, my orchestrations are recopied, my handkerchiefs hemmed, my +new trousers have been tried on.” What was he still waiting for? + +It was as though destiny offered him one final chance. He did not take +it. + +The 1st of November, 1830, was the date fixed; he was to leave for +Vienna. In the morning a whole troupe set forth. Elsner, friends, +musicians, conducted him as far as Wola, the historic suburb where, in +earlier times, the election of the kings had taken place. They held a +banquet. They played a cantata composed by Elsner in his honour. They +sang: + + “May your talent, native of our soil, + Display itself in all and everywhere, + Be you on the Danube’s shores, + Or by the Spree, the Tiber or the Seine. + Cherish the customs of your fathers, + And, by the notes of your music, + Our mazurkas and our Kracoviennes, + Sing the glory of your native land. + Yes, you shall realize our dreams. + Know always, Chopin, that you by song + Shall glorify your native land.” + +Chorus: + + “To leave your fatherland is naught, + Because your soul remains with us. + We raise our prayers for your happiness, + And shall cherish your memory in our hearts.” + +He is pale, the young prince, when they present him with a silver cup +filled with his native soil. And now he bursts into sobs. + + * * * * * + +As for Constance, she never saw him again. Two years later she married +a country gentleman. Then, the blue eyes that the poet had loved,—by +what strange trick of fate should they be deprived of light? Constance +became blind. Sometimes, however, she would sit once more at the piano +and sing that lovely song: _Quante lagrime per te versai_.... Someone +who knew her towards the end of her life told how “from her eyes, which +remained starry in spite of their blindness,” would then fall the tears. + + + + + CHAPTER V + + Revolution at Warsaw and Solitude at Vienna + + +Titus Woyciechowski rejoined Chopin at Kalisz. Older than he by +several years, he was in appearance and character just the opposite +of Frederick; a tall strong youth with clear, determined features, +speaking rarely, but with just as passionate a melomania. His huge +hands, chiselled to grasp the sword of his ancestors, as soon as they +rested on the keys of the piano developed an airy delicacy. Slender, +deep-eyed Frederick, however, with his complexion like a child’s, led +on a leash this powerful, submissive dog. They passed by Breslau, and +then went to Dresden, where a whole week evaporated in calls, parties, +and theatres. + +Armed with letters of introduction, Chopin betook himself to pay his +respects to Mme. Dobrzyçka, a Pole and Grand Mistress of the Court of +Princess Augusta. This lady occupied an apartment of the royal castle. +She received him graciously, and invited him to spend an evening with +her in a little group of her friends. Chopin accepted, suspecting +strongly that he would have to pay with his art, but he made it a rule +never to refuse anything to his compatriots. On the appointed day +he made his entrance in the salons of the Grand Mistress, where he +found only three or four people; some ladies and a man of some thirty +years, clean shaven, whom he took to be a scholar or an abbé of the +Court. Mme. Dobrzyçka presented him to her guests: “One of our young +compatriots, M. Frederick Chopin, an artist of great talent, who won’t +refuse to let us hear one of his mazurkas, an echo of our far-off +country.” Chopin sat down at the piano. He felt inspired, his head +filled with poetry, his heart with memories; Constance, his sisters, +the ancient city of Warsaw, floated before his eyes. In a dozen ways, +he expressed them with that careless grace, that naked emotion which +owed nothing to any model. He was heard in the deepest silence. Then +the Grand Mistress rose and came to him, with tears in her eyes. “Thank +you. You have given a delightful hour to Their Royal Highnesses.” +With a deep bow she designated the two ladies and the clean-shaven +gentleman. They were the Infanta Augusta, her sister-in-law, and Prince +Jean, the future King of Saxony, whom he had taken for a doctor of +theology. Next day these personages sent him sealed letters addressed +to Their Majesties the King and Queen of the Two Sicilies and to His +Serene Highness the Prince of Lucca, recommending “Frederick Chopin, an +incomparable artist for whom the most brilliant future is in store.” + +Under these happy auspices Frederick and Titus arrived in Vienna +towards the end of November. They set out to find an apartment and, for +50 florins a month, rented three rooms in Kohlmarkt. + +But this fickle city had already forgotten the artist it had once +acclaimed. Haslinger, the publisher, refused to buy his works, and +Chopin would not consent to part with them for nothing. “Maybe he +thinks,” he said, “that if he affects to treat them as bagatelles I +shall take him seriously and give them to him for love. He is wrong. My +motto shall be: Pay, brute.” But these small cares faded suddenly away +when the events which were taking place in Poland began to filter into +the newspapers. On the 29th of November, indeed, the revolution broke +out in Warsaw. This ancient people, reduced to slavery, was attempting +once again to regain its liberty. They got their news in crumbs: on +November 29th, eighteen conspirators had set out for the Palais de +Belvédère, where the Grand Duke Constantin resided, in order to seize +him. But they were too late. “The bird had flown,” and, leading his +Russian troops, had already withdrawn from the walls of Warsaw. Freed +for the time, the entire town had arisen against its oppressors. +The next day a new Government was formed, the war of independence +proclaimed, and everywhere thousands of volunteers were enlisting. + +From the very first Titus and Frederick were wild with enthusiasm. +Titus fitted himself out from head to foot, and without further delay +left to join his brothers in arms. Left alone, Chopin lamented his own +inaction, but what could he do with those delicate hands of his, with +his useless talent? On a gamble, without definite plan, he hired a +post-chaise and struck out on the trail of Titus. But he was unable to +overtake him and, in the sombre winter dusk, his warlike ardour seemed +suddenly so futile that he ordered his driver to turn about and go +back to Vienna. There he found a letter from his father, who, guessing +the feelings of his son, besought Frederick not to allow himself to be +turned from his career. Let the many sacrifices that had been made at +least be allowed to bear fruit! So Chopin stayed. But the ordeal was +hard to bear in this Austria of Metternich, entirely hostile to Poland. +The artists he knew avoided him, and more than once as he passed he +overheard the murmur that God’s only error was to have created the +Poles. His mail reached him now only after long delays and he lived in +anguish. He learned of the march of the Russian General Paskewitch on +Warsaw. Already he saw the town in flames, his family and Constance +massacred. He spent his time in writing, he who had such a horror of +letter paper. “I seem to be dreaming, to be still with you. These +voices which I hear, and which are unfamiliar to me, are like carnival +clackers. It is nothing to me to-day whether I live or die.... Why am I +left behind? Why am I not taking my share of the danger with you?” The +Christmas festivities only aggravated this drama of unrest. Dante was +right when he said that a happy memory is the worst misery of unhappy +days. That Christmas eve he went to the Church of St. Etienne, and +there, standing in the darkest corner under the dome, he leaned against +a Gothic pillar and dreamed of the family Christmas tree, lighted with +candles, of the modest presents he and his sisters gave each other, of +the traditional supper where the whole family gathered about the table +and broke the holy bread that the lay brothers of the convents had +distributed during Advent. + +He passed the holidays largely alone in his room, which he thus +describes: “It is large and has three windows; the bed faces them, my +marvellous piano is at the right, the sofa at the left, between the +windows a mirror and in the centre of the room a big mahogany table. +The floor is waxed. It is quiet. In the morning an unbearably stupid +servant wakens me. I get up and have my coffee, which I often take +cold, as playing makes me forget breakfast. About nine o’clock my +German teacher arrives. After that I play. Then Hummel (the son of +the composer) comes to work on my portrait while Nidecki studies my +concerto. I stay in my dressing-gown until noon. Then a funny little +German, Herr Leidenfrost, arrives, with whom I go for a walk on the +pavement. Then I go to lunch wherever I may be invited or else at the +_Café Zur Böhmischen Köchin_, which is frequented by all the University +students.... Afterwards I make calls, come in at dusk, dress, arrange +my hair, dress, and go to some party or other. About eleven or twelve +o’clock, never later, I come home, play, cry, laugh, read, go to bed, +and dream of you.” + +In this same letter to his friend Matuszinski, he adds on Christmas Day +(1830): + +“I wanted so desperately to have a letter from you. You know why. What +joy news of my angel of peace gives me! How I should like to sound all +the chords, not only those that evoke stormy feelings but those that +sound the _lieder_ whose half-stilled echoes yet hover on the shores of +the Danube.... But I cannot live as I please.... You advise me to make +a poet’s choice. Don’t you realize that I am the most irresolute being +on earth, and that I have made only one single fortunate choice in my +whole life? All these dinners, parties, concerts, balls, bore me. I +am overwhelmed with them. I cannot do what I wish; I must be dressed, +powdered, shod, have my hair dressed, and play the quiet man in the +drawing-room, only to return home and thunder on the piano. I have no +confidant, I have to ‘do the polite’ with everybody. Forgive these +complaints, my dear Jean, they calm me and give me relief. One point in +your letter made me very gloomy. Has there been any change? Has anyone +been ill? I could easily believe it of such a tender being.... Reassure +her and tell her that as long as my strength permits, till death, +yes, until after death, my ashes shall be scattered under her feet. +More... all this is not enough, and you may tell her much more.... I +should have done it myself, but for the dread of people’s gossip. Be my +interpreter to her. The day before yesterday I dined at a Mme. Bayer’s, +a Pole whose name is Constance. I love her society because of this +reminder. Her music, her handkerchiefs, her napkins are marked with +_her_ initial.” + +“January 1, 1831.—I received your letter. I do not know what is taking +place in me. I love you all more than my life. Write to me. So you are +with the army? Our poor families! What are all our friends doing? I +live with you. I should like to die for you, for all of you. If you +leave, how can you deliver my message? Look after my family. One might +believe evil.... How sadly the year begins for me. Perhaps I shall not +see its end. Embrace me. Are you leaving for the war? Return a colonel. +Ah! why cannot I be even your drummer boy! If you think it unnecessary, +do not give her my note. I don’t remember what I wrote. You may read +it. It is perhaps the first and the last.” + +Then he notes in his little pocket-diary: “This bed, where I sleep ... +perhaps it has already held a corpse. Who was it? Was he more wicked +than I? Had he parents, sisters, a mistress? Now all is peace for him. +I am sure that to die is the noblest human act. Or, on the other hand, +is birth the noblest?...” Later a few scattered lines about Constance: +“Did she love me or is she playing a part? How hard it is to guess. +Yes, or no? Yes, no, yes, no?... Yes, surely. But God’s will be done.” + +Thus Chopin stands wholly self-revealed, nervous, lonely, horribly +sensitive. All the pains of the world are latent in him, and a few +simple joys. But the _man_ developed with extreme slowness. The poet +clung to his youth, which had furnished the difficulties he needed. He +had given himself over, as women do, unconsciously to suffering, and +it was by that alone that he was to become adult. + +Yet the two years since his first love for Constance Gladkowska +had already produced admirable work. It was not without a certain +pride that Chopin bound into his work such pages as the _Waltz in D +flat major_ (op. 70, no. 3), in which he had earlier called Titus’s +attention to a confidential passage, the sketches of his _Etudes_, +the first of his _Nocturnes_ and the two _Concertos_ (in E minor, op. +11, and in F minor, op. 21). If in construction, in skeleton, they +still owe much to Hummel, in their flesh and blood they are entirely +Chopin. The orchestral parts are weak because he was not able to _think +orchestrally_, but the piano parts have an originality and poetry that +bear the stamp of eternity. Liszt later said of the _adagio_ of the +_Second Concerto_, for which Chopin had a marked predilection, that +the whole piece had “an ideal perfection,” that “his sentiment by +turn radiant and full of pity, evoked a magnificent country bathed in +light, some dowered valley of Tempe that one might have selected as the +site of a tragic tale, a heartbreaking scene. It might be called an +irreparable sorrow enfolding the human heart against a background of +the incomparable splendour of nature.” + +There is truth in these somewhat florid words. But it is difficult +to reduce to the average vocabulary what slips so swiftly out of +ordinary experience and opens to our most complex senses an entirely +new universe. An analysis of music is the most futile of intellectual +exercises, because it can build on nothing but emotion. Look at +concert audiences. They are made up for the most part of lovers and old +people. For they understand, remember, and seek again this powerful +inexpressible thing in which they find the best that is in themselves. +Even Chopin still did not know what he was giving. He was hampered by +classic forms. But he carried in him the joy of a growing knowledge, +developed and assimilated in his first sorrows. + +The winter dragged on as best it could, and Chopin, with somewhat +more pleasure than he admitted, went from party to party. He let his +whiskers grow, or rather one whisker, the other was not necessary, +“because I only show my right profile to the audience.” He spent many +an evening at the house of Dr. Malfatti, Court Physician and former +doctor to Beethoven, a happy sybarite and philanthropist who lived in +a smart villa surrounded by a garden. And then spring returned and +the doctor’s peach and cherry trees were covered with pink and white +snow. There, on St. John’s Day, they had a fête by moonlight. Out on +the terrace, in the bridal air that rose from the orangery, wafted by +the fountain sprays, Chopin played, while the Viennese listened to the +sad-eyed foreigner who in sombre colours paraphrased a joyous waltz of +Strauss. + +He went to concerts, met plenty of musicians but, Slavik the violinist +excepted (another Paganini, who played ninety-six staccato notes with +a single sweep of his bow), none of them impressed him greatly. Vienna +offered him nothing to love. Waltzes, nothing but waltzes, were played +on all sides, and although they were laughed at, still the editors +would publish nothing else. He was ill and admitted it to his friends, +but forbade them to inform his family. He planned another departure, +and had his passport arranged without knowing very definitely whether +he should name France, Germany, or England. Italy attracted him also, +but there were revolutions in Bologna, Milan, Ancona, Rome. In his +indecision, he might have settled the matter by a throw of dice had +that not been to tempt fate somewhat. He ended by deciding on London +and, at all events, had added to the passport: “by way of Paris.” For +the moment he was pacified and furnished with a few landmarks on which +to fasten his imagination. He packed, made his good-bye calls, and +reserved a seat in the diligence for July 20 (1831). + +A few days before his departure, a letter reached him from his +compatriot, Witwicki, the writer, a family friend. It touched his most +sensitive spot. “... Keep always in view the idea of nationality, +nationality and yet again nationality. It is a word that means little +for an ordinary artist, but not for a talent like yours. There is +native melody just as there is a native climate. The mountains, the +forests, the waters, and the meadows have their native voice, an inner +voice, though not every soul is aware of it.... Every time I think of +it, dear M. Frederick, I nurse the sweet hope that you shall be the +first to be able to imbibe the vast treasures of Slav melody. Seek out +the popular Slav melodies as the mineralogist seeks out the stones and +minerals of the mountains and the valleys. I hear that in Vienna you +fret and languish. I can put myself in your place; no Pole could be +happy when the life or death of his own country is in question. But +remember always, dear friend, that you left us not to languish but to +perfect yourself in your art and to become the consolation and glory of +your family and your country.” + +He left on July 20th and, by way of Salzburg, reached Munich, where he +stayed for several weeks. Then he set out again, and reached Stuttgart. +There, on the 8th of September, he learned of the capture of Warsaw by +the Russians. Under the shock of this frightful news he turned to his +piano and his grief burst into harrowing improvisation. This was the +first germ of the _Etude in C minor_ (op. 10, no. 12) that is called +_The Revolutionary_. “What a change! What a disaster!... Who could have +foreseen it?” he wrote, several weeks later. + +These words may sound somewhat feeble. But Chopin did not love great, +strong words. In him emotion always took on a moderate accent. +Nevertheless, in his pocket-notebook he gave free rein to his feelings: +“The suburbs burned! Matuszinski and Titus surely killed! Paskewitch +and that dog Mohilew flee from the beloved town. Moscow commands the +world! Oh, God, where are you? Are you there and do not venge yourself? +Are you not surfeited with Russian massacres? Or else,—or else,—are +you not yourself, indeed, only a Muscovite?” + +The young exile little suspected that he was to be, according to +Paderewski’s beautiful metaphor, the ingenious smuggler who would +enable the prohibited Polonism to escape across the frontiers in his +portfolios of music, the priest who would carry to the scattered Poles +the sacrament of nationalism. + + + + + CHAPTER VI + + “I doubt whether there is a city on Earth where + more pianists are to be found than in Paris” + + +When the stage-coach in which Chopin rode had passed the walls of +Paris, the young musician climbed up on the seat beside the driver. He +hardly knew where to look, at the monuments or at a crowd so thick it +might be thought another revolution. However, it was only the joy of +living again that had brought the people into the streets and forced +the horses down to a walk. The driver felt impressively at home among +all these symbolic costumes of the bourgeois gentlemen, and pointed +them out to his passenger. Each political group had its own livery. +The School of Medicine and the Young French parties were distinguished +by their beards and cravats. The Carlists had green waistcoats, the +Republicans red, and the Saint Simoniens blue. Many strutted about +in tailed coats, called _à la propriétaire_, which fell to their +heels. There were artists dressed after Raphaël, with hair to their +shoulders and wide-brimmed tam-o’-shanters. Others affected the Middle +Ages,—numbers of women dressed as pages, as musketeers, as hunters. And +in this swarm were hawkers brandishing their pamphlets: “Ask for _The +Art of Making Love and Keeping It_; ask for _The Loves of the Priests_; +ask for _The Archbishop of Paris and the Mme. la Duchesse de Berry_.” +Frederick was at first somewhat scandalized. Later he was agreeably +surprised to see a group of youths march by, crying: “Poland! Poland!” +“That is in honour of General Ramorino, the Italian who is trying to +deliver our Polish brothers from the Russian boot,” explained the +driver. They were obliged to stop the carriage for the crowd to pass. +Eventually they reached the posting station and Chopin dismounted, had +his baggage loaded on a cabriolet, and betook himself to a house agent, +who provided him with two rooms on the fifth floor at 27, Boulevard +Poissonnière. + +He liked these quarters because his windows had a balcony from which +he could see the succession of boulevards. The endless perspective of +trees hedged in between two rows of houses astonished him. “It is down +there,” he thought, “that the history of France is being written.” +Not far away, in the rue d’Enfer, M. de Chateaubriand was editing his +memoirs and he too wrote: “What happenings have taken place before +my very door! But after the trial of Louis XVI and the revolutionary +uprisings, all trials and uprisings are insignificant.” And at the same +time, a plainly dressed young woman was writing in her garret novels +which she signed with the name George Sand, and exclaimed: “To live, +how sweet! How good it is, in spite of griefs, husbands, boredom, +debts, relatives, tittle-tattle, in spite of bitter pangs and tedious +annoyances. To live, how intoxicating! To love, to be loved! That is +happiness, that is Heaven!” + +The day after his arrival Frederick plunged into the crowd and exulted +in his solitude. It was more complete here than in the depths of the +German forest, and it at once stimulated and frightened the artist. +He floated with the tide, until suddenly the crowd thickened, became +organized, and Chopin found himself carried along by a compact column +who, with flags at their head, were marching to acclaim Ramorino. Then +fear seized him in good earnest, and breaking away, he returned home by +back streets, and climbed to his balcony where he witnessed from above +that storm of enthusiasm. Shops were shut and a squadron of hussars +arrived at a gallop and swept away the populace, who hissed and spat +at the soldiers. Till midnight there was an uproar which approached a +riot. And Chopin wrote to Titus: “I can’t tell you what a disagreeable +impression the horrible voices of this angry mob gave me.” Decidedly he +did not like noise, or crowds; politics were not in his line. + +Music, music, his only escape, because it is the only way of thinking +with the emotions. “Here alone can one know what singing is. With the +exception of Pasta, I do not believe there is a greater singer in +Europe than Malibran-Garcia.” He spent his evenings at the Académie +Royale or at the Italian Opera. Veron managed the Académie, where +Habeneck conducted. At the Italian Opera Rossini and Zamboni were in +the bill. He heard Lablache and Malibran in _Il Barbieri di Siviglia_, +in _Otello_, and in _L’Italiana in Algeri_. Under the stimulus of his +pleasure he wrote again to Titus: “You can have no idea what Lablache +is like. Some say that Pasta’s voice is weakening, but I have never in +my life heard one so divine. Malibran has a range of three octaves; +in her own _genre_ her singing is unique, uncanny. She plays Othello; +Schroeder-Devrient, Desdemona. Malibran is small, the German larger. +Sometimes you think Desdemona is going to strangle Othello.” + +Chopin had a letter of introduction to Paër, who put him in touch +with Cherubini, Rossini, and the pianist then more famous than any +of the others, Kalkbrenner. With beating heart Chopin went to see +this supreme master at his house. He was a tall man, stiff and cold, +with the bearing of a diplomat, and an unstable glance. He put on +the airs of a gentleman, was doubtless too polite, and certainly +very pedantic. Marmontel says of him that his playing was smooth, +sustained, harmonious, and perfectly even, and that it charmed more +than it astonished; that his left hand had an unequalled dexterity and +that he played, without moving his head or body, with splendid style +in the grand manner. “A giant!” said Chopin. “He crushes everybody, +myself included.” In Kalkbrenner the young artist specially admired the +purist, the man who talked at the piano, the language of Cicero. + +The master and the unknown played several pieces for each other. When +Chopin had finished his _Concerto in E minor_, Kalkbrenner said to +him: “You have the style of Cramer and the touch of Field,” which +was without doubt the greatest compliment he could find. Divining +in this unexpected disciple the great man of to-morrow, he explained +his faults, trotted out again his lack of method, even pencilled his +concerto. He tried to decipher it. But if he succeeded in the first +part, he was stopped at the beginning of the second by insurmountable +difficulties, for its technique was entirely new. Nevertheless, he +stated with assurance that nothing short of three years of study +under his direction would make Chopin master of a new piano school. +Frederick was disquieted. Three years more study! What would his family +say? “However, I will submit to it,” he thought, “if I can be sure of +making a big advance.” But, by the time he had reached home again, he +no longer doubted. “No, I will never be a copy of Kalkbrenner.... No, +he shan’t destroy in me that hope, daring, I admit, but noble, _of +creating a new world for myself_.” A quarter of a century earlier than +Wagner, here in this young man of twenty years was the certainty of the +same destiny. + +We must be grateful to M. Nicolas Chopin for having upheld his son’s +faith. “But, my dear fellow,” he wrote to him, “I cannot see how, with +your capacities which he (Kalkbrenner) said he remarked, he can think +that three more years of work under his eyes are necessary for you to +become an artist and the head of a new school. You know that I have +done everything I could to further your inclinations and develop your +talent, that I have opposed you in nothing. You know also that the +technique of playing took you only a short time to learn, and that +your mind has been busier than your fingers. If others have spent whole +days in practising scales, you have rarely passed an hour on the works +of others. Experts can distinguish genius from its earliest moments, +but they cannot prophesy the peak it will reach.” + +Even more remarkable was the letter from his sister Louise, who had run +to Elsner to lay before him the dilemma in which the whole family was +plunged. The aged teacher, like the young sister, had soon found traces +of a calculating self-interest in the proposal of the virtuoso. And +they said so, they who had simple hearts, they who had faith. “Elsner +was angry. He cried ‘Jealousy already,—three years, indeed!’ and tossed +his head. Then he added: ‘I know Frederick. He is good, but he has no +pride, no ambition; he is easily swayed. I shall write him what I think +of all this.’ Sure enough, this morning he brought a letter which I +am sending you. He went on talking to us about this business. We who +judge men in the simplicity of our hearts thought Kalkbrenner the most +honest man in the world; but Elsner was not altogether of this opinion. +He said: ‘They recognized a genius in Frederick, and they are afraid +of being supplanted by him. That is why they would like to have their +hands on him for three years, so that they could stop the growth that +Nature would develop if she were left alone.’ Elsner does not want you +to imitate, and he expresses himself well when he says: ‘No imitation +is worth the original.’ As soon as you begin imitating you cease to +be creative, and, although you are young, your own conceptions may be +better than those of many others.... Then, M. Elsner does not only want +to see in you a concert player, a famous virtuoso, which is easier and +less worth while, but he wants to see you attain the goal towards which +Nature is urging you and for which she has made you. What irritated him +extremely was, as he says, ‘the presumption and arrogance that after +having run over your orchestration would pick up a pencil to strike out +passages without ever having heard the concerto with the full effect +of the orchestra.’ He says that it would have been quite another thing +to have advised you when you write concerto, to shorten the _allegro_: +but to make you erase what was already written, that he cannot pardon. +Elsner compared it to taking a seemingly unnecessary pillar away from +a house that had already been built, with the result of changing +everything in eliminating what was deemed bad. I think that Elsner is +right in declaring that to be superior it is necessary to excel not +only one’s teachers but also one’s contemporaries. You can excel them +by imitating them, but then, that is following in their tracks. And +he says that you, who already know what is good and what is better, +should now be making your own path. Your genius will guide you. One +more thing, he said. ‘Frederick has drawn from his native soil this +distinguishing particularity: the rhythm—shall I say?—which makes him +as much more original and characteristically himself as his ideas are +more noble than others.’ He would like you to retain that. We do not +understand these things as well as you do, my dear little Fritz, and we +cannot advise you; we can only send you our comments.” + +It is beautiful, this letter. It is not literature, but it goes to +the root of the matter. Frederick followed its councils and preferred +to remain himself, even were it at the expense of a rapid success. +Meanwhile, Kalkbrenner had the wisdom not to be annoyed at seeing this +prize pupil refuse to allow himself to be convinced. Their friendship +persisted. It was even Kalkbrenner who presented him to the directors +of the famous house of Pleyel. Chopin attached himself to other +artists, particularly to Hiller, pianist, composer, and musical critic, +and to Franchomme, the celebrated violoncellist, both of whom aided him +to organize his opening concert. + +This took place on the 26th of February, 1832, in the Salons Pleyel. +Frederick had got it up with the greatest care amid constantly renewed +difficulties. He had recruited for the occasion five violinists (among +them Urhan, Liszt’s friend, and Baillot), who were to play Beethoven’s +_Quintette_. Mlles. Tomeoni and Isambert were to sing. Kalkbrenner, +Stamati, Hiller, Osborne, Sowinski and Chopin were to play a _Grande +Polonaise_ for six pianos, composed by Kalkbrenner himself; then Chopin +was to play his _Concerto in F minor_ and his _Variations on the “La +ci darem”_ of Mozart. The _Grande Polonaise_ for six pianos disquieted +him. “It is a mad idea, isn’t it?” he wrote to Titus. “One of the +grand pianos is very large: it is Kalkbrenner’s; another is very small: +that is mine.” He never loved show. Besides, concerts for the general +public were always odious to him. So on this evening of February 26th, +there stepped on the platform a very pale young man, whose attitude +betrayed a very sincere annoyance much more than it did a dramatic +inspiration. The hall was only half-filled and that mostly with Poles, +critics and musicians. In the front row could be seen the handsome +features of Liszt. A stunning silence descended when Chopin had slipped +his first caresses over the keyboard. + +Then there arose from the piano a voice such as no one, ever, had heard +before. Yet each recognized in it the cry of his innermost self. It +was neither a tale, nor a brilliant commentary, but the simple song +of life; an authentic revelation; the essential word of the heart. +By means of a delicate rightness, which is the strength of the pure, +Chopin transported these connoisseurs. Liszt himself, whose “doubled +and redoubled applause was not sufficient to express his enthusiasm,” +saw here the revelation of “a new phase of poetic feeling side by side +with innovations in the form of the art.” From that evening he gave him +his warm friendship. Fétis, the sharp but influential critic, declared: +“Here is a young man who, abandoning himself to his natural feelings, +and following no model, has discovered, if not a complete renovation +of piano music, at least a part of what we have long been vainly +seeking: an abundance of original ideas which fit into no earlier +classification.” + +Chopin accepted these eulogies without pride and without false +modesty, because he totally lacked all vanity. The receipts were +counted; they barely sufficed to cover expenses. But that was nothing +in comparison to another disappointment: the French public had not +attended. The artist’s object, therefore, had not been achieved. When, +towards midnight, he returned to his room, Chopin believed that fate +had pronounced an unfavourable verdict, and he conceived the idea of +leaving for America. + +He had hardly any money left. His friends were still few, being limited +to a small number of artists and compatriots. Ah, how happy Meyerbeer +must be, having just had produced his _Robert the Devil_, a mine of +gold and glory! Chopin confided to Titus: “Chance brought me here. +Here one can certainly breathe freely. But perhaps one also sighs +more, too. Paris is everything that you want it to be. Here you can +amuse yourself, be bored, laugh, cry, do whatever you like without +anyone giving you a glance. I doubt whether there is a city on earth +where more pianists are to be found than in Paris, or more asses and +virtuosi. Ah, how I wish I had you with me. If you only knew how sad +it is not to be able to relieve one’s soul. I like the society of +people. I make friends easily, and am up to my ears in acquaintances; +but there is no one, no one who can understand me. My heart always +beats, so to speak, in swoons, and I resent it and should like a +pause,—solitude,—with not a single soul to see me or speak to me all +day long. Above all, I detest hearing my bell ring when I am writing to +you.” + +However, it rang a good deal, that little bell, and was mostly pulled +by that worst of the bores, the deadly, the awful, the ridiculous +Sowinski. “He is just coming in to see me. It is something big, and +strong, and it wears a tiny moustache; it sits down at the piano and +improvises without knowing why. It bangs, it knocks, it crosses its +hands without rhyme or reason; for five minutes at a time it batters +a defenceless key. It has enormous fingers made rather to hold the +reins and the whip somewhere in the wilds of the Ukraine. It has no +other virtues than a tiny moustache and a big heart.... When shall +we see each other again? Maybe never, because I assure you that my +health is wretched. Outwardly, I am gay, but within I am consumed. Dark +forebodings, restlessness, insomnia, home-sickness, indifference to +everything. Pleasure in life, then immediately afterwards,—longing for +death....” + +Other friends come and go through Chopin’s little apartment: Albert +Grzymala, Count Plater, Liszt, Berlioz, who arrives from Rome and +has great plans, Polish refugees. But money these young people +have practically none, and Frederick, in spite of the “little +reinforcements” that his father sends him, sees his resources vanish. + +As for love, that was a luxury of which he must not think. The +memory of Constance faded after Isabelle informed her brother of the +marriage of that faithless one: “Like you I marvel that anyone could +be so callous. It is easy to see that a fine château was a greater +attraction. She had feeling only in her singing!” But chastity is the +natural estate of the poor, and pleasure was a word that Chopin did not +even understand. Living just below him, however, was a fresh, pretty +woman. They met sometimes on the stairs, smiled, occasionally exchanged +a few words. She heard from his room the passionate harmonies that this +handsome male angel invented... for whom? Once she said to him: + +“Come and see me some evening. I am often alone and I adore music.” + +He refused, blushing. Yet a regret escaped him on paper, in his cold +room: “I should have found a hearth, a fire. It would be nice to warm +myself at it.” + + + + + CHAPTER VII + + Happy Years, Working Years + + +“To-morrow,” he wrote to his family, “to-morrow I cross the seas.” He +crossed the Boulevards and encountered Prince Valentin Radziwill. + +This Radziwill family seems to have had a special influence on the +life of Chopin. What beautiful analogies one could draw in comparing +this encounter with such another when some pope, king, lord or +_fermier-général_ changed in one instant the fortunes of an artist +apparently condemned to the miscarriage of his genius. It seems +that there are between art and opulence secret and unconscious +fructifications. François I never seems to us more inspired than in +paying the debts of Clément Marot or in welcoming Leonardo da Vinci +on the terrace of Amboise, nor Jules II more sympathetic than when +climbing the scaffoldings of Michelangelo. Never does Elizabeth +of England seem more intelligent than when she commissions _The +Merry Wives of Windsor_ from the pen of Shakespeare, and Fouquet, +Treasurer-General, is remembered only because he subsidized La +Fontaine. Had they dictated their biographies themselves, these great +princes would doubtless have made no mention of such trivial gestures. +In the same way, this Radziwill dreamed not of adding a meritorious +line to his life when, meeting on the Boulevards this pitiful +compatriot, he proposed to take him that very evening to see Baron de +Rothschild. It is, however, from that casual proposal that the glory of +Chopin dates. + +Baron de Rothschild received the most exclusive society. Chopin was +asked to play and he acceded with good grace. In a moment he captured +the elegant world, and on the morrow was bombarded with invitations +and requests for lessons. The Maréchale Lannes, Princess de Vaudemont, +Count Apponyi, and Prince Adam Czartoryski made themselves his +protectors. The lessons he gave cost no less than twenty francs an +hour. He changed his lodgings twice and finally installed himself at +No. 5 Chaussée d’Antin. Everybody began to talk of this poet who, in +the evening, in the rare salons where he would consent to play, would +people the darkness with a conclave of fairies. He called it “telling +little musical stories.” They were tales of infinite variety, since +it was above all in improvising that he showed his boldness. The +incompleteness of his sketches opened the avenues of the imagination +wherein the spirit lost itself. Chopin possessed to a high degree +this power of suggestion, the artist’s most precious gift. He talked +to himself, did not finish, and left to his hearers the pleasure of +having clothed with notes for an instant forms and feelings which then +evaporated into nothingness. “Divine gambols,” said Berlioz on hearing +them. “A cloud of love, winter roses,” said Liszt. “By the wonderful +gate,” he added, “Chopin leads you into a world where everything is +a delightful miracle, a mad surprise, a miracle come true. But you +must be initiated to know how to cross the threshold.” And Frederick +confided once to his friend Franz: + +“I am not at all the person to give concerts. The crowd intimidates +me; I feel asphyxiated by their breaths, paralysed by their curious +stares, mute before these strange faces. But you, you are destined for +it, because when you don’t win your public, you know how to knock them +dead.” + +Chopin himself would not have had the strength. He only sought to +win them. Furthermore, was it really this that he wanted? The public +mattered so little to him. It was his own pain that he chanted and +enchanted. He did not like to express himself through others and, Bach, +Beethoven and Mozart apart, he interpreted none but himself. + +For Chopin, as later for Wagner, the superfluous was the only +necessity. The money that was now coming in more or less abundantly, +was spent in poetic pleasures; a smart cabriolet, beautifully cut +clothes, white gloves, expensive suppers. He took great pains with the +furnishing of his apartment, putting in crystal lustres, carpets and +silver, and he insisted on being supplied with flowers in all seasons. +When his new women friends came—Countess Delphine Potoçka, Princess +Marceline Czartoryska, Mlle. O’Meara, Princess de Beauvau, the rule was +that they should bring a rose or orchids that the artist would put in a +vase and endlessly contemplate, like a Japanese enraptured by a unique +print. + +Happy years, working years. Chopin composed a solid portion of his +work. In 1833 he published five _Mazurkas_, the _Trio_ for piano, +violin and violoncello, three _Nocturnes_, the twelve great _Etudes_ +dedicated to Liszt, the _Concerto in E minor_, and in 1834 the _Grand +Fantasia_ on Polish airs, the _Krakoviak_ for piano and orchestra, +three more _Nocturnes_, the _Rondeau in E flat major_ dedicated to +Caroline Hartmann, four new _Mazurkas_, and the _Grand Waltz in E flat +major_. His works were played by the greatest of the virtuosi at many +concerts: Liszt, Moschelès, Field, Kalkbrenner and Clara Wieck. Liszt +said of him: “A sick-room talent,” and Auber: “All his life he slays +himself.” For Chopin, in spite of his success, was still suffering from +nostalgia, and one day when his friend and pupil Gutmann was playing +the third _Etude_, in E major, Chopin, who said he had never written +a lovelier melody, cried suddenly, “Oh, my country!” Truly, for this +young man of twenty-four, the mother country was always the strongest +passion. He gave a Dantesque sadness to this name of Poland, more +powerful on his heart than the call of a mistress. The hurt must have +been deep indeed for Orlowski, in writing to his people, to take note +of it as of a tubercular illness. “Chopin is well and vigorous,” he +says. “He turns all the women’s heads. The men are jealous. He is the +fashion. Doubtless we shall soon be wearing gloves _à la Chopin_. But +home-sickness is burning him up.” The fact was that Poland remained +the living spring, the reservoir whence he drew his dreams and his +sentiments, the only effective rhythm,—in sun, the dynamo of his +energies. Inspiration is chance caught on the wing. But art is not +found hidden like the dove in the magician’s hat. Perhaps it is only +perfect self-knowledge, the true perception of one’s own limitations, +and the modulations that life teaches to our youthful fine enthusiasms. +The Marquis de Custine wrote to Chopin: “When I listen to you I always +think myself alone with you, and even perhaps with greater than you! or +at least with all that is greatest in you.” + + * * * * * + +In the spring of ’34 Chopin and his friend Hiller went together to +the Festival of Music at Aix-la-Chapelle. There they encountered +Mendelssohn, who took a liking to the Pole and never tired of listening +to his playing. He called him the first among pianists, and always +reproached him, as well as Hiller, for the Parisian mania for a pose of +despair. “I look like a schoolmaster,” he said, “while they resemble +dandies and beaux.” + +They returned by Düsseldorf and Cologne to Paris, where Chopin had the +pleasure of seeing and entertaining his friend Matuszinski, who had +just been made professor at the Ecole de Médecine. This was a period +of the greatest serenity, for to his quiet fame Chopin could add the +joy of daily companionship with one of his “brothers.” He exerted +himself, entertained guests, played in public more than he usually +did. On the 7th of December, at the Théâtre Italien, he appeared at a +concert organized by Berlioz in honour of Harriet Smithson, the Irish +actress he had just married. On Christmas Day, at the Salle Pleyel, he +played, with Liszt at the other piano, a duet by Liszt on a theme of +Mendelssohn. On the 15th of February, 1835, he took part in a concert +at the Salle Erard, and on April 4th he played for the benefit of +the Polish refugees. Berlioz wrote in the _Rénovateur_, “Chopin, as +a player and as a composer, is an artist apart. He has no point of +resemblance to any other musician I know. Unhappily, there is no one +but Chopin himself who can play his music and give it that original +turn, that impromptu that is one of its principal charms; his execution +is veined with a thousand nuances of movement of which he alone has the +secret, and which cannot be indicated... The detail in his mazurkas is +unbelievable; then he has found a way to make them doubly interesting +by playing them to the last degree of softness, with superlative +_piano_, the hammers touching the strings so lightly that one is +tempted to bend the ear over the instrument as one might at a concert +of sylphs and pixies.” + +But the crowd always awards the palms to brilliance, and Chopin, +deciding that it had not given his _Concerto in E minor_ the reception +he expected, declared that he was neither understood nor made for +concerts, and made up his mind to abstain from appearing in public for +a long time. + +Nevertheless, he played once more in public, on the 26th of April, +1835, at the Conservatory. This was the only time he ever appeared in +that famous hall. He played his _Polonaise brillante_, preceded by an +_Andante Spianato_. + +He found compensation for these slight professional disappointments in +the friendship of the Italian Bellini, towards whom he was drawn by a +quick sympathy and whom he often saw. He was further distracted by an +interest in a celebrated beauty, Countess Delphine Potoçka. + +She was twenty-five, of regal bearing, with a delicately chiselled +nose, a most passionate mouth, and the high, pensive forehead of the +true voluptuary. Her whole appearance suggested a slender and puissant +goddess, but whatever luxuriance she had was cooled by the severity of +her glance. + +Miçkiewicz said that she was “the greatest of all sinners,” and +Krasinski apostrophized her in a poem in the manner of Mephistopheles: +“O stay, for thou art true beauty.” Frederick let himself float in the +sensual _rayonnement_ of this beautiful animal of love. For the first +time his head was turned. The sumptuous voice of Delphine enchanted +him. He accompanied her at the piano, strove to make her soul be born +again, to give it back its flower, and watched for possible beautiful +vibrations; but the soul was the servant of this imperial flesh. +Once or twice, however, she seemed to come out of her lethargy, to +spread herself on an admirable note that sprang from the depths of her +unconscious self, but immediately after, the shrieks, the laughter, the +exigencies of this ravishing hysteric extinguished these gleams. And +as the platonic love towards which Chopin wanted to direct her seemed +to Delphine both comic and impossible, she gave herself before he had +ever dreamed of asking her. + +The adventure was of short duration. The Countess had a jealous +husband, who, by cutting off her allowance, obliged this prodigal lady +to make a prompt departure for Poland, whence she did not return till +later on. But she retained a lasting affection for Chopin. The only +lines from her to the artist that have been discovered furnish discreet +witness to the fact: + +“I shall not annoy you with a long letter, but I do not want to remain +longer without news of your health and your plans for the future. I am +sad to think of you abandoned and alone... Here my time is passed in an +annoying fashion, and I hope not to have still more vexations. But I am +disgusted. Everyone for whom I have done anything has repaid me with +ingratitude. On the whole, life is one long dissonance. God bless you, +dear Chopin. Good-bye.” + +“One long dissonance,” so had Liszt already spoken. There was in +these tormented bodies an invincible straining towards the suavest +harmonies. At least in these beings—male or female—in whom the feminine +predominates. But this is not the case with Chopin, whose musical +travail was always virile. He would have subscribed to the words of +Beethoven: “Emotion is good only for women; for man, music must draw +fire from his spirit.” And even more, perhaps, to those quoted by +Schumann from the German poet Johann-Paul Richter: “Love and friendship +pass through this earth veiled and with closed lips. No human being can +tell another how much he loves him; he knows only that he does love +him. The inner man has no language; he is mute.” + + + + + CHAPTER VIII + + Marie Wodzinska and the Dusk + + +In the summer of 1835, Chopin learned that his parents were going very +shortly to Carlsbad to take the cure and he decided on the spot to +get there first. The sentiments that bound him to his own people were +still the most vital that he knew. So he left, his heart melting with +tenderness. When he saw them, after five years of separation, he wrote +to his sisters, who had remained at Warsaw, with transports that might +have been mistaken for those of a rapturous lover. + +“Our joy is indescribable. We do nothing but embrace one another... is +there any greater happiness? What a pity we are not all together! How +good God is to us! I write just anyhow; to-day it is better to think +of nothing at all, to rejoice in the happiness we have attained. That +is all I have to-day. Our parents have not changed; they are just the +same; they have only grown a little older. We walk together, holding +the arm of our sweet little mother... We drink, we eat together. We +coax and bully each other. I am simply overflowing with happiness. +These are the very habits, the very movements with which I grew up; it +is the same hand that I have not kissed for so long... And here it has +come true, this happiness, this happiness, this happiness!” + +For their part, the father and mother found their son not in the least +changed. It was joy inexhaustible, but brief, and like a preface +to profounder emotions. For Frederick was invited to Dresden, to +his friends the Wodzinskis, and he already felt those annunciatory +quiverings, that exquisite fear, those physiological presentiments +which notify our inner being of the imminent conception of love. + +In his father’s boarding-school Chopin had had as comrades the three +Wodzinski brothers, and since his childhood he had known their younger +sister Marie. This great land-owning family had moved to Geneva for +the education of the children, and had lived there during the years +of the Polish Revolution. They had lived at first in a house in the +Place St.-Antoine, and later in a villa on the shore of the lake, +and they had not been long in gathering round them the flower of +Genevese society and of the foreign colony. Familiar guests in their +drawing-rooms were Bonstetten, Sismondi, Mlle. Salandin de Crans, +Prince Louis Napoleon and Queen Hortense. + +Marie was nineteen years old. The trace of Italian blood which flowed +in her veins (through the Orsettis, who had come from Milan to Poland +with Bona Sforza, the betrothed of one of the last kings of the dynasty +of Jagellons), this trace had made her dark-haired, lively, with great +black eyes and a full-lipped mouth the smile of which, a poet said, was +passion incarnate. Some called her ugly, others ravishing. This means +that in her face, half Slav, half Florentine, everything derived from +the expression. “The brunette daughter of Euterpe,” she was called by +Prince Napoleon, who liked to listen to her playing the piano while +he smoked his cigar in the Place St.-Antoine. For Marie practised +all sorts of minor talents; piano, singing, composing, embroidery, +painting, without the will or the ability to fix her preference. The +most pertinent thing about her, was her charm, the profound reaction, +possibly unconscious, of a very rich temperament. From her fourteenth +year she had been passionately loved. Readily she used her power over +men, disconcerting them with coquetry. Her imagination was rapid, her +memory exact. + +Such was the childhood companion whom Chopin was to meet again at +Dresden, where the Wodzinski family were settled for a time. Frederick +was more curious than moved at seeing her again. He even wondered if +it were not simply a matter of musical interest, Marie having formerly +been one of his small pupils. She still occasionally sent him one of +her compositions. Had he not only a few weeks before replied to one of +these communications by sending her in turn a page of his own music? +“Having had to improvise in a drawing-room here the very evening that +I received it, I took for a subject the lovely theme of a Marie with +whom, years ago, I used to play hide-and-seek... To-day I take the +liberty of offering to my honourable colleague, Mlle. Marie, a little +waltz I have just written. May it give her a hundredth part of the +pleasure I felt when playing her _Variations_.” + +So he arrived at Dresden. He saw her once again. He was won. He loved +her. This town, which he had already visited twice, seemed altogether +new and enchanting. In the mornings Marie and Frederick went out +together, filled with delicious melancholy. They walked along the +terrace of Bruhl and watched the flow of the Elbe, sat under the +chestnuts of the Grossgarten, or lingered in ecstasy in the Zwinger +Museum before Raphaël’s Madonna. + +Together they paid a call on that Grand Mistress of the Court who had a +few years before taken such pride in producing Chopin for Their Saxon +Highnesses. In the evening the family visited one of Marie’s uncles, +Palatin Wodzinski, who had presided at the last meeting of the Polish +Senate before the fall of Warsaw. Exiled, the greater part of his +wealth confiscated, the old man was now living at Dresden, the second +capital of his ancient kings, surrounded by his prints, his books and +his medals. He was an aristocratic little man, with a smooth face and +a white wig. In his day he had soldiered, had received Napoleon at +Wilna, and had been taken prisoner at Leipzig, at the side of the dying +Poniatowski. He had the serious defect of a dislike for music, and now +that they were playing every evening at his house he spent his time +observing, rather peevishly, that his little niece was turning her +shining eyes on this maker of mazurkas. Still more did he disapprove +of certain sighs and whisperings that came from a corner of the room +where this inseparable couple isolated themselves under the very nose +of everybody. So he coughed loudly, adjusted his toupée, and addressed +his sister-in-law:— + +“An artist, a little artist without a future... Ah! that is not what I +have dreamt of for your daughter.” + +“Two children,” replied the Countess, laughing. “An old friendship.” + +“We all know where that leads to...” + +“But he is a child of the house, just as Antoine, Félix and Casimir +were Professor Chopin’s children. Why sadden the poor boy? He is so +tender, so obliging.” + +And Frederick continued his love duets at the piano or on the terrace, +in spite of the Palatin’s rebuking eyebrows and under the mother’s +indulgent eyes. A whole month slipped by in these passionate new +experiences. Then he had to think of leaving. One September morning he +went up for the last time to the salon where the girl was awaiting him. +A handful of roses strewed the table. She took one and gave it to him. +The hour of eleven struck from the clock on the Frauenkirche. Chopin +stood rigidly before her, pale, his eyes fixed. Perhaps he was thinking +of that death of the self—that parting always is, whatever it promises +for the future. Or was he listening to the melodic rhythm of his pain? +In any case the only expression of sorrow that welled to the surface +was the theme of a waltz. He sat down at the piano and played it, +hiding thus all the cries of his loneliness. + +Later, Marie called it _La Valse de l’Adieu_. It is worth noting that +Chopin, restrained by an insurmountable pride, never published it. +He did write it out, however, recopied it, and gave it to his friend +on that last day with this very simple dedication: “For Mlle. Marie, +Dresden, September, 1835.” Fontana published it after the death of the +composer (Posthumous Works, op. 69, no. 1, _Waltz in A flat major_). +One wants to catch in it “the murmur of two lovers’ voices, the +repeated strokes of the clock, and the rumble of wheels scorching the +pavement, the noise of which covers that of repressed sobs.” It is +possible, after all, in spite of Schumann and his mute language. Be +that as it may, Chopin kept the flower Marie gave him. We shall find it +later, placed in an envelope and marked by him for whom sorrow and the +ideal had always the scent of an autumn rose. + + * * * * * + +On his way back, Chopin stopped at Leipzig, where he again saw +Mendelssohn, who took him straight to Wieck, his daughter, Clara, and +Robert Schumann. The small house of the Wiecks’ that day sheltered the +three greatest composers of the age. + +After his arrival in Paris, Chopin shut himself up at home in order +to live in close relationship with the loved face that now bloomed in +his desert. He wrote. He received letters. These were, on both sides, +a little flat, because neither of them knew how to talk well except +through music. But what of it? A lover’s pen is not necessarily +literary nor abounding in sentiments. There are even those who, in +their exigency, scorn the worn vocabulary of love. To the novices and +the pure, the palest nuances are enough to show the naked heart. Listen +with Chopin’s delicate ear to the gossamer letters of Marie Wodzinska: + + “Though you do not like either to receive or to write letters, + I nevertheless want to profit by the departure of M. Cichowski + to send you news of Dresden since you left. So I am annoying you + again, but no longer by my playing. On Saturday, when you had gone, + all of us went about sadly, with our eyes full of tears, in the + room where only a few minutes before we had still had you with us. + Father came in presently, and was so sorry not to have been able + to say good-bye. Every minute or so Mother, in tears, would speak + of some traits of ‘her fourth son Frederick,’ as she called you. + Félix looked quite cast down: Casimir tried to make his jokes as + usual, they did not come off that day as he played the jester, + half-crying. Father teased us and laughed himself only to keep from + crying. At eleven the singing master arrived; the lesson went very + badly, we could not sing. You were the subject of all conversation. + Félix kept asking me for the _Waltz_ (the last thing of yours we + had received and heard). All of us found pleasure in it, they in + listening and I in playing, because it reminded us of the brother + who had just left us. I took it to be bound; the German opened his + eyes wide when he saw a single page (he did not know by whom it + had been written). No one to dinner; we kept staring at your place + at the table, then too at ‘Fritz’s little corner.’ The small chair + is still in place and probably will be as long as we keep this + apartment. In the evening we were taken to my aunt’s to spare us + the sadness of this first evening without you. Father came to fetch + us saying that it was as impossible for him as it had been for us, + to stay in the house that day. It was a great relief to leave the + spot that kept renewing our sorrow. Mother talks to me of nothing + but you and Antoine. When my brother goes to Paris, think a little + of him, I beg you. If you only knew what a devoted friend you have + in him,—a friend such as one rarely finds! Antoine is good-hearted, + too much so, because he is always the dupe of others. And he is + very careless; he never thinks of anything, or rarely, at least... + When by some miracle you have an impulse to write: ‘How are you? + I am well. I have no time to write further,’ add, I beg, _yes_ or + _no_ to the question I want to ask you: Did you compose ‘_If I were + a little sun up there, for none but you would I want to shine_’? I + received this a day or so ago and I have not the courage to sing + it, because I fear, if it is yours, that it would be altogether + changed, like _Wojak_, for instance. We continually regret that + you are not named _Chopinski_, or at least that there is not some + indication to show that you are Polish, because then the French + would not be able to dispute with us the honour of being your + compatriots. But this is too long. Your time is so precious that it + is really a crime to make you spend it reading my scrawls. Besides, + I know you do not read them all through. Little Marie’s letter will + be stuck away in a corner after you have read a few lines. So I + need not reproach myself further about stealing your time. + + “Good-bye (simply). A childhood friend needs no fine phrases. + Mother embraces you tenderly. Father and my mother embrace you + sincerely (no, that is too little) in the most—I do not yet know + how to say it myself. Joséphine, not having been able to say + good-bye, asks me to express her regrets. I asked Thérèse: ‘What + shall I say to Frederick for you?’ She answered: ‘kiss him and give + him my regards.’ + + “Good-bye, + “Maria. + + “P.S. When you started out, you left the pencil of your portfolio + on the piano. This must have been inconvenient on the way; as for + us, we are keeping it respectfully as a relic. Once again, thank + you very much for the little vase. Mlle. Wodzinska came in this + morning with a great discovery. ‘Sister Maria, I know how they say + Chopin in Polish,—Chopena!’” + +Frederick replied, sent his music, and above all, composed. The year +1836 opened under the sign of Marie. He published the _Concerto in F +minor_ and the _Grande Polonaise_ for piano and orchestra. He wrote the +_Ballade in G minor_, which is the monument to his love. + +It is not deliberately that an artist discovers and then fashions the +residue of his amorous experiences. He receives his joys and sufferings +within himself and leaves them to ferment. It is only after the rude +labour of his conflicts with himself, after the corrosion of each of +his illusions, under the salt of his tears, that the costly fruit of +which he bears the germ can be born. From this obscure chemistry, from +the disillusionment which Marie’s letters, little by little, brought to +him, came the _Ballade in G minor_ (op. 23). Schumann called it one of +the most bitter and personal of Chopin’s works. He might have added, +the saddest, and thus the most passionate, for there is no passion +without pain. Here we see passion itself crucified, and hear its cries. + +How powerful is the instinct of the poet to submit his pain to the form +of narrative, like a heroic tale! For in theory the ballad is a song +with accompaniment. Under this form of legend Chopin transposed the +ancient malady of man, which had become for a second time his own. It +is in this way, by what it tells us of him, involuntarily, that the +_Ballade in G minor_, irresistible in its unique and unhappy sentiment, +retains an accent that flatters us. It convinces us that we also are +marked by the sign of love. + +Schumann, who saw him again that summer, at Leipzig, tells of the +magical hours they spent together at the piano. To listen to the +dreamer was to become oneself the dream of his spirit. But nothing +could be more exasperating than Chopin’s habit of drawing his finger +rapidly from one end of the keyboard to the other at the end of each +piece, as though forcibly to drive away the dream he had created. + +A curious detail: in the original edition of the _Ballade_, there +appears in the last bar of the introduction a _D_, evidently written +with an _E_ flat and corrected later. Saint-Saëns writes on this +subject: “This supposed _E_ gives a dolorous accent which is quite +in keeping with the character of the piece. Was it a misprint? Was +it the original intention of the author? This note marks a dissonant +accent, an effect of surprise. But dissonances, sought out to-day like +truffles, were then distrusted. From Liszt, whom I questioned on the +subject, I could obtain only this reply: ‘I prefer the _E flat_....’ I +concluded from this evasive answer that Chopin, in playing the ballad, +sounded the _D_; but I am still convinced that the _E flat_ was his +original idea and that cowardly and clumsy friends persuaded him to the +D.” + +I reproduce this detail for the lovers of sources, for those who like +to surprise in the heart not the sweetest tones, but the most pure. +They will understand the distinction. + + * * * * * + +Thus Chopin worked, economized, and prepared for his next meeting with +Marie. He refused an invitation from Mendelssohn, who wanted him to +come to Düsseldorf for a music festival. He refused Schumann, although +he had signed his invitation “with love and adoration.” He reserved +all his forces for a trip to Marienbad, which he finally took in July, +1836. + +On a radiant summer morning Chopin reached the wooded hills round the +little Austrian watering place where his loved one was awaiting him. +The effect was so powerful that he closed his eyes as from a shock of +pain. In that instant, even before seeing her, a presentiment came to +him that he had reached the summit of his joy. He knew the unreasonable +agony advanced by false joys, finished, experienced, emptied, +almost before they have begun to exist. However, Marie’s agitated +face steadied him and gave him back his confidence. But a shade of +uneasiness, a slight tendency on the part of Marie and her mother to be +more ceremonious than they had been the year before, left him anxious. + +Nevertheless, they resumed the intimate family life which he loved. +Forebodings fled. There were walks in that agreeable country-side, +musical séances, evening talks, stories of his Paris life, memories. +Frederick shone with his talent for mimicry. He imitated famous +artists, assaulted the keys with a great waving of arms and hands, +went, as he said, “pigeon-shooting.” The Wodzinskis lived in a villa. +In their garden spread a tall lime-tree. During the hot hours of the +afternoon Marie and Frederick took refuge in its shade and the girl +sketched in charcoal the ever slightly grave features of this friend +who was at once so childlike and so mature. + +On August 24th they all returned to the beloved town of Dresden. There +they spent two more weeks. Two weeks which were to lead fatally to +the crisis. At dusk on the 7th of September, two days before Chopin’s +departure, he asked Marie to be his wife. She consented. That is all we +know, except that the Countess also gave her consent but imposed the +condition of secrecy. They were obliged to hide the decision from the +father, whom they would without doubt persuade, but whose family pride +made a rapid consent improbable. Besides, he thought Chopin in delicate +health. Frederick departed, carrying with him this promise and his own +despair. He knew that the presentiment of Marienbad had not deceived +him, and already he had lost his faith in happiness. + +However the Wodzinskis wrote to him,—especially the Countess. Marie +added little postscripts. Here is Mme. Wodzinska’s first letter:— + + “_14 Sept., ’36._ + + “Dear Frederick: + + “As we agreed I am sending you a letter... I should have sent it + two days ago if it had not been for a tooth which I had extracted + and from which I suffered greatly. I cannot sufficiently regret + your departure on Saturday; I was ill that day and could not put my + mind on _the dusk_. We spoke of it too little. + + “The next day I could have talked of it further. M. de Girardin + says: ‘To-morrow is always a great day.’ We have it still ahead of + us. Do not think I retract what I said,—no. But we must discuss + the path to follow. I only beg of you to keep the secret. Keep it + well, because everything depends on that... On October 15th I shall + be at Warsaw. I shall see your parents and your sisters; I shall + tell them that you are well and in excellent spirits: however, I + shall say nothing of _the dusk_.... Good-bye, go to bed at eleven + o’clock and until January 7th drink _eau de gomme_. Keep well, dear + Fritz: I bless you with all my soul, like a loving mother. + + “P.S. Marie sends you some slippers. They are a little big, but + she says you are to wear woollen stockings. This is the judgment + of Paris, and I trust you will be obedient; haven’t you promised? + Anyway, remember that this is a period of probation.” + +_The dusk_, it was so, among themselves, that they called Chopin’s +love. No chance name was ever more appropriate. + +To a letter which her brother Casimir sent off the next day, Marie +added these lines: “We cannot console ourselves for your departure; the +three days that have just passed have seemed like centuries; have they +to you? Do you miss your friends a little? Yes,—I answer for you, and +I do not think I am mistaken; at least I want to believe not. I tell +myself that this _yes_ comes from you (because you would have said it, +wouldn’t you?). + +“The slippers are finished; I am sending them to you. I am chagrined +that they should be too large, in spite of the fact that I gave your +shoe as a measure, _carissimo maestro_, but the man is a common German. +Dr. Paris consoles me by saying this is good for you as you should wear +very warm woollen stockings this winter. + +“Mamma has had a tooth out, which has made her very weak. She has +had to stay in bed ever since. In two weeks we leave for Poland. I +shall see your family, which will be a joy for me, and that sweet +Louise,—will she remember me? Good-bye, _mio carissimo maestro_. Do not +forget Dresden for the present, or in a little while Poland. Good-bye, +_au revoir_. Ah, if it could be soon! + + “Maria. + +“Casimir says that the Sluzewo piano is in such ramshackle condition +that it cannot be used. So think about a Pleyel. In the happy days, not +like to-day (as far as we are concerned), I hope to hear you play on +the same piano. _Au revoir, au revoir, au revoir!_ That gives me hope.” + +Such is the most passionate letter Chopin ever received from Marie +Wodzinska. In October another letter from the Countess, another +postscript from Marie. + + “_October 2nd—Dusk._ + + “Thank you ever so much for the autographs. Will you please send + some more? (Mamma makes me write this.) Now we are leaving at once + for Warsaw. How I shall rejoice to see all your family and next + year _you_!... Good-bye, till _May_, or _June_ at the latest. I + recommend to your memory your very faithful secretary. + + “Marie.” + +In January, 1837, Countess Wodzinska was disturbed about a Pleyel piano +Chopin had sent her. She thanked him for a new supply of autographs, +and added this slightly ambiguous sentence at the end of her letter: +“From now on we must inform ourselves still more prudently about our +loved one.” Marie put in her postscript, her “imposition,” one would +like to say. + +“Mother has been scolding. I thank you so much,—so much. And when we +see each other again I shall thank you even more kindly. You can see +how lazy I am about writing, because to put off my thanks till our +next meeting spares me many words to-day. Mamma has described to you +our way of life. There is nothing left for me to say, except that it +is thawing; which is great news, isn’t it? This tranquil life we lead +here is what we need, so I like it,—for the present, I mean, because +I should not like it to be always so. One takes what comes with as +good grace as possible, when things cannot be different from what they +are. I occupy myself a little to kill time. Just now I have Heine’s +_Germany_, which interests me enormously. + +“But I must stop and leave you to God’s grace. I hope I do not need +to repeat to you the assurance of the sentiments of your faithful +secretary. + + “Marie.” + +This time Chopin must have discovered in the colourless words not the +least gleam of _the dusk_. The night had completely fallen. He took +down the album Marie had given him the year before to write in it a +page of music. For a year the pages had remained virgin. Chopin said: +“I could not have written anything at all in it, not if I had tried a +hundred years.” + +Now he could fill it, because he realized that Marie’s love was dead. +So he wrote on the first page a _Lento con gran expressione_ and eight +other melodies to the words of Witwicki and Miçkiewicz. Soon after, he +received in reply this letter, the last:— + + “_For Frederick Chopin._ + + “I can only write you a few words to thank you for the lovely + scrapbook you have sent me. I shall not try to tell you with what + pleasure I received it, as it would be in vain. Accept, I beg you, + the assurance of the gratitude I owe you. Believe in the life-long + attachment of our whole family for you, and particularly of your + naughtiest pupil and childhood friend. Good-bye. Mamma sends her + dearest love. Thérèse is always talking of her ‘Chopena.’ + + “Good-bye,—think of us, + “Maria.” + +It is hard to say whether it was heart or intelligence that was wanting +in this young woman. Besides,—it scarcely matters. Love is not within +the compass of all little girls any more than happiness is made for +difficult souls. “Perhaps we are worth more than happiness,” said Liszt +to Mme. d’Agoult. + +Chopin accepted the breaking of his engagement in silence. But neither +his heart nor his body recovered, ever. His friend Camille Pleyel took +him to London for a few days, to distract him. There he was very ill. +His latent tuberculosis seems to have begun its ravages at that time. + +The Marquis de Custine wrote him: “You have gained in sympathy, in +poetry; the melancholy of your compositions goes deeper into the heart +than ever before. One is alone with you even in the midst of the crowd. +It is not a piano, it is a soul...” + + * * * * * + +Chopin gathered the notes of Marie Wodzinska and placed them, with the +rose of Dresden, in an envelope on which he wrote these two Polish +words: “_Moïa Biéda_,” my grief. They found this poor packet, after his +death, tied with a loving ribbon. + + + + + CHAPTER IX + + First Sketch of George Sand + + +Some six years before this romance in such few words, we glanced at the +face of a woman bending over her paper and watched her enthusiastic +hand pen these words: “To live, how sweet! How good it is, in spite +of griefs, husbands... in spite of bitter pangs. To live,—how +intoxicating! To love, to be loved! That is happiness, that is Heaven!” +During these six years neither this heart, nor this body, nor this +hand had much slackened. To live, indeed, was the vital business of +George Sand, dumpy, greedy, and so formidably endowed for all the +extravagances of the spirit and the flesh. Nothing was too strong for +this small woman, so solid of head and of body. And no one had bested +her. In spite of her “bitter pangs,” her chagrin, for and against a +boorish and rapacious husband, this great-granddaughter of the Maréchal +de Saxe, this daughter of a daughter of the people had pretty well +solved the double tactical problem of happiness that she had set +herself: love and fame—enough to satisfy the most exigent appetites. +At twenty-seven, this provincial had written her first book and taken +her first lover. At thirty she could have said, like her ancestor +the Maréchal: “Life is a dream. Mine has been short, but it has been +beautiful.” Now, in her thirty-fourth year, this surprising pagan +thought herself finished, and for ever disgusted with pleasure. She +had not yet learned that the malady of desire, once it has opened in +a being its ever-living wound, has but a feeble chance of healing. At +least before the season of the great cold. + +But, to this malady of desire, Aurore Dudevant added a taste for +lengthy associations. Heart and head she was made for them,—and from +them had contracted the habits of bed and of thought. Jules Sandeau had +given her her pen name, her theories of “love free and divine,” and +her first experience of love. The disappointment that followed this +trial plunged her into war against all yokes, even that of sentiment. +Still, perhaps yoke is too heavy a word. Pressure is enough. To rid +herself, however, of such disturbing memories, she chose an intelligent +thaumaturgist, and, against love, a marvellous antiseptic: the writer +Mérimée. She confessed as much, at a later date, in a curious letter: +“On one of those days of weariness and despair I met a man of sublime +self-confidence, a man who was calm and strong, who understood nothing +of my nature and who laughed at my troubles. The vitality of his spirit +completely fascinated me; for a week I thought he had the secret of +happiness, that he would teach it to me, that his scornful indifference +would cure me of my childish susceptibilities. I believed that he had +suffered like me, and that he had triumphed over his surface emotions. +I do not yet know if I was wrong, if this man is strong by reason of +his greatness or of his poverty.... At any rate, at the age of thirty I +behaved as a girl of fifteen would not have done. The experience was a +complete failure.” + +This woman, so smothered in words, sometimes found a phrase that +plumbed the depths. She adds a little farther on, in that same letter +to Sainte-Beuve: “If Prosper Mérimée had understood me, he might +perhaps have loved me, and if he had loved me he might have vanquished +me, and if I had been able to submit to a man I should have been saved, +_because my liberty devours and kills me_.” Here is the real misfortune +of this gross temperament. It needed a master and from that time sought +it only among the weak. Her slight physiological inversion induced +psychological aberrations from which sprang all the wrongs which this +fine thinking animal committed against her own peace. + +Thus, there was thenceforth in the life of George Sand an _absent +being_. We can take those words to mean a kind of ideal lover, lord of +her thought and minister to her flesh, this marvellous twin self who +arouses our instincts but never satiates them, who invents our dearest +pains and stirs up our devils, yet like an angel bears us up to the +mystical union of souls. The difficulty is to find united in one being +all the colours of our own neurosis. We all join the chase, however, +giving each his own name to the pursuit. George Sand called it “the +search for her truth.” After all, why not? One might call truth the +rhythm from which our engines derive the greatest potential power, +whether this be for pleasure, for pain, for work, or for love. But we +must do Sand this justice, that next to her private ills the general +ill, “the suffering of the race, the view, the knowledge, meditation +on the destiny of man” also impassioned her elastic soul. She often +succeeded in forgetting herself in order to understand others. She knew +how to let her intelligence ripen, to give maturity to her thoughts. +Yet, in spite of the part she took in the idealistic battles of the +century, in spite of the intellectual influence which she exerted at +such an early age on the minds of her time, this woman’s profound +lament was that of her _Lélia_: “For ten thousand years I have cried +into the infinite,—‘Truth, truth!’ For ten thousand years the infinite +has answered,—‘Desire, desire!’” + +But here is this _désenchantée_, after her period of despair in 1833, +suddenly writing: “I think I have blasphemed Nature, and God perhaps, +in _Lélia_; God, who is not wicked, and who does not wreak vengeance +upon us, has sealed my mouth by giving me back my youthful heart and +by forcing me to admit that he has endowed us with sublime joys.” She +had just dined at the side of a fair young man of twenty-three, with +arrogant eyes and no eyelashes, with a slender waist and beautiful, +aristocratic hands, who scoffed loudly at all social idealism and +bent over to breathe in the women’s ears: “I am not gentle, I am +excessive.” He scoffed both at the “labouring classes” and at the +“ruling,” at St.-Simon and at the Abbé de Lamennais. He even said: “I +am more interested in the way Napoleon put on his boots than in all the +politics of Europe.” Women felt that his real interest was love. + +He paid immediate attention to his already celebrated neighbour with +the olive skin, who sent him a few days later the two volumes of her +_Leila_ with these inscriptions: the first: “To _Monsieur mon gamin +d’Alfred_;” the second “To Monsieur the Viscount Alfred de Musset, +respectful regards from his devoted servant, George Sand.” + +We know to-day in all its details the story of this liaison and its +magnificent expenditure of sorrows. We shall retain only certain +crystals, the bitter dregs left in their hearts by the excesses of two +fierce and consummate imaginations. It can be said that they devoured +each other. Their desires differed: the one more brutal, more ravenous, +less merciful; the other evil, maniacal, but savouring in little +bites the marrow of their mutual suffering. “Contract your heart, big +George,” he said. And she: “I no longer love you, but I still adore +you. I no longer want you, but I cannot now do without you.” They +departed for Venice, where these two sadists took vengeance on each +other for their double impotence: cerebral with him, physical with +her. And they continued nevertheless to desire and adore each other in +spite of their outworn senses and spent joys. Then came those tortures +that are self-inflicted for the stimulation of the senses. They soon +had nothing left but the taste of their tears. Finally, in the very +middle of the crisis, each of the two lovers sought refuge according +to his own temperament: George in work and Alfred in sickness. Then +the saviour appeared in the form of a handsome Venetian doctor on +whom, at the very bedside of the delirious poet, fell the brunt of the +reillumined desires of the other victim. No more pity, when the beast +is once more at large. And no more despair, when the dry scales fall +from an old love to leave naked a new body that melts to softness at +the first touch of unfamiliar lips. + +Musset departed. The three of them cultivated a curious relationship. +The following summer George wrote to Alfred: “Oh! that night of +rapture, when, in spite of ourselves, you joined our hands and said: +‘You love each other and still you love me; you have saved me body and +soul!’” And for his part Musset cried: “Poor George, poor dear child! +You thought yourself my mistress,—you were only my mother....” There +the word is spoken. That physiological inversion we mentioned could +at once assume another form. But the _mot juste_ is really that of +mother. Because Sand was above all maternal, protective, the mistress +_genetrix_. She needed to endow everything about her with the sentiment +of maternity. A few months later on, when everything was over between +them, the shrieks she uttered in her _Journal Intime_ over this badly +quenched love were again those of a mother deprived of her suckling. +“I love you! I would submit to every torture to be loved by you, and +you leave me! Ah! poor man, you are mad... It is your pride that leads +you... Oh, my poor children, how unhappy your mother is!... I want to +surround myself with pure and distinguished men. Away with the strong; +I want to see the artists: Liszt, Delacroix, Berlioz, Meyerbeer. I +shall be a man among them and we shall gossip and talk. Alfred shall +hear our bad jokes... Alas, if I only had him to-day! What haste I am +in to have him! If I had only a few lines from you once in a while, +just a word, permission to send you sometimes a little two-penny +picture bought on the _quai_, cigarettes I made myself, a bird, a +toy... Oh, my blue eyes, you will never look at me again! Lovely head, +I shall never see you bend over me again, or wrap you in sweet languor. +My little body, warm and supple, you will never stretch yourself out on +me, as Elisha on the dead child, to quicken it!” “Ah! who will care for +you, and for whom shall I care?” + +This was the punishment for loving a man devoid of passion. The depth +of her being, when she stirred it well, sent up always the same hope: +“I need to suffer for someone. I must nourish this maternal solicitude, +which is accustomed to guard over a tired sufferer.” + +A fancy for a kind of tribune of the people intervened to heal the +still live sore: she thought herself in love with Everard, he whom his +contemporaries called Michel de Bourges. She yielded him the virginity +of her intelligence. A cold love. The love of a slave who admires a +handsome captain and a just legislator. But no giving, no suffering, +nothing to blast deep caves of passion into the soul. Besides, Michel +de Bourges was anti-artist. She wanted to avenge art with irony. +“Berlioz is an artist,” she wrote to the master of rhetoric. “Perhaps +he is even criminal enough to think secretly that all the people in the +world are not worth a rightly placed chromatic scale, just as I have +the insolence to prefer a white hyacinth to the crown of France. But +rest assured that one can have these follies in one’s head and not be +an enemy of the human race. You are for sumptuary laws, Berlioz is for +demi-semi-quavers, I am for liliaceous plants.” + +This lawyer was nevertheless jealous underneath his coldness. He +was even tiresome. George Sand saw Liszt, found him handsome, and +received him at Nohant with his mistress, Marie d’Agoult. Envying +their still-young love, she noted in her diary: “What fearful calm +in my heart! Can the torch be extinguished?” It was not the torch +that was dying but the burned out candle lighted by the philosopher +whose penholder she had aspired to be. And still the old stubborn +idea reappeared: “My sweetest dream... consists in imagining the care +I might give you in your feeble old age.” One important service she +received from Michel was the winning of her action for divorce from +Casimir Dudevant. + +In the summer of 1836 she shook off the lover’s chain and broke the +hobble of a husband. She was free. On the spot she turned over her +two children, Maurice and Solange, to a young tutor by the name of +Pelletan, whom, to know him better, she put to the test by becoming +his mistress. Then she left for Geneva to join Liszt and the Countess +d’Agoult. She returned in the early autumn and settled for a time in +Paris with this couple, who were beginning to tire of solitude. All +three of them went to the Hôtel de France in the rue Laffitte. This +sedate bourgeois tavern became a communal dwelling of artists. On the +stairs one passed Eugène Sue, Miçkiewicz, the singer Nourrit, the Abbé +de Lamennais, Heinrich Heine. The musical gentlemen, with Liszt at the +head, spoke of nothing but Chopin. + +“Bring him to me,” demanded George. + +He came one evening with Hiller. Mr. Sand and Miss Chopin saw each +other for the first time. + +Returning home, Chopin said to his friend: “What an antipathetic woman +that Sand is! Is she really a woman? I’m inclined to doubt it.” + + + + + CHAPTER X + + Letters of Two Novelists + + +While Frederick Chopin, in the year 1837, was living out the slow +decomposition of his love, George Sand was back at her little Château +de Nohant. There she spent long months alone, with her children and +her work. The summer brought her the Liszt-d’Agoult ménage, nights of +music, new dreams of happiness. Then her mother died unexpectedly, +and she was obliged to return to Paris, while the Countess and Franz +took the road for Italy. She planned to rejoin them there, but was +prevented by a sudden inclination for the new tutor of her children, +Félicien Mallefille. The rupture with Michel de Bourges still bled +feebly, but George felt that she had finally “slain the dragon,” and +that this attachment, more stubborn than she had dreamed, would be +cured by a gentle affection, “less enthusiastic, but also less sharp,” +and, she hoped, lasting. She was mistaken. Six months were sufficient +to drain this spring to the bottom. Nevertheless she had pity on this +rather vapid lover, who never interested her physically. For several +months more she dragged him about with her luggage between Paris, +Fontainebleau, and Nohant. + +In January of 1838, the great Balzac stumbled one fine evening into +this country seat and stayed for several days. The two novelists +passed the nights in gossip and confidences. Balzac set down his +still warm impressions for Countess Hanska: “I reached the Château de +Nohant on Holy Saturday, about half-past seven in the evening, and +I found comrade George Sand in her dressing-gown, smoking an after +dinner cigar, in front of her fire in an immense empty room. She had +lovely yellow slippers ornamented with fringe, bewitching stockings +and red trousers. So much for her state of mind. As to physique, she +had doubled her chin like a prebendary. She has not a single white +hair in spite of her frightful misfortunes; her swarthy complexion has +not changed; her fine eyes are as brilliant as ever; she has the same +stupid air when she is thinking, because, as I told her after studying +her, her whole countenance is in her eye. She has been at Nohant for a +year, very sad and working prodigiously. She leads about the same life +that I do. She goes to bed at six in the morning and gets up at noon; I +go to bed at six in the evening and get up at midnight. But, naturally, +I conformed to her habits, and for three days we have gossiped from +five o’clock in the evening, after dinner, till five in the morning. +The result is that I know her, and she knows me, better after these +three talks than during the whole of the preceding four years, when she +used to visit me while she was in love with Jules Sandeau and when she +was attached to Musset... It was just as well that I saw her, for we +exchanged mutual confidences regarding Jules Sandeau... However, she +was even more unhappy with Musset, and now there she is, in profound +seclusion, raging at both marriage and love, because in each she has +found nothing but disappointment. + +“Her right male was hard to find, that is all. All the harder because +she is not amiable, and, consequently, loving her will always be beset +with difficulties. She is a bachelor, she is an artist, she is big, +generous, loyal, chaste; she has the features of a man. _Ergo_, she is +not a woman. While I was near her, even in talking heart to heart for +three days, I felt no more than before the itch of that gooseflesh of +gallantry that in France and in Poland one is supposed to display for +any kind of female. + +“It was to a friend I was talking. She has high virtues, virtues +that society regards askance. We discussed the great questions of +marriage and of freedom with a seriousness, a good faith, a candour, a +conscience worthy of the great shepherds who guide the herds of men. + +“For, as she said, with immense pride (I should not have dared think of +it myself), ‘Since by our writings we are preparing a revolution in the +customs of the future, I am not less struck by the inconveniences of +the one state than by those of the other.’ + +“We spent the whole night talking of this great problem. I am +absolutely in favour of liberty for the young girl and bondage for +the woman, that is, I want her to know before marriage what she is +undertaking: I want her to have considered everything; then, when +she has signed the contract, after having weighed the chances, to be +faithful to it. I gained a great point in making Mme. Dudevant realize +the necessity of marriage; but she will come to believe in it, I am +sure, and I feel that I have done good in proving it to her. + +“She is an excellent mother, adored by her children; but she dresses +her daughter Solange like a little boy, and that is not right. + +“She is like a man of twenty, _morally_, because she is chaste, modest, +and only an artist on the outside. She smokes inordinately, she plays +the princess, perhaps, a little too much, and I am convinced that +she portrayed herself faithfully as the princess in _Le Secrétaire +Intime_. She knew and said of herself, before I told her, just what +I think,—that she has neither power of conception nor the gift of +constructing plots, nor the ability to attain to the truth, nor the +art of pathos; but that, without knowing the French language, she has +_style_. This is true. She takes fame, as I do, lightly enough, and has +a profound scorn for the public, whom she calls _Jumento_. + +“I shall tell you of the immense and secret devotion of this woman +for these two men, and you will say to yourself that there is nothing +in common between the angels and the devils. All the follies she has +committed entitle her to glory in the eyes of great and beautiful +souls.... + +“Anyway, it is a man she would like to be, so much so that she has +thrown off womanhood, and is no longer a woman. A woman attracts and +she repels, and, since I am very masculine, if she produces that effect +on me, she must produce it on men who are like me. She will be unhappy +always. And so,—she is now in love with a man who is her inferior, and +in that covenant there is only disillusionment and disappointment for a +woman with a beautiful spirit. A woman should always love a man greater +than she, or she be so blinded that it is the same as though he were. + +“I have not come from Nohant unscathed. I carried away one enormous +vice; she made me smoke a _hooka_ with _Lattakieh_; it has suddenly +become a necessity to me...” + + * * * * * + +Balzac’s eye and ear were not mistaken in their diagnosis. Yet he could +neither fully see nor fully hear what was passing behind the windows +of this being who was more complex than he knew. This spring of 1838 +germinated once again the strong dark violet of a new love. + + * * * * * + +George Sand had been to Paris several times. She had seen Chopin again. +And the drama of pleasure, of difficulties, of pains, had involved +them. Both Sand and Chopin had come through too many sufferings to +turn the new page of their story with anything but distrust and +uncertainty. But with Chopin it had all been buried in silence, and his +music alone had received his queries and his secret raptures. We may +consult all his work of this period, which witnesses magnificently to +this: the _Twelve Studies_, dedicated to Mme. d’Agoult (Vol. 2, op. +25), the _Impromptu_ (Op. 29), the _Second Scherzo_ (Op. 31), the _Two +Nocturnes_ (Op. 32), the four mazurkas of op. 30 (C minor, B minor, D +flat major, and C sharp minor), the three _Valses Brillantes_ of op. +34, and four other mazurkas (op. 33) dedicated to Mlle. la Comtesse +Mostowska. + +As for George, the first hint of her new passion is found in a letter +to her friend, Mme. Marliani, dated the 23rd of May, where she says: +“Pretty dear, I have received your letters and have delayed replying +_fully_, because you know how _changeable_ the weather is in the season +of love. There is so much _yes_ and _no_, _if_ and _but_, in one week, +and often in the morning one says: _This is absolutely intolerable_, +only to add in the evening: _Truly, it is supreme happiness._ So I +am holding off until I may tell you _definitely_ that my barometer +registers something, if not stable, at least set fair for any length of +time at all. I have not the slightest reproach to make, but that is no +reason to be happy....” + +Yet it was not to Mme. Marliani that she showed the singular and +interesting fluctuations of her sentimental barometer, but to Count +Albert Grzymala, a close friend of Chopin. But here is what she wrote +him at the beginning of that summer: + + “Nothing could ever make me doubt the loyalty of your advice, dear + friend; may you never have such a fear. I believe in your gospel + without knowing or examining it, because once it has a disciple + like you it must be the most sublime of all gospels. Bless you for + your advice, and be at peace about my thoughts. Let us state the + question clearly, for the last time, for on your final reply on + this subject will depend my whole future conduct, and since it had + to come to this I am vexed at not having conquered the repugnance I + felt to questioning you in Paris. It seemed to me that what I was + to hear would blanch _my poem_. And, indeed, now it has browned, + or rather it is paling enormously. But what does it matter? Your + gospel is mine when it prescribes thinking of oneself last and not + thinking of oneself at all when the happiness of those we love + claims all our strength. Listen to me well, and reply clearly, + categorically, definitely. This person whom he wants, ought, or + thinks he ought to love, is she the one to bring him happiness? + Or would she heighten his suffering and his sadness? I do not ask + if he loves her, if he is loved, if she is more or less to him + than I. I know, approximately, by what is taking place in me, what + must be happening to him. I want to know which of _us two_ he must + forget and forsake for his own peace, for his happiness, for his + very life, which seems to me too precarious and frail to withstand + great sorrows. I do not want to play the part of a bad angel. I am + not Meyerbeer’s Bertram and I shall never fight against a childhood + friend, provided she is a pure and lovely Alice. If I had known + that there was a bond in the life of your child, a sentiment in + his soul, I should never have stooped to inhale a perfume meant for + another altar. By the same token, he would without doubt have drawn + back from my first kiss had he known I was as good as married. We + have neither of us deceived one another. We gave ourselves to the + wind that passed, and for a few minutes it carried us both into + another region. But we had, none the less, to come back down here, + after this celestial embrace and this flight through the empyrean. + Poor birds, we have wings, but our nest is on the ground, and when + the song of the angels calls us on high, the cries of our family + recall us below. For my part, I have no wish to abandon myself + to passion, although there is in the depths of my heart a fire + that still occasionally threatens. My children will give me the + strength to break with anything that would draw me away from them, + or from the manner of life that is best for their education, their + health, their well-being.... Thus I am unable to establish myself + at Paris because of Maurice’s illness, etc., etc. Then there is + an excellent soul, _perfect_, in regard to heart and honour, whom + I shall never leave, because he is the only man who, having been + with me for a year, has never once, _for one single minute_, made + me suffer by his fault. He is also the only man who has ever given + himself absolutely and entirely to me, without regret for the past, + without reserve for the future. Then, he has such a good and wise + nature that I can in time teach him to understand everything, to + know everything. He is soft wax on which I have put my seal. When + I want to change the imprint, with some precaution and patience I + shall succeed. But it cannot be done to-day, and his happiness is + sacred to me. + + “So much for me. Tied as I am, bound fairly tightly for years to + come, I cannot wish that our _child_ should on his side break + the bonds that hold him. If he should come to lay his existence + in my hands, I should be indeed dismayed because, having already + accepted another, I could not offer him a substitute for what + he had sacrificed for me. I believe that our love could last + only under the conditions under which it was born, that is, that + sometimes, when a good wind blows us together, we should again make + a tour among the stars and then leave each other to plod upon the + ground, because we are earth children and God has not decreed that + we should finish our pilgrimage together. We ought to meet among + the heavens, and the fleet moments we shall pass there shall be so + beautiful that they shall outweigh all our lives below. + + “So my task is set. But I can, without ever relinquishing it, + accomplish it in two different ways; the one, by keeping as aloof + as possible from C[hopin], by never seeking to occupy his thoughts, + by never again being alone with him; the other, on the contrary, + by drawing as close to him as possible without compromising the + position of M[allefille], to insinuate myself gently into his hours + of rest and happiness, to hold him chastely in my arms sometimes, + when the wind of heaven sees fit to raise us and transport us + up to the skies. The first way will be the one I shall adopt if + you tell me that the _person_ is fit to give him a pure, true + happiness, to care for him, to arrange, regularize, and calm his + life, if, in fact, he could be happy through her and I should be + an impediment. If his spirit _strongly_, perhaps _madly_, perhaps + wisely scrupulous, refuses to love two different beings, in two + different ways, if the eight days I might pass with him in a whole + season should keep him from inner happiness for the rest of the + year,—then, yes, then I swear to you that I should try to make him + forget me. I should adopt the second way if you should say one of + two things: either that his domestic happiness could and should + do with a few hours of chaste passion and of sweet poetry, or + that domestic happiness is not possible to him, and that marriage + or any union that resembled it would be the grave of this artist + soul, that he must at any cost be saved from it and even helped to + conquer his religious scruples. It is thereabouts that I arrive + in my conjectures. You shall tell me if I am mistaken; I believe + the person charming, worthy of all love and all respect, because + such a being as he could love only the pure and the beautiful. But + I believe that you dread marriage for him, the daily bond, real + life, business, domestic cares, everything in a word that seems + remote from his nature and detrimental to the inspiration of his + muse. I too should fear it for him; but on this point I can say + nothing and decide nothing, because there are many aspects under + which he is quite unknown to me. I have seen only the side of his + being that is warmed by the sun. You shall therefore settle my + ideas on this point. It is of the very greatest importance that I + should know his position, so that I can establish my own. If it + were left to me, I should so arrange our poem that I should know + nothing, absolutely nothing of his _positive_ life, nor he of mine, + and that he should follow all his own ideas, religious, social, + poetic, artistic, without question from me, and _vice versa_, but + that always, in whatever place or at whatever moment of our lives + we might meet, our souls should be at their apogee of happiness and + goodness. Because, I am sure, one is better when one loves with a + heavenly love, and, far from committing a sin, one comes near to + God, the fountain-head of this love. It is perhaps this, as a last + resort, that you must try to make him thoroughly understand, my + friend, and without opposing his ideas of duty, of devotion and + of religious sacrifice, you may put his heart more at ease. What + I fear above anything in the world, what would be most painful to + me, what would make me decide even to make myself _dead for him_, + would be to see myself become a horror and a remorse in his _soul_. + I cannot (unless, quite apart from me, she should be tragic for + him) fight against the image and memory of someone else. I have too + much respect for decency for that, or rather it is the only decency + I respect. I will steal no one from anyone, except captives from + jailers and victims from executioners and, consequently Poland + from Russia. Tell me if it is a _Russia_ whose portrait haunts our + child. Then I would ask heaven to lend me all the seductions of + Armida to keep him from throwing himself away on her. But if it + is a Poland, let him be. There is nothing like a native land, and + when you have one you must not take another. In that case, I shall + be an _Italy_ to him, an Italy which one goes to see and where one + enjoys the days of spring, but where one does not stay, because + there is more sun than there are beds and tables, and the _comforts + of life_ are elsewhere. Poor Italy! The whole world dreams of her, + desires her, and sorrows for her, but no one may live with her, + because she is unhappy and cannot give the happiness which she has + not. There is a final supposition that I must tell you. It might be + possible that he no longer loves the _childhood friend_ at all, and + that he would have a real repugnance towards any alliance, but that + the feeling of duty, the honour of a family, or what not, demands + a remorseless sacrifice of himself. In that case, my friend, be + his good angel. _I_ could scarcely meddle in it, but you should. + Keep him from too sharp attacks of conscience, save him from his + own virtues, prevent him, at all costs, from sacrificing himself, + because in this sort of thing (I mean marriage or those unions + that, without the same publicity, have the same binding power and + duration), in this sort of thing, I say, the sacrifice of him who + gives his future is not in proportion to what he has received in + the past. The past is something appreciable and limited; the + future is infinite, because it is unknown. The being who, for a + certain known sum of devotion, demands in return the devotion of + a whole lifetime, asks too much, and if he on whom the demand is + made is hard pressed to defend his rights and satisfy at the same + time both generosity and justice, it is the part of friendship to + save him and to be the sole judge of his rights and his duties. Be + firm in this regard, and believe that I, who detest seducers, I, + who always take the part of outraged and deceived women, I who am + thought the spokesman of my sex and who pride myself on so being; + I, when it has been necessary, have on my authority as a sister or + mother or friend broken more than one engagement of this kind. I + have always condemned the woman when she has wanted to be happy at + the expense of the man; I have always absolved the man when more + was demanded of him than it is given to freedom and human dignity + to undertake. A pledge of love and faithfulness is criminal or + cowardly when the mouth speaks what the heart disavows, and one + may ask anything of a man save a crime or a cowardice. Except in + that case, my friend, that is to say except he should want to make + too great a sacrifice, I believe we must not oppose his ideas, nor + violate his instincts. If his heart can, like mine, hold two quite + different loves, one which might be called the _body_ of life, the + other the _soul_, that would be best, because our situation would + dominate our feelings and thoughts. Just as one is not always + sublime, neither is one always happy. We shall not see each other + every day, we shall not possess the sacred fire every day, but + there will be beautiful days, and heavenly flames. + + “Perhaps we should also think of telling him my position regarding + M[allefille]. It is to be feared that, not knowing it, he might + conjure up a kind of duty towards me which would irk him and come + to oppose _the other_ painfully. I leave you absolutely to judge + and decide about this confidence; you may make it if you think the + moment opportune, or delay it if you feel that it would add to his + too recent sufferings. Possibly you have already made it. I approve + of and confirm anything and everything you have done or will do. + + “As to the question of possession or non-possession, that seems + secondary to the question we are now discussing. It is, however, + an important question in itself, it is a woman’s whole life, her + dearest secret, her most pondered philosophy, her most mysterious + coquetry. As for me, I shall tell you quite simply, you, my + brother and my friend, this great mystery, about which everyone + who mentions my name makes such curious observations. I have no + secrets about it, no theory, no doctrine, no definite opinion, + no prejudice, no pretence of power, no spiritual aping—in fact, + nothing studied and no set habit, and (I believe) no false + principles, either of licence or of restraint. I have trusted + largely to my instincts, which have always been worthy; sometimes I + have been deceived in people, never in myself. I reproach myself + for many stupidities, but for no platitudes or wickednesses. I hear + many things said on the question of human morality, of shame and + of social virtue. All that is still not clear to me. Nor have I + ever reached a conclusion. Yet I am not unmindful of the question; + I admit to you that the desire to fit any philosophy at all to + my own sentiments has been the great preoccupation and the great + pain of my life. Feelings have always been stronger than reason + with me, and the limits I have wanted to set for myself have never + been of any use to me. I have changed my ideas twenty times. + Above everything I have believed in fidelity. I have preached it, + practised it, demanded it. Others have lacked it and so have I. + And yet I have felt no remorse, because in my infidelities I have + always submitted to a kind of fatality, an instinct for the ideal + which pushed me into leaving the imperfect for what seemed to me + to come nearer to the perfect. I have known many kinds of love. + The love of the artist, the love of the woman, the love of the + sister, the love of the mother, the nun’s love, the poet’s love,—I + know not what. Some have been born and dead in me within the same + day without being revealed to the person who inspired them. Some + have martyred my life and have hurled me into despair, almost into + madness. Some have held me cloistered for years in an excessive + spirituality. All of it has been perfectly sincere. My being passed + through these different phases as the sun, as Sainte-Beuve said, + passes through the signs of the zodiac. To one who watched my + progress superficially I would have seemed mad or hypocritical; + to one who watched, reading me deeply, I seemed just what I am, + a lover of beauty, greedy for truth, very sensitive of heart, + very weak of judgment, often absurd, always sincere, never small + or vindictive, hot tempered enough, and, thank God, perfectly + forgetful of evil things and evil people. + + “That is my life, dear friend. You see it is not much. There is + nothing to admire, much to regret, nothing for good souls to + condemn. I am sure that those who have accused me of being bad have + lied, and it would be very easy to prove it if I wished to take the + trouble to remember and recount it; but that bores me, and I have + no more memory than I have rancour. + + “Thus far I have been faithful to what I loved, absolutely + faithful, in the sense that I have never deceived anyone, and that + I have never been unfaithful without very strong reasons, which, + by the fault of others, have killed the love in me. I am not + inconstant by nature. On the contrary, I am so accustomed to loving + him who loves me, so difficult to inflame, so habituated to living + with men without consciousness of being a woman, that really I have + been a little confused and dismayed by the effect produced on me by + this little being. I have not yet recovered from my astonishment, + and if I had a great deal of pride I should be greatly humiliated + to have fallen full into an infidelity of the heart, at the very + moment when I believed myself for ever calm and settled. I think + this would be wrong; if I had been able to foresee, to reason, and + combat this inroad; but I was suddenly attacked, and it is not in + my nature to govern myself by reason when love possesses me. So + I am not reproaching myself, but I realize that I am still very + impressionable and weaker than I thought. That matters little; + I have small vanity. This proves to me that I should have none + at all, and should never make any boast of valour and strength. + This makes me sad, for here is my beautiful sincerity, that I had + practised for so long and of which I was a little proud, bruised + and compromised. I shall be forced to lie like the others. I assure + you that this is more mortifying to my self-respect than a bad + novel or a hissed play. It hurts me a little; this hurt is perhaps + the remains of pride; perhaps it is a voice from above that cries + to me that I must guard more carefully my eyes and my ears, and + above all my heart. But if heaven wishes us to remain faithful to + our earthly affections, why does it sometimes allow the angels to + stray among us and meet us on our path? + + “So the great question of love is raised again in me! No love + without fidelity, I said only two words ago, and certainly, alas! I + did not feel the same tenderness for poor M[allefille] when I saw + him again. Certainly since he went back to Paris (you must have + seen him), instead of awaiting his return with impatience and being + sad while he is away, I suffer less and breathe more freely. If + I believed that a frequent sign of C[hopin] would increase this + chill, I would feel it my _duty_ to refrain. + + “That is what I wanted to get to—a talk with you on this question + of possession, which to some minds constitutes the whole question + of faithfulness. This is, I believe, a false idea; one can be + more unfaithful or less, but when one has allowed one’s soul to + be invaded, and has granted the simplest caress, with a feeling + of love, then the infidelity is already consummated, and the + rest is less serious; because whoever has lost the heart has + lost everything. It would be better to lose the body and keep + the soul intact. So, _in principle_, I do not believe a complete + consecration to the new bond would greatly increase the sin; but, + in practice, it is possible that the attachment might become more + human, more violent, more dominating, after possession. It is even + probable. It is even certain. That is why, when two people wish + to live together, they must not outrage either nature or truth + in recoiling from a complete union; but when they are forced to + live apart, doubtless it is the part of prudence. Consequently, + it is the part of duty and of true virtue (which is sacrifice) to + abstain. I have not reflected seriously on this and, if he had + asked me in Paris, I should have given in, because of this natural + straightness that makes me hate precautions, restrictions, false + distinctions and subtleties of any kind. But your letter makes me + think of scuttling that resolution. Then, too, the trouble and + sadness I have endured in again experiencing the caresses of + M[allefille], the courage it has taken to hide it, is a warning to + me. So I shall follow your advice, dear friend. May this sacrifice + be a kind of expiation for the perjury I have committed. + + “I say sacrifice, because it would be painful for me to see this + angel suffer. So far he has had great strength; but I am not a + child. I saw clearly that human passion was making rapid progress + in him and that it was time we parted. That is why, the night + before my departure, I did not wish to stay with him and why I + almost sent you both home. + + “And since I am telling you everything, I want to say to you + that only one thing about him displeased me; that is, that he + himself had bad reasons for abstaining. Until then I thought it + fine that he should abstain out of respect for me, from timidity, + even from fidelity for someone else. All that was sacrifice, and + consequently strength and chastity, of course. That is what charmed + and attracted me most in him. But at your house, just as he was + leaving us, and as if he wished to conquer one last temptation, + he said two or three words to me that did not answer to my ideas. + He seemed, after the fashion of devotees, to despise _human_ + grossness and to redden at the temptations he had had, and to fear + to soil our love by one more transport. This way of looking at the + last embrace of love has always been repugnant to me. If the last + embrace is not as sacred, as pure, as devoted as the rest, there + is no virtue in abstaining from it. These words, physical love, + by which we call what has no name under heaven, _displease_ and + _shock_ me, like a sacrilege and at the same time like a false + notion. Can there be, for lofty natures, a purely physical love, + and for sincere natures a purely intellectual one? Is there ever + love without a single kiss and a kiss of love without passion? _To + despise the flesh_ cannot be good and useful except for those who + are all _flesh_; with someone one loves, not the word _despise_, + but the word _respect_ must serve when one abstains. Besides, these + are not the words he used. I do not exactly remember them. He + said, I think, that _certain acts_ could spoil a memory. Surely, + that was a stupid thing to say, and he did not mean it? Who is the + unhappy woman who left him with such ideas of physical love? Has + he then had a mistress unworthy of him? Poor angel! They should + hang all the women who degrade in men’s eyes the most honourable + and sacred thing in creation, the divine mystery, the most serious + act of life and the most sublime in the life of the universe. + The magnet embraces the iron, the animals come together by the + difference of sex. Plants obey love, and man, who alone on this + earth has received from God the gift of feeling divinely what the + animals, the plants and the metals feel only materially, man in + whom the electric attraction is transformed into an attraction + felt, understood, intelligent, man alone regards this miracle + which takes place simultaneously in his soul and in his body as a + miserable necessity, and he speaks of it with scorn, with irony or + with shame! This is passing strange! The result of this fashion of + separating the spirit from the flesh is that it has necessitated + convents and bad places. + + “This is a frightful letter. It will take you six weeks to decipher + it. It is my _ultimatum_. If he is happy, or would be happy through + _her_, _let him be_. If he would be unhappy, _prevent him_. If he + could be happy through me, without ceasing to be happy through + _her_, _I can for my part do likewise_. If he cannot be happy + through me without being unhappy with her, _we must not see each + other and he must forget me_. There is no way of getting around + these four points. I shall be strong about it, I promise you, + because it is a question of _him_, and if I have no great virtue + for myself, I have great devotion for those I love. You are to tell + me the truth frankly. I count on it and wait for it. + + “It is absolutely useless to write me a discreet letter that I + can show. We have not reached that point, M[allefille] and I. We + respect each other too much to demand, even in thought, an account + of the details of our lives.... + + “There has been some question of my going to Paris, and it is still + not impossible that if my business, which M[allefille] is now + looking after, should be prolonged I shall join him. Do not say + anything about it to the _child_. If I go, I shall notify you and + we will surprise him. In any case, since it takes time for you to + get freedom to travel, begin your preparations now, because I want + you at Nohant this summer, as soon and for as long as possible. + You shall see how happy you will be. There is not a hint of what + you fear There is no spying, no gossip, no provincialism; it is an + oasis in the desert. There is not a soul in the country who knows + what a Chopin or a Grzymala is. No one knows what happens in my + house. I see no one but _intimate_ friends, angels like you, who + have never had an evil thought about those they love. You will + come, my dear good friend, we shall talk at our ease and your + battered soul will regenerate itself in the country. As for the + _child_, he shall come if he likes; but in that case I should like + to be forewarned, for I should send M[allefille] either to Paris or + to Geneva. There is no lack of pretexts, and he will never suspect + anything. If the _child_ does not want to come, leave him to his + ideas; he fears the world, he fears I know not what. I respect in + those I love everything I do not understand. I shall go to Paris + in September myself, before the final departure. I shall conduct + myself with him according to your reply to this letter. If you + have no solution for the problems I put, try to draw one from him, + ransack his soul; I must know what he feels. + + “But now you know me through and through. This is such a letter as + I do not write twice in ten years. I am too lazy, and I do so hate + talking about myself. But this will spare me further talk on that + subject. You know me by heart now, and you can _fire at sight on + me_ when you balance the accounts of the Trinity. + + “Yours, dear good friend, yours with all my heart. Ostensibly I + have not spoken of you in all this long chat. That is because it + seemed as though I were talking of myself to another _me_, the + better and the dearer of the two, I swear. + + “George Sand.” + +Let us, above all, admire the woman’s method of so conducting her +battle that she necessarily remains victorious, no matter what the +attacks or shifts of the enemy. Everything is foreseen, arranged, +admitted, except the omission to become the lover of George Sand. +Besides, she must have known perfectly well that the little “Russia” +she pretended to fear had already surrendered her arms, that Chopin +had flung her out of his proud heart. But such a letter, such a +rare psychological document, deserves to be included intact in the +_dossier_ of this love. The personality of the writer becomes clearly +illuminated, even—perhaps above all—in what it tries to hide. One +feels the intelligence; weighs the slightly heavy goodness, once more +maternal, _pelicanish_; one wonders at the moist-lipped desire of +a woman of thirty-four for the “child” of twenty-eight, who looked +still younger and whose very purity intoxicated the voluptuous woman +enamoured of it. She called it “doing her duty.” It is all a matter of +well-chosen words. She admitted also: “I must love or die,” which is +less pretentious. + +To sum up the matter, be it admitted that Chopin needed a fine, +generous tenderness after the poor, dried-up little romance he had +hidden in an envelope. He also needed care. George began by sending +him to Doctor Gaubert, who sounded him, and swore that he was not +phthisical. But he needed air, walks, rest. The new lovers set out in +quest of solitude. + +Paris soon heard that the novelist had left with her three children: +Maurice, Solange and Chopin, for the Balearic Isles. + + + + + CHAPTER XI + + The Chartreuse of Valdemosa + + +As a matter of fact, they had agreed to meet at Perpignan, because +Chopin’s decent soul stuck at advertising his departure, and at +proclaiming his resounding luck. Perhaps, too, George wanted to smooth +the pride of poor Mallefille. So the two left in their own way, and +came together at Perpignan in the last two days of October. George +was happy, at peace. She had travelled slowly, visiting friends on +the way, and passing through Lyons, Avignon, Vaucluse, and le Pont du +Gard. Furthermore, it was not so much a question with her of travelling +as of getting away, of seeking, as she always said on such occasions, +some nest in which to love or some hole in which to die. Doubtless she +hardly remembered having made the same trip with Musset four years +before, when they had encountered fat Stendhal-Beyle on the steamship. +Chopin, for his part, did not stop on the road; he had four days and +four heroically borne nights by mailcoach. Yet he descended “fresh as a +rose and as rosy as a turnip.” Grzymala, Matuszinski and Fontana alone +knew of this journey, which he wanted to conceal even from his family +in Poland. Fontana undertook to forward his mail. Chopin had a little +money on hand because he had sold Pleyel his first _Preludes_ for two +thousand francs, a quarter of which he had received. + +They all embarked for Barcelona on board the _Phénicien_, on “the +bluest sea, the purest, the smoothest; you might call it a Greek sea, +or a Swiss lake on its loveliest day,” wrote George to her friend +Marliani just before they left. They stopped a few days at Barcelona, +where they visited the ruins of the Palace of the Inquisition. + +Then a fresh embarkation on the _El Mallorquin_. The crossing was made +on a mild and phosphorescent night. On board all slept, except Chopin, +Sand and the helmsman, who sang, but with a voice so sweet and so +subdued that he too seemed to be half-asleep. Chopin listened to this +rambling song that resembled his own vague improvisations. “The voice +of contemplation,” said George. They landed at Palma, on Majorca, in +the morning, under a precipitous coast, the summit of which is indented +with palms and aloes. But learning to their amazement that there was +no hotel, nor even rooms where they could live, they sought out the +French Consul and, thanks to him, succeeded in discovering the house of +a certain Señor Gomez. It was outside the town, in a valley from which +could be seen the distant yellow walls of Palma and its cathedral. This +uncomfortable oasis, which had to be furnished and equipped with all +accessories, was called _The House of the Wind_. The travellers were at +first jubilant. + +“The sky is turquoise,” wrote Chopin to Fontana, “the sea lapis-lazuli, +the mountains emerald. The air is like heaven. In the daytime there is +sunshine, and it is warm, and everybody is in summer dress. At night, +you hear songs and guitars on all sides for hours on end. Enormous +balconies hung with vines, houses dating from the Moors.... The town, +like everything here, resembles Africa. In short, life is delicious. My +dear Jules, go and see Pleyel, because the piano has not yet arrived. +How was it sent? Tell him he will soon receive the _Preludes_. I shall +probably live in an enchanting monastery, in the most lovely country in +the world; the sea, mountains, palms, a cemetery, a crusaders’ church, +a ruined mosque, thousand-year-old olive trees.... Ah! dear friend, I +now take a little more pleasure in life; I am near the most beautiful +thing in the world, I am a better man.” + +This _House of the Wind_ was rented for a hundred francs a month. But +as it did not completely satisfy their appetite for isolation, and as +they wanted something more “artistic,” more rare, they found three +rooms and a garden full of oranges for thirty-five francs a year in +the Chartreuse of Valdemosa itself, two leagues away. “It is poetry, +it is solitude, it is everything that is most enchanting under the +sky; and what sky! what country! We are in a dream of happiness,” Sand +wrote. This joy at once expressed itself in too long walks. Chopin +wore himself out, tore his feet on the stones of the paths, caught +cold in the first rain. He had hardly been there a few days when he +was forced to take to his bed with bad bronchitis. The tuberculosis, +momentarily checked, came on again, in spite of a temperature of +65 degrees, in spite of roses, lemons, palms, fig trees in bloom. +“The three most celebrated doctors of the Island came together for a +consultation. One sniffed what I had expectorated, another tapped me +where I had expectorated, the third listened while I expectorated. The +first said I would die, the second said I was about to die, the third +said I was already dead. But I go on living as I have always lived.... +I cannot forgive Jeannot (Dr. Matuszinski) for not having given me any +instructions about this acute bronchitis which he should have foreseen +when I was at home. I was barely able to escape their bleedings and +cuppings and suchlike operations. Thank God, I am myself again. But +my sickness delayed my _Preludes_, which you will receive God knows +when.... In a few days I shall be living in the most beautiful spot in +the world; sea, mountains, everything you could want. We are going to +live in an enormous old ruined monastery, abandoned by the Carthusians, +whom Mendizabal seems to have driven out just for me. It is quite +close to Palma and incomparably marvellous: cells, a most romantic +graveyard.... In fact, I feel I shall be well off there. Only my piano +is still lacking. I have written direct to Pleyel, rue Rochechouart. +Ask him about it and tell him I was taken sick the day after I arrived, +but that I am already better. Do not say much in general about me or +my manuscripts.... Do not tell anyone I have been ill; they would only +make a fuss about it.” + +Here was George in action. She had her hands full. She wrote, managed +the household as well as her novels, explored the shops of the little +town, gave their lessons to her two children and nursed the third, +who claimed her every other moment. “He improves from day to day +and I hope that he will be better than before. He is an angel of +gentleness and goodness.” But the material side of life became more +and more difficult. They lacked everything, even mattresses, sheets, +cooking-pots. They had to buy expensive furnishings, write to Buloz, +the editor of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, and borrow. Soon _The +House of the Wind_ became uninhabitable. The walls were so thin that +under the autumn rains the lime swelled like a sponge. There was no +stove, of course, as in all so-called hot countries, and a coat of ice +settled on the travellers’ shoulders. They had to fall back on the +asphyxiating warmth of braziers. The invalid began to suffer greatly, +coughed incessantly, could hardly be nourished, because he could +not stand the native food, and George was obliged to do the cooking +herself. “In fact,” she wrote, again to her friend Marliani, “our trip +here has been, in many ways, a frightful fiasco. But here we are. We +cannot get out without exposing ourselves to the bad season and without +encountering new expenses at every step. Besides, it took a great deal +of courage and perseverance to install myself here. If Providence is +not too unkind, I think the worst is over, and we shall gather the +fruit of our labours. Spring will be delicious, Maurice will regain +his health.... Solange is almost continually charming since she was +seasick; Maurice pretends she lost all her venom.” + +The invalid, whom they hid at the back of the least damp room, became +an object of horror and fear to the natives. Service was refused. Señor +Gomez, learning that it was a matter of lung trouble, demanded the +departure of his tenants after a complete replastering and whitewashing +of his house at their expense and an _auto-da-fé_ of the linen and +furnishings. The Consul intervened, and sheltered the miserable +emigrants for a few days. At last, on the fifteenth of December, a +beautiful day, they set out for their monastery. Just before they +started, Chopin wrote again to Fontana: “I shall work in a cell of +some old monk who had perhaps in his soul a greater flame than I, but +stifled and mortified it because he did not know what to do with it.... +I think I can shortly send you my _Preludes_ and the _Ballade_.” + +As for George Sand: “I shall never forget,” she wrote later on in her +_Winter at Majorca_, “a certain bend in the gorge where, turning back, +you espy, at the top of a mountain, one of those lovely little Arab +houses I have described, half-hidden among the flat branches of cactus, +and a tall palm bending over the chasm and tracing its silhouette +against the sky. When the sight of the mud and fog of Paris gives me +the spleen, I close my eyes and see again as in a dream that green +mountain, those tawny rocks, and this solitary palm tree, lost in a +rose-coloured sky.” + +The Chartreuse of Valdemosa... The name alone, associated with the +names of Chopin and Sand in this African setting, evokes an image +which is not only romantic and picturesque, but fixed, as in a poem. +Here is the scene of their sickly passion. We still love the picture, +mingled with the music into which this Nordic consumptive threw his +heart-rending sweetness. What indeed would Majorca be in the story of +human dreams without this encampment of the rainy winter of 1838? This +abandoned island has no other worth than its unhappy monastery, which +for two months served as the prison of a hopeless love. Because no +search, even between the lines of their letters, reveals any happiness. +George tried in vain to blow the embers of her tired heart, and kindled +but a tender pity, full of nostalgia, raising with each puff of smoke +the memory of those terrible Venetian delights. And Chopin, bruised +by a thousand little sufferings, proud and lacking in virility, felt +the strength for pleasures ebbing from him day by day. In one way or +another, nerves got the upper hand. Work alone was deliverance for +them, and solitude, riveting them together, filled them with fraternity. + +Valdemosa is an enormous pile of masonry. An army corps could be +lodged in it. There are the quarters of the Superior, cells for the +lay brothers, cells for the novices, and the three cloisters that +constitute the monastery proper. But that is all empty and deserted. +The oldest part is fifteenth century, and is pierced by Gothic windows +over which creep vines. In the centre is the old Carthusian cemetery, +without stones or inscriptions. A few cypresses frame a tall cross +of white wood and a pointed well-head, against which have grown up a +pink laurel and a dwarf palm. All the cells were locked and a yellow +sacristan jealously guarded the keys. Although he was extremely ugly, +this fat satyr had wronged a girl who with her parents was spending +a few months in that solitude. But he gave as an excuse that he was +employed by the State to protect only the painted virgins. + +The new cloisters, girded by evergreens, enclosed twelve chapels and +a church decorated with wood carvings and paved with Hispano-Moresque +majolica. A Saint Bruno in painted wood, provincial Spanish in style, +is the only work of art in this temple. The design and colour are +curious, and George Sand found in the head an expression of sublime +faith, in the hands a heartbreaking and pious gesture of invocation. “I +doubt,” she said, “if this fanatical saint of Grenoble has ever been +understood and depicted with such deep and ardent feeling. It is the +personification of Christian asceticism.” The church, alas! is without +an organ, according to the Carthusian regulations. + +Sand, Chopin, and the children occupied three spacious cells, vaulted, +with walls three feet in thickness. The rooms faced south, opening on +to a garden-plot planted with pomegranates, lemon trees, orange tress. +Brick paths intersected this verdant and fragrant pleasaunce. And on +the threshold of this garden of silence Chopin wrote to Fontana three +days after Christmas: + + “Can you imagine me thus: between the sea and the mountains in a + great abandoned Carthusian monastery, in a cell with doors higher + than the porte-cochères in Paris, my hair uncurled, no white + gloves, but pale, as usual? The cell is shaped like a coffin; it + is high, with a cobwebbed ceiling. The windows are small.... My + bed faces them, under a filigreed Moorish rose-window. Beside the + bed stands a square thing resembling a desk, but its use is very + problematic. Above, a heavy chandelier (this is a great luxury) + with one tiny candle. The works of Bach, my own scrawls and some + manuscripts that are not mine,—that is all my furniture. You can + shout as loud as you like and no one will hear; in short, it is a + strange place from which I am writing.... The moon is marvellous + this evening. I have never seen it more beautiful.... Nature here + is kind, but the men are pirates. They never see strangers, and + in consequence don’t know what to charge them. So they will give + you an orange for nothing but ask a fabulous price for a trouser + button. Under this sky one feels permeated with a poetic sentiment + that seems to emanate from all the surrounding objects. Eagles + hover over our heads every day and no one disturbs them.” + +But it was in vain that he sought to enjoy himself there; this +rather lofty setting did not suit Chopin. He had too great a taste +for intimate habits, for sophisticated surroundings, to feel at his +ease in these unfurnished rooms where his mind had nothing on which +to fasten. And then, unfortunately, they had come in for the height +of the rainy season, which at Majorca is diluvian. The air is so +relaxing in its humidity that one drags heavily about. Maurice and +Solange were perfectly well, “but little Chopin is very exhausted, and +still coughs a great deal. For his sake, I am impatient for the return +of good weather, which cannot be long now in coming.” His piano at +last arrived, a joy that carried with it forgiveness for everything. +Chopin worked, composed, studied. “The very vaults of the monastery +rejoice. And all this is not profaned by the admiration of fools. We +do not see so much as a cat,” apart from the natives of the country, a +superstitious and inquisitive people, who climbed, one after another, +up to this old monastery in the charge of one ancient monk and a few +devils. In order to get a look at them they came to have their beasts +blessed. It became a holiday of mules, horses, donkeys, goats and pigs. +“Real animals themselves,” said George, “stinking, gross and cowardly, +but nevertheless them superb, nicely dressed, playing the guitar and +dancing the fandango.... I am supposed to be sold to the devil because +I do not go to Mass, nor to the dances, and because I live alone in +the mountains, teaching my children the rule of participles and other +graces.... In the middle of all this, comes the warbling of Chopin, +who goes his own pretty way, and to whom the walls of his cell listen +with astonishment.” + +One evening they had an alarm and a ghost which made their hair stand +on end. First there was a strange noise, like thousands of sacks of +nuts being rolled across a parquet floor. They rushed out of their +cells to investigate, but the cloister was as deserted as ever. Yet +the noise drew nearer. Soon a feeble light illuminated the vaulting, +torches appeared, and there, enveloped in red smoke, came a whole +battalion of abominable beings; a horned leading devil, all in black, +with a face the colour of blood, little devils with birds’ heads, lady +devils and shepherdesses in pink and white robes. It was the villagers +celebrating Shrove Tuesday who had come to hold their dance in one of +the cells. The noise that accompanied their procession was that of the +castanets that the youngsters clacked with a sustained and rolling +rhythm. They stopped it suddenly to sing in unison a _coplita_ on a +musical phrase which kept recurring and seemed never to end. + +This was a shock to poor Chopin’s nerves. It was worse when Maurice +and Solange disappeared in the echoing depths of the monastery, or +when George left him for excursions that lasted whole days. Then the +deserted cloister seemed to him full of phantoms. Returning from one +of her nocturnal explorations among the ruins, George surprised him at +his piano, white, with haggard eyes, and it took him several minutes +to recognize her. Yet it was then, during or after these spells of +nervous exaltation, that he composed some of his most beautiful pages. + +Sand affirms that several of the _Preludes_ were begotten of these +agonies. “There is one,” she says, “which came to him one lugubrious +rainy evening that plunged his soul into a frightful depression. +Maurice and I had left him that day feeling very well, to go to Palma +to buy some necessities for our camp. The rain had come, torrents were +unloosed; we made three leagues in six hours, coming back in the midst +of the flood, and it was full night when we arrived, without shoes, +abandoned by our driver in the midst of untold dangers. We had hurried +on account of our patient’s anxiety. It had indeed been lively; but +it had, as it were, congealed into a kind of resigned despair, and he +was playing, in tears, his fine prelude. When he saw us come in, he +rose with a great cry; then he said to us with a vague stare and in +a strange voice: ‘Ah, I knew you were dead!’ When he had recovered +himself and saw the state we were in, he became ill at the thought of +our past dangers; but he then swore to me that while he was awaiting +us, he had seen it all in a dream, and that, unable to tell what was +dream and what was reality, he had become quiet and as though drugged +while playing the piano, convinced that he was dead himself. He saw +himself drowned in a lake; heavy drops of icy water fell with a regular +beat on his chest, and when I made him listen to the sound of the drops +that were really falling on the roof, he denied having heard them. He +was even angry at what I meant by the words ‘imitative harmony.’ He +protested with all his strength, and rightly, at the puerility of these +auditory imitations. His genius was full of the mysterious harmonies of +nature, rendered in his musical thought by sublime equivalents and not +by a slavish mimicry of outside sounds. That evening’s composition was +full of the raindrops sounding on the resonant tiles of the monastery, +but they were transposed in his imagination and in his music into tears +falling from heaven on his heart.” + +There has been a great deal of discussion as to what _Prelude_ this +might be. Some call it No. 6, in B minor, others No. 8, in F sharp +minor, or the 15th, in D flat major, or the 17th, or the 19th. In my +own opinion there is no possible doubt. It is certainly the Sixth +Prelude, where the drops of sorrow fall with a slow inexorable +regularity on the brain of man. But it matters little, after all. Each +one will find it where he will, at the bidding of his own imagination. +Let us credit music with this unique power, that of adapting itself to +us rather than us to it, of being the Ariel that serves our fancy. Here +is the place to recall Beethoven’s words: “You must create everything +in yourself.” Liszt, so fond of psychology and æsthetics, said that +Chopin contented himself, like a true musician, with extracting the +_feeling_ of pictures he saw, ignoring the drawing, the pictorial +shell, which did not enter into the form of his art and did not belong +to his more spiritual sphere. Then, returning to that rainy twilight +when his friend had composed so beautiful a melody, Liszt wondered if +George Sand had been able to perceive in it the anguish of Chopin’s +love, the fever of that overexcited spirit; if the genius of that +masculine woman could attain “to the humblest grandeurs of the heart, +to those burnt offerings of oneself which have every right to be called +devotion.” Probably not. She never inspired a song in this miraculous +bird. The only one that came to him through her was that moment of +agony and grief. + +The next day he played over again, with comments and finishing touches, +this unique musical expression snatched from his depths. But she +understood it no better. All the incompatibility of these two natures +is revealed here. “His heart,” said Liszt, “was torn and bruised at +the thought of losing her who had just given him back to life; but +her spirit saw nothing but an amusing pastime in the adventurous +trip, the danger of which did not outweigh the charm of novelty. What +wonder that this episode of his French life should be the only one of +which his work showed the influence? After that he divided his life +into two distinct parts. For a long time he continued to suffer in an +environment material almost to the point of grossness, in which his +frail and sensitive temperament was engulfed; then,—he escaped from the +present into the impalpable regions of art, taking refuge among the +memories of his earliest youth in his beloved Poland, which alone he +immortalized in his songs.” + +Chopin soon acquired a horror of Majorca. He felt seriously ill. In +addition, he had little taste for the country, and less still for this +Spanish monastery where his imagination failed to find the intimate +warmth and urbanity in which alone it could unfold. His spirit was +wounded to the quick; “the fold of a rose leaf, the shadow of a fly, +made him bleed.” He was dying of impatience to get away, and even +Sand confessed that “these poetic intervals which one voluntarily +interpolates into life are but periods of transition, moments of repose +granted to the spirit before it again undertakes the _exercise of the +emotions_.” Underline these words, so luminous in the analysis of their +characters. For this deceived woman Valdemosa was a poetic interlude, +a time of waiting, an intellectual vacation. Already she was dreaming +only of taking up again the exercise of her feelings, while for Chopin, +his life was done, his emotions were exhausted. There was but one joy +left to which he aspired: the great peace of work. “For the love of +God, write,” he enjoins Fontana. “I am sending you the _Preludes_. +Re-copy them with Wolf. I think there are no mistakes. Give one copy +to Probst (publisher) and the manuscript to Pleyel. Out of the 1,500 +francs he will give you, pay the rent on my apartment up to the first +of January, that is, 450 francs. Give the place up if you think you can +find another for April....” + +This savours of a return, and is like an odour of Paris. The life at +the monastery was becoming really unbearable. A servant left them, +swearing they were plague infected. They had all the trouble in the +world to procure supplies, thanks to the bad faith of the peasants, who +made them pay ten times too much for everything. The skimmed goat’s +milk meant for Chopin was stolen from them. No one would consent to +wait on the consumptive, whose health declined. Even their clothes +mildewed on their backs. There was nothing for it but flight from this +hard-hearted land. + +They strapped their baggage at last, nailed up their boxes,—and were +refused a carriage in which to go down to Palma. They were obliged +to do the three leagues by _birlocho_, a sort of wheelbarrow, Chopin +barely able to breathe. At Palma he had a dreadful hæmorrhage. +Nevertheless, they embarked on the one boat of the island, on which +a hundred pigs were already grunting. The artist was given the most +miserable bunk, as they said it would have to be burned. The next day, +at Barcelona, he lost a full bowl of blood and drooped like a ghost. +But it was the end of their miseries. The Consul and the commandant +of the French naval station took them in and had them put on board +a sloop-of-war, _Le Méléagre_, whose doctor succeeded in arresting +Chopin’s hæmorrhage. + +They rested eight days at an inn. On the fifteenth of February, +1839, George wrote to Madame Marliani: “My sweet dear, here I am at +Barcelona. God grant that I get out soon and never again set foot in +Spain! It is a country that I do not relish in any respect.... Read +Grzymala the part about Chopin, and warn him not to mention it, because +after the good hope the doctor gives me, it is useless to alarm his +family.” + +A few days later, they landed at Marseilles. It was perfect happiness. + +“At last, my dear, I am here in France.... A month more and we should +have died in Spain, Chopin and I; he of melancholy and disgust; I of +fury and indignation. They wounded me in the tenderest spot in my +heart, with their pinpricks at a being who was suffering before my +eyes; I shall never forgive them, and if I write of them it shall be +with gall.” + +To François Rollinat, the real confidant of her life: “Dear friend, I +should not like to learn that you have suffered as much as I during my +absence....” + +Such was the brilliant return from this honeymoon. + + + + + CHAPTER XII + + “If music be the food of love, play on” + + +Nietzsche, on a very dark day, wrote to a friend: “Isn’t it a work of +art: to hope?” In landing at Marseilles in the early spring of 1839, +Chopin and George Sand built a work of art, because they hoped, because +they were overflowing with that inexplicable enthusiasm that the most +banal things inspire at certain predestined hours. Anything sufficed: +an expected letter, a beautiful face, the shadow of a church on the +street, the reassuring words of a doctor, to convince them that this +was the dawn of a convalescence that would dry their almost rotted love +and ripen it, transmute it into a peaceful and lasting friendship. +Sometimes nothing more than a chance landscape is enough to change the +rhythm of souls. + +At Majorca, one might wonder if the deserted monastery was not a sort +of Dantesque Purgatory from which Sand explored the Hells and the +invalid felt himself already rising towards Heaven. “This Chopin is an +angel,” George had written. “At Majorca, while he was sick unto death, +he wrote music that had the very smell of Paradise; but I am so used to +seeing him in Heaven that neither his life nor his death seems likely +to prove anything for him. He does not know himself on which planet he +exists.” + +At Marseilles, a good town of grocers, perfumers, soap sellers, their +feet were once more on the earth. They settled at the Hôtel de Beauvau, +saw a physician, and decided to await the summer in the south. This +resolution was not carried out without a certain amount of boredom, but +boredom itself contributes to rest, which was so necessary after their +voyage of miscarried love. They had, besides, to shut themselves up +against the mistral and the pests that entered by all the doors. But +they lay hidden. Dr. Cauvières regularly sounded Chopin’s lungs, made +him wear cupping glasses, put him on a diet and pronounced him well +on the way to cicatrization. He could begin to play again, to walk, +to talk like anybody else, he whose voice for weeks had been nothing +more than a breath. He slept a great deal. He busied himself with the +publication of his works, wrote to Fontana on the subject of their +dedications, and discussed with him the price of his new compositions. +For he had to think of the future, about the Paris apartment he had +decided to re-rent: “Take Schlesinger the 500 francs you will receive +from Probst for the _Ballade_.” “Schlesinger is trying to cheat me, +but he makes enough out of me; be polite to him.” “Tell him I shall +sell the _Ballade_ for France and England for 800 francs and the +_Polonaises_ for Germany, England and France for 1,500.” He grew angry. +He stood out against the publishers and would cede nothing. “As for +money, you must make a clear contract and not hand over the manuscripts +except for cash....” “I should rather give my manuscripts as I did +before, for a low price, than stoop to these....” He returned to the +charge in April: “Keep everything till I come back since they are such +Jews. I have sold the _Preludes_ to Pleyel and have so far received +only 500 francs. He has the right to do as he pleases about them. As +for the _Ballade_ and the _Polonaises_, do not sell them either to +Schlesinger or to Probst... get them back... Enough. Enough for you +and for me. My health improves but I am angry.” “It is not my fault +if I seem like a toadstool that poisons you when you dig it up and +eat it. You know perfectly well that I have never been of any use to +anyone, not even myself. Meanwhile, they continue to regard me as not +tubercular. I drink neither coffee nor wine, only milk. I keep in the +warmth and look like a young lady.” + +In March the famous singer Nourrit died at Naples and it was +rumoured that he had committed suicide. His body was brought to +Marseilles the following month, and a funeral service was arranged at +Notre-Dame-du-Mont. To honour the memory of a friend whom he had seen +so often at Liszt’s and had even entertained himself, Chopin agreed +to take the organ during the Elevation. Although the instrument was +squeaky and out of tune, he drew from it what music he could. He played +_The Stars_ of Schubert, which Nourrit had sung a short time before at +Marseilles: and, renouncing all theatricality, the artist played this +melody with the softest stops. George was in the organ stall with a +few friends, and her fine eyes filled with tears. The public did not +recognize the novelist in this little woman dressed in black. + +In May, Chopin was strong enough to take a short trip to Genoa with his +mistress. It was a beautiful interlude. They visited the palaces, the +terraced gardens, the picture-galleries. Did she think of that journey +of almost four years earlier, when with Musset she first put foot on +this Italian soil? Genoa is perhaps the only town where their love was +not overcast. She has written that to see it again was a pleasure. I do +not know if the word is sincere but it does not ring true. Something +like a wrinkle of fatigue, however, can be seen in the statement which +she made, on her return, to Mme. Marliani: “I no longer like journeys, +or rather, _I am no longer in such condition that I am able to enjoy +them_.” One hopes, too, that Chopin knew nothing of that first Genoese +visit, because, for a distrustful heart, such a picture would have been +terrific. + +On May 22nd, they left Marseilles and started for Nohant, where they +planned to spend the entire summer. After a week of jolting, they at +last reached the wide, well-cultivated district of Berry, “studded with +great round walnut trees” and cut by shady roads that George loved. +All at once, there was the modest village, the church with its tiled +roof, and, bordering the square, the château. A country château that +symbolized the double origin, royal and plebeian, of this woman of +thirty-five years whom all Europe regarded with admiration, and who +brought to the nest her _little one_, her new little one, a noble and +diaphanous young man who seemed to have dropped down like a sea-bird +into this ancient French country-side. + +Dear woman, must we admire you for the period of rest you accorded +to this beautiful weary soul? We know that you were bad for him, +sometimes, because you were sound, ardent, and, in spite of everything, +curious about that inviolable mind, about those limbs without desire. +But we have seen too that you knew your rôle of guardian. “Of whom +shall I take care?” you cried, when your other invalid had left you +because he could no longer bear the sufferings with which you seasoned +your pleasure. Dear woman, nevertheless! You cannot be judged by any +common standards, you with your hot blood and your heart always so soon +feasted by the very strength of its own hungers. The enormous labour +you accomplished was but the result of your own energies. They burdened +you with work. They tired you out like a man. You never found those +horrible mental tasks too stupid, those tasks from which they feigned +to derive an elastic and libertarian moral, when you were really made +but for love and travail and the old human order. This is all rather +amusing, and sad as truth. But we must thank you for having in some +sort made Musset and broken that easy fop to healthy sorrows. We cannot +blame you, as others do, for having finished Chopin. You fought for +him a long time against his malady. If you bruised him further, it is +because even your friendship was costly. But always, it was your best +that you gave. + +Now that we have seen you enter Nohant with this new prey to your +tenderness, let us say with Shakespeare: “If music be the food of love, +play on.” + + * * * * * + +Chopin never liked the country. Yet he enjoyed Nohant. The house was +comfortable. After Majorca and Marseilles, it was a joy to have a large +room, fine sheets, a well-ordered table, a few beautiful pieces of +furniture. Without being luxurious, the big house had a pleasant air. +There was a sense of ease. He was spoiled, petted. An old friend of +George’s, Dr. Papet, ran up at once to examine the invalid thoroughly. +He diagnosed a chronic affection of the larynx: he ordered plenty +of rest and a long stay in the country. Chopin submitted with no +difficulty to this programme, and adopted a perfectly regulated, wise +way of living. While George went back to the education of her children +and her job as a novelist, he corrected a new edition of Bach, finished +his _Sonata in B flat minor_, the second _Nocturne_ of op. 37 and four +_Mazurkas_ (op. 41). They dined out of doors, between five and six +o’clock. Then a few neighbours dropped in, the Fleurys, the Duteils, +Duvernet, Rollinat, and they talked and smoked. From the first, they +all treated Chopin with respectful sympathy. Hippolyte Chatiron, +George’s half-brother, who lived with his wife in the immediate +neighbourhood, a kind of squireen, good-natured and convivial, formed +a passionate friendship for him. + +When they had gone Chopin played the piano in the twilight; then at +Solange’s and Maurice’s bedtime, he too went to bed and slept like a +child. As for George, she took up the Encyclopædia and prepared the +lessons for the next day. Truly a family life, such, exactly, as Chopin +understood best; such also as he needed during his working periods. + +“I am composing here a _Sonata_ in B flat minor,” he wrote to Fontana, +“in which the _Funeral March_ you already have will be incorporated. +There is an _allegro_, then a _scherzo_ in E flat minor, the _March_, +and a short _finale_ of about three pages. After the _March_ the left +hand babbles along _unisono_ with the right. I have a new _Nocturne_ +in G major to accompany the one in G minor, if you remember it. You +know I have four new _Mazurkas_: one from Palma in E minor, three from +here in B major, in A flat major, and C sharp minor. To me they seem +as pretty as the youngest children seem to parents who are growing +old. Otherwise, I am doing nothing; I am correcting a Paris edition of +Bach’s works. There are not only misprints, but, I believe, harmonic +errors committed by those who think they understand Bach. I am not +correcting them with the pretention of understanding him better than +they, but with the conviction that I can sometimes divine how the thing +ought to go.” + +Every evening, during that hour of music that Chopin dedicated to +George alone, she listened and dreamed. She was a choice listener. +Without doubt, it was in those moments that these two souls, so +impenetrable to each other, understood each other best. She fully +realized that he was the extreme artist type; that it would never be +possible to make him accept any jot of reality; that his continued +dream was too far from the world, too little philosophic for her to be +able to follow into those unpeopled regions. But it was, nevertheless, +sweet to be the object of such a man’s preference. Cruel also, because +if Chopin kept usurious account of the least light given him, “he did +not take the trouble to hide his disappointment at the first darkness.” +His fantastic humour, his profound depressions, at once interested +and worried the amateur of emotions in George. But a kind of terror +gripped her heart at the thought of a new obligation she would assume +if Frederick were definitely to install himself with her. She was no +longer under the illusion of passion. She was afraid of having some +day to struggle against some other love that might conquer her and +prove the death of this frail being she had torn from himself. Then she +stiffened. One more duty in a life already so burdened, would this not +be precisely a defence against temptation—an even greater chance for +her to attain to that austerity towards which she felt herself drawn +by the old depths of religious enthusiasm of which she had never freed +herself? How should she settle the matter? She compromised by leaving +it for time to tell. + +As for Chopin, this peaceful lot was too perfectly fitted to the +measure of his strength for him to dream of any change. He was +radiating all his gentleness, he was creating; such was his beautiful +present, his only possible future. While he improvised George opened +a scrapbook and wrote: “The genius of Chopin is the most profound and +pregnant of feeling and emotions that has ever existed. He makes a +single instrument speak the language of the infinite. He knows how to +gather into ten lines that even a child could play poems of immense +elevation, dramas of unequalled power. He never needs great material +means.... He needs neither saxophone nor bass horns to fill the soul +with terror; neither Cathedral organs nor the human voice to give +it faith and exultation. There must be great advances in taste and +artistic intelligence if his works are ever to become popular.... +Chopin knows his strength and his weakness. His weakness lies in the +very excess of that strength, which he cannot control. His music is +full of delicate shades of feeling and of the unexpected. Sometimes, +rarely, it is bizarre, mysterious, and tormented. In spite of his +horror of the unintelligible, his overpowering emotions sometimes sweep +him unconsciously into regions known to him alone.” + + * * * * * + +Towards the end of the summer, they all decided to return to Paris. +Sand was persuaded that she could not manage to finish the education of +her children without assistance. Maurice was eager to learn drawing; +Solange was difficult, a little sullen, stubborn. George also had to +see her publisher, Buloz, the editor of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. +Chopin wanted to get to his pupils again and resume their lessons, the +main source of his revenue. So they bombarded friends with letters, +asking them to find two apartments not too far from each other. +Grzymala, Arago and Fontana started a search. From Nohant, instructions +rained on the heads of the three friends. + +Chopin asked them to choose a _dove-like_ wallpaper, glowing and +glossy, for his rooms. Something else for the vestibule, but still +_respectable_. If there was anything more beautiful, more fashionable, +they were not to hesitate to get it. + +“I prefer something simple, modest, elegant, to the loud, common +colours the shopkeepers use. That is why I like pearl-grey, because +it is neither striking nor vulgar. Thank you for the servant’s room, +because it is really essential.” + +For George, it was vital that the house should be quiet. There must +be three bedrooms, two next to each other, and one separated by +the drawing-room. Close to the third there must be a well-lighted +work-room. Drawing- and dining-room must be next each other. Two +servants’ rooms and a cellar. Inlaid floors in good condition if +possible. But most of all, quiet,—“no blacksmith in the neighbourhood.” +A decent staircase, windows facing south. “No young ladies, no smoke +or unpleasant odours.” Chopin even took the trouble to sketch the plan +of this imagined suite. + +Soon they had good news. Chopin was to live at 5, rue Tronchet, while +George was to have two small pavilions in a garden at 16, rue Pigalle. +Nohant was in a state of joy, and Frederick, always so particular +about matters of elegance, now began to think of his clothes. He +wrote again to Fontana: “I forgot to ask you to order a hat for me +at Duport’s, rue de la Chausée d’Antin. He has my measure and knows +what I want. Show him this year’s shape, not too exaggerated, because +I don’t know how you are dressing now. Also, drop in on Dautremont, +my tailor, on the Boulevards, and tell him to make me a pair of grey +trousers. Will you choose a dark shade, for winter trousers, something +good, not striped, but plain and soft. You are English; so you know +what I ought to have. Dautremont will be glad to know that I am coming +back. I also need a black velvet waistcoat, but one with very little +ornament and not loud,—a plain waistcoat, but elegant. If he has no +very fine velvet, let him make a waistcoat of fine wool, but not too +open....” In recompense for all these errands: “... I shall keep +changing the second part of the _Polonaise_ for you till the end of my +life. Yesterday’s version may not please you either, though it put my +brain on the rack for eighty seconds. I have copied out my manuscripts +in good order. There are six with your _Polonaises_, not counting the +seventh, an impromptu, which may be worthless. I can’t judge of it, +myself, because it is too new. Titus advises me to compose an oratorio. +I have asked him in reply why he is building a sugar mill rather than a +Dominican monastery. As you are such a clever fellow, you can arrange +so that neither black thoughts nor suffocating cough shall bother me +in my new rooms. Arrange for me to be good. Erase, if you can, many +episodes of my past. And it would be no bad thing if I set myself a +task that will last me several years. Finally, you would oblige me by +growing much younger, or in finding a way of arranging for us to be not +yet born. + + “Your old Frederick.” + +Both Frederick and George settled in Paris in October of that year, +1839. But they were soon convinced that after a whole year of existence +together it would be difficult to live apart. Chopin still had need of +attentions, precautions. He gave up his lodging to Dr. Matuszinski, and +moved with his furniture to the lower floor of one of the two pavilions +in the rue Pigalle. + +So these longed-for years of great and perfect work, unrolled +themselves in about the desired rhythm. During the morning, the +professors for Maurice and Solange succeeded one another. In Chopin’s +part of the house it was a procession of pupils. His lessons lasted at +least an hour, sometimes more. It often happened that the master would +play the pieces himself. On one occasion he played from memory to one +of his pupils fourteen _Preludes_ and _Fugues_ of Bach. And as the +young girl expressed her admiration for this _tour de force_, “One can +never forget them,” he said, smiling. “For a year I have not practised +a quarter of an hour at a time. I have no strength, no energy. I am +always waiting for a little health to take all that up again, but—I am +still waiting.” Such efforts exhausted him. He used to take a little +opium in a glass of water, and rub his temples with _eau-de-Cologne_. + +“The final triumph,” he continued, “is simplicity. When you have +exhausted all the difficulties, and have played an immense quantity of +notes, simplicity emerges in all its charm, as the final seal of art. +Anyone who expects to achieve it at the outset will never succeed in so +doing; you cannot begin at the end.” + +The afternoon was generally devoted to the personal work of the two +artists. In the evening they met at George’s, and dined together; +then someone or another of the intimates of the household came to see +them. The salon was _café au lait_ in colour, decorated with very fine +Chinese vases always filled with flowers in the Chopinesque mode. +The furniture was green; there was a sideboard of oak laden with +curiosities and, on the wall, the portrait of the hostess by Calamatta +and several canvases by Delacroix. The piano was bare, square, ebony. +Chopin almost always sat at it. At one side, George’s bedroom could +be seen, where two mattresses on the floor covered with a Persian rug +served as a bed. + +Sand arose late, because she sat up most of the night. Chopin polished +and put the final touches to his works, the first versions of which had +in general come to him during the summer. His creation was entirely +spontaneous. It gushed forth during a walk, an hour of meditation, or +it might unfold sudden and complete, while he was sitting before his +piano. He played it to himself, sang it, took it up again, modified +its accents. Then began that immensely laborious quest of perfection, +which will always be, whatever people may say, the essential mandate +of the artist. “He locked himself in his room for whole days at a +time, weeping, walking up and down, shattering his pens, repeating or +changing a single bar a hundred times, writing it down only to rub +it out again, and beginning all over again the next day with minute +and despairing perseverance. He spent six weeks on one page, only to +write it finally as he had jotted it down in the first flush.” In +noting these things, George was exasperated with the genuine surprise +of facile creators who are not tortured by any yearning for finality. +But, like Giotto, who, when the Pope asked for a perfect example of his +knowledge, wanted to send only a true circle, so Chopin, having filled +one line with all the ornament of his thought, came back to exquisite +nudity, the final and sufficient symbol of the idea. So a poet works. +So he squeezes his universe into the smallest possible limits, makes +it as heavy as a crystal, but gleaming from a thousand facets. That +is what made that great blackener of paper, Sand, say that Chopin +could compress into a few bars “poems of immense elevation, dramas of +unequalled power.” Mozart alone, she thought, was superior to him, +because he had the calm of health, and so the fullness of life. But +who knows what happy accidents illness may bring to art? It is certain +that Chopin’s breathlessness, his nervousness, brought to his virile +inspiration those qualities of languor, those weary echoes by which he +touches us most finely. + + + + + CHAPTER XIII + + On some Friendships of Chopin, and on his Æsthetics + + +It was not only furniture and habits that were held in common in +the rue Pigalle, but friends as well. Sharing,—that was the great +doctrine of Pierre Leroux, George’s new director of conscience and +“preacher of eternal Truth in its steady progress.” According to this +philosophic typographer, it passed from people to people according +to mysterious laws, becoming incarnate now in one, now in another, +and had just settled in Poland. The mission of the Poles was thus all +equality, fraternity, love. Chopin smiled at this, without revealing +his opinion. But he often invited his compatriots, who joined all of +George’s friends: Leroux, Delacroix, Pauline Viardot, the great singer, +and Heinrich Heine at the head. Frederick introduced the Grzymala +brothers, Prince Czartoryski, Franchomme, the violoncellist, Fontana, +the poets Slowacki and Krasinski, the artist Kwiatkowsky, and above all +Miçkiewicz, the author of _Dziady_ (or _The Feast of the Dead_), whom +they thought profounder than Goethe and Byron. + +He was an ecstatic, a visionary, inspired, at any rate, and, +like Socrates, St. John, or Dante, was smitten occasionally with +“intellectual falling-sickness.” At such times he became fired with an +eloquence that enraptured his listeners and sent them into veritable +trances. George Sand, so sensitive to disturbances, either the highest +or the lowest, found herself ravished to the point of ecstasy before +the sublime abstractions of this dreamer, the whispers of his soul, +by which she was led into those dangerous regions where reason and +madness go hand in hand. Ecstasy is contagious. Assuredly it is an +evil for simple souls; but with the great spirits, such as Apollonius +of Tyre, Moses, Swedenborg, Pierre Leroux, Miçkiewicz, and, who knows, +George Sand, perhaps, is it not a sacred enthusiasm, a divine faculty +of understanding the incomprehensible, “capable of producing the most +noble results when inspired by a great moral and metaphysical cause?” +This is the question George put to herself in her _Journal_. Meanwhile, +this Miçkiewicz gave at the College de France a course of lectures full +of logic and clarity. He was great hearted, had himself perfectly in +hand, and reasoned with mastery. But he was transported into exaltation +by the very nature of his beliefs, by the violence of his partially +savage instincts, the momentum of his poetic faith, and the sentiment, +so fecund in all these exiles, of the misfortunes of their fatherland. + +Chopin also believed in the mystic aureole of this saintly bard. He +did not know that Miçkiewicz, overjoyed at having been able to win +so great a convert as George, thought her lover “her evil genius, +her moral vampire, her cross, who tortured and would possibly end by +killing her.” How surprising such a judgment from one who received +secret communications from the other world! Fortunately, Sainte-Beuve +came along, lent his delicate ear to Miçkiewicz and declared that +if he had eloquence his faults should be noticed as well. However +delicate Chopin’s perceptions, he no longer regarded them because for +him Miçkiewicz was the great bell that tolled the sorrows of Poland. +Who could be more stimulating than this apostle prophesying the +resurrection of his country? The Redeemer was announced. The Saviour +was about to arise, and his coming must be hastened by deeds of faith +and by repentance. + +Sometimes in the evening the seer came to the rue Pigalle accompanied +by several of his compatriots. He would retire into a dim corner of the +little salon and read his _Infernal Comedy_ or one of his _Ballades_, +some new poem filled with the odour of his forests. Or else, in a +divine delirium, he would improvise. That great Slavic dismay, mute +and passive, soon appeared on the face of the exiles and was prolonged +in a silence loaded with memories. Then Chopin would rise and seat +himself at the piano. The lamp would be still further lowered. He would +begin with feathery arpeggios, stealing over the keys in his usual +way, until he encountered the _blue note_, the pitch which seemed to +correspond best to the general atmosphere. Then he would start one of +his favourite pieces, the _Etude_ in thirds from the second volume, +for instance (G sharp minor). One of his compatriots called it _The +Siberian_ because it symbolized the journey of the deported Pole. +The snow falls on the endless plains. (An ascending and descending +scale for each hand pictures this universal infinity in a striking +manner.) You hear the bells of the troika that approaches, passes, and +disappears towards the horizon. And each one of them has seen a brother +or a friend pass by, escorted by two Russian police who were taking +him off for ever. Or else a _scherzo_ takes shape, crystallizes: an +old popular refrain that Frederick has heard in his childhood at the +doors of the village inn. All of them, recognizing it, follow with +muted humming from between tightened lips, while tears cover their +faces. And the artist varies it, scans it softly, throws it up and +catches it again, neglects the colouring, seeking only the design. +For him the design is the soul. In spite of effects of resonance, of +cloudlike fluidity, it is the design he pursues, the pure line of his +thought. One of the friends who heard him writes: “His eyes burned with +a feverish animation, his lips became blood-red, his breath short. +He felt, we felt, that part of his life was running out with the +sounds.” Suddenly a little dry cough, a sudden pause in a _pianissimo_ +passage, and in the dim light Chopin raises his fine white face with +black-circled eyes. + +But the evenings did not always end on this affecting scene. Sometimes, +on the contrary, there would burst out from behind the piano the +Emperor of Austria, an insolent old man, a phlegmatic Englishman, a +sentimental and ridiculous Englishwoman, a sordid old Jew. It was again +Chopin, past master of grimaces, who, after having drawn tears from +all eyes, wrinkled their faces with fits of laughter. + + * * * * * + +Among George Sand’s old friends was a delicate, pale, nervous little +man, with however, a will and a mind so strong that he stands out from +his time like a bronze figure in an Olympus of plaster casts. In his +own profession he was at once the most violent, the steadiest, the +purest of creators. But, as in art everything is, as he said, a matter +of the soul, here is an opinion which coming from his pen has some +weight. He wrote: “Times without number, I have talked intimately to +Chopin, whom I like greatly. He is a man of rare distinction and the +truest artist I have ever met. He is of that small number that one can +admire and esteem.” + +This man was named Eugène Delacroix. His very young friend, Baudelaire, +said of him that he loved the big, the national, the overwhelming, the +universal, as is seen in his so-called decorative painting or in his +_big machines_. What could be farther from Chopin’s whole æsthetic? +But they had both a certain taste for the conventional, especially in +the arts which were not their own. Delacroix, the powerful innovator, +liked only the classic in literature, only Mozart in music. Chopin, in +painting, greatly preferred M. Ingres to Delacroix. Opposite as they +were in culture, in tendencies, in taste, yet Chopin and Delacroix +understood each profoundly in their hearts. Delacroix, a great lover +and connoisseur of music, soon placed Chopin directly after Mozart. +As for Chopin, who loved and respected the man, he continued to detest +his painting. It was above all in temperament that they were brothers. +“... A mixture of scepticism, politeness, dandyism, of burning will, +of finesse, of despotism, and finally of an especial kind of goodness, +and of _restrained tenderness_ that always goes with genius.” Well now, +who is the subject of this portrait that so resembles Chopin? It is +still Baudelaire talking of Delacroix. A hater of crowds, a polished +sceptic, a man of the world entirely preoccupied in dissimulating the +cholers of his heart,—such characteristics applied to either of them. +Both violent, both reserved, both modest, such were these aristocrats +born among the people. Delacroix taking his old servant to the Louvre +to explain the Assyrian sculpture to her, or Chopin playing the piano +for his valet,—these are pictures which give a better critical estimate +than ten pages of abstractions. Let us add that both of them were +invalids, both sufferers, both tubercular, and that the only revenge +they could take upon life was to live by the spirit. I should say: by +the emotional spirit. Exquisite judges of nuances, music furnished +them with incomparable ones. Mozart was their God because his science +naturally was equal to his inspiration. Of the works of Beethoven they +said: “Vulgar passages side by side with sublime beauty.” To the ear of +Delacroix he was sometimes diffuse, tortuous; to Chopin’s too athletic, +too Shakespearean, with a passion that always bordered on a cataclysm. +Yet the painter admired him because he found him modern, entirely of +his own times. That is precisely the reason that made him suspect to +Chopin, who before everything demanded a delicately decanted wine, a +liqueur from which rose the bouquet of memory. Nietzsche said later on: +“All music begins to have its _magical_ effect only from the moment +when we hear the language of our past in it.” Now that exile, Chopin, +never heard anything but the oldest voices of his memory. That was his +poetry. + +“When Beethoven is obscure,” he said, “and seems to lack unity, the +cause is not the rather savage, pretended originality, for which people +honour him; it is that he turns his back on the eternal principles; +Mozart never. Each of the parts has its own direction which, even while +harmonizing with the others, forms a song and follows it perfectly. In +that is the counterpoint, _punto contrapunto_. It’s the custom to learn +harmony before counterpoint, that is, the succession of notes that +lead up to the chords. Berlioz pounds out the chords and fills up the +intervals as best he can. In music, the purest logic is the _fugue_. To +know the fugue thoroughly is to know the element of all reason and all +deduction.” + +Sand tells us that one day she came to Delacroix’s studio to take him +to dine at her house where Chopin was asking for him. She found him at +work, his neck wrapped in woollens, just like her “regular invalid,” +coughing like him, and husky, but raging none the less against Ingres +and his Stratonice. They joined Chopin. He did not like the Stratonice +either; he found the figures mannered, but the “finish” of the painting +pleased him. In everything he was a lover of the exact, of the finished. + +“About colour,” he said, “I don’t understand a thing.” + +They dined. At dessert, Maurice asked his master to explain the +phenomenon of reflections to him, and Delacroix drew a comparison +between the tones of a painting and the sounds of music. Chopin was +astonished. + +“The harmony of music,” explained the painter, “is not only in the +construction of chords, but also in their relations, their logical +sequence, their sweep, their auditory reflections. Well, painting is no +different. The reflection of reflections...” + +Chopin bursts out: “Let me breathe. One reflection is enough for the +moment. It’s ingenious, new, but it is alchemy to me.” + +“No, it’s pure chemistry. The tones decompose and recompose themselves +constantly, and the reflection is not separated from the _relief_.” + +Here is Delacroix well in the saddle. He explains colour, line, flat +tones; that all colour is an exchange of reflections; that what M. +Ingres lacks is half of painting, half of sight, half of life, that he +is half a man of genius, the other half an imbecile. + +But Chopin is not listening. He rises and goes to the piano. He +improvises an instant, stops. + +“But,” cries Delacroix, “it’s not finished.” + +“It’s not begun. Nothing comes to me... Nothing but reflections, +shadows, reliefs that won’t become clear. I look for colour, and can’t +even find design.” + +“You’ll never find one without the other, and you are going to find +both of them.” + +“But if I only find moonlight?” + +“You will have found a reflection of a reflection.” + +Chopin returned to his theme without seeming to begin again, so vague +was his melody. Then the _blue note_ sounded, and they were transported +into the heavens, straying with the clouds above the roofs of the +square. + + * * * * * + +Several times already we have noticed this _blue note_. It did not +alone proceed from the characteristic Chopin pitches. It was the +song of his touch, the timbre of his hand. Like Liszt, Chopin had a +distinct state of consciousness in each of his fingers. He managed to +disassociate their impressions, to make them transmit to his brain +a harmony of infinitely varied manual sensations. It was a whole +education in technique and observation which taught a new method of +self-knowledge, how to think of oneself in a new way. + +For him, a good technique had for its object not the ability to play +everything with an equal tone but to acquire a beautiful quality of +touch in order to bring out nuances perfectly. “For a long time,” he +said, “pianists have gone against nature in trying to give equal tone +to each finger. On the contrary, each finger should play its proper +part. The thumb has the greatest strength, because it is the largest +and most independent of the fingers. After that comes the little +finger, at the other end of the hand. Then the index, the principal +support of the hand. Then the middle finger, the weakest of all. As for +its Siamese twin, some pianists try, by putting all their strength into +it, to make it independent. That is impossible, and perfectly useless. +So there are several kinds of tones, as there are several fingers. It +is a matter of profiting by these differences. This, in other words, is +the whole art of fingering.” + +Chopin had worked a great deal on these questions of transcendental +mechanics. Taking his hand, which was small, people were surprised by +its bony resistence. One of his friends has said that it was the frame +of a soldier covered with the muscles of a woman. Another, on the +contrary, thought it a boneless hand. Stephen Heller was stupefied to +see him cover a third of the keyboard, and compared his hand to the jaw +of a snake opening suddenly to swallow a whole rabbit in one mouthful. + +He had invented a method of fingering all his own. His touch was, +thanks to this care, softer than any other in the world, opposed to all +theatricality, and of a beauty that charmed from the first bars. In +order to give the hand a correct position, he had it placed lightly on +the keyboard in such a way that the fingers struck the _E, F sharp, G +sharp, A sharp_, and _B_. This was, to his mind, the normal position. +Without changing it, he made his pupils do exercises designed to +give independence and equality to the fingers. Then he put them at +_staccato_, to give them lightness, then at _staccato-legato_, and +finally at _accented-legato_. He taught a special system to keep the +hand in its close and easy position while using the thumb in scales and +in _arpeggio_ passages. This perfect ease of the hand seemed to him +a major virtue, and the only means of attaining exact and equalized +playing, even when it was necessary to pass the thumb under the fourth +or fifth finger. But these exercises explain also how Chopin executed +his extremely difficult accompaniments (unknown until his time), which +consist in striking notes that are very distant from each other. We can +easily understand how much he must have shocked the pianists of the +old school by his original fingering, which had always the object of +keeping the hand in the same position, even while passing the third or +fourth finger over the fifth. Sometimes he held it completely flat, and +thus obtained effects of velvet and of finesse that threw Berlioz, and +even Liszt, into ecstasy. To acquire the independence of the fingers, +he recommended letting them fall freely and lightly, while holding the +hand as if suspended in the air without any pressure. He did not want +his pupils to take the rapid movements too soon, and made them play all +the passages very _forte_ and very _piano_. In this way the qualities +of sound were formed of themselves, and the hand was never tired. It +is he who, always for the purpose which he considered so important, of +gaining the independence of the fingers, conceived the idea of making +his pupils play the scales with an accent on each third or fourth note. +He was very angry when accused of being too free in his handling of +the beat. “Let your left hand be your precentor,” he said, “while your +right hand plays _ad lib_.” + +Reading these rapid technical indications ought not to be +disheartening. In every art the technique and the material are the +living joys of the intelligence. They are the beautiful secrets of the +potter. Chopin, moreover, did not leave a _method_. He dreamed of it, +but it all remained in the state of a project. The big, the developed, +the scholarly frightened him. He always inhabited closed regions where +he did not much like to be accompanied. He never felt the strength to +compose an opera. His teachers and his friends pressed him to do it. +“With your admirable ideas,” demanded M. de Perthuis, “why don’t you do +an opera for us?” + +“Ah, Count,” replied Chopin, “let me write only piano music. I do not +know enough to build operas.” + +He had a taste for the rare and the finished rather than for great +applause. It was in the detail that he excelled. His most pregnant +harmonic inventions are made of nothings, but of nothings essential to +the character of his art. Professor Kleczynski, one of his compatriots +to whom I am indebted for several of these details, has written: “Given +the richness of his talent, he, like Schumann, disappointed us a +little. But on the other hand, putting his whole soul into the little +things, he finished and perfected them in an admirable manner.” It +is precisely in these “little things” that Chopin was great. Perhaps +for him nothing was little. Indeed, where does the little end, and the +big begin? Without doubt he put his soul into everything from which he +expected a pitch of perfection. + +“When I am ill-disposed,” he said, “I play on an Erard piano, and +easily find a _ready-made_ tone; but when I feel keyed up, and strong +enough to discover _my own tone_, then I need a Pleyel piano.” + + * * * * * + +Another friend of Chopin’s was Liszt, a friend by heart and by +profession. People often tried to pitt one against the other, to +persuade each of them that the contrast of their methods, of their +playing as of their characters, made them rivals. But this was not +so, and if Chopin sometimes seemed rather retiring, and even timid +before the other great virtuoso of his time, it is because the women +interfered. + +George Sand and Marie d’Agoult had known each other for a long time. +Before the reign of Chopin George had gone to Geneva, where she had +sojourned for a season in the intimacy of this pretty, romantic +left-handed establishment. Then Franz and Marie had come to spend a +summer at Nohant. On both sides there had been curiosity, admiration, +but also secret jealousies. The Countess prided herself on her writing. +She had a noble style, a sceptical but well-furnished mind, and, except +in love, balance in everything. With George, spontaneity carried the +day. She had at first a temperamental sympathy for this beautiful tall +woman who threw her bonnet over the great houses of the Faubourg. It +was a brilliant putting into practice of her theories on love and +liberty. “You seem to me the only beautiful, estimable and truly noble +thing that I have seen shine in the patrician sphere,” she wrote to +her. “You are to me the true type of the Princess of romance, artistic, +loving and noble in manner, language, and dress, like the daughters +of the Kings in heroic days.” But this extravagant admiration was +entirely literary. So also was it with Marie d’Agoult, who was much +more interested in the almost illustrious novelist than in this strange +descendant of a line of kings and of a bird-seller. She soon decided +to withdraw Liszt from her influence, and it was with displeasure that +she saw the arrival of that Chopin whose sweet and profound genius her +lover prophesied. So they became cold. They separated. George sent the +Countess to all the devils. + +But Liszt continued to see Chopin because he loved him. No one played +the Pole’s compositions better than he, because no one knew them +better, nor had sounded them more deeply and played them more in his +concerts. “I love my music when Liszt plays it,” said Chopin. In the +work which Liszt dedicated, later on, to his friend, he compares the +_Etudes_, the _Preludes_, and the _Nocturnes_ to the masterpieces of +La Fontaine. I do not know that anyone has made a truer comparison. +Two great poets, who tried to hold the very-big in the very-little, +and who salted with irony their daily-wounded hearts. This is the +place to recall the words of Heine, who called Chopin “the Raphaël +of the pianoforte.” In his music “each note is a syllable, each bar +a word,” and each phrase a thought. He invented “those admirable +harmonic progressions by which he dowered with serious character even +those pages which, in view of the lightness of their subject, seemed +to have no claim to such importance.” It is by their sentiment that +they excel, and on closer examination one recognizes, according to +Liszt, those transitions that unite emotion and thought, these degrees +of tone of which Delacroix speaks. Of the _classic_ works of Chopin, +Liszt admired above all the _adagio_ of the _Second Concerto_, for +which Chopin himself had a marked predilection. “The secondary melodies +belong to the author’s most beautiful manner; the principal phrase is +of admirable breadth: it alternates with a _recitative_ that strikes +the minor key and is like an antistrophe.” In several of the _Etudes_ +and of the _Scherzos_ Liszt discovers the concentrated exasperation, +the proud and ironic despair of Fritz. Yet it takes a trained ear, +because Chopin allowed hardly a suspicion to be entertained of the +“secret convulsions” that disturbed him. His character “was made up of +a thousand nuances which, in overlapping, disguised each other in an +indecipherable manner.” And Liszt, whose intelligence always stands out +so sharply, wrote this fine comment on the last works of Chopin: “He +used his art only to play to himself his own tragedy.” After having +sung his feeling, he set himself to disintegrate it. But even then, +the emotion that inspired these pages remains pure nobility, their +expression rests within “the true limits of the language of art,” +without vulgarity, without wild shrieks, without contortion. “Far from +being diminished, the quality of the harmonic stuff becomes only more +interesting in itself, more curious to study.” + +Needless to say Chopin considered himself a romantic, and yet +he invoked two masters: Bach and Mozart; Bach, whom he admired +boundlessly, without a single reserve, and Mozart, in whom he found +“the laws of all the liberties of which he made abundant use.” And yet +he would not admit that “one should demolish the Greek architrave with +the Gothic tower, nor that one should abolish the pure and exquisite +grace of Italian architecture to the profit of the luxuriant fantasy of +Moorish buildings... He never lent the lightest approval to what he did +not judge to be an effective conquest for art. His disinterestedness +was his strength.” (Liszt.) We know that Beethoven, Michelangelo, +Shakespeare, frightened him. It seems stranger that he should not have +liked Schumann more. He found Mendelssohn common, and he would not +willingly listen to certain works of Schubert, “whose contours were too +sharp for his ear, where the feelings seemed to be stripped naked. All +savage brutality repelled him. In music, as in literature, as in the +habit of life, everything that approached melodrama was torture to +him.” Apropos of Schubert he said to Liszt one day: + +“The sublime is defamed when the common or the trivial takes its place.” + +Even in Mozart he found blemishes. He regretted certain passages of +_Don Juan_, the work that he adored. “He managed,” Liszt always said, +“to forget what was repugnant to him, but to reconcile himself to it +was always impossible.” Romantic that he was, yet he never engaged in +any of the controversies of the epoch. He stood apart from the battles +into which Liszt and Berlioz wholeheartedly threw themselves, but he +brought to their group, nevertheless, convictions that were “absolute, +stubborn, and inflexible.” When his opinions had prevailed, like a +true _grand Seigneur_ and party leader, he kept himself from pushing +his victory too far, and returned to all his habits of art and of the +spirit. + +How often did Liszt bend over the keyboard at Chopin’s side to follow +the sylph-like touch! He studied it with love and infinite care, and +he was the only one who succeeded in imitating it. “He always made +the melody undulate ...; or else he made it move, indecisive, like an +airy apparition.” This is the famous _rubato_. But the word +conveys nothing to those who know, and nothing to those who do not +know, and Chopin ceased to add this explanation to his music. If one +has the intelligence it is impossible not to divine this _rule of +irregularity_. Liszt explained it thus to one of his pupils: “Look at +those trees; the wind plays in their leaves and awakens life in them, +yet they do not stir.” His compositions should be played “with this +kind of accented and prosodic balance, this _morbidezza_ of which it +is difficult to grasp the secret when one has not often heard Chopin +himself play.... He impressed upon all of them some mystery of nameless +colour, of vague form, of vibrating pulsations, that were almost devoid +of materiality, and, like imponderable things, seemed to act upon the +soul without passing through the senses. Chopin also liked to throw +himself into burlesque fantasies; of his own accord he sometimes evoked +some scene from Jacques Callot, with laughing, grimacing, gambolling +caricatures, witty and malicious, full of musical flings, crackling +with wit and English humour like a fire of green boughs. One of these +piquant improvisations remains for us in the fifth _Etude_, where only +the black keys are played,—just as Chopin’s gaiety moved only on the +higher keys of the spirit.” + +It was to his compatriots that he demonstrated it most willingly, to +a few choice friends. It is said that even to-day the pupils of his +pupils shine in the reflected glory of these preciously transmitted +recipes. Doubtless there will always be born here or there a Chopinian +soul; but can the intangible be taught? Liszt said: “Chopin passed +among us like a phantom.” + + + + + CHAPTER XIV + + Misunderstandings, Loneliness + + +In October, 1839, King Louis-Philippe expressed a desire to hear Chopin +play, and had him invited with Moschelès, the pianist, to Saint-Cloud. +Count de Perthuis received the two artists at the entrance of the +castle. They had to cross a succession of rooms before arriving at the +Salon Carré, where the royal family were informally gathered. Round +the table sat the Queen with her work-basket, Madame Adélaïde, the +Duchess of Orleans, and the ladies-in-waiting. Near to these, the fat +King filled his arm-chair. Chopin and Moschelès were welcomed as old +friends. They took turns at the piano. Chopin played his _Nocturnes_ +and _Etudes_, Moschelès his own _Etudes_; then they played as a duet +a sonata by Mozart. At the end of the _andante_ there was a shower +of “delicious!” “divine!” and they were asked to repeat it. Chopin’s +fervour electrified the audience, so much so that he gave himself up to +a real “musical delirium.” Enthusiasm on all sides. Chopin received as +a souvenir a cup of silver-gilt, Moschelès a travelling-case. + +Such an evening was exactly what was needed to stimulate Chopin to +work. The three years of the rue Pigalle (1839–1842) which opened under +these royal auspices, were just such as he had wished; years of great +and perfect labour. If the year 1839 saw the publication of only _Trois +valses brillantes_, it was pre-eminently the year of the _Preludes_, +perhaps the most rare and perfect of Chopin’s masterpieces. Then came +the famous _Sonata in B flat minor_ of which Schumann said strangely +enough: “... A certain pitiless genius blows in our face, strikes +anyone who tries to stand out against him with a heavy fist, and makes +us listen to the end, fascinated and uncomplaining... but also without +praise, because this is not music. The sonata ends as it began, in a +riddle, like a mocking Sphinx.” + +Following this, Chopin gave to the world in 1840 and 1841 four +_Nocturnes_, the second and third _Ballades_, a _Scherzo_, three +_Polonaises_, four _Mazurkas_, three new _Etudes_, a _Waltz_, the +_Fantasy in F minor_, the _Tarantella_, and a _Concerto Allegro_. + +In the spring of 1841 he consented to play again in public at Pleyel’s. +The hall was crowded, naturally, for at that time Chopin and Liszt were +making the greatest sensation at Paris. It was Liszt himself, that +enthusiastic heart, who claimed the honour of reporting it for the +_Gazette Musicale_. Here are a few of the variations and cadenzas from +the pen of the pianist: + + “On Monday last, at eight in the evening, the Salon Pleyel + was magnificently lighted; to the foot of the carpeted and + flower-covered stairway a limitless line of carriages brought the + most elegant women, the most fashionable young people, the most + celebrated artists, the richest financiers, the most illustrious + of the great Lords, the whole _élite_ of society, a whole + aristocracy of birth, fortune, talent, and beauty. + + “A large grand piano was open on a stage; they pressed about it; + they sought the closest places, already they lent their ears, + collected their thoughts, and said that they must not lose a chord, + a note, an intention, a thought of him who was to be seated there, + and they were right to be thus greedy, attentive, religiously + stirred, because he whom they awaited, whom they wanted to see, to + hear, to admire, to applaud, was not only an accomplished virtuoso, + a pianist expert in the art of making notes, was not only an artist + of great renown. He was all that, and more than all that; he was + Chopin. + + “... It is only rare, at very long intervals, that Chopin is + heard in public, but what would be a certain cause of obscurity + and neglect for anyone else is precisely what assures him a + renown beyond the whim of fashion, and what puts him out of the + reach of rivalry, jealousy and injustice. Chopin, holding aloof + from the excessive turmoil which for the last several years has + driven executive artists from all parts of the world, one on top + of another, and one against another, has remained constantly + surrounded by faithful disciples, enthusiastic pupils, warm + friends, who, while protecting him from vexing quarrels and painful + slights, have never ceased to spread his works and with them + admiration for his genius and respect for his name. Therefore this + exquisite celebrity always on a plane, excellently aristocratic, + has been free from every attack. He has been surrounded by a + complete absence of criticism, as though posterity had rendered its + verdict; and in the brilliant audience which flocked about the too + long silent poet, there was not a reticence, not a restriction; + there was but praise from every mouth.” + +Chopin was satisfied with his friend. Some weeks later he left for +Nohant, full of ideas, but with no real pleasure. “I am not made for +the country,” he said, “although I do rejoice in the fresh air.” That +was really very little. For her part, Sand wrote: “He was always +wanting Nohant, and could never stand Nohant.” His rural appetite +was soon sated. He walked a little, sat under a tree, or picked a +few flowers. Then he returned and shut himself in his room. He was +reproached for loving the artificial life. What he really loved was +his fever, his dimmed soul, his position as Madame Sands’ “regular +invalid.” Without realizing it, he cultivated the old leanings of +his childhood, his irresolution, his most morbid sensibility, all +the refinements of luxury and of the spirit. What he did not like he +set himself, unthinkingly, to hate: the plebeian side of George’s +character, her humanitarian dreams, her friends who were democratic by +feeling and by birth, especially Pierre Leroux, dirty, badly combed, +with a collar powdered with dandruff, who was continually turning +up to beg subsidy. Oh, how good it was to see Delacroix appear, the +perfect dandy, looking as if he had just stepped out of a bandbox! +He and Frederick had the air of two princes strayed into evil company +at the table where Leroux and Maurice’s studio friends exaggerated +their open collar garb. Together the two artists humorously bewailed +George’s toleration of such freedom. What would Liszt have said, Liszt +so particular in such matters, Liszt who, called himself a “professor +of good manners?” But Madame Sand had small sympathy with such regard +for appearances. She overrode the bursts of coarse laughter, the +shouts, the disputes of her guests, the familiarity of her servants, +the drunkenness of her brother Hippolyte. She heeded nothing but the +sincerity of heart, listened to nothing but ideas, and insisted that +“flies should not be taken for elephants.” She termed the exasperation +of Chopin unhealthy, incomprehensible, and refused to see in it +anything but the caprices of a sick child of genius. He retired into +his room and sulked. He was not visible except at meal times when he +looked on the company with suspicion, with disgust. + +A rather painful incident marked the summer of 1841. It arose through +Mlle. de Rozières, a pupil of Chopin’s, who was George’s friend and +the mistress of Antoine Wodzinski. Chopin thought her an intriguer, a +parasite, and he was displeased that she had been able to insinuate +herself into intimacy with George. More than that, he thought her +ostentatious, loud, and grandiloquent in the expression of her +friendship. But what loosed his anger was that Antoine, inspired +perhaps by Mlle. de Rozières, had sent to the Wodzinski family a +replica of his, Chopin’s bust, by the sculptor Dantan. What equivocal +intention might they not read into such an action? What might Marie, +his old _fiancée_, think? Frederick was aghast, and complained to +Fontana, who had given the statue to Antoine. “I gave Antoine no +permission,” he wrote to him.... “And how strange this will appear to +the family... They will never believe that it was not I who gave it +to him. These are very delicate matters in which there should be no +meddling touch... Mlle. de Rozières is indiscreet, loves to parade +her intimacy, and delights in interfering in other people’s affairs. +She will embellish all this, exaggerate it, and make a bull out of a +frog, and it won’t be for the first time. She is (between ourselves) +an insipid swine, who in an astonishing manner has dug into my private +affairs, thrown up the dirt, and rooted around for truffles among the +roses. She is a person that one must on no account touch, because +when one has touched her the result is sure to be an indescribable +indiscretion. In fact, she is an old maid! We old bachelors, we are +worth a lot more!” + +On her side, George revealed the great man’s irritation to this young +lady. She unfolded on this friendly heart, because was she not attacked +from below and pierced with pin pricks each time that she took sides +against the pronouncements of her friend? “If I had not been a witness +to these extravagant neurotic likes and dislikes for three years, I +should by no means understand them, but unfortunately I am too used +to them,” she wrote. “I tried to cheer him up by telling him that W. +was not coming here; he could count on that. He hit the ceiling, and +said that if I was certain, apparently it was because I had told W. the +truth. Thereupon I said ‘Yes.’ I thought he would go mad. He wanted to +leave. He said I would make him look like a fool, jealous, ridiculous, +that I was embroiling him with his best friends, that it all came from +the gossip that had been going on between you and me, etc., etc.... +Anyway, as usual, he wanted no one to suffer from his jealousy but +me.” And further on: “I have never had any rest and I never shall have +any with him. With his distressing nature, you never know where you +are. The day before yesterday he passed the whole day without saying +a syllable to anyone at all.... I do not want him to think he is the +master. He would be so much the more suspicious in the future, and even +if he gained this victory he would be in despair, because he does not +know what he wants, nor what he does not want.” + +Certainly Chopin was jealous, but a meaning slightly different to the +usual one should be attached to the word. It was not the jealousy of +a lover. His jealousy extended to all the influences, the desires, +the curiosities, and the friendships of his mistress. It was the wild +need of absolute possession. He had to know at each moment that all of +George’s vital sources were born in his own heart, that if he was the +child in fact, he was the father in spirit. He had to feel that his +reign effaced preceding reigns, abolished them, and that in adopting +him, in loving him, George was born anew. He would have liked her to +be ignorant of the very existence of evil, never to think of it in +speaking to him, and without ceasing to be good, tender, devoted, +voluptuous, maternal, still be the pale, the innocent, the severe, +the virginal spouse of his soul. “He would have demanded but that of +me, this poor lover of the impossible,” noted Sand. And when he found +himself losing this universal possessorship, which his love should have +given him, he would have nothing more to do with it. He repulsed feeble +substitutes. + +Assuredly, he had some reason to be jealous of everyone, of a +too-forward servant, of the Doctor, of the great simpleton of a cousin, +half bourgeois, half lout, who brought game to the mistress of Nohant, +of a beggar, a poacher with a strong face,—because this invalid with +sharpened nerves well understood what troubles, what desires these +passers-by aroused in a woman for whom the “exercise of the emotions” +was the true law of knowledge; of a woman,—who, he well knew, had no +fear, and no scruples in the face of this kind of experience. So he +found the wit to torment her. “He seemed to be gnawing softly to amuse +himself, and the wound that he made penetrated the entrails.” Then +he would leave her presence with a phrase that was perfectly polite, +but freezing, and once more shut himself up in his own room. During +her nights of toil, George served as her own _écorché_, stripped +the elusive soul of her lover, and, good woman of letters that she +was, traced their double portrait in her _Lucrezia Floriani_. Was it +obtuseness, sadism, or an obscure vengeance that led her the next day +to make Chopin read these pitiless reconstructions? But the artist +saw nothing, or at least he seemed not to. He bent over the pages, he +admired, he praised; but as always, he gave out nothing of his inner +self, and if Lucrezia delivered herself in writing, Prince Karol +returned to his room where the light sounds of the piano interpreted +all of his suppressed misery. He, also, clung to his grief, and even +to the outward signs of his grief, “Take good care of my manuscripts,” +he advised Fontana. “Don’t tear them, don’t dirty them, don’t spoil +them.... I love my _written pain_ so much that I always tremble for my +papers.” + +“The _friendship_ of Chopin...” wrote George. Or else: “Our own story +had no romance in it.” And even: “His piano was much more his torment +than his joy.” This shows to what a point beings who have mingled their +lives can reserve their souls. Here are two such—very penetrating, very +greedy, who yet were never wedded. + +In the Autumn of 1842 George Sand and Chopin left the rue Pigalle +to move to Nos. 5 and 9 in the Square d’Orléans. Between them at +No. 7 lived their great friend Mme. Marliani, the wife of a Spanish +politician. Near neighbours were Pauline Viardot and the sculptor +Dantan. Here they established a kind of _commune_ which provided +diversion for them, and where freedom was “guaranteed.” Each one +worked and lived at home. Their meals were taken, at the common +expense, at Mme. Marliani’s. Chopin had a large salon for his pianos; +Sand, a billiard room. His quarters were furnished in the modern +style of Louis-Philippe, with a clock and empire candelabra on the +mantelshelf. Behind one of the pianos was a painting by Frère of +a caravan on the desert, above the other a Coignet pastel of the +Pyramids. During the day they seldom met, but in the evening they +dropped in on one another like good country neighbours. Chopin always +cultivated elegant society, and received at his house his titled and +amorous pupils. But he received only with a good deal of distaste +the innumerable pianists and priers who now came to call on him and +solicited his support. + +One day Chopin’s valet brought in the card of a M. W. de Lenz, a +Russian virtuoso and writer on musical subjects. He would have stood +less chance than any, this enemy of his Poland, of being received +by Chopin if the card had not borne in pencil the words “_Laissez +passer_: Franz Liszt.” He therefore decided to have this slightly +importunate gentleman in, and begged him to be seated at the piano. +Lenz played well. It was apparent that he was a pupil of Liszt. He +surpassed himself in one or two of Chopin’s _Mazurkas_, and like his +master, added a few embellishments. Chopin was both amused and a little +irritated. + +“He has to touch everything, this good Franz! But a recommendation +from him deserves something; you are the first pupil who has come +from him. I shall give you two lessons a week. Be punctual; with me +everything runs on schedule. My house is a pigeon-cote.” As M. de Lenz +had expressed a lively desire to make the acquaintance of Mme. Sand, +Chopin invited him to call again as a friend. He arrived, therefore, +one evening, and Chopin presented him to George, to Pauline Viardot, +to Mme. Marliani. Sand, hostile and reserved, said not a word, for she +detested Russians; but Lenz pointedly seated himself at her side. He +noticed that Chopin was fluttering about “like a little frightened bird +in a cage.” In order to relieve the tension, Chopin asked Lenz to play +the _Invitation to the Waltz_, an elegant specialty of the Russian, +who several years before had revealed it to Liszt himself. Lenz played +it, slightly intimidated. On which George continued to remain silent. +Chopin held out his hand amiably, then Lenz seated himself with some +embarrassment behind the table on which a _Carcel_ lamp was burning. + +“Aren’t you coming to St. Petersburg some time?” demanded the stranger, +addressing Sand. + +“I should never lower myself to a country of slaves!” + +“You would be right not to come. You might find the door shut.” + +The disconcerted George opened her big eyes which Lenz described in +his notes as “beautiful big heifer’s eyes.” Chopin, however, did not +seem displeased, as if he enjoyed having his mistress put out of +countenance. She arose, went to the fireplace where a log was flaming, +and lighted a fat Havana cigar. + +“Frederick, a spill!” she cried. He rose and brought the light. + +“At Petersburg,” went on George, blowing out a cloud of smoke, +“probably I could not smoke a cigar in a drawing-room?” + +“In no drawing-room, Madame, have I ever seen a cigar smoked,” replied +this badly brought up Lenz, looking at the pictures through his glasses. + +Nevertheless, it must be supposed that these robust manners were not +altogether displeasing, for the day after this visit while Chopin was +giving him his lesson, he said to Lenz: + +“Madame Sand thinks she has been rude to you. She can be so pleasant. +She liked you.” + +One can divine what obscure attractions this sensualist obeyed. At +times victories of the flesh are preceded by victories of wit. But +Chopin was not the man for that sort of thing, Chopin who had so little +muscle, so little breath, and such a delicate skin “that a prick of +a gnat made a deep gash in him.” The whole complication came about +because he still loved with passion, while she had, for a long time, +dwelt in affection. Her “little Chopin” she loved, she adored, but in +the same way that she loved Maurice and Solange. + +In the months during which they lived apart, she was constantly +disturbed about his health. She knew that he did not take care of +himself. She wrote to one person and another to ask them to keep a +discreet watch. Wasn’t he forgetting to drink his chocolate in the +morning, his bouillon at ten o’clock? They must make him take care of +himself, and not go out without his muffler. + +But, he had found a new way to exalt still further the sentiments +which, from their very lack of balance, are an active stimulant to +artistic production; he would not worry her, he would leave her in +ignorance of his moral and physical illness, of his agonies, of his +hæmorrhages. Let her, at least, have the peace necessary for her work. +In every willing sacrifice to love there are humble joys, all the +deeper for remaining hidden; but it is the most deeply buried love that +nourishes the most. + +George now passed part of her winters in the country, while Chopin +wore himself out in Paris. It was a problem not to let her notice +anything. His letters were gay, confiding. Sickness holds aloof, so +he pretends, and only happiness is ahead. “Your little garden (in the +Square d’Orléans) is all snowballs, sugar, swans, ermine, cream cheese, +Solange’s hands, and Maurice’s teeth. Take care of yourself. Don’t tire +yourself out too much with your tasks. Your always older than ever, and +very, extremely, incredibly old, + + “Chopin.” + +Perhaps he had never felt more alone, this “little sufferer,” as his +maternal friend calls him. But he was the essential solitary. + +Forty years later than that time, I see another who resembles him, +and who also feeds upon a terribly hard _me_, a me which, no more than +that of Chopin, could expand over other beings, bleed on them, because +he was too high, too savage, too shamed; that is Nietzsche. It is not +surprising that Nietzsche loved Chopin like a chosen brother. The love +of both was too great for their hearts. + +When I hear played the _Nocturne in C Minor_ (op. 48), where, under +so much repressed suffering, there still bursts forth, mingled with +sadness, this ideal which is built only upon the creative joys of the +spirit, I think of a page written by Nietzsche in a loggia overlooking +the Barberini Square at Rome, in May, 1883. This is that beautiful +_Night Song_ through which pass the blue and black visions of Chopin, +his flower-like glance, his young girl’s eyes, and his heart so +“extremely, incredibly old.” Some fragments of these strophes seem to +me to furnish for the _Nocturne_ of which I speak—and for the final +solitudes into which the poet is now entering—a commentary worthy of +them. Before calling them to mind I should say that a tradition among +the Polish artists has it that this piece was composed one stormy day +when Chopin had taken refuge in the Church of St.-Germain des Prés. +He listened to the Mass under the rolling thunder and, coming back +home, improvised the fine chorale that forms the centre of this solemn +Elevation. But that does not for a moment prevent me from associating +this prayer with the pagan song of Nietzsche. Quite the contrary: both +the one and the other have this transport, this point of enthusiasm, +which draws the cry from the philosopher: “There is in me a desire for +love which itself speaks the language of love.” + + THE NIGHT SONG + + “It is night: now the voice of the trickling fountains rises + higher. And my soul, also, is a trickling fountain. + + “It is night: now all the songs of the lovers awake. And my soul, + also, is a lovers’ song. + + “There is in me something unappeased, and unappeasable, that + struggles to raise its voice. There is in me a desire for love + which itself speaks the language of love. + + “I am light: ah! if I were night! But this is my solitude, to be + enveloped in light. + + · · · · · + + “My poverty is that my hand never rests from giving; my jealousy, + to see eyes full of waiting and nights illuminated with desire. + + “Oh, misery of all those who give! Oh, eclipse of my sun! Oh, + desire of desiring! Oh, the devouring hunger in satiety!” + + · · · · · + +Thus sang Zarathustra. + + + + + CHAPTER XV + + Chagrin, Hate + + +It seems that it was about 1842 that life for Chopin began to lower +its tone. For whom should he cultivate even the will to get well, now +that love was no longer ahead, but behind him? Lovers who feel the +power of suffering desiccating in them abandon themselves immediately +to the soft call of Death. If they disappear, they are reproached for +having been weaklings; if they survive, for having been cynics. They +themselves do not suspect that they are emptied of their substance +like those hollow trees still full of leaves which a gust of wind will +vanquish. Chopin, dying, thought himself eternal. + +In the spring of 1842, his childhood friend, Matuszinski, succumbed to +tuberculosis. In May, 1844, his father passed away at Warsaw. It was +the end of a just man. He closed his eyes looking at the portraits and +the bust of his beloved son, and asked that after death his body should +be opened because he feared being buried alive. + +These two shocks were terrific for the artist, yet he wrote to his own +people: “I have already survived so many younger and stronger people +than I that it seems I am eternal.... You must never worry about me: +God gives me His Grace.” In view of his persistent depression, George +conceived the idea of inviting Frederick’s oldest sister and her +husband, the Jedrzeïewiczs, to Nohant. It was necessary to warn them of +the great changes they were to see in their brother’s health. George +wrote to them: + + “You will find my dear child very thin and greatly changed since + the time when you saw him, yet you must not be too fearful for + his health. In general, it has not changed for more than six + years, during which I have seen him every day. A strong paroxysm + of coughing every morning, and each winter two or three more + considerable spells, each lasting only two or three days, some + neuralgic pain from time to time, that is his regular state. For + the rest, his chest is healthy, and his delicate organism has no + lesion. I am always hoping that with time it will grow stronger, + but at least I am sure that with a regulated life and care it will + last as long as any other. The happiness of seeing you, mixed + though it be with deep and poignant emotions, which may perhaps + wound him a little the first day, nevertheless will do him immense + good, and I am so happy for him that I bless the decision you have + made.... For a long time he has cared for nothing but the happiness + of those whom he loves, instead of that which he can no longer + share with them. For my part, I have done everything I could to + soften this cruel lack, and though I have not made him forget it, I + have at least the consolation of knowing that, after you, I have + given and inspired as much affection as is possible.” + +George even wrote to Mme. Nicolas Chopin to assure her that henceforth +she would consecrate her life to Frederick and regard him as her own +son. + +So Louise and her husband came in 1844 to spend part of the summer at +Nohant, and the joy that Chopin experienced was translated into a new +feeling of gratitude for his friend. Some of the bitterness left his +soul, making him stronger and more courageous. Even confidence returned +for a time. The filial and family side of his tenderness was thus +reënforced. + +When they had gone, Frederick clung even more closely to his “dear +ones,” those pieces of himself. He saw them again in dreams. He looked +for their places on the sofa, preserved like a relic an embroidered +slipper forgotten by his sister, and used the pencil from her +pocket-book as in other days Marie Wodzinska had used his. He sent them +news of the autumn, of the garden. He entered into the most minute +details, even to speaking of the tiny bear which went up and down on +the barometer. How clearly one sees all that he lacked, this deficient +lover! + +On their walks he followed the others on a donkey so as to tire +himself less. But the autumn was cold and rainy, and Chopin passed +more time before the piano than out of doors. He returned to Paris +and reinstalled himself in the Square d’Orléans at the very beginning +of November. George was seriously concerned this time about “her +dear corpse,” and recommending him to friends while she stayed in +the country. This period is marked in one way and another by a blaze +of affectionate solicitude. Chopin did not want her to worry, and +continued to hide the progress of his malady. Without his knowledge, +George got information about him. “He must not know....” “I cannot +rid myself of these preoccupations which make up the happiness of my +life....” “Decidedly I cannot live without my little sufferer.” She +realized that “Chip’s” constitution was attacked in a very serious +way. He was visibly declining. The bad winter, nerves, irritation, the +persistent bronchitis were perhaps the causes. In any case, love was +still powerful. But love had apparently taken refuge in family feeling. +“... Let him never have the least inquietude about any of you,” wrote +George to Louise, “because his heart is always with you, tormenting him +at every moment and turning him toward his dear family.” + +During the winter of 1845, and the spring of 1846, he was ill with +influenza, yet he made none but the usual plans and proposed to spend +the summer at Nohant. Before leaving, he gave a little dinner. “Music, +flowers, grub.” For guests: Prince Czartoryski and his wife (the +latter, it may be said in passing, was the most brilliant and the most +authentic of the feminine pupils of her master); Princess Sapieha, +Delacroix, Louis Blanc, Pauline Viardot; in short, old friends. But on +his arrival at Nohant everything seemed strange to him, as in a house +abandoned by life. He moved his piano and rearranged his table, his +books of poetry, his music. “I have always one foot with you,” he wrote +to Louise and her husband, “and the other in the room next door where +my hostess works, and none at all in my own home just now, _but always +in strange places_. These are without doubt imaginary _places_, but I +don’t blush for them.” + +His delight was to make Pauline Viardot sing the Spanish melodies +that she had noted down herself. “I am very fond of these songs. She +has promised me to sing them to you when she goes to Warsaw. This +music will unite me with you. I have always listened to it with great +enthusiasm.” + +But we must look below the surface, because in the depths of all these +beings who lived in common a drama was preparing. One can say that it +had been brewing for several years. And neither George nor Frederick +was to be responsible for its explosion, but the children. + +First there was Maurice, the oldest, a young man of twenty-two adored +and very much spoiled by his mother, wretchedly brought up, a dabbler, +as the whim took him, in painting and literature, and a collector of +lepidoptera and of minerals, he promised, in sum, to become a fairly +complete type of the intelligent failure. He was not without talent; he +had charm and gaiety, touched, however, with bitterness and gruffness. +Since the trip to Majorca, he had had time to get accustomed to Chopin, +having seen this friend of his mother every day, so to speak. But if +there had been at first a certain sympathy between them, it quickly +flagged, and for several years now they had not got on. No doubt, +this is easily explained. Maurice loved his mother above everything, +and he saw clearly that her life was not easy, or smooth; he came +upon disputes, he was exasperated by the nervousness of the so-called +great man, who was to him merely a difficult, reserved, and sometimes +ill-natured invalid. Perhaps he even suffered from the ambiguous +smiles that followed the two celebrated lovers. And then his father, +the mediocre Dudevant, must occasionally have let fall outrageously +gross witticisms when his son came to see him. Maurice was chilled also +by the character of Chopin, by the aristocratic manners, the often +disdainful eye of this puzzling and encumbering parasite. Children +never forgive a stranger who allows himself a criticism, much less if +it is well founded. Chopin made one, severe enough, concerning Maurice +and Augustine. This Augustine was a relation of Mme. Sand, daughter of +her cousin, Adèle Brault, who belonged to the side of the family that +was entirely bourgeois and who was nothing else than a lady of easy +virtue. Out of pity for the girl, George had taken her into her home, +where Augustine, charming and tender-hearted, had become the favourite +of all the young people with one exception, Solange. Chopin did not +like Augustine. He took Solange’s side. As for Maurice, the born enemy +of his sister, he was _for_ Augustine to such a degree that he was +suspected of having become her lover. George denied this vociferously, +with authority, but Chopin willingly believed it, first because of his +intuition, secondly because Solange tried, by all manner of means, to +fix the idea in his head. + +A strange child, this Solange. Physically, she was the image of her +great-grandmother, Marie-Aurore of Saxe, that is to say, blonde, fresh, +beautifully built. In character, she was cold, brilliant and lively, +passionate, vain, very excitable, sullen, possibly false, certainly +strong willed, vicious without any doubt, absolutely unbalanced. This +neurotic, who might have developed in such a very interesting way, they +always regarded as hard-hearted. They pestered her, they soured her, +they made her ruthless. Pauline Viardot contended that she did wrong +for the love of it. She was, in point of fact, innately ardent and +unhappy. A nature such as this has need of being loved deeply, and her +trials came above all through jealousy. Offences slowly recorded by her +heart made it solitary and injurious. Her mother herself said: “She is +nineteen years old, she is beautiful, she has a remarkable mind, she +has been brought up with love under conditions of happiness, growth and +morality, which should have made of her a saint or a heroine. But this +century is damned, and she is a child of this century.... Everything +is passion with her, an _icy_ passion, that is very deep, inexplicable +and terrifying.” Whose fault was that? It is only in families that one +finds these refined hatreds which are one of the sad aspects of love. + +For a long time the mystery of this soul had attracted Chopin. Solange +was essentially a coquette. Ever since her puberty she had practised +the power of her troubled age on him, and this man of nerves had not +seemed insensible. Did he not rediscover in her the seductions and +even that free and animal grace that George must have had at fifteen? +A lover loves, in the daughter of his mistress, the happiness that he +has missed, and the rejuvenated memory of his sufferings. Solange was +less frank than her mother; she was even somewhat perverse. She tried a +few games that were not altogether innocent; first from predilection, +and also to appease the amorous rancour that she vowed against her own +people. It would be fine to avenge her own spurned heart by stealing +Chopin’s tenderness from her mother. Another of his attractions +for Solange was his elegance, his distinction, his high worldly +connections. For she was a snob, and it was delicious to flee to the +great friend’s salon, which was filled with countesses, when that of +her mother resounded with the roars of Maurice and his comrades, or +the “great thoughts” of Pierre Leroux. Lately there had even been +found there a herd of poet-workmen to whom the novelist was stubbornly +attached. + +Here then was a whole obscure drama daily averted but daily reawakened, +sown with misunderstandings, and complicated by embarrassments. For +Sand, many times, wanted to talk it out with her lover, to force him +to interfere, but he shied away, or even openly took Solange’s part. +George tried in vain to break her daughter. Rather she broke herself +against the sharp edges of the character which in many ways were so +like her own. + +It was Chopin who suffered the most from these misunderstandings, +because he could never relieve himself by words, by vain explanations, +because he could never express anything except in music. His +nervousness increased. He allowed himself to become exasperated to +the point of tears by incidents affecting servants. He could not +conceive that an old servant could be dismissed, and Mme. Sand, that +good _communist_, was quite capable of reconstructing her household +with a sweep of her arm. It was a calamity. Frederick’s Polish _valet +de chambre_ was dismissed “because the children (Read: ‘Maurice and +Augustine’) did not like him.” Then it was the old gardener, Pierre, +who was turned off after forty years of service. Next came the turn of +Françoise, the chambermaid, to whom, nevertheless, George had dedicated +one of her books. “God grant,” wrote Frederick to his sister, “that the +new ones will please the young man and his cousin more.” He was tired. +And, when he was tired he was not gay. That reacted on everyone’s +spirits. He felt old. + +George also felt old. She was forty-two. And even while correcting a +passage in her _Lucrezia Floriani_, she was thinking so strongly of +herself, and of her first lover, that she returned for the first time +in fifteen years to the little wood she could see from her window, +where she used to meet Jules Sandeau. It was in this “sacred wood” +that her flight from the conjugal house had been decided, in 1831. +There she searched, and there she found a tree under which her lover +had been in the habit of waiting for her. Their initials cut into the +bark were still faintly visible. “She went over in her memory the +details and the whole story of her first passion, and compared them to +those of her last, not to establish a parallel between the two men, +whom she did not dream of judging coldly, but to ask her own heart if +it could still feel passion and bear suffering.... ‘Am I still capable +of loving? Yes, more than ever, because it is the essence of my life, +and through pain I experience intensity of life; if I could no longer +love, I could no longer suffer. I suffer, therefore I love and I +exist.’” And yet she felt that she must renounce something. What then? +The hope of happiness? “‘At a certain age,’ she finished by thinking, +‘there is no other happiness than that which one gives; to look for any +other is madness.’... So La Floriani was seized with an immense sadness +in saying an eternal farewell to her cherished illusions. She rolled on +the ground, drowned in tears.” + +This summer’s end of 1846 was a trying period, a period of crises. The +sky itself was full of storm. Yet Chopin worked. He wrote to the loved +ones at Warsaw. He told them all the stories which one must pack into a +letter when one wishes to hide one’s true feelings. The giraffe at the +Jardin des Plantes was dead. The _Italians_ had reopened in Paris. M. +Le Verier had discovered a new planet. M. Faber of London, a Professor +of Mathematics, had built a machine that sang an air of Haydn, and +_God Save the Queen_. “I play a little, and also write a little. I am +one moment happy about my _Sonata_ with the violoncello, and the next +unhappy; I throw it in the corner and then take it up again. I have +three new _Mazurkas_ (in B major, F minor, and C sharp minor, dedicated +to Countess Czosnowska. These are his last works—op. 63 and 65). When +I am composing them I think they are good; otherwise one would never +compose. Later on comes reflection, and one rejects or accepts. Time is +the best judge and patience the best master. I hope to have a letter +from you soon, yet I am not impatient, and I know that with your large +family it is difficult for each one to write me a word, especially +as with us a pen is not enough. I don’t know how many years we would +have to talk to be at the end of our Latin, as they say here. So you +must not be surprised or sad when you do not receive a letter from me, +because there is no real reason, any more than there is with you. A +certain sadness blends with the pleasure of writing to you; it is the +knowledge that between us there are no words, hardly even deeds.... The +winter does not promise badly, and by taking care of myself a little it +will pass like the last, and God willing, not worse. How many people +are worse off than I! It is true that many are better, but I do not +think about them.” + +Have we noticed those words: “Especially as with us a pen is not +enough...?” There sounds the exquisite mute on Chopin’s plaints. For +George the pen was enough. Everyone around Frederick, in default of +being happy, was noisy. They played comedies. They got up _tableaux +vivants_ and charades. Pantomime, over which the whole world was soon +to go crazy, was Chopin’s invention. It was he who sat at the piano +and improvised while the young people danced comic ballets, with the +assistance of a few guests: Arago, Louis Blanc. But no one suspected +that between George and Frederick the break was complete. Desire +had been dead for a long time. And now tenderness, affection, the +attachment of the soul, no longer existed but on one side. In weeping +over her lost youth in the “sacred wood,” George had shed her last +tears. + +Thenceforth she was to be only a mother, pitilessly a mother, and only +of her _two_ children. She was busy now in marrying off Solange. Two or +three aspirants succeeded each other at Nohant, one after the other, +among them Victor de Laprade, followed by a young Berry lad, with whom +Solange flirted gaily. + +Then one fine day, a dispute burst out between Maurice and Chopin over +some silly question. One of those grave, irreparable disputes. The two +wounded each other unmercifully. A moment later they embraced, “but the +grain of sand has fallen into the quiet lake, and little by little the +stones fall in, one by one,” wrote George. It soon began again. Maurice +spoke of leaving the group and the house. His mother took his side, +naturally. So Chopin bowed his head. It was he who would go. No one +said a word to restrain him. + +He started out in the first days of November. Seven years and a half +before, he had arrived at Nohant for the first time, his physique +already much deteriorated. That is nothing, however, when the soul is +strong. But on this late autumn day that, too, had collapsed. + +They saw the invalid, wrapped in rugs, getting into his carriage. With +his hand, pale and dry, he made a sign of farewell. No one understood +its meaning, not even himself. He was about to get into his grave. + + + + + CHAPTER XVI + + The Story of an Estrangement + + +There was a great deal of sickness in Paris. Grzymala had just passed +seventeen days without sleeping; Delacroix, more ill than ever, dragged +himself nevertheless to the Luxembourg. Chopin too, tried to put people +off the scent, as he had done all those past years. But at length he +was forced to admit that he had not the courage to leave his own hearth +for an instant. New Year’s Day, 1847, arrived. He sent George the +customary bonbons, and his best wishes, and, smothered in coats, had +himself driven to the Hôtel Lambert, to his friends the Czartoryskis. + +At Nohant, they kept up the semblance of happiness. Pantomime raged. +Scenery was brushed up, costumes were made. This united family +played out its comedy also. But suddenly the luggage was packed for +a return to Paris early in January, leaving Solange’s fiancé, M. des +Préaulx, stranded. And hardly had they been settled a month in the +Square d’Orléans when everything was unsettled again by the entrance +on the scene of a new actor: the sculptor Clésinger. He was a man of +thirty-three, violent, full-blooded, enthusiastic, who had just made +a name in the exhibitions and achieved fame at the first stroke. He +had asked to do a bust of Mme. Sand, came to call, saw Solange and was +lost. She was almost as quickly inflamed. The projected marriage with +M. des Préaulx was postponed in spite of the misgivings of George, +who had gathered decidedly vexing information about the sculptor. +“A hot-tempered and disorderly gentleman, a one-time dragoon, now a +great sculptor everywhere conducting himself as though he were in the +café of the regiment, or in the studio,” said Arsène Houssaye. All +decisions were postponed. The novelist took her daughter back to Nohant +immediately after the first days of Holy Week, at the beginning of +April. + +Chopin at once had a very decided opinion about these events. First; +regret to see the Berry union fall through, as it seemed to him a very +sweet and proper one. Then, an instinctive dislike made him hostile to +the “stone tailor,” as he called Clésinger. He wrote to his people: +“Sol is not to be married yet. By the time they had all come to Paris +to sign the contract, she no longer wanted it. I am sorry, and I pity +the young man, who is very honest and very much in love; but it is +better that it should have happened before the marriage than after. +They say it is postponed till later on, but I know what that means.” +George, for her part, confided her difficulties to a friend: “Within +six weeks she has broken off a love affair she had hardly felt, and +she has accepted another on which she is ardently set. She was engaged +to one when she drove him off and became engaged to another. It’s odd, +it’s above all bold; but still, it is her right, and fortune smiles +on her. She substitutes for a gentle and modest marriage a brilliant +and burning one. She has it all her own way, and is taking me to Paris +at the end of April.... Work and emotion take up all my days and all +my nights.... This wedding must take place suddenly, as though by +surprise. Also it is a _deep_ secret I am confiding to you, and one +that even Maurice does not know. (He is in Holland.”) + +Above all, Chopin was not to know anything,—Chopin, who was now refused +all intimate participation in the family affairs. George really knew +she had met her master this time, in his fierce Clésinger who boasted +that he would attain his ends at any cost. He appeared suddenly at La +Châtre, he repeatedly met Solange in the woods, he demanded a definite +answer. Naturally she said yes, since she loved him. George was forced +to give in, despite her apprehensions, her terror. On the 16th of +April, she called her son to the rescue because she was afraid, she +needed to be reassured. She added at the end of the letter: “Not a word +of all this to Chopin; it does not concern him, and when the Rubicon is +crossed, _ifs_ and _buts_ do only harm.” + +When the Rubicon is crossed.... One more time! How many times had she +crossed it during her life, this old hand at ruptures? And yet she +pretended not to see that this was the critical point of her long +liaison. The marriage of Solange, this fact, indeed, entirely outside +of her own love-life, had become the plank to which the hand of the +pianist still clung, and she kicked it away with her heel. + +Chopin heard whispered gossip about the affair, but he said nothing, +he questioned no one. He waited for a renewal of confidence. If all +the mystery astonished him, if he even guessed at the deliberate and +childish side of the now obvious rupture of his friendship, he made no +sign. As always, it was his health that paid for his muzzled pangs. He +was taken gravely ill. But it was no longer George who nursed him; it +was Princess Marceline Czartoryska. She sent a bulletin of his health +to Nohant. “One more trouble added to all the rest,” replied George on +May 7th. “Is he really seriously ill? Write to me, I count on you to +tell me the truth and to nurse him.” Yet on that very day she wrote in +her _Journal_ with a calmer pen: “Here I am at the age of forty-three +with a constitution of iron, streaked with painful indispositions, +which give me, however, _only a few hours of spleen, dissipated the +next day.... To-day my soul is well, and my body also._” Was it that +day that she was sincere, or the next, the 8th of May, when she said +to Mlle. de Rozières: “I am sick with worry and am having an attack +of giddiness while writing to you. I cannot leave my family at such +a moment, when I have not even Maurice to save the proprieties and +protect his sister from wicked insinuations. I suffer a great deal, I +assure you. Write to me, I beg. Tell Chopin whatever you think best +about me. Yet I dare not to write him, I am afraid of disturbing him, +I am afraid that Solange’s marriage displeases him greatly and that he +has a disagreeable shock each time I speak to him about it. Yet I could +not make a mystery of it to him and I have had to act as I have done. I +cannot make Chopin the head and counsellor of the family; my children +would not accept him, and the dignity of my life would be lost.” + +Had it been a question of dignity it would have been better to have +thought of that earlier. Had it been a question of sparing Chopin’s +health, then it was too late for that, too. She did not even perceive +the contradictions in her letter. The poor great artist remained firm +in his determined silence, and desperately proud. + +Yet George had just published her _Lucrezia Floriani_, already the +funeral march of her love. But Chopin continued to see in it nothing +but “beautiful characters of women and men, great naturalness and +poetry.” This would force her to confess differently, to explain +herself further. For there was always in her this impetuous need of +justification which drove her, at the decisive moments of the beginning +or of the end of a love affair, to acknowledge the forces that +motivated her. To whom should she, this time, fling the comments of her +sick brain, and expose the fatigue of a body which thenceforth would be +able to demand but the briefest of gratifications? Eight years before +she had written to Count Grzymala to show of what she was capable, and +that a heart like hers could pass through the most diverse phases of +passion. If the whole horizon of love had been traversed, it seemed +right, even useful, to call a halt at the threshold of the oncoming +night. So she took a sheet of paper and wrote to the same confidant—he +of the first and of the final hour—the following lines: + + “_12th May, 1847._ + + “Thank you, my dear friend, for your good letters. I knew in a + vague and uncertain way that he was ill twenty-four hours before + the letter from the good Princess. Thank that angel also for me. + How I suffered during those twenty-four hours it is impossible to + tell you. Whatever had happened I was in such a position that I + could not have budged. + + “Anyway, once again he is saved, but how dark the future is for me + in that quarter! + + “I do not yet know if my daughter is to be married here in a week, + or at Paris in a fortnight. In any case, I shall be in Paris for + a few days at the end of the month, and if Chopin can be moved I + shall bring him back here. My friend, I am as happy as can be over + the marriage of my daughter, as she is transported with love and + joy, and as Clésinger seems to deserve it, loves her passionately, + and will give her the life she wants. But in any case, one suffers + a great deal in making such a decision. + + “I feel that Chopin must for his part have suffered also at not + knowing, at not understanding, and at not being able to advise + anything; but it is impossible to take his advice on the real + affairs of life into consideration. He has never seen facts + truly, nor understood human nature on a single point; his soul is + all poetry and music, and he cannot bear what is different from + himself. Besides, his influence in my family affairs would mean for + me the loss of all dignity and of all love for and from my children. + + “Talk to him and try to make him understand in a general way that + he should refrain from thinking about them. If I tell him that + Clésinger (whom he does not like), deserves our affection, he + will only hate him the more, and will bring on himself Solange’s + hatred. This is all very difficult and delicate, and I know of + no way of calming and restoring a sick soul who is irritated by + efforts to heal him. The evil that consumes this poor being, both + morally and physically, has been killing me for a long time, and I + see him go away without ever having been able to do him any good, + since it is the anxious, jealous and suspicious affection he has + for me that is the principal cause of his sadness. For seven years + I have lived like a virgin with him and with others; I have grown + old before my time, without effort or sacrifice even, so tired was + I of passions and so irremediably disillusioned. If any woman on + earth should have inspired him with the most absolute confidence, + it was I, and he never understood that; and I know that many people + are accusing me, some with having exhausted by the violence of my + senses, others with having made him desperate with my outbursts. I + believe you know the truth. He complains of me that I have killed + him by privation, while I was certain that I should kill him if + I acted otherwise. See how I stand in this dismal friendship, in + which I have made myself his slave whenever I could without showing + an impossible and culpable preference for him over my children, + in which the respect that I had to inspire in my children and in + my friends has been so delicate and so important to preserve. I + have achieved in this respect prodigies of patience of which I did + not believe myself capable, I, who had not the nature of a saint + like the Princess. I have attained to martyrdom; but Heaven is + inexorable against me, as though I had great crimes to expiate, + because in the midst of all these efforts and sacrifices, he whom I + love with an absolutely chaste and maternal love is dying a victim + of the mad attachment he bears for me. + + “God grant, in His Goodness, that, at least, my children be + happy, that is to say, good, generous, and at peace with their + consciences; because I do not believe in happiness in this world, + and the law of Heaven is so strict in this regard that it is almost + an impious revolt to dream of not suffering from all external + things. The only strength in which we can take refuge is in the + wish to fulfil our duty. + + “Remember me to our Anna, and tell her what is in the bottom of + my heart, then burn my letter. I am sending you one for that dear + Gutmann, whose address I do not know. Do not give it to him in the + presence of Chopin, who does not yet know that I have been told of + his sickness, and who does not want me to know it. His worthy and + generous heart has always a thousand exquisite delicacies side by + side with the cruel aberrations that are killing him. Ah! If Anna + could but talk to him one day, and probe into his heart to heal it! + But he closes it hermetically against his best friends. Good-bye, + my dear, I love you. Remember that I shall always have courage and + perseverance and devotion, in spite of my suffering, and that I do + not complain. Solange embraces you. + + “George.” + +What contradictions again, and how this time each phrase rings false! +The only truths that shine out here in spite of the author are the +twitchings of her will in the affair of her daughter, and her decision +to be finished with Chopin. She is, once more, in the pangs of +delivery, and a woman when a prey to that ill sticks at nothing. It was +in spite of her also—and perhaps because there is in love affairs as in +those of art, a sort of symmetry, a secret equilibrium—that this last +association had opened almost nine years earlier and is closed to-day +on a letter to the same man. These nearly nine years lie completely +between these two missives, of which the one expressed the initial +desire to unite two opposite souls by forcing nature; the other, to +jilt the ill-assorted partner—“all poetry and music”—for whom the +practical part of existence and the realities of the flesh remain the +true grounds of illusion. It is vain to try to comment further on so +perfectly intelligible a conflict. I am trying to be just in giving +neither right nor wrong to either of the two persons concerned. Each +brought his own contribution to the establishment, and, as it usually +happens, the one who had eaten his first took from the other that in +which he was more rich. George was bound to remain the stronger because +she had nothing left to give. Chopin was bound to founder because his +very wealth had ruined him. + + * * * * * + +On the 20th of May, Solange was married in haste, almost by stealth, +at Nohant. M. Dudevant was present at this curious wedding, where +his daughter did not even sign her name on the register, but the +pseudonym of her mother. The latter, having strained a muscle, had +to be carried to the church. “Never was a wedding less gay,” she +said. Evil presentiments were in the air. There followed yet another +engagement,—that of Augustine, Maurice’s friend, whom the young man +wanted to marry to his friend Théodore Rousseau, the painter. Then +certain strange events occurred. The engagement of Augustine was +abruptly broken off on some absurd pretext. In reality this was the +revenge of Solange. Out of her hate for her cousin and bitterness +against her brother, she informed Rousseau of the relationship she +assigned to them. They separated. George was outraged and complained +with bitterness. Then the Clésinger couple, two months married, +returned to Nohant and raised the mask, and there took place between +George and her son on the one side, and the sculptor and his wife on +the other, scenes of unprecedented violence. + +“We have been nearly cutting each other’s throats here,” wrote the +unfortunate Sand to Mlle. de Rozières. “My son-in-law raised a hammer +against Maurice, and would perhaps have killed him if I had not thrown +myself between them, striking my son-in-law in the face, and receiving +a blow of his fist in the chest. If the priest, who was present, and +friends and a servant, had not interfered by main force, Maurice, who +was armed with a pistol, would have killed him on the spot. Solange +fanned the flame with cold ferocity, having caused these deplorable +furies by backstairs gossip, lies, unimaginable slanders, without +having had here from Maurice or from anybody whatever the slightest +shadow of teasing or the hint of a wrong. This diabolic couple left +yesterday evening, riddled with debt, triumphant in their insolence, +and leaving a scandal in the country-side that they can never live +down. Lastly, I was confined to my house for three days by the blow of +a murderer. I do not want ever to see them again, never again shall +they put foot in my house. They have gone too far. My God! I have done +nothing to deserve such a daughter. + +“It was quite necessary for me to write part of this to Chopin; I was +afraid he might arrive in the middle of a catastrophe, and that he +would die of pain and shock. Do not tell him how far things went; they +are to be kept from him if possible. Do not tell him I wrote to you +and if M. and Mme. Clésinger do not boast of their behaviour, keep it +secret for my sake.... + +“I have a favour to ask of you, my child. That is to take complete +charge of the keys of my apartment, as soon as Chopin has left (if he +has not already), and not to let Clésinger, or his wife, or anyone +connected with them set foot in it. They are supreme robbers and with +prodigious coolness they would leave me without a bed. They carried off +everything from here, down to the counterpanes and candlesticks....” + +It is most important to note two things. In this first letter to Mlle. +de Rozières, Sand supposes that Chopin has already left the Square +d’Orléans, or is on the point of so doing. We shall see why later on. +In the second letter—which I shall reprint below—notice the date: _July +the twenty-fifth_. These points will serve to shed a certain light on +a situation that is at first glance obscure, but which becomes clear +enough if these two landmarks are kept in sight. + + “Nohant, _25 July._ + + “My friend, I am worried, frightened. I have had no news of Chopin + for several days, for I don’t know how many days because in the + trouble that is crushing me I cannot keep count of the time. But it + seems too long a time. He was about to leave and suddenly he does + not arrive, he does not write. Did he start? Has he been stopped, + ill somewhere? If he were seriously ill, wouldn’t you have written + me when you saw his state of illness prolonged? I myself, should + already have left if it had not been for my fear of passing him, + and for the horror I have of going to Paris and exposing myself to + the hate of her whom you think so good, so kind to me.... + + “Sometimes I think, to reassure myself, that Chopin loves her much + more than he does me, looks sourly at me and takes her part. + + “I would rather that a hundred times than know him to be ill. + Tell me quite frankly how matters stand. If Solange’s frightful + maliciousness, if her incredible lies sway him,—so be it! Nothing + matters to me if he only gets well.” + +Chopin had already suffered too much, renounced too much to come to +heel again and let himself be recaptured by the cries of this despoiled +mother, this hardened mistress. He did not want her pity. He did not +even give her his. Solange came to him. She had little difficulty in +convincing him that she was right, his distrust and suspicions had so +crystallized. Did not all the darkness in which they tried to keep +him hide still other breaches of faith, other riddances? His long +docility had turned at one bound into bitter disgust. “The cypresses +also have their caprices,” he said. It was his only complaint. He wrote +to George, but neither his letter, nor the one he received in reply +has been preserved. The lovers who had given each other eight years +of their lives could not consent to preserve in their archives the +bulletin of their supreme defeat. On the other hand, if we do not know +the terms in which they drew up the act of dissociation, we do know +their echo. + +To Delacroix alone Chopin showed the letter of farewell he had +received. “I must admit that it is atrocious,” this friend wrote in +his _Journal_ under the date of _July the twentieth_. “Cruel passions, +long-suppressed impatience come to the surface; and as a contrast which +would be laughable if the subject were not so sad, the author from time +to time takes the place of the woman and spreads herself in tirades +that seem borrowed from a novel or a philosophical homily.” + +If I have underlined the date, July the twenty-fifth, above, where +George complains of having been abandoned, it is to make the fact stand +out more clearly that already, five days before, on the twentieth, +Delacroix in his diary signals the existence of the letter of rupture, +which he describes as _atrocious_. So the astonishment of George may be +called astonishing. Note well her duplicity. There can be no doubt that +she foresaw its effect too well to suppose for an instant that Chopin +would come running to Nohant. Rather she counted on his moving out. Yet +she still wanted to play a part, to pose as the victim. Though she had +decided on the break, she feared the fame and the friends of Chopin, +who, later on, might search out the truth in the name of history. So in +her third letter to Mlle. de Rozières she wrote thus: + + _(No date.)_ + + “... Sick to death, I was about to go and see why no one wrote to + me. Finally, I received by the morning post a letter from Chopin. + I see that, as usual, I have been duped by my stupid heart, and + that while I passed six sleepless nights torturing myself about his + health, he was engaged in talking and thinking ill of me with the + Clésingers. Very well. His letter has a ridiculous dignity and the + sermons of this good _pater familias_ shall serve as lessons to me. + A man warned is worth two. From now on I shall be perfectly easy in + that regard. + + “There are many points about the affair that I can guess, and I + know what my daughter is capable of in the way of calumny. I know + what the poor brain of Chopin is capable of in the way of prejudice + and credulity.... But my eyes are open at last! and I shall + conduct myself accordingly; I will no longer allow ingratitude + and perversity to pasture on my flesh and blood. From now on I + shall remain here, peaceful and entrenched at Nohant, far from + the bloodthirsty enemies that are after me. I shall know how to + guard the gate of my fortress against the scoundrels and madmen. I + know that meanwhile they will be tearing me to pieces with their + slanders. Well and good! When they have glutted their hatred of me, + they will devour each other. + + “... I think it _magnificent_ of Chopin to see, associate with, and + approve Clésinger, who _struck_ me, because I tore from his hands + a hammer he had raised against Maurice. Chopin, whom all the world + told me was my most faithful and most devoted friend! Marvellous! + My child, life is a bitter irony, and those who have the folly to + love and believe must close their careers with a lugubrious laugh + and a despairing sob, as I hope will soon be my lot. I believe + in God and in the immortality of my soul. The more I suffer in + this world, the more I believe. I shall quit this transitory life + with a profound disgust, to enter into life eternal with a great + confidence....” + +She took up her pen a fourth time, on August the 14th: + + “I am more seriously ill than they think. Thank God for it. I have + had enough of life, and I am packing up with great joy. I do not + ask you for news of Solange; I have it indirectly. As for Chopin, + I hear nothing further of him, and I beg you to tell me truthfully + how he is; no more. The rest does not in the least interest me and + I have no reason to miss his affection.” + +There is a strong dose of the “_mélo_” that Chopin thought so hateful +in several passages of these documents, and the evident desire to +extract all possible pathos. But without doubt certain authentic +accents are to be found as well. It is probable that she herself would +not recognize them any too clearly. George Sand had suffered from +this rupture of which she was the cause, the agent and the victim. If +the same cries are no longer to be heard as in the Venetian days, it +is because thirteen years had passed since the de Musset experience. +But perhaps I am making her part seem too easy. For what are years to +passionate hearts? No, growing old is a poor reason. The only true one +is that this woman no longer tears anything living from her soul. If +she has not yet arrived at the time of the great cold, of which we have +already spoken, at least she has come to that of the first serenities. +A favourable epoch for her literature. She took advantage of it so well +that she chose it precisely for _L’Histoire de ma Vie_, the best of her +books. + +As for Chopin, to complain was not in his nature. Even in these mortal +weeks all his pain had a beautiful discretion. As before, as always, +it rose and fell within himself. No blame passed his lips. To Louis +Viardot (the husband of the singer), who questioned him, he replied +simply: “Solange’s marriage is a great misfortune for her, for her +family, for her friends. Daughter and mother have been deceived, and +the mistake has been realized too late. But why blame only one for this +mistake that was shared by both? The daughter wished, demanded, an +ill-assorted marriage; but the mother, in consenting, has she not part +of the blame? With her great mind and her great experience, should she +not have enlightened a girl who was impelled by spite even more than by +love? If she had any illusion, we must not be without pity for an error +that is shared. And I, pitying them both from the depths of my soul, +I am trying to bring some consolation to the only one of them I am +permitted to see.” + +He wanted to inform his sister about these happenings, but could not +at first manage to do it. To write certain words is sometimes so great +a cruelty to oneself! At last, after having burned several sheets of +paper, he succeeded in giving the essentials in his Christmas letter. + + “_25 December, 1847._ + + “Beloved children, + + “I did not reply to you immediately because I have been so horribly + busy. I am sending you, by the usual channel, some New Year + pictures.... I spent Christmas Eve in the most prosaic way, but I + thought of you all. All my best wishes to you, as always.... + + “Sol is with her father, in Gascony. She saw her mother on the way. + She went to Nohant with the Duvernets, but her mother received + her coldly and told her that if she would leave her husband she + might return to Nohant. Sol saw her nuptial room turned into a + theatre, her boudoir into a wardrobe for the actors, and she wrote + me that her mother spoke only of money matters. Her brother was + playing with his dog and all he found to say to her was: ‘Will you + have something to eat?’ The mother now seems more angry with her + son-in-law than with her daughter, though in her famous letter + she wrote to me that her son-in-law was not bad, that it was her + daughter who made him so. One might think she had wanted to rid + herself at one sweep of her daughter and of me, because we were in + the way. She will continue to correspond with her daughter; thus + her maternal heart, which cannot completely do without news of her + child, will be appeased for a moment and her conscience lulled + to sleep. She will think herself in the right, and will proclaim + me her enemy, for taking the part of the son-in-law she cannot + tolerate, simply because he married her daughter, while I really + opposed the marriage as much as I could. Singular creature, with + all her intelligence! A frenzy seizes her, and she spoils her life, + she spoils her daughter’s life. It will end badly with her son, + too, I predict and am certain. To excuse herself, she would like + to pick holes in those who wish her well, who believe in her, who + have never insulted her, and whom she cannot bear near her because + they are the mirror of her conscience. That is why she has not + written me a single word; that is why she is not coming to Paris + this winter; that is also why she has not said a single word to + her daughter. I do not regret having helped her to bear the eight + most difficult years of her life, those in which her daughter was + growing up, those in which she was bringing up her son; I do not + regret all that I have suffered; but I do regret that her daughter, + that perfectly tended plant, sheltered from so many storms, should + have been broken at her mother’s hands by an imprudence and a + laxity that one might pass over in a woman of twenty years, but not + in a woman of forty. + + “That which has been and no longer is will not be written in the + annals. When, later on, she delves into her past, Mme. Sand will be + able to find in her soul only a happy memory of me. For the moment + she is in the strangest paroxysm of maternity, playing the rôle + of a juster and a more perfect mother than she really is, and it + is a fever for which there is no remedy, especially when it takes + possession of an excitable imagination that is easily carried away. + + “... A new novel by Mme. Sand is appearing in the _Débats_, a novel + in the manner of the Berry novels, like _La Mare Au Diable_, and it + begins admirably. It is called _François Le Champi_.... There is + talk also of her _Mémoires_; but in a letter to Mme. Marliani, Mme. + Sand wrote that this would be rather the thoughts she has had up + until now on art, letters, etc.... and not what is generally meant + by memoirs. Indeed, it is too early for that, because dear Mme. + Sand will have many more adventures in her life before she grows + old; many beautiful things will still happen to her, and ugly ones + too...” + +The irony is hardly malicious, and “the enemy” who would “tear her to +pieces” is very gentle. Indeed one must admire the way the artist holds +his temper in hand. The same day he wrote to Solange: + + “... How the story of your two visits to Nohant saddened me! + Still, the first step is taken. You have shown heart, and this + was followed by a certain _rapprochement_, since you have been + begged to write. Time will do the rest. You know you must not take + everything that is said at face value. If they no longer want + to know a _stranger like me_, for instance, that cannot be the + lot of your husband, because he belongs to the family... I feel + suffocated, have headaches, and beg you to excuse my erasures and + my French...” + +This was in January, 1848. February. Soon it would be ten months since +George and Frederick had separated. But Chopin did not get well. Quite +the contrary. His broken tenderness had not only killed his heart, it +had dried up the one source of his consolation, music. Since 1847, the +_bad year_, as he called it, Chopin composed nothing more. + +“She has not written me another word, nor I to her,” he confided again +to his sister on the 10th of February. “She has instructed the landlord +to let her Paris apartment.... She plays comedies in the country, in +her daughter’s wedding-chamber; she forgets herself, acts as wildly +as only she can, and will not rouse herself until her heart hurts too +much, a heart that is at present overpowered by the head. I make a +cross above it. God protect her, if she cannot discern the true value +of flattery! Besides, it may be to me alone that the others seem +flatterers, while her happiness really lies in that direction and I do +not perceive it. For some time her friends and neighbours have been +able to make nothing of what has been going on down there of late, but +they are probably used to it already. Anyway, no one could ever follow +the caprices of such a soul. Eight years of a half-steady life were too +much. God permitted them to be the years when the children were growing +up, and if it had not been for me I do not know how long ago they would +have been with their father and no longer with her. And Maurice will +run off at the first opportunity to his father. But perhaps these are +the conditions of her existence, of her talent as a writer, of her +happiness? Don’t let it bother you,—it is already so far away! Time is +a great healer. Up till now, I have not got over it; that is why I have +not written to you. Everything I begin I burn the next moment. And I +should have so much to write to you! It is better to write nothing at +all.” + +They saw each other again one last time, on the fourth of March, 1848, +quite by accident. Chopin was leaving Mme. Marliani’s as Mme. Sand was +going in. She pressed his trembling and icy hand. Chopin asked her if +she had recently had news of her daughter. + +“A week ago,” she replied. + +“Not yesterday, or the day before?” + +“No.” + +“Then I inform you that you are a grandmother. Solange has a little +girl, and I am very happy to be the first to give you the news.” + +Then he bowed and went down the stairs. At the bottom he had a pang of +remorse, and wanted to go back. He had forgotten to add that Solange +and the child were doing well. He begged a friend who was with him to +give Mme. Sand this additional information, because going up steps had +become a frightfully painful business. George came back immediately. +She wanted further talk, and asked for news about himself. He replied +that he was well, and left. “There were mischievous meddlers between +us,” she said later in telling of this minute in the _Histoire de ma +Vie_. + +As for Chopin, he reported this fortuitous encounter with her mother to +Mme. Clésinger, and added, “She seemed to be in good health. I am sure +that the triumph of the Republican idea makes her happy....” + +Eight days before, in fact, the Revolution had burst. It must have been +singularly displeasing to _Prince Karol_. He wrote again to Solange: +“The birth of your child gave me more joy, you may well believe, than +the birth of the Republic.” + + + + + CHAPTER XVII + + Swan Song + + +For twenty years Chopin had been playing hide-and-seek with +revolutions. He had left Warsaw a few weeks before that of 1830. His +projected trip to Italy in the spring of 1831 had been put off because +of the insurrections at Bologna, Milan, Ancona, Rome. He had arrived +in Paris a year after the “Three Glorious Days,” but still he had +witnessed from his balcony on the Boulevard Poissonnière the last +squalls of the storm. Louis-Philippe was then King of France. Now he +was abdicating after a reign of little more than seventeen years, just +the length of Chopin’s stay at Paris. ’48 promised to be a bad year +for artists. Very bad for Chopin, with that gaping wound in his heart, +and the phthisis against which he no longer even struggled. He decided +to leave France for a time, and to undertake a tour in Great Britain +that Miss Stirling, a Scotch lady whom he greatly liked, proposed +to organize. She had been his pupil for four years. But his friends +advised him to give a last concert in Paris before leaving. He allowed +himself to be persuaded. This was at the beginning of February. + +In eight days all the tickets were sold, three hundred seats at 20 +francs in the Salons Pleyel. “I shall have all Parisian society,” he +wrote to his family. “The King, the Queen, the Duke of Orleans, the +Duke of Montpensier have each taken ten places, even though they are +in mourning and none of them can come. Subscriptions are coming in for +a second concert, which I shall probably not give because the first +one already bores me.” And he adds the next day: “My friends tell me +that I shall not have to bother about anything, only to sit down and +play... They are writing to my publisher from Brest and Nantes to +reserve places. Such enthusiasm astonishes me, and I must begin playing +to-day, if only for the sake of my conscience, because I play less than +I used to do. (Before his concerts Chopin always practised on Bach.) I +am going to play, as a curiosity, the Mozart trio with Franchomme and +Allard. There will be neither free programmes nor free tickets. The +room will be comfortably arranged, and can hold three hundred people. +Pleyel always jokes about my foolishness, and to encourage me for this +concert, he is going to have the stairs banked with flowers. I shall +be just as though I were at home, and my eyes will meet, so to speak, +none but familiar faces... I am giving a great many lessons. I am +overwhelmed with all sorts of work, yet, with all that, I do nothing... +If you leave I shall move, too, because I doubt if I could stomach +another summer such as the last in Paris. If God gives us health, we +shall see each other again, and we shall talk, and embrace each other.” + +It is not only lassitude that this letter breathes; does one not read +beneath the weary smiles the certainty of an approaching end? This +gathering of friends, this atmosphere of flowers and wreaths, has about +it something funereal. We detect in the eagerness of this élite of +worldlings and of artists an anxiety, something like a presentiment of +the twilight of a whole peaceful and elegant epoch. Poet and King are +passing away. Society is hastening to catch the last perfume of the +ancient lilies of France, and of the young Polish rose. Sweeping closer +was the triumph of George Sand, of the philosophers with dandruff, and +of Barbès. + +Frederick Chopin’s supreme concert took place on Wednesday, the 16th +of February, 1848, one week before the abdication of Louis-Philippe. +Everything about it was extraordinary. The room was decorated with +flowers and carpets. The list of the selected audience had been revised +by Chopin himself. The text of the programme had been steel-engraved in +English script, and printed on beautiful paper. It read: + + Part One + + _Trio_ of Mozart, for piano, violin and violoncello, + by MM. Chopin, Allard and Franchomme. + + _Airs_ sung by Mlle. Antonia Molina di Mondi. + + _Nocturne_ } composed and played by M. Chopin. + _Barcarolle_ } + + _Air_ sung by Mlle. Antonia Molina di Mondi. + + _Etude_ } composed and played by M. Chopin. + _Berceuse_ } + + Part Two + + _Scherzo_, _Adagio_ and _Finale_ of the _Sonata in + G Minor for piano and violoncello_, composed by M. Chopin and + played by the composer and M. Franchomme. + + _Air nouveau_ from _Robert the Devil_, by Meyerbeer, + sung by M. Roger. + + _Preludes_ } + _Mazurkas_ } composed and played by M. Chopin. + _Valses_ } + + Accompanists: MM. Aulary and de Garaudé. + +The _Barcarolle_ is that of 1846 (op. 60). The _Berceuse_ (op. 57) +dates from 1845. As for the _Nocturne_ and the _Etude_ that were +announced, one can only guess. The _Sonata for piano and violoncello_ +is the last work he published. As to the _Preludes_ and the _Mazurkas_ +we are again at a loss. But it is known that the Waltz chosen was that +which is called “The Waltz of the Little Dog” (op. 64, no. 1). + +Chopin appeared. He was extremely weak, but erect. His face, though +pale, showed no change. Neither did his playing betray any exhaustion, +and they were sufficiently accustomed to the softness and surprises +of his touch not to wonder that he played _pianissimo_ the two +_forte_ passages at the end of his _Barcarolle_. One is glad to know +that for that evening he chose this lovely plaint, the story of a +lovers’ meeting in an Italian country-side. Thirds and sixths, always +distinct, turn this dialogue for two voices, for two souls, into a very +easily read commentary on his own story. “One dreams of a mysterious +apotheosis,” Maurice Ravel has said of this piece. Perhaps, indeed, it +is an inner climax, the glorification of his unexpressed tenderness. + +The effort was so great that Chopin nearly fainted in the foyer when he +had finished. As for the enthusiasm of the public, it hardly needs to +be mentioned. “The sylph has kept faith,” said the _Gazette Musicale_, +a few days later, “and with what success, what enthusiasm! It is easier +to tell of the welcome he received, the transports he excited, than +to describe, to analyse, and to lay bare the secrets of an execution +that has no like in our earthly world. When we can command the pen that +traced the delicate marvels of Queen Mab, no bigger than the agate that +shines on the finger of an alderman... it will be as much as we can do +if we succeed in giving you an idea of a purely ideal talent into which +the material hardly enters. No one can interpret Chopin’s music, but +Chopin: all who were present on Wednesday are as convinced of that as +we are.” + +Chopin arrived in London on the 20th of April, 1848, and settled in a +comfortable room in Dover Street with his three pianos: a Pleyel, an +Erard and a Broadwood. He did not arrive alone: England was invaded +by a swarm of artists fleeing the Continent, where revolutions were +breaking out on all sides. But Miss Stirling and her sister, Mrs. +Erskine, had thought of everything, and already society and the Press +were talking of Chopin’s visit. + +At first, the change of air and of life seemed favourable to his +health. He breathed more easily and could make a few calls. He went +to the theatre, heard Jenny Lind sing, and the Philharmonic play, +but “their orchestra is like their roast beef, or their turtle soup: +energetic, serious, but nothing more.” His greatest trouble was the +lack of all rehearsals, and Chopin, before giving a concert, always +demanded rehearsals of the most detailed kind. For this reason he +decided not to appear in public. In addition, his spirits were low, +because of the bad political news from Poland. Furthermore, he learned +with pain of the complete misunderstandings of the Clésinger couple, of +a possible separation, and he thought at once of George. It was to be +hoped that this unhappy mother would have no new tears to shed! + +Soon he was again overwhelmed with fatigue. He was obliged to be out +very late every evening, to give lessons all day long in order to pay +for his costly rooms, his servant, and his carriage. He began again to +spit blood. Still he was received with many attentions by diverse great +lords and ladies: the Duke of Westminster, the Duchesses of Somerset +and Sutherland, Lord Falmouth, Lady Gainsborough. Miss Stirling and her +sister, who adored him, wanted to drag him about to all their friends. +Finally, he played in two or three drawing-rooms for a fee of twenty +guineas, a fee that Mme. Rothschild advised him to reduce a little +“because at this season (June) it is necessary to make prices more +moderate.” The first evening took place at the Duchess of Sutherland’s, +at which were present the Queen, Prince Albert, the Prince of Prussia, +and more than eighty of the aristocracy, among them the old Duke of +Wellington. Stafford House, the ancient seat of the Sutherlands, struck +the artist with admiration He gave a marvelling description of it: “All +the royal palaces and old castles are splendid, but not decorated with +such taste and elegance as Stafford House. The stairs are celebrated +for their splendour, and it is a sight to see the Queen on these +staircases in a blaze of light, surrounded by all those diamonds, +ribbons, and garters, and descending with the most perfect elegance, +conversing, stopping on the different landings. In truth, it is +regrettable that a Paul Veronese could not have seen such a spectacle +and left one more masterpiece.” + +Dear Chopin, he did not dream that in looking at such a picture we +should have hunted only for his poor bloodless face! What do this +ephemeral glitter and all these tinsel grandeurs mean to us beside +his little person, so wasted, but near to our hearts. We see the +magnificence of this gala evening merely for his sake, obscure actor +in a fête where nothing seems extraordinary to us save his feverish +glance. “I suffer from an idiotic home-sickness,” he wrote, “and in +spite of my absolute resignation, I am preoccupied, God knows why, with +what is to become of me.” He played at the Marquis of Douglas’s, at +Lady Gainsborough’s, at Lord Falmouth’s, in the midst of an affluence +of titled personages. “You know they live on grandeur. Why cite these +vain names again?” Yet he cites a great many. Among celebrities, he +was presented to Carlyle, to Bulwer, to Dickens, to Hogarth, a friend +of Walter Scott, who wrote a very beautiful article about him in the +_Daily News_. Among the “curiosities,” was Lady Byron. “We conversed +almost without understanding each other, she in English, I in French. +I can understand how she must have bored Byron.” Mr. Broadwood, the +piano manufacturer, was among the most attentive of his bourgeois +friends. Occasionally he had a visit from him in the mornings. Chopin +told him one day that he had slept badly. Coming in that evening, he +found on his bed a new spring mattress and pillows, provided by this +faithful protector. + +These various recitals brought Chopin about five thousand francs, no +great sum, all told. But what did money matter? What could he do with +it? He had never been more sad. Not for a long while had he experienced +a real joy, he confided to Grzymala. “At bottom I am really past all +feeling. I vegetate, simply, and patiently await my end.” + +On the 9th of August he left London for Scotland, where he went to +the house of his friends the Stirlings and their brother-in-law, Lord +Torphichen. The excellent Broadwood had reserved two places for him +in the train so that he might have more room, and had given him a Mr. +Wood, a music-seller, as a companion. He arrived in Edinburgh. His +apartment was reserved in the best hotel, where he rested a day and +a half. A tour of the city. A halt at a music shop where he heard +one of his _Mazurkas_ played by a blind pianist. He left again in an +English carriage, with a postilion, for Calder House, twelve miles +from Edinburgh. There Lord Torphichen received him in an old manor +surrounded by an immense park. There was nothing in sight but lawns, +trees, mountains and sky. “The walls of the castle are eight feet +thick. There are galleries on all sides and dark corridors hung with an +incalculable number of ancestral portraits of all colours and costumes, +some Scotch, others in armour, or again in panniers. There is nothing +lacking to satisfy the imagination. There is even a little Red Riding +Hood in the form of a ghost. But I have not yet seen her.” As for his +hosts, they were perfect, discreet and generous. “What splendid people +my Scots are!” wrote Chopin. “There is nothing I can desire that I do +not immediately receive. They even bring me the Paris papers every day. +I am well. I have peace and sleep, but I must leave in a week.” + +These Stirlings of Keir were a very ancient family. They went back to +the fourteenth century, and had acquired wealth in the Indies. Jane +and her older sister, Mrs. Erskine, had known Chopin in Paris. They +were two noble women, older than Frederick, but the younger still +very beautiful. Ary Scheffer painted her several times, because she +represented to his eyes the ideal of beauty. It was said that she +wanted to marry Chopin. To those who spoke to him about it, “As well +marry her to Death,” he said. + +Life was agreeable at Calder House; quiet mornings, drives in the +afternoon, and in the evening music. Chopin harmonized for the old lord +the Scotch airs that the latter hummed. A picture that does not lack +piquancy. But the poor swan was restless. He thought always of George, +of whom he had just received news through Solange. It was bad. As the +proclamations which had ignited Civil War, even in the provinces, were +attributed to her, she had been in bad odour in her Nohant world. +Taking refuge at Tours, “she is stuck in a sea of mud,” wrote Chopin +to his sister, “and she has dragged many others with her.” A filthy +lampoon was circulating about her, published by the father of that +same Augustine whom Chopin detested. This man complained that “she had +corrupted his daughter, whom she had made the mistress of Maurice, and +then married to the first comer... The father cites Mme. Sand’s own +letters. In one word, a most dirty sensation, in which all Paris is +interested to-day. It is an outrage on the part of the father, _but +it is the truth_. So much for the philanthropic deed she thought she +was doing, and against which I fought with all my strength when the +girl came into the house! She should have been left with her parents, +not put into the head of this young man, who will never marry except +for money. But he wanted to have a pretty cousin in the house. She +was dressed like Sol, and better groomed, because Maurice insisted on +it.... Solange saw the whole thing, which made them uncomfortable... +Hence, lies, shame, embarrassment, and the rest.” + +All the rancours, all the bitternesses are seen coming to the surface +again. And immense regrets. “The English are so different from the +French, to whom I am attached as to my own people,” he wrote again +in this same letter to his family. “They weigh everything by the +pound sterling, and love art only because it is superfluous. They are +excellent people, but so original that I understand how one could +oneself become stiff here: one changes into a machine.” + +He was obliged to leave Calder House to give several concerts. +Manchester at the end of August; Glasgow at the end of September; +Edinburgh at the beginning of October. And if everywhere he reaped +the same success, the same admiring surprise, a kind of tempered +enthusiasm, yet most of the criticisms noted that his playing was no +more than a kind of murmur. “Chopin seems about thirty years old,” said +the _Manchester Guardian_. (He was thirty-eight.) “He is very frail of +body, and in his walk. This impression vanishes when he seats himself +at the piano, in which he seems completely absorbed. Chopin’s music, +and the style of his playing, have the same dominant characteristics; +he has more refinement than vigour; he prefers a subtle elaboration +to a simple grasp of the composition; his touch is elegant and quick +without his striking the instrument with any joyful firmness. His +music and his playing are the perfection of chamber music... but they +need more inspiration, more frankness of design, and more power in the +execution to be felt in a large hall.” + +These are the same discreet reproaches that were made in Vienna in +1828. But only his friends knew how ill he was, and how he now had to +be carried up the stairs. He remained _chic_, however, as refined in +his dress as a woman, exercised about his linen, his shoes, insisting +on their being irreproachable. His servant curled him every morning +with an iron. The imperious side of his nature revealed itself. +Everything weighed him down: attentions, even affection, became heavy +on his shoulders, like his greatcoat or even his cashmere shawl. +These are the irritations of a very sick man: “People kill me with +their useless solicitude. I feel alone, alone, alone, although I am +surrounded... I grow weaker every day. I can compose nothing, not +that the will is lacking, but rather the physical strength... My +Scots will not leave me in peace; they smother me with politeness and +out of politeness I will not reproach them.” These were his plaints +to Grzymala. He was carried to Stirling, to Keir, from one castle +to another, from a Lord to a Duke. Everywhere he found sumptuous +hospitality, excellent pianos, beautiful pictures, well-selected +libraries, hunting, horses, dogs; but wherever he is, he expires of +coughing and irritation. What was he to do after dinner when the +gentlemen settled down in the dining-room around their whisky and when, +not knowing their tongue, he was obliged “to watch them talk, and hear +them drink”? A renewal of home-sickness, of sickness for Nohant. While +they talked of their family trees, and, “as in the Gospel, cited names +and names that went back to the Lord Jesus,” Chopin drafted letters +to his friends. “If Solange settles in Russia,” he wrote to Mlle. de +Rozières, “with whom will she talk of France? With whom can she prattle +in the Berry _patois_? Does that seem of no importance to you? Well, +it is, nevertheless, a great consolation in a strange country to have +someone about you who, as soon as you see him, carries you back in +thought to your own country.” + +He came back at last to London in the beginning of October, to go +straight to bed. Breathlessness, headaches, cold, bronchitis, all the +regular symptoms. His Scots followed him, cared for him, as did also +Princess Czartoryska, who constituted herself his sick-nurse. From that +time on, his one dream was to get back to France. As before, on his +return from Majorca, he charged Grzymala to find him a lodging near the +Boulevards between the rue de la Paix and the Madeleine. He needed also +a room for his valet. “Why I give you all this trouble, I don’t know, +for nothing gives me pleasure, but I’ve got to think of myself.” And +suddenly the old pain bursts forth without apparent rhyme or reason in +the very middle of these domestic affairs: “I have never cursed anyone, +but at this moment everything is so insupportable to me that it would +soothe me, it seems to me, if I could curse Lucrezia!...” Three lines +follow which he immediately effaced, and made indecipherable. Then +coming back to himself, or having once more swallowed what he could +never consent to express, he adds: “But they are suffering down there, +too, no doubt; they suffer so much the more in that they are growing +old in their anger. As for Solange, I shall eternally pity her.” + +So the mystery of this soul remains. No one will ever clearly trace its +meetings of the extremes of love, scorn, and hate. The only certain +fact is that from the time of his break with George, the life both of +his body and of his spirit was finished for Chopin. It will be said +that was already condemned. Not more than at the return from Majorca. +And his father did not succumb to the same illness until he was +seventy-five years old. Chopin had deliberately given up a struggle in +which he had no further motive for the will to win. In fact, he says +as much: “And why should I come back? Why does God not kill me at once +instead of letting me die slowly of a fever of irresolution? And my +Scots torture me more than I can bear. Mrs. Erskine, who is a very good +Protestant, possibly wants to make a Protestant out of me, because she +is always bringing me the Bible, and talking to me of the soul, and +marking Psalms for me to read. She is religious and good, but she is +very much worried about my soul. She _saws_ away all the time at me, +telling me that the other world is better than this, and I know that by +heart. I reply by citations from Scripture and tell her that I know all +about it.” + +This dying man dragged himself again from London to Edinburgh, to a +castle of the Duke of Hamilton, came back to London, gave a concert +for the benefit of the Poles, and made his will. Gutmann, his friend +and pupil, informed him that a rumour of his marriage was circulating +in Paris. Those unfortunate Scots, no doubt! “Friendship remains +friendship,” replied Chopin. “And even if I could fall in love with a +being who would love me as I should want to be loved, I still should +not marry, because I should have nothing to eat, nor anywhere to go. A +rich woman looks for a rich man, and if she loves a poor man, at least +he shouldn’t be an invalid!... No, I am not thinking of a wife; much +rather of my father’s house, of my mother, of my sisters... And my art, +where has that gone? And my heart, where have I squandered it? I can +scarcely still remember how they sing at home. All round me the world +is vanishing in an utterly strange manner—I am losing my way—I have no +strength at all... I am not complaining to you, but you question and I +reply: I am closer to the coffin than to the nuptial bed. My soul is at +peace. I am resigned.” + +He left at last, at the beginning of the year 1849, to return to the +Square d’Orléans, and he sent his last instructions to Grzymala. Let +pine cones be bought for his fire. Let curtains and carpet be in place. +Also a Pleyel piano and a bouquet of violets in the salon, that the +room may be perfumed. “On my return, I want still to find a little +poetry when I pass from the salon to my room, where no doubt I shall be +in bed for a long time.” + +With what joy he saw again his little apartment! Unhappily, Dr. +Molin, who alone had the secret of setting him on his legs again, had +died not long before. He consulted Dr. Roth, Dr. Louis, Dr. Simon, a +homeopath. They all prescribed the old inefficacious remedies: _l’eau +de gomme_, rest, precautions. Chopin shrugged his shoulders. He saw +death everywhere: Kalkbrenner was dead; Dr. Molin was dead; the son of +the painter Delaroche was dead; a servant of Franchomme’s was dead; the +singer Catalani (who had given him his first watch at the age of ten) +had just died also. + +“On the other hand, Noailles is better,” said one of his Scots. + +“Yes, but the King of Spain has died at Lisbon,” replied Chopin. + +All his friends visited him: Prince Czartoryski and his wife, +Delphine Potoçka, Mme. de Rothschild, Legouvé, Jenny Lind, Delacroix, +Franchomme, Gutmann. + +And then,—he had not a sou. Absent-minded and negligent, Chopin never +knew much about the state of his finances. Just then they were at zero, +for he could no longer give a single lesson. Franchomme served as +his banker, but he had to exercise his ingenuity, and invent stories +to explain the origin of the funds advanced by one or other of his +friends. If he had suspected this state of things, Chopin would have +flatly refused. The idea of such charity would have been insupportable +to him. In this connection there came about a curious happening. The +Stirling ladies, wishing to remove this worry, thought of sending +to his concierge the sum of 25,000 francs in a sealed and anonymous +envelope. Mme. Etienne received the envelope, slipped it behind the +glass of her clock, and forgot it. When Mrs. Erskine perceived that +Chopin had not received this money she made her confession to the +artist. He shouted aloud. “I must have told her a lot of truths,” he +told Grzymala, “as, for example, this: ‘that she would have to be the +Queen of England to make me accept such princely presents.’” Meanwhile, +as the money was not found, the postman who had delivered it to the +concierge consulted a fortune-teller. The latter requested, in order +to consult his oracles properly, a lock of Mme. Etienne’s hair. Chopin +obtained it by subterfuge, upon which the clairvoyant declared that +the envelope was under the clock glass. And in truth it was discovered +there intact. “Hein! What do you say to that? What do you think of this +fortune-teller? My head is in a whirl with wonder.” + +As is the case with very nervous people, Chopin’s health was +capricious. There were ups and downs. With the return of spring he +could go out a little, in a carriage, but he could not leave it. His +publisher, Schlesinger, came to the edge of the pavement to talk +business to him. Delacroix often accompanied him. He consigned to his +_Journal_ notes that remain precious to us. + +January 29th. “In the evening to see Chopin; I stayed with him till +ten o’clock. Dear man! We spoke of Mme. Sand, that woman of strange +destiny, made up of so many qualities and vices. It was apropos of her +_Mémoires_. He told me that it would be impossible for her to write +them. She has forgotten it all; she has flashes of feeling, and forgets +quickly.... I said that I predicted in advance an unhappy old age for +her. He did not think so.... Her conscience does not reproach her +for anything of all that for which her friends reproach her. She has +good health, which may easily last; only one thing would affect her +profoundly: the loss of Maurice or that he should turn out badly. + +“As for Chopin, illness prevents him from interesting himself in +anything, and especially in work. I said to him that age and the +agitations of the times would not be long in chilling me, too. He +replied that he thought I had strength to resist. ‘You rejoice in your +talent,’ he said, ‘with a sort of security that is a rare privilege, +and is better than this feverish chase after fame.’” + +March 30th. “Saw in the evening at Chopin’s the enchantress, Mme. +Potoçka. I had heard her twice, I have hardly ever seen anything more +perfect... Saw Mme. Kalerji. She played, but not very sympathetically; +on the other hand, she is really extremely lovely when she raises her +eyes in playing, like the Magdalens of Guido Reni or of Rubens.” + +April 14th. “In the evening to Chopin’s: I found him very much +weakened, hardly breathing. After awhile my presence restored him. He +told me that his cruellest torment was boredom. I asked him if he had +not known in earlier times the insupportable emptiness that I still +sometimes feel. He said that he had always been able to find something +to do; an occupation, however unimportant, filled the moments, and kept +off those vapours. Grief was another matter.” + +April 22nd. “After dinner to see Chopin, a man of exquisite heart, +and, I need not say, mind. He spoke to me of people we have known +together... He had dragged himself to the first performance of _The +Prophet_. His horror of this rhapsody!” + + * * * * * + +In May, Chopin burned his manuscripts. He tried to work up a method for +the piano, gave it up, burned it with the rest. Clearly the idea of the +imperfect, of the unfinished, was insupportable to his spirit. + +The doctors having recommended a purer air, a quieter neighbourhood, +his friends rented an apartment in the rue de Chaillot, on the second +floor of a new house, and took him there. There was a beautiful view +over Paris. He stayed there motionless behind his window, speaking very +little. Towards the end of June he desired suddenly, and at any cost, +to see his own people again. He sent a letter summoning them which took +him two days to write. + + + + + CHAPTER XVIII + + “The Cypresses have their caprices” + + +“To Madame Louise Jedrzeïewicz. + + “Paris, _Monday, June 25, 1849._ + +“My dearly beloveds, + +“If you can, come. I am ill, and no doctor can help me as you can. If +you need money, borrow it; when I am better I can easily make it and +return it to whoever lends it to you, but just now I am too broke to +be able to send you anything. My Chaillot apartment is big enough to +receive you, even with the two children. Little Louise will benefit in +every way. Papa Calasante[1] shall run about all day long; we have the +Agricultural Products Exhibition close to us here; in a word, he will +have much more time for himself than he did the other time, because I +am weaker, and shall stay more in the house with Louise. My friends and +all my well-wishers are convinced that the best remedy for me would be +the arrival of Louise, as she will certainly learn from Mme. Obreskow’s +letter. So get your passport. People whom Louise does not know, one +from the North, and one from the South, told me to-day that it would +benefit, not only my health, but also my sister’s. + + [Footnote 1: His brother-in-law.] + +“So, mother Louise and daughter Louise, bring your thimbles and your +needles. I’ll give you handkerchiefs to mark, socks to knit, and you +shall spend your time for a few months in the fresh air with your old +brother and uncle. The journey is easier now; also you don’t need much +luggage. We’ll try to be happy here on very little. You shall find +food and shelter. And even if sometimes Calasante finds that it is far +from the Champs Elysées to town, he can stay in my apartment in the +Square d’Orléans. The omnibus goes right from the Square to my door +here. I don’t know myself why I want so much to have Louise, it’s like +the longing of a pregnant woman. I swear to you that it will be good +for her, too. I hope that the family council will send her to me: who +knows whether I shan’t take her back when I am well! Then we could +all rejoice and embrace each other, as I have already written, but +without wigs and with our own teeth. The wife always owes obedience +to her husband; so it’s the husband whom I beg to bring his wife; I +beg it with my whole heart, and if he weighs it well he will see that +he cannot give a greater pleasure either to her, or to me, or do a +greater service even to the children, if he should bring one of them. +(As to the little girl I do not doubt it.) It will cost money, it is +true, but it cannot be better spent nor could you travel more cheaply. +Once here, your quarters will be provided. Write me a little word. +Mme. Obreskow, who had the kindness to want to write (I have given her +Louise’s address), will perhaps be more persuasive. Mlle. de Rozières +will also add a word, and Cochet, if he were here, would speak for +me, because there is no doubt that he would find me no better. His +Æsculapius has not shown himself for ten days because he has at last +perceived that there is something in my sickness that passes his +science. In spite of that, you must praise him to your tenant, and to +all who know him, and say that he has done me a great deal of good; +but my head is made that way: when I am a little bit better, that’s +enough for me. Say also that everyone is convinced that he has cured a +quantity of people of cholera. The cholera is diminishing a great deal; +it has almost disappeared. The weather is superb; I am sitting in the +salon from where I can admire the whole panorama of Paris: the towers, +the Tuileries, the Chambres, St.-Germain l’Auxerrois, St. Etienne du +Mont, Notre-Dame, the Panthéon, St. Sulpice, Val de Grâce, the five +windows of the Invalides, and between these buildings and me nothing +but gardens. You will see it all when you come. Now get busy on the +passport and the money, but do it quickly. Write me a word at once. You +know that the cypresses have their caprices: my caprice to-day is to +see you in my house. Maybe God will permit everything to go well: but +if God does not wish it, act at least as though He did. I have great +hope, because I never ask for very much, and I should have refrained +from this also if I had not been urged on by all who wish me well. +Bestir yourself, Monsieur Calasante. In return, I shall give you _huge_ +and excellent cigars; I know someone who smokes marvellous ones—in +the garden, mind you! I hope the letter I wrote for Mamma’s birthday +arrived, and that I did not miss the date too far. I don’t want to +think of all that because it makes me feverish, and, thank God, I have +no fever, which disconcerts and vexes all the ordinary doctors. + +“Your affectionate but very feeble brother, + + “Ch.” + + + + + CHAPTER XIX + + The Death of Chopin + + +“Mother Louise and daughter Louise” hurried to him at once. Calasante +accompanied them. Chopin would have greatly liked to see again the +friend of his youth, Titus, who had just arrived at Ostend. But as +he was a Russian subject, passport difficulties prevented him from +entering France. “The doctors do not allow me to travel,” wrote the +invalid, who had hoped to be able to go to meet him. “I drink Pyrenees +water in my room, but your presence would be more healing than any +medicine. Yours even in death, your Frederick.” + +About six weeks glided by without any improvement. Chopin hardly spoke +any more and made himself understood by signs. A consultation took +place between the Doctors Cruveillé, Louis and Blache. They decided +that any change to the South of France was thenceforth useless, but +that it would be preferable to take the dying man to quarters that +could be heated, and were more convenient, and very airy. After long +search, they found what they needed at No. 12, Place Vendôme. Chopin +was carried there. One last time he took up his pen to write to +Franchomme. “I shall see you next winter, being settled at last in a +comfortable manner. My sister will remain with me unless they should +call her back for something important, I love you, that is all that I +can say for the moment because I am crushed with fatigue and weakness.” + +Charles Gavard, the young brother of one of his pupils, often came to +see him and read to him. Chopin indicated his preferences. He returned +with the greatest pleasure to Voltaire’s _Dictionnaire Philosophique_, +in which he appreciated especially the form, the conciseness, and the +impeccable taste. It was, in fact, the chapter on “The Different Tastes +of Peoples” that Gavard read to him one of the last times. + +His condition grew rapidly worse; yet he complained little. The +thought of his end did not seem to affect him much. In the first days +of October he had no longer strength enough to sit up. The spells of +suffocation grew worse. Gutmann, who was very tall and robust, knew +better than any how to hold him, to settle him in his pillows. Princess +Marceline Czartoryska again took up her service as nurse, spending the +greater part of her days at the Place Vendôme. Franchomme came back +from the country. The family and friends assembled about the dying man +ready to help as they could. All of them waited in the room next to +that in which Chopin lived his last days. + +One of his childhood friends, Abbé Alexandre Jelowiçki, with whom he +had been on cold terms, wanted to see him again when he learned of +the gravity of his illness. Three times in succession they refused +to receive him; but the Abbé succeeded in informing Chopin of his +presence, and was admitted immediately. After that he came back every +day. Chopin had great pleasure in recovering this comrade of other days. + +“I would not like to die,” he said, “without having received the +sacraments, lest I should pain my mother; but I do not understand them +as you wish. I can see nothing in confession beyond the relief of a +burdened heart on the heart of a friend.” + +The Abbé has related that on the 13th of October, in the morning, he +found Chopin a little better. + +“My friend,” the Abbé said, “to-day is the birthday of my poor dead +brother. You must give me something for this day.” + +“What can I give you?” + +“Your soul.” + +“Ah! I understand,” cried Frederick. “Here it is. Take it.” + +Jelowiçki fell on his knees and presented the Crucifix to Chopin, +who began to weep. He immediately confessed, made his communion, and +received extreme unction. Then he said, embracing his friend with +both arms in the Polish fashion: “Thank you, dear friend. Thanks to +you I shan’t die like a pig.” That day was calmer, but the fits of +suffocation began again very shortly. As Gutmann was holding him in +his arms during one of these wearing attacks, Chopin said after a long +breathless silence: + +“Now I begin my agony.” + +The doctor felt his pulse and sought for a reassuring word, but Chopin +went on with authority: + +“It is a rare favour that God gives to a man in revealing the moment +when his agony begins; this grace He has given to me. Do not disturb +me.” + +It was that evening also that Franchomme heard him murmur: “Still, she +told me that I should not die except in her arms.” + +On Sunday the 15th of October his friend Delphine Potoçka arrived from +Nice, whence a telegram had recalled her. When Chopin knew that she was +in his drawing-room he said: “So that is why God has delayed calling me +to Him. He wanted to let me have the pleasure of seeing her again.” + +She had hardly approached his bed when the dying man expressed the +desire to hear the voice that he had loved. They pushed the piano on +to the threshold of the room. Smothering her sobs, the Countess sang. +In the general emotion no one could remember later on, with certainty, +what pieces she chose. Yet at the request of Chopin she sang twice. + +Suddenly they heard the death-rattle. The piano was pushed back, and +all knelt down. Yet that was not the end, and he lived through that +night. On the 16th his voice failed, and he lost consciousness for +several hours. But he came to himself, made a sign that he wished to +write, and placed on a sheet of paper his last wish: + +“_As this Earth will smother me I conjure you to have my body opened so +that I may not be buried alive._” + +Later he again recovered the feeble use of his voice. Then he said: + +“You will find many compositions more or less sketched out; I beg of +you, by the love you bear me, to burn them all, with the exception of +the beginning of a _Method_, which I bequeath to Alkan and Reber to +make some use of it. The rest, without exception, must be burned, for +I have a great respect for the public, and my efforts are as finished +as it has been in my power to make them. I will not have my name made +responsible for the circulation of works unworthy of the public.” + +Then he made his farewells to each of them. Calling Princess Marceline +and Mlle. Gavard, he said to them: “When you make music together, think +of me, and I shall hear you.” Addressing Franchomme: “Play Mozart in +memory of me.” All that night Abbé Jelowiçki recited the prayers for +the dying, which they all repeated together. Chopin alone remained +mute; life now revealed itself only by nervous spasms. Gutmann held +his hand between his own, and from time to time gave him something to +drink. “Dear friend,” murmured Chopin once. His face became black and +rigid. The doctor bent over him and asked if he suffered. “No more,” +replied Chopin. This was the last word. A few instants later they saw +that he had ceased to live. + +It was the 17th of October, 1849, at two o’clock in the morning. + +They all went out to weep. + +From the early morning hours Chopin’s favourite flowers were brought +in quantities. Clésinger came to make the death-mask. Kwiatkowski made +several sketches. He said to Jane Stirling, because he understood how +much she loved him: “He was as pure as a tear.” + + + + + CHAPTER XX + + An Epitaph for a Poet + + +The death of an artist is the moment of his transfiguration. There are +many who were thought great, whose work nevertheless returns at once to +the dust. For others, on the contrary, the state of glory only begins +with death. Perhaps, as Delacroix said, in art everything is a matter +of the soul. We have not yet reached agreement as to the meaning and +value of that little word. But if it were necessary to give a working +idea of it, nothing would furnish it better than music. “A cry made +manifest,” Wagner called it. Doubtless that means: the most spontaneous +expression of oneself. The artist is he who has need to give form to +his cry. + +Each one sets about it in his own manner. With a life expended +sumptuously like that of Liszt, contrast that of Chopin, entirely +reserved, not to be plucked by any hand, but so much the more filled +with perfume. All that he did not give forth, his love which none +could seize, his modesty and his timidity, that constant fever for +perfection, his elegancies, his exile’s home-sickness, and even his +moments of communication with the unknowable,—all these things are +potent in his work. To-day that is still the secret of its strength; +music received what men and women disdained. It is for music that he +refused himself. How one understands the desolation of Schumann when he +learned of the death of the swan, and this beautiful metaphor gushed +spontaneously from his pen: “The soul of music has passed over the +world.” + +Just this must the crowds have dimly felt as they pressed to the Temple +of the Madeleine on the 30th of October, 1849. Thirteen days had been +required to prepare for the funeral that they wished to be as solemn +as the life of the dead had not been. But he was not even a Chevalier +of the Legion of Honour, this Monsieur Frederick Chopin! No matter. +“Nature had a holiday air,” reported the papers. Many lovely toilettes. +(He would have been flattered.) All the leaders of the musical and +literary world, Meyerbeer at their head, Berlioz, Gautier, Janin. Only +George Sand was missing. M. Daguerry, the Curé of the Madeleine, spent +two weeks in obtaining permission for women to sing in his church. +It is to the obsequies of Chopin that we owe this tolerance. Without +that, it would have been impossible to give Mozart’s _Requiem_. It was +played by the orchestra of the Conservatoire, conducted by Giraud. +The soloists were hidden by a black drapery behind the altar: Pauline +Viardot and Mme. Castellan, Lablache and Alexis Dupont. Lefébure-Wély +was at the organ. During the Offertory, they played two _Preludes_, +that in E minor (no. 4) and the 6th, in B minor, written at Majorca in +that dusk when Chopin had seen death while the rain fell in torrents on +the Chartreuse of Valdemosa. + +The coffin was then lowered in the midst of the congregation, while +the famous _Funeral March_, orchestrated by Reber, sounded for the +first time. The cords of the pall were held by Prince Czartoryski, +Franchomme, Delacroix and Gutmann. Meyerbeer walked behind the hearse. +They set out, down the Boulevards, for the cemetery of Père-Lachaise. +There the body of Chopin was buried, except the heart, which was sent +to Warsaw, where it has since remained in the church of the Holy Cross. +A beautiful symbol which accords with that faithful heart. + +No eulogy was pronounced. In the moments of meditation that followed +the descent of the bier a friendly hand was seen to throw on the coffin +that Polish earth that had been given to Chopin on the day he left +his country. Exactly nineteen years had passed since then. During all +those years the native soil had remained in the silver cup awaiting +this supreme use. But now Poland no longer existed. Nowhere but in this +delicate handful of earth,—and the work of Chopin: a few score pages in +which were to burn for three-quarters of a century the mysticism of a +Nation. + + * * * * * + +On the next 17th of October, in 1850, Miss Stirling went early in the +morning to Michon, the florist, who had served Chopin, and bought all +the violets she could find. Then she went to Père-Lachaise and placed +them on the tomb with a wreath in the name of the family of the dead. +At noon, Mass was celebrated in the chapel at the cemetery. Those who +were present then went back to the tomb, where Clésinger’s monument was +unveiled. It is a mediocre allegory, made by a man who hated Chopin. +How could such a thing have been beautiful? Only the medallion has a +little life. These words are engraved on the pedestal: “To Frederick +Chopin, his friends.” Deputy Wolowski tried to make a speech, but his +throat tightened and nothing was heard. All those who were brought +together there had been friends of the dead. They were still listening +to his voice, his piano, his consumptive cough. One of them recalled a +saying of his: “None can take from me that which belongs to me.” + +To-day, these remains, pelted by the rain, this sorry Muse bent over +its lyre with broken strings, blend well enough with the trees of Mont +St.-Louis. There are strollers in this park of the dead. They stop +before the bust of de Musset, the handsome boy-lover who spelt his +sorrows into such charming rhymes. They make a little pilgrimage to the +tomb of Abélard and Héloïse, where a pious Abbess has had these words +cut: “The love that united their spirits during their life, and which +is preserved during their separation by the most tender and spiritual +of letters, has reunited their bodies in this tomb.” This reassures the +silent lovers who come secretly to throw a flower at the foot of these +two stone symbols lying side by side. But no one is seen on the narrow +path that leads from the central avenue to the grave of Chopin. For he +did not exemplify the career of a great lover, this musician of souls. +No soul was found that could be attuned to his. It never found its +lute-maker. + +That word makes me think of a letter he wrote to Fontana fourteen +months before he died, and in which he throws some light on the depths +of his being: “The only unhappiness,” he wrote, “consists in this: that +we issue from the workshop of a celebrated master, some _sui generis_ +Stradivarius, who is no longer there to mend us. Inexpert hands do not +know the secret of drawing new tones from us, and we push back into our +depths what no one has been able to evoke, for want of a lute-maker.” + +There is a beautiful epitaph for a poet: dead for want of a lute-maker. +But where is he, this lute-maker of our lives? + + _Etoy, October 17, 1926._ + _77th Anniversary of the death of Chopin._ + + + + + SOURCES + + +_The sources from which one can gather an authentic documentation of +the life of Chopin are extremely scarce. During his life, few people +took the trouble to preserve his letters, although he wrote but few. +Some, doubtless, attached but little value to them. Others caused them +to disappear because they exposed too intimate a part of their lives._ + +_An historic anecdote has it that Alexandre Dumas_ fils, _in the course +of a sentimental pilgrimage to Poland in the spring of 1851, fell by +chance upon the complete file of letters written by George Sand to +Chopin. Dumas brought the file back to France and, having restored +it to the novelist, saw her re-read her letters and then throw them +into the fire. Doubtless she thus thought to bury in eternal oblivion +the sad remains of a love whose raptures and whose pains alike would +not return to her. The burning, in 1863, of the Warsaw house of Mme. +Barcinska, Chopin’s youngest sister, destroyed other precious relics._ + +_So there remains to us but a very small number of the composer’s +letters. Even these were altered at will by their first editor, Maurice +Karasowski. Many biographers, however, have placidly copied them, +without taking the trouble to collate them with the original texts, or +even with the faithful and inexpurgated German translation which M. B. +Scharlitt published at Leipzig in 1911. M. Henri Bidou has been the +first to restore to us some of these letters in their libelled original +form. Karasowski’s work is important, nevertheless, because the +author, writing between 1860 and 1863, was intimately associated with +Chopin’s sisters and niece, and he gathered from their lips the family +traditions. Parts of this I have used particularly those concerned with +the composer’s childish years and his death, being convinced that the +pious legend is based on fact._ + +_Other episodes, notably the journey to Berlin and his love for +Constance Gladkowska, have been borrowed from the work of Count +Wodzinski. I have also adopted certain picturesque details furnished by +this same biographer, as well as some family information concerning his +relation, Marie Wodzinska. Let me say this much once for all, in order +not to load my text with references. The curious reader will find all +these on a later page in the list of Works Consulted._ + +_The first complete and soundly documented work on the life of Chopin +was published by F. Niecks, in London, in 1888. Niecks too had known +a number of friends and pupils of the master. His study has therefore +an individual flavour which has not been superseded by later works. +Elsewhere have been issued a whole series of works on the musician, +particularly in Polish, German and English. I cite first of all the +monumental_ Chopin _of Ferdynand Hoesick. But if we exclude the +imaginative and erroneous little books published in France during the +latter half of the nineteenth century (and up to our own day) we must +go to the work of M. E. Ganche to discover the first complete and +serious study of the Polish musician that has been published in French. +The recent volume of M. H. Bidou rectifies certain points in it and +amplifies certain others. It is an indispensable work for those who +wish to fathom Chopin’s music._ + +_As I lately attempted with Liszt, I have sought here only to discover +a face and to replace it in its frame. With this object, I have +always allowed my characters to speak and act. I have scrupulously +refrained from_ invention. _On the other hand, I have not hesitated to_ +interpret, _believing, as I have said several times elsewhere, that +every fact draws its enduring value from artistic interpretation. My +effort has been only to group events in a certain order, to disentangle +the lines of the heart and those of the spirit without trying to +explain that which, in the soul of Chopin, has remained always +inexplicable; not to lift, indeed, from my subject that shadow that +gives him his inner meaning and his nebulous beauty._ + + + + +PRINCIPAL WORKS CONSULTED + + +Franz Liszt: _F. Chopin._ Leipzig (Breitkopf). 1852 and 1923. + +George Sand: _Histoire de ma vie._ 4 vol. Calmann-Lévy. Paris. + +—_Un hiver à Majorque._ 1 vol., _ibid._ 1843. + +—_Correspondance._ + +Maurice Karasowski: _F. Chopin._ Warsaw, 1862, and new ed. Berlin, 1877 +and 1925. + +Comte Wodzinski: _Les trois romans de F. Chopin._ Calmann, Paris, 1886. + +Robert Schumann: _Etudes sur la musique et les musiciens._ Trad. H. de +Curzon. Paris, 1898. + +M. Karlowicz: _Souvenirs inédits de F. Chopin._ Paris, and Leipzig, +1904. Trad. F. Disière. + +Friedrich Niecks: _F. Chopin as a Man and a Musician._ London. +(Novello), 1882, 2 vol. + +Kleczinski: _F. Chopin. De l’interpretation de ses œuvres._ Paris, 1906. + +Wladimir Karénine: _George Sand, sa vie et ses œuvres._ Plon, +1899–1926. 4 vol. (An important and remarkable work, including a +quantity of unpublished documents of which I have made much use.) + +Bernard Scharlitt: _F. Chopin’s gesammelte Briefe._ Leipzig, 1911. +(Only authentic and complete text of the letters.) + +Samuel Rocheblave: _George Sand et sa fille._ Paris, 1905. + +Elie Poirée: _Chopin._ Paris, 1907. + +Edouard Ganche: _Frédéric Chopin, sa vie et ses œuvres._ Paris, 10th +ed. (_Mercure de France_), 1923. + +Ferdynand Hoesick: _Chopin_, 3 vol. Warsaw, 1911. + +I. Paderewski: _A la mémoire de F. Chopin_ (speech). 1911. + +Eugène Delacroix: _Journal._ Plon, Paris. 3 vol., new ed., 1926. + +Opienski: _Chopin._ Lwow, 1910 (Altenberg). + +Henri Bidou: _Chopin._ (Libr. Alcan). Paris, 1926. + +Aurore Sand: _Journal Intime de George Sand._ Calmann-Lévy, Paris, 1926. + + + + + INDEX + + + Abélard, 260 + + Academy of Singing (Berlin), 27 + + Académie Royale (Paris), 57 + + _Adagio in E major_ (Chopin), 37 + + _Adagio_ of _Concerto in F minor_ (op. 21) (Chopin), 34, 50, 173 + + Adélaïde, Madame, 177 + + _Agnes_ (Paër), 35 + + Agoult, Countess Marie d’, 93, 101–103, 171–172 + + Aix-la-Chapelle, 71 + + Albert, Prince, 233 + + Alexandre, Czar (Emperor), 23 + + Allard, Monsieur, 229, 230 + + _Allegro_ (Moschelès), 23 + + _Allgemeine Musikalisches_ (Vienna), 32 + + Amboise, 67 + + America, 64 + + Ancona, 218 + + _Andante Spianato_, 73 + + Antonin, Château d’, 23–24, 35 + + _Appassionata, The_ (Beethoven), 19 + + Apollonius of Tyre, 160 + + Apponyi, Count, 68 + + Arago, 153, 203 + + Archbishop of Paris, 55 + + Artillery and Engineers, School of (Warsaw), 20 + + Auber, Daniel François Esprit, 70 + + Augusta, Princess (Infante), 43–44 + + Augustine, 197–198, 214, 237 + + Aulary, Monsieur, 231 + + Austerlitz, battle of, 18 + + Avignon, 127 + + + Bach, Johann Sebastian, 33, 69, 150, 174, 229 + + Baillot, violinist, 62 + + Balearic Isles, _see also_ Majorca, Palma, Valdemosa, 127–142 + + _Ballade in G minor_ (op. 23) (Chopin), 85–86, 132, 145 + + Balzac, Honoré de, 19, 103–107 + + Barberini, Place (Rome), 190 + + _Barber of Seville, The_ (Rossini), 57 + + Barbès, 230 + + _Barcarolle_ (op. 60) (Chopin), 230–231 + + Barcelona, 128, 142 + + Baudelaire, Pierre-Charles, 163 + + Bayer, Mme. Constance, 48 + + Beauvau, Hôtel de (Marseilles), 145 + + Beethoven, Ludwig van, 19, 26, 31, 32, 35, 51, 62, 69, 74, 165, 174 + + Bellini, Vincenzo, 73 + + Belvédère, Palais de (Warsaw), 45 + + _Berceuse_ (op. 57) (Chopin), 230–231 + + Berlin, 27 + + Berlioz, Hector, 19, 65, 68, 72, 101, 165, 169, 258 + + Berry (France), 147 _et seq._, 240 + + Berry, Mme. la Duchesse de, 56 + + _Bertram_ (Meyerbeer), 109 + + Blache, Dr., 251 _et seq._ + + Blanc, Louis, 195, 203 + + Böhmischen Köchin, Café zur (Vienna), 47 + + Bologna, 228 + + Bona Sforza, 77 + + Bonstetten, Charles-Victor de, 77 + + Bossuet, Jaques Bénigne, 19 + + Bourges, Michel de, 100–101 + + Brault, Adèle, 197 + + Breslau, 33, 43 + + Brest, 229 + + Broadwood, piano, 232 + + Broadwood, piano manufacturer, 235 + + Bruhl, 79 + + Buloz, publisher, 131, 153 + + Bulwer, Lord, 234 + + Byron, George Gordon, Lord, 19, 159, 285 + + Byron, Lady, 234 + + + Calamatta, Louis, 156 + + Calder House (Scotland), 235 + + Callot, Jacques, 176 + + Carlist Party (Paris), 55 + + Carlsbad, 76 + + Carlyle, Thomas, 234 + + Carthusians, Order of, 130 + + Castellan, Mme., 258 + + Catalani, Angelica, 243 + + Cauvières, Dr., 145 + + Chaillot, rue de (Paris), 246 + + Chambres des Députés (Paris), 249 + + Champs Elysées (Paris), 248 + + Chartreuse of Valdemosa. _See_ Valdemosa + + Chateaubriand, François-René, Vicomte de, 56 + + Chatiron, Hippolyte, 149, 181 + + Chaussée d’Antin (Paris), 68, 154 + + Cherubini, Marie-Louis-Charles-Zénobi-Salvador, 58 + + _Chmiel_, improvisation from (Chopin), 31 + + Chopin: Compositions, Pieces, Transcriptions, etc. + _Adagio_ of _Concerto in F minor_ (op. 21), 34, 50, 173 + _Adagio in E major_, 37 + _Ballade in G minor_ (op. 23), 85–86, 132, 145 + _Barcarolle_ (op. 60), 231 + _Berceuse_ (op. 57), 231 + _Chmiel_, improvisation from, 31 + _Concerto In E minor_ (op. 11), 40, 50, 58, 70, 72 + _Concerto in F minor_ (op. 21), 34, 37, 50, 62, 84 + _Etude_ (no. 5), 176 + _Etude in C minor_ (op. 10, no. 12), 53 + _Etude in E major_ (no. 3), 70 + _Etude in G sharp minor_, 161 + _Fantasia in E minor_, 178 + _Fantasia on Polish Airs_, 40 + _Funeral March_, 150, 259 + _Grand Fantasia on Polish Airs_, 70 + _Grande Polonaise_, 84 + _Grande Valse in E flat major_, 70 + _Impromptu_ (op. 29), 108 + _Mazurkas_ (op. 41), 149 + _Mazurka in A flat major_, 150 + _Mazurka in B major_, 150, 202 + _Mazurka in B minor_ (op. 30), 108 + _Mazurka in C minor_ (op. 30), 108 + _Mazurka in C sharp major_ (op. 30), 108 + _Mazurka in C sharp minor_ (op. 63), 150, 202 + _Mazurka in D flat major_ (op. 30), 108 + _Mazurka in E minor_, 150 + _Mazurka in F minor_ (op. 63), 202 + _Mazurka in G major_, 150 + _Mazurka in G minor_ (op. 30), 108 + _Nocturne_ (op. 37, no. 2), 149 + _Nocturne in C minor_ (op. 48), 150, 190–191 + _Nocturne in G major_, 150 + _Polonaise Brillante_, 73 + _Polonaise in F minor_, 36 + _Polonaise for piano and violoncello_, 36 + _Potpourri on the setting moon_, 41 + _Prelude in B minor_ (no. 6), 258 + _Prelude in E minor_ (no. 4), 258 + _Prelude in B minor_ (op. 6), 139 + _Premier Rondo, in C minor_ (op. 1), 23 + _Revolutionary, The_ (_Etude in C minor_, op. 10, no. 12), 53 + _Rondeau in E flat major_, 70 + _Rondo à la Krakoviak_, 31, 37, 70 + _Second Scherzo_ (op. 31), 108 + _Siberian, The_, 161, 162 + _Sonata in B flat minor_, 150 + _Sonata in E flat minor_, 149 + _Sonata in G flat minor_, 178 + _Sonata in G minor, for piano and violoncello_, 230 + _Sonata with violoncello_, 202 + _Tarantella_, 178 + _Three Mazurkas_ (op. 33), 108 + _Trio, for piano, violin, and violoncello_, 70 + _Twelve Etudes_ (2nd vol., op. 25), 70 + _Two Nocturnes_ (op. 32), 108 + _Valses Brillantes_ (op. 34), 108, 178 + _Valse de l’Adieu, in A flat major_ (op. 69, no. 1), 81 + _Variations_ on the _La ci darem_, 26–27, 31, 32, 62 + _Waltz in D flat major_ (op. 70, no. 3), 34, 50 + _Waltz of the Little Dog, The_ (op. 64, no. 1), 231 + _White Lady, The_, variations from, 31 + + Chopin, Emilie, 20 + + Chopin, Isabelle, 20, 66 + + Chopin, Louise, 18, 20, 60–62. + _See also_ Jedrzeïewicz, Louise + + Chopin, Nicolas, 18, 20, 22, 26, 30, 46, 59, 76–77, 80, 193–194 + + Chopin, Mme. Nicolas, 18, 19, 76–77, 194, 247–251. + _See also_ Krzyzanowska, Justine + + Cichowski, Monsieur, 82 + + Cimarosa, Domenico, 27 + + Clary, Prince, 33 + + Clary, Princess, 33 + + Clésinger, Jean-Baptiste-Auguste-Stello, 205–227, 233, 256, 260 _et + seq._ + + Clésinger, Mme., 214–227, 233, 237, 239, 241. + _See also_ Sand, Solange + + Coignet, Jules-Louis-Philippe, 186 + + Cologne, 71 + + _Concerto in E minor_ (op. 11) (Chopin), 40, 50, 58, 70, 72 + + _Concerto in F minor_ (op. 21) (Chopin), 34, 37, 50, 62, 84 + + Congress of Naturalists (Berlin), 27 + + Conservatory of Music (Paris), 73, 258 + + Conservatory of Music (Warsaw), 22, 23, 30 + + Constantin, Grand Duke, Governor of Warsaw, 21, 45 + + Cramer, pianist, 58 + + Crans, Mlle. Saladin de, 77 + + Cruveillé, Dr., 251 _et seq._ + + Custine, Marquis de, 71, 93 + + Czartoryski, Prince Adam, 68, 159, 195, 205, 243, 259 + + Czartoryska, Princess Marceline, 195, 205, 208, 240, 243, 252–255 + + Czerny, Charles, 32, 33 + + Czosnowska, Countess, 202 + + + Daguerry, Monsieur, 258 + + _Daily News_ (London), 234 + + Dantan, Jean-Pierre, 182, 185 + + Dante, Alighieri, 46, 159 + + Danube, The, 41 + + Dautremont, tailor (Paris), 154 + + da Vinci, Leonardo, 67 + + de Garaudé, Monsieur, 231 + + Delacroix, Eugène, 156, 158, 163–167, 173, 180, 195, 205, 218, + 243–246, 257, 259 + + de Laprade, Victor, 203 + + Delaroche, Hippolyte-Paul, 243 + + _Desdemona_ (_see also Othello_), 58 + + des Préaulx, M., 205–206 + + Dickens, Charles, 234 + + _Dictionnaire Philosophique_ (Voltaire), 252 + + di Mondi, Mlle. Antonia Molina, 230 + + Dobrzyçka, Mme., 43–44, 79 + + _Don Juan_ (Mozart), 175 + + Douglas, Marquis of, 234 + + Dover Street (London), 232 _et seq._ + + Dresden, 33, 43, 77–81 + + Dudevant, Aurore. _See_ Sand, George + + Dudevant, Casimir, 101, 197, 214, 222 + + Dudevant, Maurice. _See_ Sand, Maurice + + Dudevant, Solange. _See_ Sand, Solange + + Dupont, Alexis, 258 + + Duport, hatmaker (Paris), 154 + + Düsseldorf, 71, 86 + + Duteil, family of, 149 + + Duvernet, Théophile-Imarigeon, 149, 222 + + _Dziady (The Feast of the Dead)_ (Miçkiewicz), 159 + + + Ecole de Médecine. _See_ School of Medicine (Paris) + + Edinburgh, 235, 238, 241 + + Elbe, 79 + + Elizabeth, Queen, 67 + + _El Mallorquin_, 128 + + Elsner, Joseph-Xavier, 22, 37, 41, 60–62 + + Enfer, rue d’ (Paris), 56 + + Erard, piano, 171, 232 + + Erard, Salle, 72 + + Erskine, Mrs. _See also_ Stirling, family, 232 _et seq._ + + Etienne, Mme., 244 + + _Etude_ (no. 5) (Chopin), 176 + + _Etude in C minor_ (op. 10, no. 12) (Chopin), 53 + + _Etude in E major_ (no. 3) (Chopin), 70 + + _Etude in G sharp minor_ (Chopin), 161 + + Eusebius, 26 + + _Euterpe_, 78 + + Everard. _See_ Bourges, Michel de + + + Faber, Monsieur, 202 + + Falmouth, Lord, 233–234 + + _Fantasia in E minor_ (Chopin), 78 + + _Fantasia on Polish Airs_ (Chopin), 40 + + _Farewells, The (Sonata in E flat major)_ (Beethoven), 19 + + _Faust_ (Gounod), 35 + + _Ferdinand Cortez_ (Spontini), 27 + + Festival of Music (Aix-la-Chapelle), 71 + + Fétis, music critic, 63 + + _Fidélio_ (Beethoven), 19 + + Field, pianist, 58, 70 + + Fleury, family of, 149 + + Fontana, Jules, 21, 127, 128, 132, 141, 145–146, 150, 153, 154–155, + 159, 182, 185, 261 + + Fouquet, Nicolas, 67 + + France, Hôtel de (Paris), 102 + + Franchomme, violoncellist, 62, 159, 229, 230, 243, 251–252, 259 + + François I, 67 + + Françoise, the chambermaid, 200 + + _François Le Champi_ (Sand), 224 + + Frankfurt-am-Oder, 28 + + Frauenkirche, The (Dresden), 80 + + Frère, Charles-Théodore, 186 + + _Freyschutz Die_ (Handel), 27 + + _Funeral March_ (Chopin), 150, 259 + + + Gainsborough, Lady, 233–234 + + Gallenberg, Count, 30 + + Gaubert, Dr., 126 + + Gautier, Théophile, 258 + + Gavard, Charles, 252 + + Gavard, Mlle., 252, 255 + + _Gazette Musicale_ (Paris), 178–180, 232 + + Geneva, 77, 102, 171 + + Genoa, 147 + + Geological Museum (Berlin), 28 + + _Germany_ (Heine), 91 + + Giotto, Ambrogio, 157 + + Giraud, Monsieur, 258 + + Gladkowska, Constance, 30, 33–42, 44, 46, 48–50, 66 + + Glasgow, 238 + + Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 19, 159 + + Gomez, Señor, 128, 132 + + _Grand Fantasia on Polish Airs_ (Chopin), 70 + + _Grande Polonaise_ (Chopin), 84 + + _Grande Polonaise_ (Kalkbrenner), 62 + + _Grande Valse in E flat major_ (Chopin), 70 + + Grenoble, 134 + + Grzymala, Count Albert, 65, 108–125, 127, 143, 153, 159, 205, + 209–213, 235, 239–240, 242, 244 + + Gutmann, Monsieur, 70, 241, 243, 252–255, 259 + + + Habeneck, conductor, 57 + + Hamilton, Duke of, 241 + + Handel, George Friedrich, 27 + + Hanska, Countess, 104, 107 + + Hartmann, Caroline, 70 + + Haslinger, music publisher (Vienna), 30, 44 + + Haydn, Joseph, 19, 202 + + Heine, Heinrich, 91, 102, 159, 173 + + Heller, Stephen, 168 + + Héloïse, 260 + + Hiller, Ferdinand, 62, 71, 102 + + _Histoire de ma Vie_ (Sand), 221, 227 + + Hogarth, William, 234 + + Holy Cross, Church of (Warsaw), 259 + + Hortense, Queen, 77 + + _House of the Wind, The_ (Majorca), 128–132 + + Houssaye, Arsène, 206 + + Hugo, Victor, 19 + + Hummel, Jean-Népomucène, 46, 50 + + + Imperial Theatre (Vienna), 31 + + _Infernal Comedy_ (Miçkiewicz), 161 + + Ingres, Jean-Auguste-Dominique, 163 + + Inquisition, Palace of (Barcelona), 128 + + Invalides, Hôtel des (Paris), 249 + + _Invitation to the Waltz_ (von Weber), 187 + + Isambert, Mlle., singer, 62 + + Italian Opera House (Paris), 57 + + _Italienne à Alger, L’_ (Rossini), 57 + + Italy, 52, 218 + + + Jagellons, dynasty of, 77 + + Janin, 258 + + Jardin des Plantes (Paris), 201 + + Jaroçki, Professor, 27–28 + + Jean, Prince of Lucca, future King of Saxony, 43–44 + + Jedrzeïewicz, Calasante, 193, 196, 247–250 + + Jedrzeïewicz, Louise, 193–195, 237–238, 247–250. + _See also_ Chopin, Louise + + Jelowiçki, Abbé Alexandre, 252–255 + + Jéna, battle of, 20 + + Jésuites, rue des (Warsaw), 22 + + _Journal_ (Delacroix), 218, 244–246 + + _Journal des Débats_ (Paris), 224 + + _Journal Intime_ (Sand), 99–100, 169, 208 + + Jules II, 67 + + + Kalerji, Mme., 245 + + Kalisz, 43 + + Kalkbrenner, Frédéric-Guillaume, 58–63, 70, 243 + + _Karol, Prince_ (Sand), 185, 227. + _See also Lucrezia Floriani_ + + Keats, John, 19 + + Keir, The Stirlings of, 236, 239 + + Kisting, piano factory, 27 + + Kleczynski, Professor, 170 + + Klengel, Alexandre, composer, 33 + + _Krakoviak. See Rondo à la Krakoviak_ (Chopin) + + Krasinski, 159 + + _Kreutzer Sonata_ (Beethoven), 19 + + Kronprinz, Hôtel du (Berlin), 27 + + Krzyzanowska, Justine, 18. + _See also_ Chopin, Mme. Nicolas + + Kurpinski, 37 + + Kwiatkowsky, 159, 256 + + + Lablache, Mme. Louis, 57, 258 + + La Châtre (France), 207 + + _Lady of the Lake, The_ (Rossini), 41 + + Laffitte, rue (Paris), 102 + + La Fontaine, Jean de, 19, 67, 172 + + Lambert, Hôtel (Paris), 205 + + Lamennais, Abbé de, 97, 102 + + Lannes, Maréchale, 68 + + Lefébure-Wély, 258 + + _Légion d’Honneur, La_, 258 + + Legouvé, Monsieur, 243 + + Leipzig, 81, 85 + + Leipzig, battle of, 79 + + _Lélia_ (Sand), 97 + + _Le Méléagre_, 142 + + Lenz, Monsieur W. de, 186–188 + + _Le Phénicien_, 128 + + Leroux, Pierre, 159–160, 180, 199 + + Le Verier, Monsieur, 202 + + Lichnowsky, Count, 32 + + Lind, Jenny, 232, 243 + + Linde, Mme., 23 + + Liszt, Franz, 19, 21, 31, 50, 62, 63, 65, 68, 70, 75, 86, 93, 101, + 103, 139, 146, 167, 171–176, 178, 181, 186, 257 + + Lorraine (France), 18 + + Louis XVI, King, 56 + + Louis, Dr., 243, 251 _et seq._ + + Louis-Philippe, King, 177–178, 228–230 + + Louvre, The (Paris), 164 + + Lucca, Prince of. _See_ Jean + + _Lucrezia Floriani_ (Sand), 185, 200–201, 209, 240 + + Luxembourg, Musée du (Paris), 205 + + + Madeleine, Church of the (Paris), 240, 258 + + Majorca, 128–143, 149, 240, 258. + _See also_ Balearic Isles, Palma, Valdemosa + + Malfatti, Dr., 51 + + Malibran, Maria-Félicité Garcia, 57–58 + + Mallefille, Félicien, 103, 111, 116, 119, 121, 123–124, 127 + + Manchester, 238 + + _Manchester Guardian_, 238 + + Marainville (France), 18 + + Mardi Gras, 137 + + _Mare Au Diable, La_ (Sand), 224 + + Marliani, Mme., 108, 128, 131, 142–143, 147, 184, 185, 187, 226 + + Marie-Aurore of Saxe, Queen, 198 + + Marienbad, 87–88 + + Marmontel, 58 + + Marot, Clément, 67 + + Marseilles, 143–147, 149 + + Matuszinski, Dr. Jean, 47–49, 53, 71, 127, 130, 155, 192 + + Maurras, Charles, 34 + + _Mazurkas_ (op. 41) (Chopin), 149 + + _Mazurka in A flat major_ (Chopin), 150 + + _Mazurka in C sharp major_ (op. 30) (Chopin), 108 + + _Mazurka in C sharp minor_ (op. 63) (Chopin), 150, 202 + + _Mazurka in C minor_ (op. 30) (Chopin), 108 + + _Mazurka in D flat major_ (op. 30) (Chopin), 108 + + _Mazurka in E minor_ (Chopin), 150 + + _Mazurka in F minor_ (op. 63) (Chopin), 202 + + _Mazurka in G major_ (Chopin), 150 + + _Mazurka in G major_ (op. 63) (Chopin), 202 + + _Mazurka in G minor_ (op. 30) (Chopin), 108 + + _Mémoires_ (Sand), 224, 245 + + Mendelssohn, Bartholdy Felix, 27, 71, 72, 81, 86 + + Mendizabal, Don Juan Alvarez y, 130 + + Mérimée, Prosper, 95–96 + + _Merry Wives of Windsor, The_ (Shakespeare), 67 + + Meyerbeer, Giacomo, 64, 109, 231, 258–259 + + Michelangelo, Buomarroti, 67, 174 + + Miçkiewicz, 91, 102, 159–160 + + Milan, 77, 228 + + Mohilew, General, 53 + + Molière (Jean Baptiste Poquelin), 19 + + Molin, Dr., 243 + + Montpensier, Duke of, 229 + + Moschelès, Ignace, 23, 70, 177 + + Moscow, 53 + + Moses, 160 + + _Moses_ (Rossini), 33 + + Mostowska, Countess, 108 + + Mozart, Wolfgang von, 26, 29, 69, 158, 163–165, 174–175, 177, 229, + 230, 255, 258 + + Munich, 53 + + Musset, Viscount Alfred de, 98–100, 105, 126, 147, 148, 221, 260 + + + Nantes, 229 + + Naples, 146 + + Napoleon I, Emperor, 17, 79 + + Napoleon III, Emperor. _See_ Napoleon, Prince Louis + + Napoleon, Prince Louis, 77, 98 + + Nidecki, 47 + + Niemcewicz, Julian-Orsin, 21 + + Nietzsche, Friedrich, 144, 165, 190–191 + + _Night Song_ (Nietzsche), 190 + + Noailles, Duke of, 243 + + _Nocturne_ (op. 37, no. 2) (Chopin), 149 + + _Nocturne in C minor_ (op. 48) (Chopin), 150, 190–191 + + _Nocturne in G major_ (Chopin), 150 + + Nohant, Château de, 101, 103–107, 147 _et seq._, 237, 239 + + Notre Dame de Paris, Church of (Paris), 249 + + Nourrit, Adolph, 102, 146 + + + Obreskow, Mme., 247–248 + + O’Meara, Mlle., 69 + + Opera, The (Berlin), 27 + + Opera, The (Warsaw), 30, 35 + + Orleans, Duchess of, 177 + + Orleans, Duke of, 229 + + Orléans, Square d’ (Paris), 185 _et seq._, 242, 248 + + Orlowski, 70–71 + + Orsetti, family of, 77 + + Osborne, pianist, 62 + + Ostend, 250 + + _Othello_ (Rossini), 57 + + + Paderewski, Ignace, 54 + + Paër, Fernando, 35, 58 + + Paganini, Nicolo, 51 + + Paix, rue de la, 240 + + Palma, 128, 142. + _See also_ Majorca, Balearic Isles, Valdemosa + + Panthéon, The (Paris), 249 + + Papet, Dr., 149 + + Paskewitch, General, 46, 53 + + Pasta, Giuditta Negri, 57, 58 + + Pelletan, 102 + + Père-Lachaise, Cemetery of (Paris), 259 _et seq._ + + Perpignan, 127 + + Perthuis, Count de, 170, 177 + + Philharmonic Orchestra (London), 232 + + Pierre, the gardener, 200 + + Pigalle, rue (Paris), 154 _et seq._ + + Pixis, violinist, 33 + + Plater, Count, 65 + + Pleyel, Camille, 62, 93, 127–128, 129, 130, 141, 146, 229 + + Pleyel, piano, 90, 91, 171, 232, 242 + + Pleyel, Salon, 62, 72, 178–180, 229–232 + + Poissonnière, Boulevard (Paris), 56 _et seq._, 228 + + _Polonaise Brillante_ (Chopin), 73 + + _Polonaise in F minor_ (Chopin), 36 + + _Polonaise for piano and violoncello_ (Chopin), 36 + + Poniatowski, Prince Joseph-Antoine, 79 + + Pont du Gard, 127 + + Posen, 28 + + Potoçka, Countess Delphine, 69, 73–75, 243, 245, 254–255 + + _Potpourri on the setting moon_ (Chopin), 41 + + Prague, 32–33 + + _Prelude in B minor_ (no. 6) (Chopin), 258 + + _Prelude in E minor_ (no. 4) (Chopin), 258 + + _Prelude in G minor_ (op. 6) (Chopin), 139 + + _Premier Rondo, in C minor_ (op. 1) (Chopin), 23 + + Preparatory Military Academy (Warsaw), 20 + + Probst, music publisher (Paris), 141, 146 + + _Prophet, The_ (Meyerbeer), 246 + + Prussia, Napoleon’s campaign in, 18 + + Prussia, Prince of, 233 + + + _Quatuor Serioso_ (Beethoven), 19 + + _Quintette_ (Beethoven), 62 + + + Racine, Jean, 19 + + Radziwill, Prince Antoine, 23–24, 35, 38 + + Radziwill, Princess, 35 + + Radziwill, Princess Elise, 24, 36 + + Radziwill, Princess Marceline, 68 + + Radziwill, Prince Valentin, 67 + + Radziwill, Princess Wanda, 24, 36 + + Ramorino, General, 56 + + Ravel, Maurice, 231 + + Reber, Monsieur, 255 + + _Rénovateur, Le_ (Paris), 72 + + Republican Party (Paris), 55 + + _Requiem_ (Mozart), 258 + + Revolution of 1830 (Poland), 45, 77 + + Revolution of 1848 (France), 228 + + _Revolutionary, The_ (_Etude in C minor_, op. 10, no. 12) (Chopin), 53 + + _Revue des Deux Mondes_ (Paris), 153 + + Richter, Johann-Paul von, 75 + + _Robert the Devil_ (Meyerbeer), 64, 231 + + Rochechouart, rue (Paris), 130 + + Roger, Monsieur, 231 + + Rollinat, François, 143, 149 + + Rome, 65, 228 + + _Rondeau in E flat major_ (Chopin), 70 + + _Rondo à la Krakoviak_ (Chopin), 31, 37, 70 + + Rossini, Gioachino, 31, 33, 41, 57, 58 + + Roth, Dr., 243 + + Rothschild, Baron James de, 68 + + Rothschild, Baroness, 233, 243 + + Rousseau, Théodore, 214 + + Rozières, Mlle. de, 181–182, 208, 215–217, 240 + + + St.-Antoine, Place (Geneva), 77 + + Saint Bruno, 134 + + St.-Etienne, Church of (Vienna), 46 + + Sainte-Beuve, Charles-Augustin de, 96, 117, 161 + + St.-Etienne du Mont, Church of (Paris), 249 + + St.-Germain des Prés, Church of (Paris), 190 + + St.-Germain l’Auxerrois, Church of (Paris), 249 + + St. John, 159 + + St.-Louis, Mont (Paris), 260 + + St. Petersburg, 187 + + Saint-Saëns, Charles-Camille, 86 + + St.-Simon, Henri-Jean-Victor de Rouvroy, Duc de, 97 + + St. Simonien Party (Paris), 55 + + St.-Sulpice, Church of (Paris), 249 + + Salzburg, 53 + + Sand, George, 56, 94 _et seq._ + + Sand, Maurice, 102, 110, 126, 131, 137–138, 150, 153, 155, 166–167, + 181, 188, 196–197, 203, 207, 208, 219, 237, 245 + + Sand, Solange, 102, 126, 132, 137, 150, 153, 155, 188, 197–199, 203, + 205–227. + _See also_ Clésinger, Mme. + + Sandeau, Jules, 95, 104, 201 + + Sapieha, Princess, 195 + + Saxe, Maréchal de, 94 + + Saxony, King of. _See_ Jean, Prince of Lucca + + Saxony, Queen of, 44 + + Scheffer, Ary, 236 + + Schlesinger, publisher (Paris), 146, 244 + + School of Medicine (Paris), 55, 71 + + Schubert, Franz, 146, 174–175 + + Schumann, Robert, 19, 23, 26, 29, 75, 81, 85, 86, 170, 174, 178 + + Scott, Sir Walter, 234 + + _Secret Marriage, The_ (Cimarosa), 27 + + _Secrétaire Intime, Le_ (Sand), 106 + + Seine, The, 41 + + Shakespeare, William, 67, 149, 174 + + Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 19 + + Shroeder-Devrient, 58 + + _Siberian, The_ (Chopin), 161–162 + + Simon, Dr., 243 + + Skarbeck, Countess, 18 + + Slavik, violinist, 51 + + Slowacki, 159 + + Smithson, Henrietta, 72 + + Socrates, 159 + + Somerset, Duchess of, 233 + + _Sonata in B flat minor_ (Chopin), 150 + + _Sonata in E flat major_ (Beethoven), 19 + + _Sonata in E flat minor_ (Chopin), 149 + + _Sonata in G flat minor_ (Chopin), 178 + + _Sonata in G minor for piano and violoncello_ (Chopin), 230 + + _Sonata with violoncello_ (Chopin), 202 + + Sontag, German singer, 38 + + Sowinski, pianist, 62, 65 + + Spain, King of, 243 + + Spontini, Gasparo Luigi Pacifico, 27 + + Sprée, The, 41 + + Stafford House (London), 233–234 + + Stamati, pianist, 62 + + _Stars, The_ (Schubert), 146 + + Stendhal (Marie Henri Beyle), 19, 127 + + Stirling, Jane, 228 _et seq._, 256 _et seq._ + + Stradivarius, 261 + + Strauss, Johann, 51 + + Stuttgart, 53 + + Sue, Eugène, 102 + + Sutherland, Duchess of, 233 + + Swedenborg, Emmanuel, 160 + + + _Tarantella_ (Chopin), 178 + + Tempe, valley of, 50 + + Teplitz, 33 + + Théâtre Italien (Paris), 72 + + “Three Glorious Days” (Paris), 228 + + _Three Mazurkas_ (op. 33) (Chopin), 108 + + Tiber, The, 41 + + Tilsit, battle of, 18 + + Titus. _See_ Woyçieckowski, Titus + + Tomeoni, Mlle., singer, 62 + + Torphichen, Lord, 235 + + Tours, 237 + + _Trio for piano, violin and violoncello_ (Chopin), 70 + + _Trio for piano, violin and violoncello_ (Mozart), 230 + + Tronchet, rue (Paris), 154 + + Tuileries, The (Paris), 249 + + _Twelve Etudes_ (2nd vol., op. 25) (Chopin), 70 + + + Ukraine, 65 + + Urhan, violinist, 62 + + + Val de Grâce Hospital (Paris), 249 + + Valdemosa, Chartreuse of, 129, 133–142, 258. + _See also_ Palma, Majorca, Balearic Isles + + _“Valse de l’Adieu” in A flat major_ (op. 69, no. 1) (Chopin), 81 + + _Valses Brillantes_ (op. 34) (Chopin), 108, 178 + + _Variations_ on the _La ci darem_ (Chopin), 26–27, 31, 32, 62 + + Vaucluse, 127 + + Vaudemont, Princess de, 68 + + Vendôme, Place (Paris), 251 _et seq._ + + Venice, 98 + + Veron, Louis-Désiré, 57 + + Veronese, Paul, 234 + + Viardot, Louis, 221 + + Viardot, Pauline, 159, 185, 187, 195, 258 + + Victoria, Queen, 234 + + Vienna, 31, 41, 46, 53, 238 + + Voltaire, François-Marie Arouet, 252 + + + Wagner, Richard, 19, 59, 69, 257 + + Wagram, battle of, 18 + + _Waltz in D flat major_ (op. 70, no. 3) (Chopin), 34, 50 + + “_Waltz of the Little Dog_” (op. 64, no. 1) (Chopin), 231 + + Warsaw, 20, 33, 35, 36, 38, 44, 45–46, 53, 76, 89, 192, 228, 259 + + Warsaw, Duchy of, 18 + + Warsaw High School, 20 + + Wellington, Duke of, 233 + + Westminster, Duke of, 233 + + _White Lady, The_, improvisation from (Chopin), 31 + + Wieck, Clara, 70, 81 + + Wieck, Herr, 81 + + _Wiener Theaterzeitung_ (Vienna), 32 + + Wilna, 79 + + _Winter at Majorca_ (Sand), 132 + + Witwicki, Polish writer, 52 + + Wodzinska, Countess, 80–92 + + Wodzinska, Marie, 76–93, 182, 194 + + Wodzinska, Mlle. Thérèse, 84, 92 + + Wodzinski, Casimir, 80, 82, 90 + + Wodzinski, Count Antoine, 83, 181 + + Wodzinski, family, 21, 77–93, 181 + + Wodzinski, Félix, 80, 82 + + Wodzinski, Palatin, 79–80 + + Wola, suburb of Warsaw, 41 + + Wolowski, deputy, 260 + + Woyciechowski, Titus, 21, 34, 36–39, 43–46, 50, 53, 57, 58, 64, 251 + + + Young French Party (Paris), 55 + + + _zal_, 25 + + Zamboni, conductor, 57 + + _Zarathustra_ (Nietzsche), 191 + + Zelazowa, Wola, 18, 19 + + Zielinski, 41 + + Zullichau (Poland), 28 + + Zwinger Museum (Dresden), 79 + + Zywny, 22 + + + Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London + + + +Transcriber’s Note + +A closing quotation mark was added after: like an airy apparition on +page 175 + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76904 *** diff --git a/76904-h/76904-h.htm b/76904-h/76904-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..24efeb7 --- /dev/null +++ b/76904-h/76904-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9619 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <title> + Frederick Chopin: a man of solitude | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1,h2,h3 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + margin-top:3em; + margin-bottom:1.5em; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 34%; margin-left: 33%; margin-right: 33%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%; display: none; visibility: hidden;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +ul.index { list-style-type: none; } +li.ifrst { + margin-top: 1em; + text-indent: -2em; + padding-left: 1em; +} +li.indx { + margin-top: .5em; + text-indent: -2em; + padding-left: 1em; +} +li.isub1 { + text-indent: -2em; + padding-left: 2em; +} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.tdl {text-align: left; padding: 0.2em} +.tdr {text-align: right; padding: 0.2em} +.tdl, .tdr {vertical-align: top;} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} /* page numbers */ + +blockquote { + margin-top: 1.3em; + margin-bottom: 1.3em; + margin-left: 3%; + margin-right: 3%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.right {text-align: right; margin-right:3em;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.mt3 {margin-top: 3em;} + +figcaption {font-weight: bold;} +figcaption p {margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: .2em; text-align: inherit;} + +/* Images */ + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} + +img.w100 {width: 100%;} + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +/* Footnotes */ +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +/* Poetry */ +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +/* .poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} */ +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3.0em;} + +/* Illustration classes */ +.illowp80 {width: 80%;} +.x-ebookmaker .illowp80 {width: 100%;} + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76904 ***</div> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp80" id="illo" style="max-width: 25em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illo.jpg" alt="Drawing of Chopin by George Sand"> + <figcaption> + <p style="text-align:left;font-size:x-small;">From a Drawing by George Sand.</p> + <p>CHOPIN.</p> + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1"></a><a id="Page_2"></a><a id="Page_3"></a><a id="Page_4"></a><a id="Page_5"></a><a id="Page_6"></a><a id="Page_7"></a>[p. 7]</span></p> + +<h1> +FREDERICK CHOPIN:<br> +A MAN OF SOLITUDE +</h1> + +<p class="center"> +<i>By</i><br> +GUY DE POURTALÈS<br> +<br> +<i>Translated from the French by</i><br> +CHARLES BAYLY, JR.<br> +<br> +<br> +THORNTON BUTTERWORTH LIMITED<br> +15 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C.2 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span></p> + +<hr> +<p class="center"> +<i>First published . . . 1927</i><br> +<br> +<i>All rights reserved</i><br> +MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span></p> + +<hr> +<div style=" max-width: 13em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"> +<p><i>“He used his art only to play</i><br> +<i>to himself his own tragedy.”</i><br> +<span class="smcap" style="display: block; text-align: right">Liszt.</span></p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10"></a><a id="Page_11"></a>[11]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="DEDICATION"> + DEDICATION + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>When I suggested the example of Liszt to a soul +stricken but still capable of enthusiasm, I thought +also of offering him this story of Chopin. Not that +this latter should serve to discount whatever slight +exuberance there might be in the former. On the contrary: +they complement and complete each other, and +show, the one concave and the other convex, the twofold +visage of that symbolic being whom we call the +artist. Or, the sensitive man, the cognizant—he, in +short, whom we envy.</p> + +<p>One of these masks portrays glory and passion: the +other, sorrow and loneliness.</p> + +<p>I quite realize the romantic sound of these four words +in an age when they are so out-moded. But if I agree +that in our time every thing possible has been tried, +indeed, to eliminate from our orchestra those harps, +those tremolos, those rubatos, those great billows of +harmony that transported three admiring generations +with the struggles between heaven and hell, it is nevertheless +necessary only to open a newspaper at the section +on the courts of law, to gaze into the show windows of +the picture dealers, or to hear a saxophone, to convince +myself that the themes of the human legend have in +no degree changed. The rhythm, the harmonies, are +different, but our responsive vibrations are just the same +as they were in the most guileless epochs.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span></p> + +<p>The real disaccord between our parents and us is that +the ugly—or what they called the ugly—has been +incorporated to-day in the beautiful—or what we call +the beautiful. In other words, there are to-day no +such things as beauty and ugliness, harmony and discord, +there is no longer any æsthetic prohibition. As one of +our sages, Paul Valéry, has written: “I see the modern +man as a man with an idea of himself and of the world +that is no longer fixed.... It has become impossible +for him to be a man of a single viewpoint, to hold, +really, to one language, to one nation, to one faith, to +one physical type.” Let us add: to one music.</p> + +<p>Thanks to the rigorous method of science, it has +become easy to believe everything, or nothing. To +love everyone, or no one. But do we gain other than +in childishness and dotage? I question whether this +new abundance enriches us more than their apparent +poverty fertilized our fathers. This mass of sensations +and perceptions has not increased our lucidity any more +than the steam siren and the typewriter have added +new notes to our scale. And yet we should hardly +consent to the loss of one of these recent contributions.</p> + +<p>But if a very ironic, very cynical jazz enchants me, +it in no way removes the pleasure I feel in hearing +Chopin. I should be sorry not to be able to savour +two such different forms of modern sadness, the one +born in New Orleans and the other in a Warsaw garret. +To pursue still further the little problem which the two +parallel existences of Liszt and Chopin pose for our +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span>reflection, let us say that on certain days we are more +apt for action, for youth, for expenditure in any form; +on other days for reserve, for shrinking, for incertitude, +for concentration, and—even though the word has lost +its beauty—for mystery.</p> + +<p>The life of Liszt is an open book. He wrote it everywhere +in ink and in adventure. Of the life of Chopin +almost nothing remains. His nature protected him +from needless experiences, and fate furthermore decreed +that a great many of his letters and relics should be +burned in a house in which his sister lived at Warsaw +in 1863. We can discover him therefore only in his +music, in a few scraps of correspondence, and in the +memories of his friends. Meanwhile, his life was always +so simple and so logical that a slight commentary is +necessary to understand it, as an <i>appoggiatura</i> enhances +the value of a note. Save for two or three journeys, +the outside world had little chance to penetrate this +imagination that ever turned inward. Its poetry lies +in whatever qualities of possibility and of song that +were added to the illusions of his days. Badly served +in love, in friendship, in everything that demanded +blindness or excessive pedal, this clear-sighted sufferer +saw himself in only one mirror: the ebony of his piano. +“Piano, marvellous instrument,” he said. Naturally, +since the piano is an orchestra in itself. But it is something +more: it is an instrument. Hence a soul. It was +the only one Chopin ever knew; and he made his piano +his only legatee.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span></p> + +<p>If Liszt has given you the daring to seize the joys of +the moment and a little confidence in yourself, Chopin +can become not less a brotherly companion. His life +is that of your anxious shadow. His music is perhaps +nothing but the risen song of your inner loneliness.</p> + +<p>All art is rich above all in the measure of what you +yourself bring to it. Every soul possesses you in the +measure of the effort you make to receive it. Welcome +this one as the purest expression, for which there are no +words, of what there is in love that must remain for ever +inexpressible.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">G. de P.</span> +</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS"> + CONTENTS + </h2> +</div> + +<table style="width:60%"> + <tr style="font-size:x-small;"> + <td class="tdr">CHAP.</td> + <td class="tdl"></td> + <td class="tdr">PAGE</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">I</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">“An angel, fair of face as a tall, sad woman”</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_17">17</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">II</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Childhood of Chopin</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_20">20</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">III</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Birth of the Poet</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">IV</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">“Sorrow” and “Ideal”</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_30">30</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">V</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Revolution at Warsaw and Solitude at Vienna</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_43">43</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">VI</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">“I doubt whether there is a city on Earth where more pianists are to be found than in Paris”</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">VII</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Happy Years, Working Years</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_67">67</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">VIII</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Marie Wodzinska and the Dusk</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_76">76</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">IX</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">First Sketch of George Sand</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_94">94</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">X</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Letters of Two Novelists</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_103">103</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">XI</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Chartreuse of Valdemosa</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_127">127</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">XII</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">“If music be the food of love, play on”</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_144">144</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">XIII</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">On some Friendships of Chopin, and on his Æsthetics</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_159">159</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">XIV</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Misunderstandings, Loneliness</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_177">177</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">XV</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Chagrin, Hate</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_192">192</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">XVI</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Story of an Estrangement</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_205">205</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">XVII</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Swan Song</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_228">228</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">XVIII</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">“The Cypresses have their caprices”</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_247">247</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">XIX</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Death of Chopin</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_251">251</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">XX</td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">An Epitaph for a Poet</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_257">257</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr"></td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Sources</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_263">263</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr"></td> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Index</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_267">267</a></td> + </tr> +</table> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16"></a><a id="Page_17"></a>[17]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I"> + CHAPTER I + <br> + <span class="smcap">“An angel, fair of face as a tall, sad woman”</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>“An angel, fair of face as a tall, sad woman...” +This portrait of Chopin, penned by a hand he +loved, should stand as the frontispiece of this study. Naïve +painters in the Middle Ages—who also came to pray +for pardon—hung their expiatory offerings in the shadows +of the cathedrals. This once caressing woman’s hand, +now dead, surely yielded, while writing these words, to +the inner necessity of knowing absolution. It added: +“There was never anything more pure and at the same +time more exalted than his thoughts...”</p> + +<p>And perhaps with faint trembling: “... but this +being only understood that which was inherent within +himself. One would have needed a microscope to peer +into his soul, where so little light of the living ever +penetrated.”</p> + +<p>A microscope has never helped to reveal a soul. No +optical instruments are necessary in order to follow the +teaching of Liszt: let us try to see with our hearts.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>At the head of these pages must stand a name; because +that name breathes life into the whole being of whom +we write: Poland. Ever since 1795 that unhappy +country had been completely dismembered, until Napoleon, +that great poet of geography, after his first campaign +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span>in Prussia, created the Duchy of Warsaw (1807). +This was to last until the fall of the Emperor, that is, +barely eight years. Yet these eight years were sufficient +to endow the Poles with a singularly youthful hero +worship for France.</p> + +<p>Now in 1806, a certain M. Nicolas Chopin, professor +of French, entrusted with the education of the son of +the Countess Skarbek, married in the village of Zelazowa +Wola, six leagues from Warsaw, a Mlle. Justine Krzyzanowska. +He was of French origin, a native of Marainville, +a small village near the Hill of Sion, in the heart +of Lorraine, the history of which is so curiously interwoven +with that of Poland. The fiancée of this one-time +clerk who had become a teacher was a girl of +twenty-four, of an impoverished noble family. In the +household of the Countess she held, as did others of +rank, the position of attendant and lady-in-waiting, +according to the tradition of such proud, poor seigneurs.</p> + +<p>Close to the seigneurial dwelling, which was screened +by a group of trees, stood a small house flanked by an +outside staircase. Right through it ran a passage, at +the end of which could be seen the court, the stables, +and, at a distance, the fields of alfalfa and of colza. +Here the young couple settled down. At the right of +the entrance were three low rooms where one could +touch the ceiling. After a time a girl was born, and +was named Louise. This obscure event was rapidly +succeeded by the French campaign in Prussia—Tilsit, +Austerlitz, Jéna, Wagram, and the Polish eagles flying +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>in the train of the Imperial eagles. Haydn died while +the cannon of Napoleon were thundering for the second +time under the walls of Vienna. When four shells had +fallen close to him, the old composer said to his terrified +servants, “Why this panic? Remember that wherever +Haydn is no accident can happen.” Stendhal, a commissioner +in the army, was present at his obsequies. +He afterwards made the following note: “Why is it +that all Frenchmen who are really great in literature—La +Fontaine, Corneille, Molière, Racine, Bossuet—should +have met together about 1660? Why should +all the great painters have appeared about 1510? Why, +since these two happy periods, has nature been so +sparing? Will music have the same fate?”</p> + +<p>Yet Beethoven at that date was writing the <i>Quatuor +serioso</i> and the sonata in E flat major, which is called +<i>The Farewells</i>. He had already composed six of his +symphonies, the <i>Kreutzer Sonata</i>, the <i>Appassionata</i>, and +<i>Fidélio</i>. Liszt, Schumann and Wagner were approaching. +Goethe was flourishing; Byron was publishing +his first verses. Shelley and Keats were outlining theirs. +Balzac, Hugo, Berlioz were warming the school benches. +And on the 22nd of February, 1810, at six o’clock in +the evening, in the little house in Zelazowa Wola, was +born Frederick François Chopin.</p> + +<p>He came into a world of music. For exactly at that +moment, under the windows of his mother, rustic violins +were giving a serenade for a village wedding.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II"> + CHAPTER II + <br> + <span class="smcap">The Childhood of Chopin</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>On the first of October of that same year, Nicolas +Chopin was made professor of French at the Warsaw +High School, and the whole family moved to the capital. +They were immediately absorbed into the urban life and +never returned to the country. Warsaw was indeed a +fertile soil where one quickly took root among its Italian +palaces and its wooden huts. Its swarming population +mingled Asiatic pomp with the filth of Esquimaux. +Here were to be met the bearded Jew, the nun, the young +girl in a silken cloak, and the mustachioed Pole, in +caftan, with belt, sword, and high red boots.</p> + +<p>M. Chopin bestirred himself to increase his income, +because his family had grown. After Louise and +Frederick, Isabelle and then Emilie were born. In 1812 +he became professor at the School of Artillery and +Engineers and in 1815 obtained the same post in the +Preparatory Military Academy. Finally he turned his +own home into a small boarding-school for the children +of the rich.</p> + +<p>It is not difficult to imagine the surroundings, the +manners, and the customs among which Frederick grew +up in this united and busy household. A somewhat +rigid modesty and the domestic virtues of the family +protected him from rough contacts with reality. It was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span>thus, said Liszt, that “his imagination took on the +velvety texture of plants which are never exposed to +the dust of the highways.”</p> + +<p>Here, then, was a child, very gentle, very pale, sprightly, +with the sensibilities of a little girl, and dominated by +two passions: his love for his mother and his love for +the piano. He had been placed before the keyboard at +a very early age and had returned to it of his own accord, +drawn by the keys. Music drew tears and cries from +him. It became at once a necessary evil. He was also +very fond of his sisters, and chose four friends among +his father’s pupils: Fontana, Titus Woyciechowski, and +the Wodzinski brothers.</p> + +<p>To celebrate his eighth birthday, he played at the +benefit of the poet, Niemcewicz. He had been dressed +in the English fashion, with a velvet coat and a large +turn-over collar. And when his mother, afterwards, +questioned him about his success, asking what the +audience had liked best, he replied with pride, “My +collar.”</p> + +<p>The Polish aristocracy, and even the Grand Duke +Constantin himself, the Governor of Warsaw, became +interested in the child. He was commanded to appear +before this redoubtable prince—and played for him a +march of his own composition.</p> + +<p>“Child,” asked the brother of the Tsar, “why do you +always look upwards?”</p> + +<p>But is it not heavenward that poets look? Chopin +was “neither an intellectual prodigy nor a little thinking +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span>animal,” writes one of his biographers, “but a simple, +modest child who played the piano as naturally as the +birds sing....”</p> + +<p>He had teachers. First Zywny, a venerable gentleman +of over sixty, a native of Bohemia, a violinist and a good +teacher. He was absorbed in the cult of Bach, a passion +which he instilled in his pupil; and the depth of such +childish enthusiasms is well known. Then, in 1824, at +the time when Frederick was sent to college, his father +replaced Zywny by Elsner, a Silesian professor who +taught him harmony and composition. Without being +a very famous musician, Elsner was something of a personage, +a composer of operas, symphonies, masses, and a +Director of the Conservatory. He had the virtue of +never suppressing Chopin’s personal gifts: “Let him +alone,” he said. “If he leaves the main road and the +traditional methods, it is because he has his own ways, +and some day his work will show an originality that no +one possesses to-day. He follows a unique path because +his gifts are unique.”</p> + +<p>One can applaud this happy prophet. Elsner was a +retiring man. He lived in two cells in an old monastery +in the rue des Jésuites. His pupils saluted him on the +right shoulder, according to the Polish fashion, and he +responded by a kiss on each cheek. In his annual +report to the Conservatory he writes: “Chopin, Frederick +(3rd year pupil), astonishing capability, musical +genius.”</p> + +<p>Chopin worked well at college also, and took prizes; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span>in short, he was a fluent and charming youth, and gay +to the point of clownishness, like many melancholics. +His comrades adored him, above all because of his talent +for mimicry and imitation, which showed to what a +point he felt the grimaces of souls. He acted plays with +his sisters, who wrote comedies for the children. He +edited a paper.</p> + +<p>These minor events enamelled the surface of a life +without scratches. Three facts alone should be remarked. +In May and June, 1825, in two concerts at the Conservatory, +Chopin played an <i>Allegro</i> of Moschelès’ and improvised +for the Emperor Alexander, who gave him a ring. +During the course of the same year, he published his +<i>Premier Rondo in C minor</i> (op. 1), dedicated to Mme. +Linde, the wife of the Head of the school. Then, the +next summer, he was invited to the Château d’Antonin +by Prince Radziwill.</p> + +<p>Playing in public had already lost its novelty. On +the other hand, publishing his music was a new joy, +which he tasted with naïve ardour. And if the piece +was neither very profound nor very scholarly, it had +at any rate his personal imprint. “A lady,” said Schumann +somewhat later in speaking of this little work, +“would find it most delicate, most charming....” +Note how already they hasten the advent of the ladies! +Such is the first blossom of this chaste soul.</p> + +<p>The stay at the Château d’Antonin, in the summer of +1826, revealed to Chopin the pleasures that can come +from material plenty and refinements of the spirit, when +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span>these are linked together by skilled hands. This was +precisely what the young aristocrat needed to awaken +his æsthetic response. It is a luxury which the strong +scorn; but a sensitive heart would have difficulty in +dispensing with a judicious distribution of these amenities, +ranging from perfect food to works of art, from +physical luxury to the subtleties of the mind, and subduing +this heart, despite itself, to the domination of the +delicious. I myself should think it very interesting to +know all about the furnishings, the pictures, the guests, +the conversations to be seen and heard during the summer +of 1826 at Prince Radziwill’s. Unfortunately, these +details cannot be known with any degree of certainty. +After all, it may be sufficiently enlightening that Chopin +called Antonin “a paradise” and that he found the +young princesses “divine.” But it is certain that from +that time on his nostalgia for that perfect harmony +derived from the union of fatherland, a sumptuous +dwelling and radiant young beings, shattered his transport +into invincible regrets.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III"> + CHAPTER III + <br> + <span class="smcap">The Birth of the Poet</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>When he was asked, after one of his improvisations +at the piano, improvisations that were a mixture +of brilliance that was always slightly sombre, and of +tenderness that was at once poignant and dramatic, by +what name this atavistic desolation that seemed too old +for his young existence should be called, he replied +with the Polish word <i>zal</i>. It was a word that he repeated, +that he loved, a word susceptible of varied meanings +and which included sometimes every tenderness and all +humility, and sometimes only rancour, revolt, and glacial +vengeance. It is a word also that holds at one and the +same time connotations of inconsolable sorrow, and +menace, or fruitless bitterness, a word, in short, that could +be applied to all those cruel and poet Hamlets whom +we call Slavs. From his sixteenth year <i>zal</i> was the +bright enemy of his fortune, an enemy armed each day +anew when one has a romantic heart and when the +destruction of oneself seems the most brilliant solution +of life. In knowing himself and then in cultivating +himself without opposition, Chopin accomplished the +rare miracle of becoming absolutely himself before life +had taught him anything. Himself against life, in spite +of life. The sum of knowledge that was necessary to him +he possessed at sixteen. It was reduced to the seven +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span>notes of the scale, which were sufficient for the expression +of all his thoughts. He was tortured by the need of no +other nourishment than the search for his own style. +That was his method of attaining the truth. Apart +from his piano, the universe, indeed, was but literature.</p> + +<p>Furthermore, +his father allowed him to leave school +at seventeen to give himself up entirely to his music. +He was given a little attic study with an old piano and +a table. There he wrote his first works. And it was +at this time that, testing his powers, he acquired the +astonishingly original touch and style that were soon +to amaze the artistic world. The following year, he +composed his <i>Variations</i> on the <i>La ci darem la mano</i> of +Mozart, of which Schumann said as he thumbed it over: +“Eusebius came in softly the other day. You know +that ironic smile with which he tries to intrigue you. +I was at the piano... Eusebius put a piece of music +before us, with these words, ‘Hats off, gentlemen—a +genius!’ We were not to see the title. I turned over +the pages mechanically. The veiled joy of music without +sound is like something magical. And then, it has +always seemed to me that each composer offers to the +eyes a physiognomy of notes that is the essence of the +man. Beethoven has a different look from Mozart, on +paper. But here I fancied that quite strange eyes, the +eyes of a flower, the eyes of a basilisk, the eyes of a +peacock, the eyes of a virgin were marvellously regarding +me. But what was the astonishment of the hearers on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span>reading the title: opus 2... Chopin? I had never +heard the name.”</p> + +<p>Listen to the almost prophetic tone of that surprise: +“Eyes of a flower, eyes of a basilisk, eyes of a peacock, +eyes of a virgin.” This splendid musical portrait paints +in completely the Polish swan testing for the first time +the flutter of his wings.</p> + +<p>He took flight very shortly after, at the beginning of +September, 1828, on his first journey. A friend of his +father’s, Professor Jaroçki, took him to Berlin, where +the professor had to attend a scientific meeting. Frederick +was in an ecstasy of enthusiasm. After five days +of jolting in the diligence the travellers reached the +Prussian capital and put up at the Hôtel du Kronprinz. +Chopin’s first visit was to the factory of the Kisting +pianos, his second to the Academy of Singing, his third +to the Opera, where they were giving <i>Ferdinand Cortez</i> +by Spontini, and <i>The Secret Marriage</i> by Cimarosa. “I +followed these operas with great pleasure,” he wrote +home, “but I must admit that the music of Handel approaches +most nearly the musical ideal that I have +adopted.... To-morrow they give <i>Freyschutz</i>; that +is exactly the music that I want.” He saw Spontini at +a distance, and the young Mendelssohn. He dined at +the Congress of Naturalists. “Yesterday there was a +banquet in honour of the scholars. What caricatures! +I divided them into three groups.” At the table he sat +next a professor from Hamburg, who, talking to Jaroçki, +so far forgot himself as to take Chopin’s plate for his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span>own and begin drumming on it. “A true scientist, +eh? Nothing was lacking, not even the big deformed +nose. I was on pins and needles during the drumming, +and when it was finished had nothing better to do than +to rub off the finger-marks with a napkin.” This incident +was the object of a long report in which can be seen +his stubborn disgust. Then there were the toilettes +of the ladies. Details? None. That struck closer home +than the compulsory visits to the Geological Museum.</p> + +<p>Finally, after a fortnight, they re-entered their travelling +carriage to take once more the road for Warsaw. +Arriving at Zullichau, between Frankfurt-am-Oder and +Posen, they found a shortage of horses and were obliged +to stop and wait for fresh ones. What should they do? By +chance the postal relay station was also the tavern. Professor +Jaroçki seized the opportunity to dine. Chopin +spied a piano. He opened it, sat down and began to +let his fingers wander. An old traveller came and sat +quietly near him, then another, then silently all the +household, the postmaster, his wife, his daughters, and +the neighbours. What a surprise was this nightingale +blown by the wind from fairyland! Suddenly the head +of the postillion was framed in the window, and he +thundered out:</p> + +<p>“All aboard! The horses are harnessed.”</p> + +<p>“Devil take the spoil-sport,” replied the postmaster +furiously.</p> + +<p>They begged the young man, who had already arisen, +to sit down again.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span></p> + +<p>“Go on, <i>please</i> go on,” said the ladies.</p> + +<p>“I’ll give you extra horses if necessary,” added the +postmaster.</p> + +<p>And the old traveller said in his turn:</p> + +<p>“Sir, I am an old-fashioned musician and I know what +I am talking about. I, also, play the piano. If Mozart +had heard you, sir, he would have taken your hand. I, +a nobody, dare not....”</p> + +<p>When Chopin stopped, this curious audience seized +him and carried him out in triumph.</p> + +<p>A Schumann overwhelmed, that enthusiastic postmaster, +that timid musicaster trembling with emotion, +these were the signs that a new poet was born among +men.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV"> + CHAPTER IV + <br> + <span class="smcap">“Sorrow” and “Ideal”</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>But it was not until the following year that he was +to find his voice. One evening at the Opera, he +noticed in a small part a young singer with a clear +tone, fair hair, and an attractive mouth. He learned +that her name was Constance Gladkowska, and that +she was still a pupil at the Conservatory. The impression +this girl produced on him was strong, but altogether +pure and childlike. To get the ribbon that tied her +hair, to die holding it hidden on his breast, would have +satisfied his longings. And so delicate was this sentiment +that at first he confided it to no one. Besides, +another thought wrung him more: the thought of +leaving Warsaw, because he well knew that he had +exhausted its musical resources.</p> + +<p>In July, 1829, his father furnished him with a little +money, which had been saved with difficulty, and the +young composer, on whom from all sides so many +hopes were now centred, was able to leave for Vienna. +His first visit there was to Haslinger, the music publisher, +a great eulogist who received him with open arms and +already called him “the new star of the North.” But +Chopin, who was not yet twenty, was cautious and +sceptical. He was presented to Count Gallenberg, the +superintendent of the Imperial theatres; he was urged +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span>to give a concert. “What reassures Count Gallenberg,” +he wrote to his family, “is that I shall not tax +his purse. I am going to play for nothing. I am +acting the disinterested and the dilettante. I am a +musician for love of the art.”</p> + +<p>The concert took place at the Imperial Theatre on +the 11th of August, at seven in the evening. The +orchestra played a Beethoven overture, some airs of +Rossini. Then the delicate Chopin, already sickly +looking, came on to the platform. An old lady sitting +in the first row said in a whisper, “What a pity the +young man doesn’t make a better appearance!” But +Chopin’s whiteness was from rage rather than nervousness, +because the orchestra, not having been able to +decipher his <i>Variations</i>, had forced him to change the +programme. He therefore improvised on a theme from +<i>The White Lady</i>, then on the Polish air, <i>Chmiel</i>.</p> + +<p>With the one exception of Liszt, no one has ever +improvised like Chopin. Under his elegant hand there +opened a new world of velvet tragedies, of ravishing +sorrows, where each hearer trembled as he discovered +a memory of his own griefs. And old men as well as +young schoolgirls followed with delight these exquisite +whisperings. But the power of poets—what is it, if +not to draw singing from one’s own soul, the secret of +which they know better than oneself?</p> + +<p>So successful was this first concert that Chopin resolved +to give another a week later. This time he played his +<i>Krakoviak</i>, which the orchestra had rehearsed, and his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span><i>Variations</i> on the <i>La ci darem</i>. Count Lichnowsky, +Beethoven’s friend, was present and applauded wildly. +The public, the musicians, and the critics could not conceal +their surprise, for everything was new about Chopin, +both the substance and the form. “The public recognized +a great artist in this young man... On the +ground of the originality of his playing and of his +compositions one could almost attribute genius to him,” +said the <i>Wiener Theaterzeitung</i>; and the <i>Allgemeine +Musikalische</i>: “The exquisite delicacy of his touch, the +indescribable dexterity of his technique, the finish of his +<i>nuances</i>, which reflect the deepest sensitiveness, the clarity +of his interpretation and of his compositions, which +bear the marks of a great genius, all reveal a virtuoso +favoured by nature, who has flashed above the horizon +without previous heralding, like one of the most brilliant +meteors.” One single criticism, that Chopin made of +himself: he plays too softly, he lacks brilliance and +resonance. “They are almost of one voice in saying I +play too softly, too tenderly, rather, for this public,” +he writes to his family. “They are accustomed to the +great drums of their virtuosos. But I prefer them to +say that I played too softly than too brutally.” And in +another letter: “It is my way of playing, and I know it +gives infinite pleasure to women and artists.”</p> + +<p>Thereupon he left for Prague, accompanied to the +diligence by all the Viennese musicians, whom he had +conquered in so short a time. Even Czerny, with whom +Chopin had several times played duets, was there. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span>Chopin thought him “a fine man and more sensitive +than his compositions.” He visited Prague, where he +made the acquaintance of the famous violinist Pixis, and +of Alexandre Klengel, the composer of forty-eight +fugues considered the finest since Bach. Klengel interested +Chopin greatly, and they spent half a dozen hours +together, at the piano and in conversation. Then +Frederick left for Dresden, viâ Teplitz, a watering-place +on the frontier of Bohemia and Saxony, where he passed +the evening at the château of Prince Clary.</p> + +<p>A small but “respectable” company were assembled +there: the men of the house, an Austrian general, an +English naval captain, a Saxon general sewed up in +decorations, some young men and girls. After tea, the +Princess asked Chopin if he would “deign” to seat +himself at the piano. The artist replied that he would +“deign,” and asked for a subject for improvisation. +The Prince’s <i>maître de musique</i> proposed a theme from +Rossini’s <i>Moses</i>, and Chopin launched forth upon +embroideries so lovely that he was obliged to return +to the piano four times. They tried to keep him at +Teplitz, but he would not consent. A restlessness, a +certain nervousness, pushed him on to continue his +journey. Something was working deeply in him. +Dresden hardly interested him. He stayed there a few +days doing nothing, then left for Breslau, and returned +at length to Warsaw on September 12th.</p> + +<p>Three weeks later, while writing a waltz, he found +out what ailed him. “I have, perhaps to my sorrow, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span>found my ideal. For six months now I have dreamed +of her each night, and I have never spoken a word to +her. It was for her that I composed the <i>Adagio</i> of my +<i>Concerto</i> (in F minor, op. 21), as well as the <i>Waltz</i> (op. +70, no. 3), written only this morning and which I am +sending to you. Notice the passage marked with a +cross. No one, except you, will know the meaning +of it. How happy I should be, my dear friend, if I +could play it to you! In the fifth bar of the trio, the +bass carries the melody as far as the high E flat, in the +key of G flat. I should not tell you this, as I am sure +you would have noticed it for yourself.”</p> + +<p>This confidence was addressed to Titus, the friend +beloved above all others because he too was a musician, +and Chopin found at once the two words that were +henceforth to be the keys to his whole life: “sorrow” +and “ideal.” They give an atmosphere. Perhaps +they give too much; but if they have since then lost +something of their meaning, can we not give back to +them in spirit a living poetical value? In this Europe +which was open to romanticism and fervently breathed +a too magnificent vocabulary lived the faith that moves +and the candour that engenders deeds of love and of +history. An evil age, “An age of fools and follies,” +says M. Charles Maurras. Perhaps. But an age in +which ideas and dreams have more than a rhetorical +value puts a high price on art. And no one was less +satisfied than Chopin with mere words. Those which +he himself used translate exactly the accents of his piano. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span>When he wrote that to his sorrow he had discovered +his ideal, doubtless he did not suspect what a true note +he had struck. Here, fixed for ever, is the musical +theme in which, thanks to him, millions of beings were +to discover the joys of hopelessness.</p> + +<p>In this sorrow, in this ideal, he was of course thinking +of Constance Gladkowska. He wrote again some time +later: “You cannot imagine how sad Warsaw seems to +me. If I were not so happy with my family, I would +not care for this place. Oh! how bitter it is to have +no one with whom to share sorrow and joy! How +dreadful when the heart is oppressed to be unable to +unfold it. You know what I mean. Many times I pour +into my piano what I should like to confide to you.”</p> + +<p>He heard much music, and was greatly struck by the +last of Beethoven’s trios. Never, he said, had he heard +anything greater. He composed. He went to the +Opera. Mlle. Gladkowska made her debut in Paër’s +<i>Agnes</i> and he admired her playing, her beauty, the range +of her voice. “Her phrasing and <i>nuance</i> are delicious. +At first her voice trembled slightly, but she soon got +over that. She was overwhelmed with applause.” +He made her acquaintance, accompanied her at the +piano, felt that he should die of sadness and uncertainty. +Ought he to leave? Must he stay? He decided to +accept an invitation from Prince Radziwill and went to +spend one autumn week at Antonin. He was received +as a personage, and played duets with the Prince, who +was the author of an orchestration of <i>Faust</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span></p> + +<p>Two charming Eves graced this paradise—“I mean +the two young princesses, pleasant, musical, and gentle +creatures. As for the Princess Mother, she knows that +it is not birth that makes a man.”</p> + +<p>The young princesses knew it, too, and they amused +themselves by taking lessons from this artist with the +complexion of a girl. Wanda allowed him to play with +her fingers, to which he had to teach the correct position. +Elise did his portrait. “Princess Wanda has a real +musical instinct. There is no need to be constantly +saying to her: here, <i>crescendo</i>, there, <i>piano</i>... here +more slowly, there faster... I had to promise to send +her my <i>Polonaise in F minor</i>.” He wrote another Polonaise, +for piano and violoncello. “It is a brilliant piece +for women to play.” He did not forget Constance, +even though Princess Elise was so ravishing. But he +realized the possibility of being charmed in all innocence +by two beings at once. Nor did he forget his dear +Titus of the silent, savage heart. In a moment of expansion +he wrote to him: “I might anoint my body with +the rarest perfumes of Byzantium and you would still +refuse to embrace me if I had not bound you by a kind +of magnetic attraction. But there are secret forces in +nature....”</p> + +<p>Returning to Warsaw, he decided to give a concert +which Constance would attend. She could not fail to +understand that it was to her alone that he dedicated +his young fame. The concert actually took place on the +17th of March, 1830, when he had just completed his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span>twentieth year. The event aroused an extraordinary +amount of attention. The hall was crowded. The +programme, of the usual variegated order, announced +music by Elsner, Kurpinski, a hunting-horn solo, some +singing. Chopin’s part consisted of his <i>Concerto in F +minor</i> and a fantasia on national airs. But the effect +was not all that he had hoped. The connoisseurs alone +had realized and appreciated his originality as an artist. +But Constance, sitting in the front row, smiled at him +and he felt repaid.</p> + +<p>A second concert, several days after the first, was a +more brilliant success, and the <i>Rondo à la Krakoviak</i> +aroused acclamations. From all over the house came +cries: “A third concert! A third concert!” This +time it really seemed as though the critics, the crowd, +and the musicians were of one accord in declaring Chopin +Poland’s greatest pianist and composer. But the weeks +slipped by without bringing him real happiness. His love +for Titus and Constance both sustained and tormented +him. He carried their letters next his heart. For them +alone he composed, and his latest music seemed to him +worthless till they had heard it. “Work drives me on. +I am composing hard. Often I turn night into day +and day into night. I live in a dream and sleep while +I am awake. Yes, worse still, it is as though I must +sleep for ever, for I am for ever feeling the same thing. +But instead of gathering strength from this somnolence, +I am tortured further and weaken myself the more....” +He worked on his <i>Adagio in E major</i>, which was to be +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span>“romantic, calm, melancholy,” and to evoke “crowds +of gentle memories. It should be like a reverie on a +moonlit spring night.... What does it matter if it +is bad? You will see in it my fault of doing badly +against my will. But that is because, also against my +will, something has entered my heart by way of my eyes. +It drives me, torments me, although I love it and cherish +it.”</p> + +<p>An unexpected treat was given him by the arrival of a +celebrated German singer, Sontag, who gave a series +of six concerts. To her Prince Radziwill presented +Chopin, who experienced a moment of enthusiasm. +She was not beautiful, but charming beyond description, +and she enchanted the circle in which she moved. +Frederick was allowed the honour of seeing her in her +morning peignoir, and brought Constance to her. But +the transit of the singer was no more than a meteoric +interlude and Chopin slid back into his uncertainties. +Departure seemed more and more necessary for his +musical development, and on the other hand the fear +of losing his love paralysed him. On September 4th +he wrote to Titus:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“I have fits of fury. I still have not budged. I +haven’t the strength to name a day for leaving. I have +a presentiment that if I leave Warsaw I shall never see +my home again. I believe that I am going away to die. +How sad it must be not to die where one has always lived! +How dreadful it would be for me to see at my deathbed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span>an indifferent doctor or servant instead of all my own +folk! I should like to stay with you for a few days; +perhaps I might find some peace again. But as I cannot, +I limit myself to roaming the streets, crushed by my +sadness, and I return—but why? To pursue my fancies. +Man is rarely happy. If he is destined to only a few +short hours of bliss, why should he renounce his illusions. +They too are fugitive.”</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>More curious still is his letter of September 18th, +where he makes this singular confession:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“You are mistaken in thinking, like so many others, +that my heart is the reason for my prolonging my stay +here. Be assured that I could rise above all if it were +a question of my own self, and that, if I were in love, +I could manage to dominate for several more years my +sad and sterile passion. Be convinced of one thing, I +beg, that is, that I too consider my own good and that +I am ready to sacrifice everything for the world. For +the world;—I mean, for the eye of the world; in order +that this public opinion which has so much weight with +us may contribute to my sorrow. Not to that secret +suffering that we hide within ourselves, but to what I +might call our outward pain... As long as I am in +good health, I shall work willingly all my life. But +must I work more than my strength permits? If it is +necessary, I can do twice what I do to-day. You may +not be master of your own thoughts, but I am always. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span>Nothing could make me drop them as the leaves from +the trees. For me, even in winter, there is always verdure. +Of course, I am speaking only of the head! +In the heart, on the other hand... good Lord! there +is tremendous heat! No wonder the vegetation there +is luxurious.... Your letters lie upon my heart, +next to the ribbon (Constance’s), for though they do not +know each other, these inanimate objects nevertheless +feel that they come from friendly hands.”</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>In short, this irresolute knew well that the very base +of his nature was his musical instinct; that this instinct +would conquer all, his desires, his comfort, his peace; +that his “secret suffering,” if it was inevitably necessary, +still amounted to less than that stubborn march towards +a future of melody and solitude.</p> + +<p>Coming out of church one day he saw Constance. +“My eyes caught her glance. I tore off into the street +and it took a quarter of an hour to pull myself together. +Sometimes I am so mad that it is terrifying. +But on Saturday week I leave, come what may. I +shall pack my music in my trunk, her ribbon in my +soul, my soul under my arm and,—away I go, in the +diligence!”</p> + +<p>Finally, on October 11th, he gave a last concert, in +which Mlle. Gladkowska assisted. Frederick played +his whole <i>Concerto in E minor</i>, a work that he had just +finished, and a <i>Fantasia on Polish Airs</i>. Mlle. Gladkowska, +dressed in white and crowned with roses, sang the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span>cavatine from Rossini’s <i>Lady of the Lake</i>. “You know +the theme: <i>O quante lagrime per te versai</i>,” wrote Chopin +to Titus. “She rendered the <i>tutto detesto</i> to the G flat +admirably. Zielinski said the G alone was worth a +thousand ducats. After leading her off the stage I played +my <i>Fantasia</i> on the setting of the moon. This time at +least I understood myself, the orchestra understood itself +and the audience understood us.... Now nothing +remains but to strap my trunk. My outfit is ready, my +orchestrations are recopied, my handkerchiefs hemmed, +my new trousers have been tried on.” What was he +still waiting for?</p> + +<p>It was as though destiny offered him one final chance. +He did not take it.</p> + +<p>The 1st of November, 1830, was the date fixed; he was +to leave for Vienna. In the morning a whole troupe +set forth. Elsner, friends, musicians, conducted him as +far as Wola, the historic suburb where, in earlier times, +the election of the kings had taken place. They held +a banquet. They played a cantata composed by Elsner +in his honour. They sang:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“May your talent, native of our soil,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Display itself in all and everywhere,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Be you on the Danube’s shores,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or by the Spree, the Tiber or the Seine.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Cherish the customs of your fathers,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And, by the notes of your music,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Our mazurkas and our Kracoviennes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sing the glory of your native land.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Yes, you shall realize our dreams.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Know always, Chopin, that you by song</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shall glorify your native land.”</div> + </div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span> </div> +</div> + +<p>Chorus:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“To leave your fatherland is naught,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Because your soul remains with us.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We raise our prayers for your happiness,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And shall cherish your memory in our hearts.”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>He is pale, the young prince, when they present him +with a silver cup filled with his native soil. And now +he bursts into sobs.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>As for Constance, she never saw him again. Two +years later she married a country gentleman. Then, +the blue eyes that the poet had loved,—by what strange +trick of fate should they be deprived of light? Constance +became blind. Sometimes, however, she would sit +once more at the piano and sing that lovely song: +<i>Quante lagrime per te versai</i>.... Someone who knew +her towards the end of her life told how “from her eyes, +which remained starry in spite of their blindness,” would +then fall the tears.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V"> + CHAPTER V + <br> + <span class="smcap">Revolution at Warsaw and Solitude at Vienna</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Titus Woyciechowski rejoined Chopin at +Kalisz. Older than he by several years, he was +in appearance and character just the opposite of Frederick; +a tall strong youth with clear, determined features, +speaking rarely, but with just as passionate a melomania. +His huge hands, chiselled to grasp the sword of his ancestors, +as soon as they rested on the keys of the piano +developed an airy delicacy. Slender, deep-eyed Frederick, +however, with his complexion like a child’s, led on a +leash this powerful, submissive dog. They passed by +Breslau, and then went to Dresden, where a whole week +evaporated in calls, parties, and theatres.</p> + +<p>Armed with letters of introduction, Chopin betook +himself to pay his respects to Mme. Dobrzyçka, a Pole +and Grand Mistress of the Court of Princess Augusta. +This lady occupied an apartment of the royal castle. +She received him graciously, and invited him to spend +an evening with her in a little group of her friends. +Chopin accepted, suspecting strongly that he would have +to pay with his art, but he made it a rule never to refuse +anything to his compatriots. On the appointed day he +made his entrance in the salons of the Grand Mistress, +where he found only three or four people; some ladies +and a man of some thirty years, clean shaven, whom he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>took to be a scholar or an abbé of the Court. Mme. +Dobrzyçka presented him to her guests: “One of our +young compatriots, M. Frederick Chopin, an artist of +great talent, who won’t refuse to let us hear one of his +mazurkas, an echo of our far-off country.” Chopin +sat down at the piano. He felt inspired, his head filled +with poetry, his heart with memories; Constance, his +sisters, the ancient city of Warsaw, floated before his +eyes. In a dozen ways, he expressed them with that +careless grace, that naked emotion which owed nothing +to any model. He was heard in the deepest silence. +Then the Grand Mistress rose and came to him, with +tears in her eyes. “Thank you. You have given a +delightful hour to Their Royal Highnesses.” With a +deep bow she designated the two ladies and the clean-shaven +gentleman. They were the Infanta Augusta, her +sister-in-law, and Prince Jean, the future King of Saxony, +whom he had taken for a doctor of theology. Next +day these personages sent him sealed letters addressed to +Their Majesties the King and Queen of the Two Sicilies +and to His Serene Highness the Prince of Lucca, recommending +“Frederick Chopin, an incomparable artist +for whom the most brilliant future is in store.”</p> + +<p>Under these happy auspices Frederick and Titus arrived +in Vienna towards the end of November. They set +out to find an apartment and, for 50 florins a month, +rented three rooms in Kohlmarkt.</p> + +<p>But this fickle city had already forgotten the artist +it had once acclaimed. Haslinger, the publisher, refused +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span>to buy his works, and Chopin would not consent to +part with them for nothing. “Maybe he thinks,” he +said, “that if he affects to treat them as bagatelles I +shall take him seriously and give them to him for love. +He is wrong. My motto shall be: Pay, brute.” But +these small cares faded suddenly away when the events +which were taking place in Poland began to filter into +the newspapers. On the 29th of November, indeed, +the revolution broke out in Warsaw. This ancient +people, reduced to slavery, was attempting once again +to regain its liberty. They got their news in crumbs: +on November 29th, eighteen conspirators had set out +for the Palais de Belvédère, where the Grand Duke +Constantin resided, in order to seize him. But they +were too late. “The bird had flown,” and, leading +his Russian troops, had already withdrawn from the +walls of Warsaw. Freed for the time, the entire town +had arisen against its oppressors. The next day a new +Government was formed, the war of independence proclaimed, +and everywhere thousands of volunteers were +enlisting.</p> + +<p>From the very first Titus and Frederick were wild +with enthusiasm. Titus fitted himself out from head +to foot, and without further delay left to join his brothers +in arms. Left alone, Chopin lamented his own inaction, +but what could he do with those delicate hands of his, +with his useless talent? On a gamble, without definite +plan, he hired a post-chaise and struck out on the trail +of Titus. But he was unable to overtake him and, in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span>the sombre winter dusk, his warlike ardour seemed +suddenly so futile that he ordered his driver to turn +about and go back to Vienna. There he found a letter +from his father, who, guessing the feelings of his son, +besought Frederick not to allow himself to be turned +from his career. Let the many sacrifices that had been +made at least be allowed to bear fruit! So Chopin +stayed. But the ordeal was hard to bear in this Austria +of Metternich, entirely hostile to Poland. The artists +he knew avoided him, and more than once as he passed +he overheard the murmur that God’s only error was +to have created the Poles. His mail reached him now +only after long delays and he lived in anguish. He +learned of the march of the Russian General Paskewitch +on Warsaw. Already he saw the town in flames, his +family and Constance massacred. He spent his time in +writing, he who had such a horror of letter paper. “I +seem to be dreaming, to be still with you. These +voices which I hear, and which are unfamiliar to me, +are like carnival clackers. It is nothing to me to-day +whether I live or die.... Why am I left behind? +Why am I not taking my share of the danger with you?” +The Christmas festivities only aggravated this drama of +unrest. Dante was right when he said that a happy +memory is the worst misery of unhappy days. That +Christmas eve he went to the Church of St. Etienne, +and there, standing in the darkest corner under the dome, +he leaned against a Gothic pillar and dreamed of the +family Christmas tree, lighted with candles, of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span>modest presents he and his sisters gave each other, of +the traditional supper where the whole family gathered +about the table and broke the holy bread that the lay +brothers of the convents had distributed during Advent.</p> + +<p>He passed the holidays largely alone in his room, +which he thus describes: “It is large and has three +windows; the bed faces them, my marvellous piano +is at the right, the sofa at the left, between the windows +a mirror and in the centre of the room a big mahogany +table. The floor is waxed. It is quiet. In the morning +an unbearably stupid servant wakens me. I get +up and have my coffee, which I often take cold, as +playing makes me forget breakfast. About nine o’clock +my German teacher arrives. After that I play. Then +Hummel (the son of the composer) comes to work on my +portrait while Nidecki studies my concerto. I stay in +my dressing-gown until noon. Then a funny little +German, Herr Leidenfrost, arrives, with whom I go +for a walk on the pavement. Then I go to lunch wherever +I may be invited or else at the <i>Café Zur Böhmischen +Köchin</i>, which is frequented by all the University students.... +Afterwards I make calls, come in at dusk, dress, +arrange my hair, dress, and go to some party or other. +About eleven or twelve o’clock, never later, I come +home, play, cry, laugh, read, go to bed, and dream of +you.”</p> + +<p>In this same letter to his friend Matuszinski, he adds +on Christmas Day (1830):</p> + +<p>“I wanted so desperately to have a letter from you. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span>You know why. What joy news of my angel of peace +gives me! How I should like to sound all the chords, +not only those that evoke stormy feelings but those that +sound the <i>lieder</i> whose half-stilled echoes yet hover on +the shores of the Danube.... But I cannot live as +I please.... You advise me to make a poet’s choice. +Don’t you realize that I am the most irresolute being +on earth, and that I have made only one single fortunate +choice in my whole life? All these dinners, parties, +concerts, balls, bore me. I am overwhelmed with +them. I cannot do what I wish; I must be dressed, +powdered, shod, have my hair dressed, and play the +quiet man in the drawing-room, only to return home +and thunder on the piano. I have no confidant, I have +to ‘do the polite’ with everybody. Forgive these +complaints, my dear Jean, they calm me and give me +relief. One point in your letter made me very gloomy. +Has there been any change? Has anyone been ill? +I could easily believe it of such a tender being.... +Reassure her and tell her that as long as my strength +permits, till death, yes, until after death, my ashes shall +be scattered under her feet. More... all this is not +enough, and you may tell her much more.... I +should have done it myself, but for the dread of people’s +gossip. Be my interpreter to her. The day before +yesterday I dined at a Mme. Bayer’s, a Pole whose name +is Constance. I love her society because of this reminder. +Her music, her handkerchiefs, her napkins are +marked with <i>her</i> initial.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span></p> + +<p>“January 1, 1831.—I received your letter. I do not +know what is taking place in me. I love you all more +than my life. Write to me. So you are with the army? +Our poor families! What are all our friends doing? +I live with you. I should like to die for you, for all +of you. If you leave, how can you deliver my message? +Look after my family. One might believe evil.... +How sadly the year begins for me. Perhaps I shall +not see its end. Embrace me. Are you leaving for the +war? Return a colonel. Ah! why cannot I be even +your drummer boy! If you think it unnecessary, do +not give her my note. I don’t remember what I wrote. +You may read it. It is perhaps the first and the last.”</p> + +<p>Then he notes in his little pocket-diary: “This bed, +where I sleep ... perhaps it has already held a corpse. +Who was it? Was he more wicked than I? Had he +parents, sisters, a mistress? Now all is peace for him. +I am sure that to die is the noblest human act. Or, on +the other hand, is birth the noblest?...” Later a few +scattered lines about Constance: “Did she love me or +is she playing a part? How hard it is to guess. Yes, +or no? Yes, no, yes, no?... Yes, surely. But +God’s will be done.”</p> + +<p>Thus Chopin stands wholly self-revealed, nervous, +lonely, horribly sensitive. All the pains of the world +are latent in him, and a few simple joys. But the <i>man</i> +developed with extreme slowness. The poet clung to +his youth, which had furnished the difficulties he needed. +He had given himself over, as women do, unconsciously +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span>to suffering, and it was by that alone that he was to +become adult.</p> + +<p>Yet the two years since his first love for Constance +Gladkowska had already produced admirable work. It +was not without a certain pride that Chopin bound into +his work such pages as the <i>Waltz in D flat major</i> (op. +70, no. 3), in which he had earlier called Titus’s attention +to a confidential passage, the sketches of his <i>Etudes</i>, the +first of his <i>Nocturnes</i> and the two <i>Concertos</i> (in E minor, +op. 11, and in F minor, op. 21). If in construction, in +skeleton, they still owe much to Hummel, in their flesh +and blood they are entirely Chopin. The orchestral +parts are weak because he was not able to <i>think orchestrally</i>, +but the piano parts have an originality and poetry +that bear the stamp of eternity. Liszt later said of the +<i>adagio</i> of the <i>Second Concerto</i>, for which Chopin had a +marked predilection, that the whole piece had “an ideal +perfection,” that “his sentiment by turn radiant and full +of pity, evoked a magnificent country bathed in light, +some dowered valley of Tempe that one might have +selected as the site of a tragic tale, a heartbreaking scene. +It might be called an irreparable sorrow enfolding the +human heart against a background of the incomparable +splendour of nature.”</p> + +<p>There is truth in these somewhat florid words. But +it is difficult to reduce to the average vocabulary what +slips so swiftly out of ordinary experience and opens +to our most complex senses an entirely new universe. +An analysis of music is the most futile of intellectual +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span>exercises, because it can build on nothing but emotion. +Look at concert audiences. They are made up for the +most part of lovers and old people. For they understand, +remember, and seek again this powerful inexpressible +thing in which they find the best that is in themselves. +Even Chopin still did not know what he was +giving. He was hampered by classic forms. But he +carried in him the joy of a growing knowledge, developed +and assimilated in his first sorrows.</p> + +<p>The winter dragged on as best it could, and Chopin, +with somewhat more pleasure than he admitted, went +from party to party. He let his whiskers grow, or +rather one whisker, the other was not necessary, “because +I only show my right profile to the audience.” +He spent many an evening at the house of Dr. Malfatti, +Court Physician and former doctor to Beethoven, a +happy sybarite and philanthropist who lived in a smart +villa surrounded by a garden. And then spring returned +and the doctor’s peach and cherry trees were covered +with pink and white snow. There, on St. John’s Day, +they had a fête by moonlight. Out on the terrace, in +the bridal air that rose from the orangery, wafted by the +fountain sprays, Chopin played, while the Viennese +listened to the sad-eyed foreigner who in sombre colours +paraphrased a joyous waltz of Strauss.</p> + +<p>He went to concerts, met plenty of musicians but, +Slavik the violinist excepted (another Paganini, who +played ninety-six staccato notes with a single sweep of +his bow), none of them impressed him greatly. Vienna +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span>offered him nothing to love. Waltzes, nothing but +waltzes, were played on all sides, and although they were +laughed at, still the editors would publish nothing else. +He was ill and admitted it to his friends, but forbade +them to inform his family. He planned another departure, +and had his passport arranged without knowing +very definitely whether he should name France, Germany, +or England. Italy attracted him also, but there were +revolutions in Bologna, Milan, Ancona, Rome. In +his indecision, he might have settled the matter by a +throw of dice had that not been to tempt fate somewhat. +He ended by deciding on London and, at all events, +had added to the passport: “by way of Paris.” For +the moment he was pacified and furnished with a few +landmarks on which to fasten his imagination. He +packed, made his good-bye calls, and reserved a seat +in the diligence for July 20 (1831).</p> + +<p>A few days before his departure, a letter reached him +from his compatriot, Witwicki, the writer, a family friend. +It touched his most sensitive spot. “... Keep always +in view the idea of nationality, nationality and yet again +nationality. It is a word that means little for an ordinary +artist, but not for a talent like yours. There is native +melody just as there is a native climate. The mountains, +the forests, the waters, and the meadows have their native +voice, an inner voice, though not every soul is aware +of it.... Every time I think of it, dear M. Frederick, +I nurse the sweet hope that you shall be the first to be +able to imbibe the vast treasures of Slav melody. Seek +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span>out the popular Slav melodies as the mineralogist seeks +out the stones and minerals of the mountains and the +valleys. I hear that in Vienna you fret and languish. +I can put myself in your place; no Pole could be happy +when the life or death of his own country is in question. +But remember always, dear friend, that you left us not +to languish but to perfect yourself in your art and to +become the consolation and glory of your family and +your country.”</p> + +<p>He left on July 20th and, by way of Salzburg, reached +Munich, where he stayed for several weeks. Then he +set out again, and reached Stuttgart. There, on the +8th of September, he learned of the capture of Warsaw +by the Russians. Under the shock of this frightful news +he turned to his piano and his grief burst into harrowing +improvisation. This was the first germ of the <i>Etude +in C minor</i> (op. 10, no. 12) that is called <i>The Revolutionary</i>. +“What a change! What a disaster!... Who +could have foreseen it?” he wrote, several weeks +later.</p> + +<p>These words may sound somewhat feeble. But Chopin +did not love great, strong words. In him emotion +always took on a moderate accent. Nevertheless, in +his pocket-notebook he gave free rein to his feelings: +“The suburbs burned! Matuszinski and Titus surely +killed! Paskewitch and that dog Mohilew flee from +the beloved town. Moscow commands the world! +Oh, God, where are you? Are you there and do not +venge yourself? Are you not surfeited with Russian +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>massacres? Or else,—or else,—are you not yourself, +indeed, only a Muscovite?”</p> + +<p>The young exile little suspected that he was to be, +according to Paderewski’s beautiful metaphor, the +ingenious smuggler who would enable the prohibited +Polonism to escape across the frontiers in his portfolios +of music, the priest who would carry to the scattered +Poles the sacrament of nationalism.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI"> + CHAPTER VI + <br> + <span class="smcap">“I doubt whether there is a city on Earth where + more pianists are to be found than in Paris”</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>When the stage-coach in which Chopin rode had +passed the walls of Paris, the young musician +climbed up on the seat beside the driver. He hardly +knew where to look, at the monuments or at a crowd +so thick it might be thought another revolution. However, +it was only the joy of living again that had brought +the people into the streets and forced the horses down +to a walk. The driver felt impressively at home among +all these symbolic costumes of the bourgeois gentlemen, +and pointed them out to his passenger. Each political +group had its own livery. The School of Medicine and +the Young French parties were distinguished by their +beards and cravats. The Carlists had green waistcoats, +the Republicans red, and the Saint Simoniens blue. +Many strutted about in tailed coats, called <i>à la propriétaire</i>, +which fell to their heels. There were artists dressed +after Raphaël, with hair to their shoulders and wide-brimmed +tam-o’-shanters. Others affected the Middle +Ages,—numbers of women dressed as pages, as musketeers, +as hunters. And in this swarm were hawkers +brandishing their pamphlets: “Ask for <i>The Art of +Making Love and Keeping It</i>; ask for <i>The Loves of the +Priests</i>; ask for <i>The Archbishop of Paris and the Mme. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span>la Duchesse de Berry</i>.” Frederick was at first somewhat +scandalized. Later he was agreeably surprised to see +a group of youths march by, crying: “Poland! Poland!” +“That is in honour of General Ramorino, +the Italian who is trying to deliver our Polish brothers +from the Russian boot,” explained the driver. They +were obliged to stop the carriage for the crowd to pass. +Eventually they reached the posting station and Chopin +dismounted, had his baggage loaded on a cabriolet, and +betook himself to a house agent, who provided him with +two rooms on the fifth floor at 27, Boulevard Poissonnière.</p> + +<p>He liked these quarters because his windows had a +balcony from which he could see the succession of +boulevards. The endless perspective of trees hedged +in between two rows of houses astonished him. “It +is down there,” he thought, “that the history of France +is being written.” Not far away, in the rue d’Enfer, +M. de Chateaubriand was editing his memoirs and he +too wrote: “What happenings have taken place before +my very door! But after the trial of Louis XVI and +the revolutionary uprisings, all trials and uprisings are +insignificant.” And at the same time, a plainly dressed +young woman was writing in her garret novels which +she signed with the name George Sand, and exclaimed: +“To live, how sweet! How good it is, in spite of +griefs, husbands, boredom, debts, relatives, tittle-tattle, +in spite of bitter pangs and tedious annoyances. To +live, how intoxicating! To love, to be loved! That is +happiness, that is Heaven!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span></p> + +<p>The day after his arrival Frederick plunged into the +crowd and exulted in his solitude. It was more complete +here than in the depths of the German forest, and it +at once stimulated and frightened the artist. He floated +with the tide, until suddenly the crowd thickened, +became organized, and Chopin found himself carried +along by a compact column who, with flags at their head, +were marching to acclaim Ramorino. Then fear seized +him in good earnest, and breaking away, he returned +home by back streets, and climbed to his balcony where +he witnessed from above that storm of enthusiasm. +Shops were shut and a squadron of hussars arrived at a +gallop and swept away the populace, who hissed and +spat at the soldiers. Till midnight there was an uproar +which approached a riot. And Chopin wrote to Titus: +“I can’t tell you what a disagreeable impression the +horrible voices of this angry mob gave me.” Decidedly +he did not like noise, or crowds; politics were not in +his line.</p> + +<p>Music, music, his only escape, because it is the only +way of thinking with the emotions. “Here alone can +one know what singing is. With the exception of Pasta, +I do not believe there is a greater singer in Europe than +Malibran-Garcia.” He spent his evenings at the Académie +Royale or at the Italian Opera. Veron managed +the Académie, where Habeneck conducted. At the +Italian Opera Rossini and Zamboni were in the bill. +He heard Lablache and Malibran in <i>Il Barbieri di Siviglia</i>, +in <i>Otello</i>, and in <i>L’Italiana in Algeri</i>. Under the stimulus +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span>of his pleasure he wrote again to Titus: “You can have +no idea what Lablache is like. Some say that Pasta’s +voice is weakening, but I have never in my life heard +one so divine. Malibran has a range of three octaves; +in her own <i>genre</i> her singing is unique, uncanny. She +plays Othello; Schroeder-Devrient, Desdemona. Malibran +is small, the German larger. Sometimes you +think Desdemona is going to strangle Othello.”</p> + +<p>Chopin had a letter of introduction to Paër, who +put him in touch with Cherubini, Rossini, and the pianist +then more famous than any of the others, Kalkbrenner. +With beating heart Chopin went to see this supreme +master at his house. He was a tall man, stiff and cold, +with the bearing of a diplomat, and an unstable glance. +He put on the airs of a gentleman, was doubtless too +polite, and certainly very pedantic. Marmontel says +of him that his playing was smooth, sustained, harmonious, +and perfectly even, and that it charmed more +than it astonished; that his left hand had an unequalled +dexterity and that he played, without moving his head +or body, with splendid style in the grand manner. +“A giant!” said Chopin. “He crushes everybody, +myself included.” In Kalkbrenner the young artist +specially admired the purist, the man who talked at the +piano, the language of Cicero.</p> + +<p>The master and the unknown played several pieces for +each other. When Chopin had finished his <i>Concerto +in E minor</i>, Kalkbrenner said to him: “You have the +style of Cramer and the touch of Field,” which was without +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span>doubt the greatest compliment he could find. Divining +in this unexpected disciple the great man of to-morrow, +he explained his faults, trotted out again his lack +of method, even pencilled his concerto. He tried to +decipher it. But if he succeeded in the first part, he +was stopped at the beginning of the second by insurmountable +difficulties, for its technique was entirely new. +Nevertheless, he stated with assurance that nothing short +of three years of study under his direction would make +Chopin master of a new piano school. Frederick was +disquieted. Three years more study! What would his +family say? “However, I will submit to it,” he thought, +“if I can be sure of making a big advance.” But, by +the time he had reached home again, he no longer +doubted. “No, I will never be a copy of Kalkbrenner.... +No, he shan’t destroy in me that hope, daring, +I admit, but noble, <i>of creating a new world for myself</i>.” A +quarter of a century earlier than Wagner, here in this +young man of twenty years was the certainty of the +same destiny.</p> + +<p>We must be grateful to M. Nicolas Chopin for having +upheld his son’s faith. “But, my dear fellow,” he +wrote to him, “I cannot see how, with your capacities +which he (Kalkbrenner) said he remarked, he can think +that three more years of work under his eyes are necessary +for you to become an artist and the head of a new school. +You know that I have done everything I could to further +your inclinations and develop your talent, that I have +opposed you in nothing. You know also that the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span>technique of playing took you only a short time to learn, +and that your mind has been busier than your fingers. +If others have spent whole days in practising scales, you +have rarely passed an hour on the works of others. +Experts can distinguish genius from its earliest moments, +but they cannot prophesy the peak it will reach.”</p> + +<p>Even more remarkable was the letter from his sister +Louise, who had run to Elsner to lay before him the +dilemma in which the whole family was plunged. The +aged teacher, like the young sister, had soon found +traces of a calculating self-interest in the proposal of the +virtuoso. And they said so, they who had simple hearts, +they who had faith. “Elsner was angry. He cried +‘Jealousy already,—three years, indeed!’ and tossed his +head. Then he added: ‘I know Frederick. He is +good, but he has no pride, no ambition; he is easily +swayed. I shall write him what I think of all this.’ +Sure enough, this morning he brought a letter which +I am sending you. He went on talking to us about this +business. We who judge men in the simplicity of our +hearts thought Kalkbrenner the most honest man in +the world; but Elsner was not altogether of this opinion. +He said: ‘They recognized a genius in Frederick, and +they are afraid of being supplanted by him. That is +why they would like to have their hands on him for three +years, so that they could stop the growth that Nature +would develop if she were left alone.’ Elsner does not +want you to imitate, and he expresses himself well when +he says: ‘No imitation is worth the original.’ As soon +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span>as you begin imitating you cease to be creative, and, +although you are young, your own conceptions may be +better than those of many others.... Then, M. Elsner +does not only want to see in you a concert player, +a famous virtuoso, which is easier and less worth while, +but he wants to see you attain the goal towards which +Nature is urging you and for which she has made you. +What irritated him extremely was, as he says, ‘the +presumption and arrogance that after having run over +your orchestration would pick up a pencil to strike out +passages without ever having heard the concerto with +the full effect of the orchestra.’ He says that it would +have been quite another thing to have advised you when +you write concerto, to shorten the <i>allegro</i>: but to +make you erase what was already written, that he cannot +pardon. Elsner compared it to taking a seemingly +unnecessary pillar away from a house that had already +been built, with the result of changing everything in +eliminating what was deemed bad. I think that Elsner +is right in declaring that to be superior it is necessary +to excel not only one’s teachers but also one’s contemporaries. +You can excel them by imitating them, but +then, that is following in their tracks. And he says +that you, who already know what is good and what +is better, should now be making your own path. Your +genius will guide you. One more thing, he said. +‘Frederick has drawn from his native soil this distinguishing +particularity: the rhythm—shall I say?—which +makes him as much more original and characteristically +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span>himself as his ideas are more noble than others.’ +He would like you to retain that. We do not understand +these things as well as you do, my dear little +Fritz, and we cannot advise you; we can only send you +our comments.”</p> + +<p>It is beautiful, this letter. It is not literature, but it +goes to the root of the matter. Frederick followed its +councils and preferred to remain himself, even were it at +the expense of a rapid success. Meanwhile, Kalkbrenner +had the wisdom not to be annoyed at seeing this prize +pupil refuse to allow himself to be convinced. Their +friendship persisted. It was even Kalkbrenner who +presented him to the directors of the famous house +of Pleyel. Chopin attached himself to other artists, +particularly to Hiller, pianist, composer, and musical +critic, and to Franchomme, the celebrated violoncellist, +both of whom aided him to organize his opening concert.</p> + +<p>This took place on the 26th of February, 1832, in +the Salons Pleyel. Frederick had got it up with the +greatest care amid constantly renewed difficulties. He +had recruited for the occasion five violinists (among +them Urhan, Liszt’s friend, and Baillot), who were +to play Beethoven’s <i>Quintette</i>. Mlles. Tomeoni and +Isambert were to sing. Kalkbrenner, Stamati, Hiller, +Osborne, Sowinski and Chopin were to play a <i>Grande +Polonaise</i> for six pianos, composed by Kalkbrenner +himself; then Chopin was to play his <i>Concerto in F +minor</i> and his <i>Variations on the “La ci darem”</i> of Mozart. +The <i>Grande Polonaise</i> for six pianos disquieted him. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span>“It is a mad idea, isn’t it?” he wrote to Titus. “One +of the grand pianos is very large: it is Kalkbrenner’s; +another is very small: that is mine.” He never loved +show. Besides, concerts for the general public were +always odious to him. So on this evening of February +26th, there stepped on the platform a very pale young +man, whose attitude betrayed a very sincere annoyance +much more than it did a dramatic inspiration. The hall +was only half-filled and that mostly with Poles, critics and +musicians. In the front row could be seen the handsome +features of Liszt. A stunning silence descended when +Chopin had slipped his first caresses over the keyboard.</p> + +<p>Then there arose from the piano a voice such as no +one, ever, had heard before. Yet each recognized in +it the cry of his innermost self. It was neither a tale, +nor a brilliant commentary, but the simple song of life; +an authentic revelation; the essential word of the heart. +By means of a delicate rightness, which is the strength +of the pure, Chopin transported these connoisseurs. +Liszt himself, whose “doubled and redoubled applause +was not sufficient to express his enthusiasm,” saw here the +revelation of “a new phase of poetic feeling side by side +with innovations in the form of the art.” From that +evening he gave him his warm friendship. Fétis, the +sharp but influential critic, declared: “Here is a young +man who, abandoning himself to his natural feelings, and +following no model, has discovered, if not a complete +renovation of piano music, at least a part of what we +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span>have long been vainly seeking: an abundance of original +ideas which fit into no earlier classification.”</p> + +<p>Chopin accepted these eulogies without pride and +without false modesty, because he totally lacked all +vanity. The receipts were counted; they barely sufficed +to cover expenses. But that was nothing in comparison +to another disappointment: the French public had not +attended. The artist’s object, therefore, had not been +achieved. When, towards midnight, he returned to his +room, Chopin believed that fate had pronounced an +unfavourable verdict, and he conceived the idea of +leaving for America.</p> + +<p>He had hardly any money left. His friends were still +few, being limited to a small number of artists and +compatriots. Ah, how happy Meyerbeer must be, +having just had produced his <i>Robert the Devil</i>, a mine +of gold and glory! Chopin confided to Titus: “Chance +brought me here. Here one can certainly breathe freely. +But perhaps one also sighs more, too. Paris is everything +that you want it to be. Here you can amuse +yourself, be bored, laugh, cry, do whatever you like +without anyone giving you a glance. I doubt whether +there is a city on earth where more pianists are to be +found than in Paris, or more asses and virtuosi. Ah, how +I wish I had you with me. If you only knew how +sad it is not to be able to relieve one’s soul. I like the +society of people. I make friends easily, and am up to +my ears in acquaintances; but there is no one, no one +who can understand me. My heart always beats, so to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span>speak, in swoons, and I resent it and should like a pause,—solitude,—with +not a single soul to see me or speak +to me all day long. Above all, I detest hearing my bell +ring when I am writing to you.”</p> + +<p>However, it rang a good deal, that little bell, and was +mostly pulled by that worst of the bores, the deadly, +the awful, the ridiculous Sowinski. “He is just coming +in to see me. It is something big, and strong, and it +wears a tiny moustache; it sits down at the piano and +improvises without knowing why. It bangs, it knocks, +it crosses its hands without rhyme or reason; for +five minutes at a time it batters a defenceless key. It +has enormous fingers made rather to hold the reins +and the whip somewhere in the wilds of the Ukraine. +It has no other virtues than a tiny moustache and a +big heart.... When shall we see each other again? +Maybe never, because I assure you that my health is +wretched. Outwardly, I am gay, but within I am consumed. +Dark forebodings, restlessness, insomnia, home-sickness, +indifference to everything. Pleasure in life, +then immediately afterwards,—longing for death....”</p> + +<p>Other friends come and go through Chopin’s little +apartment: Albert Grzymala, Count Plater, Liszt, +Berlioz, who arrives from Rome and has great plans, +Polish refugees. But money these young people have +practically none, and Frederick, in spite of the “little +reinforcements” that his father sends him, sees his +resources vanish.</p> + +<p>As for love, that was a luxury of which he must not +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span>think. The memory of Constance faded after Isabelle +informed her brother of the marriage of that faithless +one: “Like you I marvel that anyone could be so +callous. It is easy to see that a fine château was a greater +attraction. She had feeling only in her singing!” But +chastity is the natural estate of the poor, and pleasure +was a word that Chopin did not even understand. +Living just below him, however, was a fresh, pretty +woman. They met sometimes on the stairs, smiled, +occasionally exchanged a few words. She heard from +his room the passionate harmonies that this handsome +male angel invented... for whom? Once she said +to him:</p> + +<p>“Come and see me some evening. I am often alone +and I adore music.”</p> + +<p>He refused, blushing. Yet a regret escaped him on +paper, in his cold room: “I should have found a hearth, +a fire. It would be nice to warm myself at it.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII"> + CHAPTER VII + <br> + <span class="smcap">Happy Years, Working Years</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>“To-morrow,” he wrote to his family, “to-morrow +I cross the seas.” He crossed the Boulevards +and encountered Prince Valentin Radziwill.</p> + +<p>This Radziwill family seems to have had a special +influence on the life of Chopin. What beautiful analogies +one could draw in comparing this encounter with such +another when some pope, king, lord or <i>fermier-général</i> +changed in one instant the fortunes of an artist apparently +condemned to the miscarriage of his genius. It seems +that there are between art and opulence secret and unconscious +fructifications. François I never seems to us +more inspired than in paying the debts of Clément Marot +or in welcoming Leonardo da Vinci on the terrace of +Amboise, nor Jules II more sympathetic than when +climbing the scaffoldings of Michelangelo. Never does +Elizabeth of England seem more intelligent than when +she commissions <i>The Merry Wives of Windsor</i> from the +pen of Shakespeare, and Fouquet, Treasurer-General, is +remembered only because he subsidized La Fontaine. +Had they dictated their biographies themselves, these +great princes would doubtless have made no mention of +such trivial gestures. In the same way, this Radziwill +dreamed not of adding a meritorious line to his life when, +meeting on the Boulevards this pitiful compatriot, he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span>proposed to take him that very evening to see Baron de +Rothschild. It is, however, from that casual proposal +that the glory of Chopin dates.</p> + +<p>Baron de Rothschild received the most exclusive +society. Chopin was asked to play and he acceded +with good grace. In a moment he captured the elegant +world, and on the morrow was bombarded with invitations +and requests for lessons. The Maréchale Lannes, +Princess de Vaudemont, Count Apponyi, and Prince +Adam Czartoryski made themselves his protectors. +The lessons he gave cost no less than twenty francs an +hour. He changed his lodgings twice and finally +installed himself at No. 5 Chaussée d’Antin. Everybody +began to talk of this poet who, in the evening, in the +rare salons where he would consent to play, would people +the darkness with a conclave of fairies. He called it +“telling little musical stories.” They were tales of +infinite variety, since it was above all in improvising +that he showed his boldness. The incompleteness of +his sketches opened the avenues of the imagination +wherein the spirit lost itself. Chopin possessed to a +high degree this power of suggestion, the artist’s most +precious gift. He talked to himself, did not finish, +and left to his hearers the pleasure of having clothed +with notes for an instant forms and feelings which then +evaporated into nothingness. “Divine gambols,” said +Berlioz on hearing them. “A cloud of love, winter +roses,” said Liszt. “By the wonderful gate,” he +added, “Chopin leads you into a world where everything +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span>is a delightful miracle, a mad surprise, a miracle come +true. But you must be initiated to know how to cross +the threshold.” And Frederick confided once to his +friend Franz:</p> + +<p>“I am not at all the person to give concerts. The +crowd intimidates me; I feel asphyxiated by their +breaths, paralysed by their curious stares, mute before +these strange faces. But you, you are destined for it, +because when you don’t win your public, you know how +to knock them dead.”</p> + +<p>Chopin himself would not have had the strength. +He only sought to win them. Furthermore, was it +really this that he wanted? The public mattered so +little to him. It was his own pain that he chanted and +enchanted. He did not like to express himself through +others and, Bach, Beethoven and Mozart apart, he +interpreted none but himself.</p> + +<p>For Chopin, as later for Wagner, the superfluous +was the only necessity. The money that was now +coming in more or less abundantly, was spent in poetic +pleasures; a smart cabriolet, beautifully cut clothes, +white gloves, expensive suppers. He took great pains +with the furnishing of his apartment, putting in crystal +lustres, carpets and silver, and he insisted on being +supplied with flowers in all seasons. When his new +women friends came—Countess Delphine Potoçka, +Princess Marceline Czartoryska, Mlle. O’Meara, Princess +de Beauvau, the rule was that they should bring a +rose or orchids that the artist would put in a vase and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span>endlessly contemplate, like a Japanese enraptured by a +unique print.</p> + +<p>Happy years, working years. Chopin composed +a solid portion of his work. In 1833 he published five +<i>Mazurkas</i>, the <i>Trio</i> for piano, violin and violoncello, +three <i>Nocturnes</i>, the twelve great <i>Etudes</i> dedicated to +Liszt, the <i>Concerto in E minor</i>, and in 1834 the <i>Grand +Fantasia</i> on Polish airs, the <i>Krakoviak</i> for piano and +orchestra, three more <i>Nocturnes</i>, the <i>Rondeau in E flat +major</i> dedicated to Caroline Hartmann, four new <i>Mazurkas</i>, +and the <i>Grand Waltz in E flat major</i>. His works +were played by the greatest of the virtuosi at many +concerts: Liszt, Moschelès, Field, Kalkbrenner and +Clara Wieck. Liszt said of him: “A sick-room talent,” +and Auber: “All his life he slays himself.” For Chopin, +in spite of his success, was still suffering from nostalgia, +and one day when his friend and pupil Gutmann was +playing the third <i>Etude</i>, in E major, Chopin, who said +he had never written a lovelier melody, cried suddenly, +“Oh, my country!” Truly, for this young man of +twenty-four, the mother country was always the strongest +passion. He gave a Dantesque sadness to this name of +Poland, more powerful on his heart than the call of a +mistress. The hurt must have been deep indeed for +Orlowski, in writing to his people, to take note of it +as of a tubercular illness. “Chopin is well and vigorous,” +he says. “He turns all the women’s heads. The men +are jealous. He is the fashion. Doubtless we shall +soon be wearing gloves <i>à la Chopin</i>. But home-sickness +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span>is burning him up.” The fact was that Poland remained +the living spring, the reservoir whence he drew his +dreams and his sentiments, the only effective rhythm,—in +sun, the dynamo of his energies. Inspiration is +chance caught on the wing. But art is not found hidden +like the dove in the magician’s hat. Perhaps it is only +perfect self-knowledge, the true perception of one’s own +limitations, and the modulations that life teaches to our +youthful fine enthusiasms. The Marquis de Custine +wrote to Chopin: “When I listen to you I always think +myself alone with you, and even perhaps with greater +than you! or at least with all that is greatest in you.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>In the spring of ’34 Chopin and his friend Hiller went +together to the Festival of Music at Aix-la-Chapelle. +There they encountered Mendelssohn, who took a liking +to the Pole and never tired of listening to his playing. +He called him the first among pianists, and always +reproached him, as well as Hiller, for the Parisian mania +for a pose of despair. “I look like a schoolmaster,” he +said, “while they resemble dandies and beaux.”</p> + +<p>They returned by Düsseldorf and Cologne to Paris, +where Chopin had the pleasure of seeing and entertaining +his friend Matuszinski, who had just been made +professor at the Ecole de Médecine. This was a period +of the greatest serenity, for to his quiet fame Chopin +could add the joy of daily companionship with one of +his “brothers.” He exerted himself, entertained guests, +played in public more than he usually did. On the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span>7th of December, at the Théâtre Italien, he appeared at +a concert organized by Berlioz in honour of Harriet +Smithson, the Irish actress he had just married. On +Christmas Day, at the Salle Pleyel, he played, with Liszt +at the other piano, a duet by Liszt on a theme of Mendelssohn. +On the 15th of February, 1835, he took part in +a concert at the Salle Erard, and on April 4th he played +for the benefit of the Polish refugees. Berlioz wrote in +the <i>Rénovateur</i>, “Chopin, as a player and as a composer, +is an artist apart. He has no point of resemblance to +any other musician I know. Unhappily, there is no one +but Chopin himself who can play his music and give it +that original turn, that impromptu that is one of its +principal charms; his execution is veined with a thousand +nuances of movement of which he alone has the +secret, and which cannot be indicated... The detail +in his mazurkas is unbelievable; then he has found +a way to make them doubly interesting by playing them +to the last degree of softness, with superlative <i>piano</i>, +the hammers touching the strings so lightly that one +is tempted to bend the ear over the instrument as one +might at a concert of sylphs and pixies.”</p> + +<p>But the crowd always awards the palms to brilliance, +and Chopin, deciding that it had not given his <i>Concerto +in E minor</i> the reception he expected, declared that he +was neither understood nor made for concerts, and +made up his mind to abstain from appearing in public +for a long time.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, he played once more in public, on the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span>26th of April, 1835, at the Conservatory. This was the +only time he ever appeared in that famous hall. He played +his <i>Polonaise brillante</i>, preceded by an <i>Andante Spianato</i>.</p> + +<p>He found compensation for these slight professional +disappointments in the friendship of the Italian Bellini, +towards whom he was drawn by a quick sympathy and +whom he often saw. He was further distracted by an +interest in a celebrated beauty, Countess Delphine +Potoçka.</p> + +<p>She was twenty-five, of regal bearing, with a delicately +chiselled nose, a most passionate mouth, and the high, +pensive forehead of the true voluptuary. Her whole +appearance suggested a slender and puissant goddess, +but whatever luxuriance she had was cooled by the +severity of her glance.</p> + +<p>Miçkiewicz said that she was “the greatest of all +sinners,” and Krasinski apostrophized her in a poem in +the manner of Mephistopheles: “O stay, for thou +art true beauty.” Frederick let himself float in the +sensual <i>rayonnement</i> of this beautiful animal of love. For +the first time his head was turned. The sumptuous voice +of Delphine enchanted him. He accompanied her at +the piano, strove to make her soul be born again, to +give it back its flower, and watched for possible beautiful +vibrations; but the soul was the servant of this imperial +flesh. Once or twice, however, she seemed to come +out of her lethargy, to spread herself on an admirable +note that sprang from the depths of her unconscious +self, but immediately after, the shrieks, the laughter, the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span>exigencies of this ravishing hysteric extinguished these +gleams. And as the platonic love towards which Chopin +wanted to direct her seemed to Delphine both comic +and impossible, she gave herself before he had ever +dreamed of asking her.</p> + +<p>The adventure was of short duration. The Countess +had a jealous husband, who, by cutting off her allowance, +obliged this prodigal lady to make a prompt departure +for Poland, whence she did not return till later on. +But she retained a lasting affection for Chopin. The +only lines from her to the artist that have been discovered +furnish discreet witness to the fact:</p> + +<p>“I shall not annoy you with a long letter, but I do +not want to remain longer without news of your health +and your plans for the future. I am sad to think of +you abandoned and alone... Here my time is passed +in an annoying fashion, and I hope not to have still more +vexations. But I am disgusted. Everyone for whom +I have done anything has repaid me with ingratitude. +On the whole, life is one long dissonance. God bless +you, dear Chopin. Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>“One long dissonance,” so had Liszt already spoken. +There was in these tormented bodies an invincible +straining towards the suavest harmonies. At least in +these beings—male or female—in whom the feminine +predominates. But this is not the case with Chopin, +whose musical travail was always virile. He would have +subscribed to the words of Beethoven: “Emotion is +good only for women; for man, music must draw +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span>fire from his spirit.” And even more, perhaps, to those +quoted by Schumann from the German poet Johann-Paul +Richter: “Love and friendship pass through this +earth veiled and with closed lips. No human being can +tell another how much he loves him; he knows only +that he does love him. The inner man has no language; +he is mute.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII"> + CHAPTER VIII + <br> + <span class="smcap">Marie Wodzinska and the Dusk</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>In the summer of 1835, Chopin learned that his parents +were going very shortly to Carlsbad to take the cure +and he decided on the spot to get there first. The +sentiments that bound him to his own people were still +the most vital that he knew. So he left, his heart +melting with tenderness. When he saw them, after +five years of separation, he wrote to his sisters, who had +remained at Warsaw, with transports that might have +been mistaken for those of a rapturous lover.</p> + +<p>“Our joy is indescribable. We do nothing but embrace +one another... is there any greater happiness? +What a pity we are not all together! How good God +is to us! I write just anyhow; to-day it is better to +think of nothing at all, to rejoice in the happiness we +have attained. That is all I have to-day. Our parents +have not changed; they are just the same; they have +only grown a little older. We walk together, holding +the arm of our sweet little mother... We drink, we +eat together. We coax and bully each other. I am +simply overflowing with happiness. These are the very +habits, the very movements with which I grew up; it +is the same hand that I have not kissed for so long... +And here it has come true, this happiness, this happiness, +this happiness!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span></p> + +<p>For their part, the father and mother found their son +not in the least changed. It was joy inexhaustible, but +brief, and like a preface to profounder emotions. For +Frederick was invited to Dresden, to his friends the +Wodzinskis, and he already felt those annunciatory +quiverings, that exquisite fear, those physiological presentiments +which notify our inner being of the imminent +conception of love.</p> + +<p>In his father’s boarding-school Chopin had had as +comrades the three Wodzinski brothers, and since his +childhood he had known their younger sister Marie. +This great land-owning family had moved to Geneva +for the education of the children, and had lived there +during the years of the Polish Revolution. They had +lived at first in a house in the Place St.-Antoine, and +later in a villa on the shore of the lake, and they had +not been long in gathering round them the flower of +Genevese society and of the foreign colony. Familiar +guests in their drawing-rooms were Bonstetten, Sismondi, +Mlle. Salandin de Crans, Prince Louis Napoleon and +Queen Hortense.</p> + +<p>Marie was nineteen years old. The trace of Italian +blood which flowed in her veins (through the Orsettis, +who had come from Milan to Poland with Bona Sforza, +the betrothed of one of the last kings of the dynasty +of Jagellons), this trace had made her dark-haired, lively, +with great black eyes and a full-lipped mouth the smile +of which, a poet said, was passion incarnate. Some +called her ugly, others ravishing. This means that in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span>her face, half Slav, half Florentine, everything derived +from the expression. “The brunette daughter of +Euterpe,” she was called by Prince Napoleon, who liked +to listen to her playing the piano while he smoked his +cigar in the Place St.-Antoine. For Marie practised all +sorts of minor talents; piano, singing, composing, +embroidery, painting, without the will or the ability to +fix her preference. The most pertinent thing about her, +was her charm, the profound reaction, possibly unconscious, +of a very rich temperament. From her fourteenth +year she had been passionately loved. Readily +she used her power over men, disconcerting them with +coquetry. Her imagination was rapid, her memory +exact.</p> + +<p>Such was the childhood companion whom Chopin +was to meet again at Dresden, where the Wodzinski +family were settled for a time. Frederick was more +curious than moved at seeing her again. He even +wondered if it were not simply a matter of musical +interest, Marie having formerly been one of his small +pupils. She still occasionally sent him one of her compositions. +Had he not only a few weeks before replied +to one of these communications by sending her in turn +a page of his own music? “Having had to improvise +in a drawing-room here the very evening that I received +it, I took for a subject the lovely theme of a Marie with +whom, years ago, I used to play hide-and-seek... +To-day I take the liberty of offering to my honourable +colleague, Mlle. Marie, a little waltz I have just written. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span>May it give her a hundredth part of the pleasure I felt +when playing her <i>Variations</i>.”</p> + +<p>So he arrived at Dresden. He saw her once again. +He was won. He loved her. This town, which he had +already visited twice, seemed altogether new and enchanting. +In the mornings Marie and Frederick went out +together, filled with delicious melancholy. They walked +along the terrace of Bruhl and watched the flow of the +Elbe, sat under the chestnuts of the Grossgarten, or +lingered in ecstasy in the Zwinger Museum before +Raphaël’s Madonna.</p> + +<p>Together they paid a call on that Grand Mistress of +the Court who had a few years before taken such pride +in producing Chopin for Their Saxon Highnesses. In +the evening the family visited one of Marie’s uncles, +Palatin Wodzinski, who had presided at the last meeting +of the Polish Senate before the fall of Warsaw. Exiled, +the greater part of his wealth confiscated, the old man +was now living at Dresden, the second capital of his +ancient kings, surrounded by his prints, his books and +his medals. He was an aristocratic little man, with a +smooth face and a white wig. In his day he had soldiered, +had received Napoleon at Wilna, and had been +taken prisoner at Leipzig, at the side of the dying Poniatowski. +He had the serious defect of a dislike for music, +and now that they were playing every evening at his +house he spent his time observing, rather peevishly, that +his little niece was turning her shining eyes on this maker +of mazurkas. Still more did he disapprove of certain +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span>sighs and whisperings that came from a corner of the +room where this inseparable couple isolated themselves +under the very nose of everybody. So he coughed +loudly, adjusted his toupée, and addressed his sister-in-law:—</p> + +<p>“An artist, a little artist without a future... Ah! +that is not what I have dreamt of for your daughter.”</p> + +<p>“Two children,” replied the Countess, laughing. +“An old friendship.”</p> + +<p>“We all know where that leads to...”</p> + +<p>“But he is a child of the house, just as Antoine, Félix +and Casimir were Professor Chopin’s children. Why +sadden the poor boy? He is so tender, so obliging.”</p> + +<p>And Frederick continued his love duets at the piano +or on the terrace, in spite of the Palatin’s rebuking eyebrows +and under the mother’s indulgent eyes. A whole +month slipped by in these passionate new experiences. +Then he had to think of leaving. One September +morning he went up for the last time to the salon where +the girl was awaiting him. A handful of roses strewed +the table. She took one and gave it to him. The hour +of eleven struck from the clock on the Frauenkirche. +Chopin stood rigidly before her, pale, his eyes fixed. +Perhaps he was thinking of that death of the self—that +parting always is, whatever it promises for the future. +Or was he listening to the melodic rhythm of his pain? +In any case the only expression of sorrow that welled +to the surface was the theme of a waltz. He sat down +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>at the piano and played it, hiding thus all the cries of +his loneliness.</p> + +<p>Later, Marie called it <i>La Valse de l’Adieu</i>. It is worth +noting that Chopin, restrained by an insurmountable +pride, never published it. He did write it out, however, +recopied it, and gave it to his friend on that last day with +this very simple dedication: “For Mlle. Marie, Dresden, +September, 1835.” Fontana published it after the death +of the composer (Posthumous Works, op. 69, no. 1, +<i>Waltz in A flat major</i>). One wants to catch in it “the +murmur of two lovers’ voices, the repeated strokes of +the clock, and the rumble of wheels scorching the pavement, +the noise of which covers that of repressed sobs.” +It is possible, after all, in spite of Schumann and his mute +language. Be that as it may, Chopin kept the flower +Marie gave him. We shall find it later, placed in an +envelope and marked by him for whom sorrow and the +ideal had always the scent of an autumn rose.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>On his way back, Chopin stopped at Leipzig, where +he again saw Mendelssohn, who took him straight to +Wieck, his daughter, Clara, and Robert Schumann. The +small house of the Wiecks’ that day sheltered the three +greatest composers of the age.</p> + +<p>After his arrival in Paris, Chopin shut himself up at +home in order to live in close relationship with the loved +face that now bloomed in his desert. He wrote. He +received letters. These were, on both sides, a little flat, +because neither of them knew how to talk well except +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span>through music. But what of it? A lover’s pen is not +necessarily literary nor abounding in sentiments. There +are even those who, in their exigency, scorn the worn +vocabulary of love. To the novices and the pure, the +palest nuances are enough to show the naked heart. +Listen with Chopin’s delicate ear to the gossamer letters +of Marie Wodzinska:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“Though you do not like either to receive or to write +letters, I nevertheless want to profit by the departure +of M. Cichowski to send you news of Dresden since you +left. So I am annoying you again, but no longer by my +playing. On Saturday, when you had gone, all of us +went about sadly, with our eyes full of tears, in the +room where only a few minutes before we had still had +you with us. Father came in presently, and was so sorry +not to have been able to say good-bye. Every minute +or so Mother, in tears, would speak of some traits of +‘her fourth son Frederick,’ as she called you. Félix +looked quite cast down: Casimir tried to make his jokes +as usual, they did not come off that day as he played the +jester, half-crying. Father teased us and laughed himself +only to keep from crying. At eleven the singing master +arrived; the lesson went very badly, we could not sing. +You were the subject of all conversation. Félix kept +asking me for the <i>Waltz</i> (the last thing of yours we +had received and heard). All of us found pleasure in it, +they in listening and I in playing, because it reminded +us of the brother who had just left us. I took it to be +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span>bound; the German opened his eyes wide when he saw +a single page (he did not know by whom it had been +written). No one to dinner; we kept staring at your +place at the table, then too at ‘Fritz’s little corner.’ The +small chair is still in place and probably will be as long +as we keep this apartment. In the evening we were taken +to my aunt’s to spare us the sadness of this first evening +without you. Father came to fetch us saying that it was +as impossible for him as it had been for us, to stay in +the house that day. It was a great relief to leave the +spot that kept renewing our sorrow. Mother talks to +me of nothing but you and Antoine. When my brother +goes to Paris, think a little of him, I beg you. If you +only knew what a devoted friend you have in him,—a +friend such as one rarely finds! Antoine is good-hearted, +too much so, because he is always the dupe of +others. And he is very careless; he never thinks of +anything, or rarely, at least... When by some +miracle you have an impulse to write: ‘How are you? +I am well. I have no time to write further,’ add, I beg, +<i>yes</i> or <i>no</i> to the question I want to ask you: Did you +compose ‘<i>If I were a little sun up there, for none but you +would I want to shine</i>’? I received this a day or so ago +and I have not the courage to sing it, because I fear, if +it is yours, that it would be altogether changed, like +<i>Wojak</i>, for instance. We continually regret that you +are not named <i>Chopinski</i>, or at least that there is not some +indication to show that you are Polish, because then the +French would not be able to dispute with us the honour +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span>of being your compatriots. But this is too long. Your +time is so precious that it is really a crime to make you +spend it reading my scrawls. Besides, I know you do +not read them all through. Little Marie’s letter will be +stuck away in a corner after you have read a few lines. +So I need not reproach myself further about stealing +your time.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye (simply). A childhood friend needs no +fine phrases. Mother embraces you tenderly. Father +and my mother embrace you sincerely (no, that is too +little) in the most—I do not yet know how to say it +myself. Joséphine, not having been able to say good-bye, +asks me to express her regrets. I asked Thérèse: +‘What shall I say to Frederick for you?’ She answered: +‘kiss him and give him my regards.’</p> + +<p class="right"> + “Good-bye,<br> + “<span class="smcap">Maria</span>. +</p> + +<p>“P.S. When you started out, you left the pencil of +your portfolio on the piano. This must have been +inconvenient on the way; as for us, we are keeping it +respectfully as a relic. Once again, thank you very +much for the little vase. Mlle. Wodzinska came in this +morning with a great discovery. ‘Sister Maria, I know +how they say Chopin in Polish,—Chopena!’”</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Frederick replied, sent his music, and above all, +composed. The year 1836 opened under the sign of +Marie. He published the <i>Concerto in F minor</i> and the +<i>Grande Polonaise</i> for piano and orchestra. He wrote the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span><i>Ballade in G minor</i>, which is the monument to his love.</p> + +<p>It is not deliberately that an artist discovers and then +fashions the residue of his amorous experiences. He +receives his joys and sufferings within himself and leaves +them to ferment. It is only after the rude labour of his +conflicts with himself, after the corrosion of each of his +illusions, under the salt of his tears, that the costly +fruit of which he bears the germ can be born. From +this obscure chemistry, from the disillusionment which +Marie’s letters, little by little, brought to him, came the +<i>Ballade in G minor</i> (op. 23). Schumann called it one of +the most bitter and personal of Chopin’s works. He +might have added, the saddest, and thus the most +passionate, for there is no passion without pain. Here +we see passion itself crucified, and hear its cries.</p> + +<p>How powerful is the instinct of the poet to submit +his pain to the form of narrative, like a heroic tale! +For in theory the ballad is a song with accompaniment. +Under this form of legend Chopin transposed the ancient +malady of man, which had become for a second time +his own. It is in this way, by what it tells us of him, +involuntarily, that the <i>Ballade in G minor</i>, irresistible in +its unique and unhappy sentiment, retains an accent +that flatters us. It convinces us that we also are marked +by the sign of love.</p> + +<p>Schumann, who saw him again that summer, at Leipzig, +tells of the magical hours they spent together at +the piano. To listen to the dreamer was to become +oneself the dream of his spirit. But nothing could be +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span>more exasperating than Chopin’s habit of drawing his +finger rapidly from one end of the keyboard to the +other at the end of each piece, as though forcibly to +drive away the dream he had created.</p> + +<p>A curious detail: in the original edition of the +<i>Ballade</i>, there appears in the last bar of the introduction +a <i>D</i>, evidently written with an <i>E</i> flat and corrected later. +Saint-Saëns writes on this subject: “This supposed <i>E</i> +gives a dolorous accent which is quite in keeping with +the character of the piece. Was it a misprint? Was +it the original intention of the author? This note +marks a dissonant accent, an effect of surprise. But +dissonances, sought out to-day like truffles, were then +distrusted. From Liszt, whom I questioned on the +subject, I could obtain only this reply: ‘I prefer the +<i>E flat</i>....’ I concluded from this evasive answer that +Chopin, in playing the ballad, sounded the <i>D</i>; but +I am still convinced that the <i>E flat</i> was his original idea +and that cowardly and clumsy friends persuaded him to +the D.”</p> + +<p>I reproduce this detail for the lovers of sources, for +those who like to surprise in the heart not the sweetest +tones, but the most pure. They will understand the +distinction.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Thus Chopin worked, economized, and prepared for +his next meeting with Marie. He refused an invitation +from Mendelssohn, who wanted him to come to Düsseldorf +for a music festival. He refused Schumann, although +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span>he had signed his invitation “with love and +adoration.” He reserved all his forces for a trip to +Marienbad, which he finally took in July, 1836.</p> + +<p>On a radiant summer morning Chopin reached the +wooded hills round the little Austrian watering place +where his loved one was awaiting him. The effect was +so powerful that he closed his eyes as from a shock of +pain. In that instant, even before seeing her, a presentiment +came to him that he had reached the summit of +his joy. He knew the unreasonable agony advanced +by false joys, finished, experienced, emptied, almost +before they have begun to exist. However, Marie’s +agitated face steadied him and gave him back his confidence. +But a shade of uneasiness, a slight tendency on +the part of Marie and her mother to be more ceremonious +than they had been the year before, left him anxious.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, they resumed the intimate family life +which he loved. Forebodings fled. There were walks +in that agreeable country-side, musical séances, evening +talks, stories of his Paris life, memories. Frederick +shone with his talent for mimicry. He imitated famous +artists, assaulted the keys with a great waving of arms +and hands, went, as he said, “pigeon-shooting.” The +Wodzinskis lived in a villa. In their garden spread a +tall lime-tree. During the hot hours of the afternoon +Marie and Frederick took refuge in its shade and the +girl sketched in charcoal the ever slightly grave features +of this friend who was at once so childlike and so mature.</p> + +<p>On August 24th they all returned to the beloved town +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span>of Dresden. There they spent two more weeks. Two +weeks which were to lead fatally to the crisis. At dusk +on the 7th of September, two days before Chopin’s +departure, he asked Marie to be his wife. She consented. +That is all we know, except that the Countess +also gave her consent but imposed the condition of +secrecy. They were obliged to hide the decision from +the father, whom they would without doubt persuade, +but whose family pride made a rapid consent improbable. +Besides, he thought Chopin in delicate health. +Frederick departed, carrying with him this promise +and his own despair. He knew that the presentiment +of Marienbad had not deceived him, and already he +had lost his faith in happiness.</p> + +<p>However the Wodzinskis wrote to him,—especially +the Countess. Marie added little postscripts. Here is +Mme. Wodzinska’s first letter:—</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="right"> + “<i>14 Sept., ’36.</i> +</p> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Frederick</span>:</p> + +<p>“As we agreed I am sending you a letter... I +should have sent it two days ago if it had not been for +a tooth which I had extracted and from which I suffered +greatly. I cannot sufficiently regret your departure on +Saturday; I was ill that day and could not put my +mind on <i>the dusk</i>. We spoke of it too little.</p> + +<p>“The next day I could have talked of it further. M. +de Girardin says: ‘To-morrow is always a great day.’ +We have it still ahead of us. Do not think I retract +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span>what I said,—no. But we must discuss the path to +follow. I only beg of you to keep the secret. Keep +it well, because everything depends on that... On +October 15th I shall be at Warsaw. I shall see your +parents and your sisters; I shall tell them that you are +well and in excellent spirits: however, I shall say +nothing of <i>the dusk</i>.... Good-bye, go to bed at +eleven o’clock and until January 7th drink <i>eau de gomme</i>. +Keep well, dear Fritz: I bless you with all my soul, +like a loving mother.</p> + +<p>“P.S. Marie sends you some slippers. They are a +little big, but she says you are to wear woollen stockings. +This is the judgment of Paris, and I trust you will be +obedient; haven’t you promised? Anyway, remember +that this is a period of probation.”</p> +</blockquote> + +<p><i>The dusk</i>, it was so, among themselves, that they +called Chopin’s love. No chance name was ever more +appropriate.</p> + +<p>To a letter which her brother Casimir sent off the +next day, Marie added these lines: “We cannot console +ourselves for your departure; the three days that have +just passed have seemed like centuries; have they to +you? Do you miss your friends a little? Yes,—I +answer for you, and I do not think I am mistaken; at +least I want to believe not. I tell myself that this <i>yes</i> +comes from you (because you would have said it, +wouldn’t you?).</p> + +<p>“The slippers are finished; I am sending them to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span>you. I am chagrined that they should be too large, +in spite of the fact that I gave your shoe as a measure, +<i>carissimo maestro</i>, but the man is a common German. +Dr. Paris consoles me by saying this is good for you +as you should wear very warm woollen stockings this +winter.</p> + +<p>“Mamma has had a tooth out, which has made her +very weak. She has had to stay in bed ever since. +In two weeks we leave for Poland. I shall see your +family, which will be a joy for me, and that sweet Louise,—will +she remember me? Good-bye, <i>mio carissimo +maestro</i>. Do not forget Dresden for the present, or in +a little while Poland. Good-bye, <i>au revoir</i>. Ah, if it +could be soon!</p> + +<p class="right"> + “<span class="smcap">Maria.</span> +</p> + +<p>“Casimir says that the Sluzewo piano is in such +ramshackle condition that it cannot be used. So think +about a Pleyel. In the happy days, not like to-day (as +far as we are concerned), I hope to hear you play on the +same piano. <i>Au revoir, au revoir, au revoir!</i> That gives +me hope.”</p> + +<p>Such is the most passionate letter Chopin ever received +from Marie Wodzinska. In October another letter +from the Countess, another postscript from Marie.</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="right"> + “<i>October 2nd—Dusk.</i> +</p> + +<p>“Thank you ever so much for the autographs. Will +you please send some more? (Mamma makes me write +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span>this.) Now we are leaving at once for Warsaw. How +I shall rejoice to see all your family and next year <i>you</i>!... +Good-bye, till <i>May</i>, or <i>June</i> at the latest. I +recommend to your memory your very faithful +secretary.</p> + +<p class="right"> + “<span class="smcap">Marie.</span>” +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>In January, 1837, Countess Wodzinska was disturbed +about a Pleyel piano Chopin had sent her. She thanked +him for a new supply of autographs, and added this +slightly ambiguous sentence at the end of her letter: +“From now on we must inform ourselves still more +prudently about our loved one.” Marie put in her +postscript, her “imposition,” one would like to say.</p> + +<p>“Mother has been scolding. I thank you so much,—so +much. And when we see each other again I shall +thank you even more kindly. You can see how lazy I +am about writing, because to put off my thanks till our +next meeting spares me many words to-day. Mamma +has described to you our way of life. There is nothing +left for me to say, except that it is thawing; which is +great news, isn’t it? This tranquil life we lead here +is what we need, so I like it,—for the present, I mean, +because I should not like it to be always so. One takes +what comes with as good grace as possible, when things +cannot be different from what they are. I occupy myself +a little to kill time. Just now I have Heine’s <i>Germany</i>, +which interests me enormously.</p> + +<p>“But I must stop and leave you to God’s grace. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span>I hope I do not need to repeat to you the assurance +of the sentiments of your faithful secretary.</p> + +<p class="right"> + “<span class="smcap">Marie.</span>” +</p> + +<p>This time Chopin must have discovered in the colourless +words not the least gleam of <i>the dusk</i>. The night +had completely fallen. He took down the album Marie +had given him the year before to write in it a page of +music. For a year the pages had remained virgin. +Chopin said: “I could not have written anything at all +in it, not if I had tried a hundred years.”</p> + +<p>Now he could fill it, because he realized that Marie’s +love was dead. So he wrote on the first page a <i>Lento +con gran expressione</i> and eight other melodies to the words +of Witwicki and Miçkiewicz. Soon after, he received +in reply this letter, the last:—</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“<i>For Frederick Chopin.</i></p> + +<p>“I can only write you a few words to thank you +for the lovely scrapbook you have sent me. I shall +not try to tell you with what pleasure I received it, as +it would be in vain. Accept, I beg you, the assurance of +the gratitude I owe you. Believe in the life-long attachment +of our whole family for you, and particularly of +your naughtiest pupil and childhood friend. Good-bye. +Mamma sends her dearest love. Thérèse is always +talking of her ‘Chopena.’</p> + +<p class="right"> + “Good-bye,—think of us,<br> + “<span class="smcap">Maria.</span>” +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span></p> + +<p>It is hard to say whether it was heart or intelligence +that was wanting in this young woman. Besides,—it +scarcely matters. Love is not within the compass of all +little girls any more than happiness is made for difficult +souls. “Perhaps we are worth more than happiness,” +said Liszt to Mme. d’Agoult.</p> + +<p>Chopin accepted the breaking of his engagement in +silence. But neither his heart nor his body recovered, +ever. His friend Camille Pleyel took him to London +for a few days, to distract him. There he was very +ill. His latent tuberculosis seems to have begun its +ravages at that time.</p> + +<p>The Marquis de Custine wrote him: “You have +gained in sympathy, in poetry; the melancholy of your +compositions goes deeper into the heart than ever before. +One is alone with you even in the midst of the crowd. +It is not a piano, it is a soul...”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Chopin gathered the notes of Marie Wodzinska and +placed them, with the rose of Dresden, in an envelope +on which he wrote these two Polish words: “<i>Moïa +Biéda</i>,” my grief. They found this poor packet, after +his death, tied with a loving ribbon.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX"> + CHAPTER IX + <br> + <span class="smcap">First Sketch of George Sand</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Some six years before this romance in such few +words, we glanced at the face of a woman bending +over her paper and watched her enthusiastic hand pen +these words: “To live, how sweet! How good it +is, in spite of griefs, husbands... in spite of bitter +pangs. To live,—how intoxicating! To love, to be +loved! That is happiness, that is Heaven!” During +these six years neither this heart, nor this body, nor +this hand had much slackened. To live, indeed, was +the vital business of George Sand, dumpy, greedy, and +so formidably endowed for all the extravagances of the +spirit and the flesh. Nothing was too strong for this +small woman, so solid of head and of body. And no +one had bested her. In spite of her “bitter pangs,” +her chagrin, for and against a boorish and rapacious +husband, this great-granddaughter of the Maréchal de +Saxe, this daughter of a daughter of the people had pretty +well solved the double tactical problem of happiness +that she had set herself: love and fame—enough to +satisfy the most exigent appetites. At twenty-seven, +this provincial had written her first book and taken +her first lover. At thirty she could have said, like her +ancestor the Maréchal: “Life is a dream. Mine has +been short, but it has been beautiful.” Now, in her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span>thirty-fourth year, this surprising pagan thought herself +finished, and for ever disgusted with pleasure. She had +not yet learned that the malady of desire, once it has +opened in a being its ever-living wound, has but a +feeble chance of healing. At least before the season +of the great cold.</p> + +<p>But, to this malady of desire, Aurore Dudevant added +a taste for lengthy associations. Heart and head she +was made for them,—and from them had contracted +the habits of bed and of thought. Jules Sandeau had +given her her pen name, her theories of “love free and +divine,” and her first experience of love. The disappointment +that followed this trial plunged her into +war against all yokes, even that of sentiment. Still, +perhaps yoke is too heavy a word. Pressure is enough. +To rid herself, however, of such disturbing memories, +she chose an intelligent thaumaturgist, and, against +love, a marvellous antiseptic: the writer Mérimée. +She confessed as much, at a later date, in a curious letter: +“On one of those days of weariness and despair I met +a man of sublime self-confidence, a man who was calm +and strong, who understood nothing of my nature and +who laughed at my troubles. The vitality of his spirit +completely fascinated me; for a week I thought he +had the secret of happiness, that he would teach it to +me, that his scornful indifference would cure me of +my childish susceptibilities. I believed that he had +suffered like me, and that he had triumphed over his +surface emotions. I do not yet know if I was wrong, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span>if this man is strong by reason of his greatness or of +his poverty.... At any rate, at the age of thirty I +behaved as a girl of fifteen would not have done. The +experience was a complete failure.”</p> + +<p>This woman, so smothered in words, sometimes found +a phrase that plumbed the depths. She adds a little +farther on, in that same letter to Sainte-Beuve: “If +Prosper Mérimée had understood me, he might perhaps +have loved me, and if he had loved me he might have +vanquished me, and if I had been able to submit to a man +I should have been saved, <i>because my liberty devours and +kills me</i>.” Here is the real misfortune of this gross +temperament. It needed a master and from that time +sought it only among the weak. Her slight physiological +inversion induced psychological aberrations from +which sprang all the wrongs which this fine thinking +animal committed against her own peace.</p> + +<p>Thus, there was thenceforth in the life of George +Sand an <i>absent being</i>. We can take those words to mean +a kind of ideal lover, lord of her thought and minister +to her flesh, this marvellous twin self who arouses our +instincts but never satiates them, who invents our dearest +pains and stirs up our devils, yet like an angel bears +us up to the mystical union of souls. The difficulty is +to find united in one being all the colours of our own +neurosis. We all join the chase, however, giving each +his own name to the pursuit. George Sand called it +“the search for her truth.” After all, why not? One +might call truth the rhythm from which our engines +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span>derive the greatest potential power, whether this be for +pleasure, for pain, for work, or for love. But we must +do Sand this justice, that next to her private ills the +general ill, “the suffering of the race, the view, the +knowledge, meditation on the destiny of man” also +impassioned her elastic soul. She often succeeded in +forgetting herself in order to understand others. She +knew how to let her intelligence ripen, to give maturity +to her thoughts. Yet, in spite of the part she took in +the idealistic battles of the century, in spite of the intellectual +influence which she exerted at such an early age +on the minds of her time, this woman’s profound lament +was that of her <i>Lélia</i>: “For ten thousand years I have +cried into the infinite,—‘Truth, truth!’ For ten thousand +years the infinite has answered,—‘Desire, desire!’”</p> + +<p>But here is this <i>désenchantée</i>, after her period of +despair in 1833, suddenly writing: “I think I have +blasphemed Nature, and God perhaps, in <i>Lélia</i>; God, +who is not wicked, and who does not wreak vengeance +upon us, has sealed my mouth by giving me back my +youthful heart and by forcing me to admit that he has +endowed us with sublime joys.” She had just dined at +the side of a fair young man of twenty-three, with arrogant +eyes and no eyelashes, with a slender waist and +beautiful, aristocratic hands, who scoffed loudly at all +social idealism and bent over to breathe in the women’s +ears: “I am not gentle, I am excessive.” He scoffed +both at the “labouring classes” and at the “ruling,” +at St.-Simon and at the Abbé de Lamennais. He even +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span>said: “I am more interested in the way Napoleon put +on his boots than in all the politics of Europe.” Women +felt that his real interest was love.</p> + +<p>He paid immediate attention to his already celebrated +neighbour with the olive skin, who sent him a few days +later the two volumes of her <i>Leila</i> with these inscriptions: +the first: “To <i>Monsieur mon gamin d’Alfred</i>;” +the second “To Monsieur the Viscount Alfred de +Musset, respectful regards from his devoted servant, +George Sand.”</p> + +<p>We know to-day in all its details the story of this +liaison and its magnificent expenditure of sorrows. +We shall retain only certain crystals, the bitter dregs +left in their hearts by the excesses of two fierce and +consummate imaginations. It can be said that they +devoured each other. Their desires differed: the one +more brutal, more ravenous, less merciful; the other +evil, maniacal, but savouring in little bites the marrow +of their mutual suffering. “Contract your heart, big +George,” he said. And she: “I no longer love you, +but I still adore you. I no longer want you, but I +cannot now do without you.” They departed for +Venice, where these two sadists took vengeance on +each other for their double impotence: cerebral with +him, physical with her. And they continued nevertheless +to desire and adore each other in spite of their +outworn senses and spent joys. Then came those tortures +that are self-inflicted for the stimulation of the +senses. They soon had nothing left but the taste of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span>their tears. Finally, in the very middle of the crisis, +each of the two lovers sought refuge according to his +own temperament: George in work and Alfred in +sickness. Then the saviour appeared in the form of a +handsome Venetian doctor on whom, at the very bedside +of the delirious poet, fell the brunt of the reillumined +desires of the other victim. No more pity, when the +beast is once more at large. And no more despair, +when the dry scales fall from an old love to leave naked a +new body that melts to softness at the first touch of +unfamiliar lips.</p> + +<p>Musset departed. The three of them cultivated a +curious relationship. The following summer George +wrote to Alfred: “Oh! that night of rapture, when, +in spite of ourselves, you joined our hands and said: +‘You love each other and still you love me; you have +saved me body and soul!’” And for his part Musset +cried: “Poor George, poor dear child! You thought +yourself my mistress,—you were only my mother....” +There the word is spoken. That physiological inversion +we mentioned could at once assume another form. But +the <i>mot juste</i> is really that of mother. Because Sand was +above all maternal, protective, the mistress <i>genetrix</i>. +She needed to endow everything about her with the +sentiment of maternity. A few months later on, when +everything was over between them, the shrieks she uttered +in her <i>Journal Intime</i> over this badly quenched love were +again those of a mother deprived of her suckling. “I +love you! I would submit to every torture to be loved +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span>by you, and you leave me! Ah! poor man, you are +mad... It is your pride that leads you... Oh, +my poor children, how unhappy your mother is!... +I want to surround myself with pure and distinguished +men. Away with the strong; I want to see the artists: +Liszt, Delacroix, Berlioz, Meyerbeer. I shall be a man +among them and we shall gossip and talk. Alfred shall +hear our bad jokes... Alas, if I only had him to-day! +What haste I am in to have him! If I had only +a few lines from you once in a while, just a word, permission +to send you sometimes a little two-penny picture +bought on the <i>quai</i>, cigarettes I made myself, a bird, +a toy... Oh, my blue eyes, you will never look at +me again! Lovely head, I shall never see you bend +over me again, or wrap you in sweet languor. My little +body, warm and supple, you will never stretch yourself +out on me, as Elisha on the dead child, to quicken it!” +“Ah! who will care for you, and for whom shall I +care?”</p> + +<p>This was the punishment for loving a man devoid of +passion. The depth of her being, when she stirred it +well, sent up always the same hope: “I need to suffer +for someone. I must nourish this maternal solicitude, +which is accustomed to guard over a tired sufferer.”</p> + +<p>A fancy for a kind of tribune of the people intervened +to heal the still live sore: she thought herself in love +with Everard, he whom his contemporaries called Michel +de Bourges. She yielded him the virginity of her +intelligence. A cold love. The love of a slave who +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span>admires a handsome captain and a just legislator. But +no giving, no suffering, nothing to blast deep caves +of passion into the soul. Besides, Michel de Bourges +was anti-artist. She wanted to avenge art with irony. +“Berlioz is an artist,” she wrote to the master of rhetoric. +“Perhaps he is even criminal enough to think secretly +that all the people in the world are not worth a rightly +placed chromatic scale, just as I have the insolence to +prefer a white hyacinth to the crown of France. But +rest assured that one can have these follies in one’s head +and not be an enemy of the human race. You are for +sumptuary laws, Berlioz is for demi-semi-quavers, I am +for liliaceous plants.”</p> + +<p>This lawyer was nevertheless jealous underneath his +coldness. He was even tiresome. George Sand saw +Liszt, found him handsome, and received him at Nohant +with his mistress, Marie d’Agoult. Envying their still-young +love, she noted in her diary: “What fearful +calm in my heart! Can the torch be extinguished?” +It was not the torch that was dying but the burned out +candle lighted by the philosopher whose penholder she +had aspired to be. And still the old stubborn idea +reappeared: “My sweetest dream... consists in +imagining the care I might give you in your feeble old +age.” One important service she received from Michel +was the winning of her action for divorce from Casimir +Dudevant.</p> + +<p>In the summer of 1836 she shook off the lover’s chain +and broke the hobble of a husband. She was free. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span>On the spot she turned over her two children, Maurice +and Solange, to a young tutor by the name of Pelletan, +whom, to know him better, she put to the test by becoming +his mistress. Then she left for Geneva to join +Liszt and the Countess d’Agoult. She returned in the +early autumn and settled for a time in Paris with this +couple, who were beginning to tire of solitude. All +three of them went to the Hôtel de France in the rue +Laffitte. This sedate bourgeois tavern became a communal +dwelling of artists. On the stairs one passed +Eugène Sue, Miçkiewicz, the singer Nourrit, the Abbé +de Lamennais, Heinrich Heine. The musical gentlemen, +with Liszt at the head, spoke of nothing but Chopin.</p> + +<p>“Bring him to me,” demanded George.</p> + +<p>He came one evening with Hiller. Mr. Sand and +Miss Chopin saw each other for the first time.</p> + +<p>Returning home, Chopin said to his friend: “What +an antipathetic woman that Sand is! Is she really a +woman? I’m inclined to doubt it.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X"> + CHAPTER X + <br> + <span class="smcap">Letters of Two Novelists</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>While Frederick Chopin, in the year 1837, was +living out the slow decomposition of his love, +George Sand was back at her little Château de Nohant. +There she spent long months alone, with her children +and her work. The summer brought her the Liszt-d’Agoult +ménage, nights of music, new dreams of +happiness. Then her mother died unexpectedly, and +she was obliged to return to Paris, while the Countess +and Franz took the road for Italy. She planned to +rejoin them there, but was prevented by a sudden +inclination for the new tutor of her children, Félicien +Mallefille. The rupture with Michel de Bourges still +bled feebly, but George felt that she had finally “slain +the dragon,” and that this attachment, more stubborn +than she had dreamed, would be cured by a gentle affection, +“less enthusiastic, but also less sharp,” and, she +hoped, lasting. She was mistaken. Six months were +sufficient to drain this spring to the bottom. Nevertheless +she had pity on this rather vapid lover, who never +interested her physically. For several months more +she dragged him about with her luggage between Paris, +Fontainebleau, and Nohant.</p> + +<p>In January of 1838, the great Balzac stumbled one fine +evening into this country seat and stayed for several +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span>days. The two novelists passed the nights in gossip +and confidences. Balzac set down his still warm impressions +for Countess Hanska: “I reached the Château +de Nohant on Holy Saturday, about half-past seven in +the evening, and I found comrade George Sand in her +dressing-gown, smoking an after dinner cigar, in front +of her fire in an immense empty room. She had lovely +yellow slippers ornamented with fringe, bewitching +stockings and red trousers. So much for her state of +mind. As to physique, she had doubled her chin like +a prebendary. She has not a single white hair in spite +of her frightful misfortunes; her swarthy complexion +has not changed; her fine eyes are as brilliant as ever; +she has the same stupid air when she is thinking, because, +as I told her after studying her, her whole countenance +is in her eye. She has been at Nohant for a year, very +sad and working prodigiously. She leads about the +same life that I do. She goes to bed at six in the morning +and gets up at noon; I go to bed at six in the evening +and get up at midnight. But, naturally, I conformed +to her habits, and for three days we have gossiped from +five o’clock in the evening, after dinner, till five in the +morning. The result is that I know her, and she knows +me, better after these three talks than during the whole +of the preceding four years, when she used to visit me +while she was in love with Jules Sandeau and when she +was attached to Musset... It was just as well that I +saw her, for we exchanged mutual confidences regarding +Jules Sandeau... However, she was even more +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span>unhappy with Musset, and now there she is, in profound +seclusion, raging at both marriage and love, because +in each she has found nothing but disappointment.</p> + +<p>“Her right male was hard to find, that is all. All +the harder because she is not amiable, and, consequently, +loving her will always be beset with difficulties. She is +a bachelor, she is an artist, she is big, generous, loyal, +chaste; she has the features of a man. <i>Ergo</i>, she is +not a woman. While I was near her, even in talking +heart to heart for three days, I felt no more than before +the itch of that gooseflesh of gallantry that in France +and in Poland one is supposed to display for any kind +of female.</p> + +<p>“It was to a friend I was talking. She has high +virtues, virtues that society regards askance. We discussed +the great questions of marriage and of freedom +with a seriousness, a good faith, a candour, a conscience +worthy of the great shepherds who guide the herds of +men.</p> + +<p>“For, as she said, with immense pride (I should not +have dared think of it myself), ‘Since by our writings +we are preparing a revolution in the customs of the +future, I am not less struck by the inconveniences of the +one state than by those of the other.’</p> + +<p>“We spent the whole night talking of this great +problem. I am absolutely in favour of liberty for the +young girl and bondage for the woman, that is, I want +her to know before marriage what she is undertaking: +I want her to have considered everything; then, when +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span>she has signed the contract, after having weighed the +chances, to be faithful to it. I gained a great point in +making Mme. Dudevant realize the necessity of marriage; +but she will come to believe in it, I am sure, and I feel +that I have done good in proving it to her.</p> + +<p>“She is an excellent mother, adored by her children; +but she dresses her daughter Solange like a little boy, and +that is not right.</p> + +<p>“She is like a man of twenty, <i>morally</i>, because she +is chaste, modest, and only an artist on the outside. +She smokes inordinately, she plays the princess, perhaps, +a little too much, and I am convinced that she portrayed +herself faithfully as the princess in <i>Le Secrétaire Intime</i>. +She knew and said of herself, before I told her, just +what I think,—that she has neither power of conception +nor the gift of constructing plots, nor the ability to +attain to the truth, nor the art of pathos; but that, +without knowing the French language, she has <i>style</i>. +This is true. She takes fame, as I do, lightly enough, +and has a profound scorn for the public, whom she calls +<i>Jumento</i>.</p> + +<p>“I shall tell you of the immense and secret devotion +of this woman for these two men, and you will say +to yourself that there is nothing in common between +the angels and the devils. All the follies she has committed +entitle her to glory in the eyes of great and +beautiful souls....</p> + +<p>“Anyway, it is a man she would like to be, so much +so that she has thrown off womanhood, and is no longer +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span>a woman. A woman attracts and she repels, and, +since I am very masculine, if she produces that effect +on me, she must produce it on men who are like me. +She will be unhappy always. And so,—she is now +in love with a man who is her inferior, and in that +covenant there is only disillusionment and disappointment +for a woman with a beautiful spirit. A woman +should always love a man greater than she, or she be +so blinded that it is the same as though he were.</p> + +<p>“I have not come from Nohant unscathed. I carried +away one enormous vice; she made me smoke a <i>hooka</i> +with <i>Lattakieh</i>; it has suddenly become a necessity to +me...”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Balzac’s eye and ear were not mistaken in their diagnosis. +Yet he could neither fully see nor fully hear +what was passing behind the windows of this being who +was more complex than he knew. This spring of 1838 +germinated once again the strong dark violet of a new +love.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>George Sand had been to Paris several times. She +had seen Chopin again. And the drama of pleasure, +of difficulties, of pains, had involved them. Both +Sand and Chopin had come through too many sufferings +to turn the new page of their story with anything but +distrust and uncertainty. But with Chopin it had all +been buried in silence, and his music alone had received +his queries and his secret raptures. We may consult +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span>all his work of this period, which witnesses magnificently +to this: the <i>Twelve Studies</i>, dedicated to Mme. d’Agoult +(Vol. 2, op. 25), the <i>Impromptu</i> (Op. 29), the <i>Second +Scherzo</i> (Op. 31), the <i>Two Nocturnes</i> (Op. 32), the four +mazurkas of op. 30 (C minor, B minor, D flat major, +and C sharp minor), the three <i>Valses Brillantes</i> of op. +34, and four other mazurkas (op. 33) dedicated to Mlle. +la Comtesse Mostowska.</p> + +<p>As for George, the first hint of her new passion is +found in a letter to her friend, Mme. Marliani, dated +the 23rd of May, where she says: “Pretty dear, I have +received your letters and have delayed replying <i>fully</i>, +because you know how <i>changeable</i> the weather is in the +season of love. There is so much <i>yes</i> and <i>no</i>, <i>if</i> and <i>but</i>, +in one week, and often in the morning one says: <i>This +is absolutely intolerable</i>, only to add in the evening: +<i>Truly, it is supreme happiness.</i> So I am holding off until +I may tell you <i>definitely</i> that my barometer registers +something, if not stable, at least set fair for any length +of time at all. I have not the slightest reproach to +make, but that is no reason to be happy....”</p> + +<p>Yet it was not to Mme. Marliani that she showed +the singular and interesting fluctuations of her sentimental +barometer, but to Count Albert Grzymala, a close friend +of Chopin. But here is what she wrote him at the +beginning of that summer:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“Nothing could ever make me doubt the loyalty +of your advice, dear friend; may you never have such +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span>a fear. I believe in your gospel without knowing or +examining it, because once it has a disciple like you +it must be the most sublime of all gospels. Bless you +for your advice, and be at peace about my thoughts. +Let us state the question clearly, for the last time, for +on your final reply on this subject will depend my +whole future conduct, and since it had to come to this +I am vexed at not having conquered the repugnance I +felt to questioning you in Paris. It seemed to me that +what I was to hear would blanch <i>my poem</i>. And, indeed, +now it has browned, or rather it is paling enormously. +But what does it matter? Your gospel is mine when +it prescribes thinking of oneself last and not thinking +of oneself at all when the happiness of those we love +claims all our strength. Listen to me well, and reply +clearly, categorically, definitely. This person whom +he wants, ought, or thinks he ought to love, is she the +one to bring him happiness? Or would she heighten +his suffering and his sadness? I do not ask if he loves +her, if he is loved, if she is more or less to him than I. +I know, approximately, by what is taking place in me, +what must be happening to him. I want to know which +of <i>us two</i> he must forget and forsake for his own peace, +for his happiness, for his very life, which seems to me +too precarious and frail to withstand great sorrows. +I do not want to play the part of a bad angel. I am +not Meyerbeer’s Bertram and I shall never fight against +a childhood friend, provided she is a pure and lovely +Alice. If I had known that there was a bond in the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span>life of your child, a sentiment in his soul, I should never +have stooped to inhale a perfume meant for another +altar. By the same token, he would without doubt +have drawn back from my first kiss had he known I was +as good as married. We have neither of us deceived +one another. We gave ourselves to the wind that +passed, and for a few minutes it carried us both into +another region. But we had, none the less, to come back +down here, after this celestial embrace and this flight +through the empyrean. Poor birds, we have wings, +but our nest is on the ground, and when the song of +the angels calls us on high, the cries of our family recall +us below. For my part, I have no wish to abandon +myself to passion, although there is in the depths of my +heart a fire that still occasionally threatens. My children +will give me the strength to break with anything that +would draw me away from them, or from the manner +of life that is best for their education, their health, their +well-being.... Thus I am unable to establish myself +at Paris because of Maurice’s illness, etc., etc. Then +there is an excellent soul, <i>perfect</i>, in regard to heart and +honour, whom I shall never leave, because he is the only +man who, having been with me for a year, has never +once, <i>for one single minute</i>, made me suffer by his fault. +He is also the only man who has ever given himself +absolutely and entirely to me, without regret for the +past, without reserve for the future. Then, he has +such a good and wise nature that I can in time teach +him to understand everything, to know everything. He +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span>is soft wax on which I have put my seal. When I +want to change the imprint, with some precaution and +patience I shall succeed. But it cannot be done to-day, +and his happiness is sacred to me.</p> + +<p>“So much for me. Tied as I am, bound fairly +tightly for years to come, I cannot wish that our <i>child</i> +should on his side break the bonds that hold him. If +he should come to lay his existence in my hands, I +should be indeed dismayed because, having already +accepted another, I could not offer him a substitute for +what he had sacrificed for me. I believe that our love +could last only under the conditions under which it +was born, that is, that sometimes, when a good wind +blows us together, we should again make a tour among +the stars and then leave each other to plod upon the +ground, because we are earth children and God has not +decreed that we should finish our pilgrimage together. +We ought to meet among the heavens, and the fleet +moments we shall pass there shall be so beautiful that +they shall outweigh all our lives below.</p> + +<p>“So my task is set. But I can, without ever relinquishing +it, accomplish it in two different ways; the +one, by keeping as aloof as possible from C[hopin], +by never seeking to occupy his thoughts, by never again +being alone with him; the other, on the contrary, by +drawing as close to him as possible without compromising +the position of M[allefille], to insinuate myself +gently into his hours of rest and happiness, to hold him +chastely in my arms sometimes, when the wind of heaven +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span>sees fit to raise us and transport us up to the skies. +The first way will be the one I shall adopt if you tell +me that the <i>person</i> is fit to give him a pure, true happiness, +to care for him, to arrange, regularize, and calm his +life, if, in fact, he could be happy through her and I +should be an impediment. If his spirit <i>strongly</i>, perhaps +<i>madly</i>, perhaps wisely scrupulous, refuses to love two +different beings, in two different ways, if the eight days +I might pass with him in a whole season should keep +him from inner happiness for the rest of the year,—then, +yes, then I swear to you that I should try to make +him forget me. I should adopt the second way if +you should say one of two things: either that his +domestic happiness could and should do with a few +hours of chaste passion and of sweet poetry, or that +domestic happiness is not possible to him, and that +marriage or any union that resembled it would be the +grave of this artist soul, that he must at any cost be +saved from it and even helped to conquer his religious +scruples. It is thereabouts that I arrive in my conjectures. +You shall tell me if I am mistaken; I believe +the person charming, worthy of all love and all respect, +because such a being as he could love only the pure +and the beautiful. But I believe that you dread marriage +for him, the daily bond, real life, business, domestic +cares, everything in a word that seems remote from +his nature and detrimental to the inspiration of his +muse. I too should fear it for him; but on this point +I can say nothing and decide nothing, because there are +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span>many aspects under which he is quite unknown to me. +I have seen only the side of his being that is warmed +by the sun. You shall therefore settle my ideas on +this point. It is of the very greatest importance that +I should know his position, so that I can establish my +own. If it were left to me, I should so arrange our +poem that I should know nothing, absolutely nothing +of his <i>positive</i> life, nor he of mine, and that he should +follow all his own ideas, religious, social, poetic, artistic, +without question from me, and <i>vice versa</i>, but that +always, in whatever place or at whatever moment of +our lives we might meet, our souls should be at their +apogee of happiness and goodness. Because, I am +sure, one is better when one loves with a heavenly +love, and, far from committing a sin, one comes near +to God, the fountain-head of this love. It is perhaps this, +as a last resort, that you must try to make him thoroughly +understand, my friend, and without opposing his ideas +of duty, of devotion and of religious sacrifice, you may +put his heart more at ease. What I fear above anything +in the world, what would be most painful to me, what +would make me decide even to make myself <i>dead for +him</i>, would be to see myself become a horror and a +remorse in his <i>soul</i>. I cannot (unless, quite apart from +me, she should be tragic for him) fight against the +image and memory of someone else. I have too much +respect for decency for that, or rather it is the only +decency I respect. I will steal no one from anyone, +except captives from jailers and victims from executioners +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span>and, consequently Poland from Russia. Tell me if it +is a <i>Russia</i> whose portrait haunts our child. Then I +would ask heaven to lend me all the seductions of +Armida to keep him from throwing himself away on +her. But if it is a Poland, let him be. There is nothing +like a native land, and when you have one you must +not take another. In that case, I shall be an <i>Italy</i> to +him, an Italy which one goes to see and where one +enjoys the days of spring, but where one does not stay, +because there is more sun than there are beds and tables, +and the <i>comforts of life</i> are elsewhere. Poor Italy! The +whole world dreams of her, desires her, and sorrows +for her, but no one may live with her, because she is +unhappy and cannot give the happiness which she has +not. There is a final supposition that I must tell you. +It might be possible that he no longer loves the <i>childhood +friend</i> at all, and that he would have a real repugnance +towards any alliance, but that the feeling of duty, the +honour of a family, or what not, demands a remorseless +sacrifice of himself. In that case, my friend, be his +good angel. <i>I</i> could scarcely meddle in it, but you +should. Keep him from too sharp attacks of conscience, +save him from his own virtues, prevent him, at all costs, +from sacrificing himself, because in this sort of thing +(I mean marriage or those unions that, without the same +publicity, have the same binding power and duration), +in this sort of thing, I say, the sacrifice of him who +gives his future is not in proportion to what he has +received in the past. The past is something appreciable +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span>and limited; the future is infinite, because it is unknown. +The being who, for a certain known sum of devotion, +demands in return the devotion of a whole lifetime, +asks too much, and if he on whom the demand is made +is hard pressed to defend his rights and satisfy at the +same time both generosity and justice, it is the part +of friendship to save him and to be the sole judge of +his rights and his duties. Be firm in this regard, and +believe that I, who detest seducers, I, who always take +the part of outraged and deceived women, I who am +thought the spokesman of my sex and who pride myself +on so being; I, when it has been necessary, have on +my authority as a sister or mother or friend broken +more than one engagement of this kind. I have always +condemned the woman when she has wanted to be +happy at the expense of the man; I have always absolved +the man when more was demanded of him than it is +given to freedom and human dignity to undertake. A +pledge of love and faithfulness is criminal or cowardly +when the mouth speaks what the heart disavows, and +one may ask anything of a man save a crime or a cowardice. +Except in that case, my friend, that is to say +except he should want to make too great a sacrifice, I +believe we must not oppose his ideas, nor violate his +instincts. If his heart can, like mine, hold two quite +different loves, one which might be called the <i>body</i> of +life, the other the <i>soul</i>, that would be best, because our +situation would dominate our feelings and thoughts. +Just as one is not always sublime, neither is one always +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span>happy. We shall not see each other every day, we shall +not possess the sacred fire every day, but there will be +beautiful days, and heavenly flames.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps we should also think of telling him my +position regarding M[allefille]. It is to be feared that, +not knowing it, he might conjure up a kind of duty +towards me which would irk him and come to oppose +<i>the other</i> painfully. I leave you absolutely to judge +and decide about this confidence; you may make it if +you think the moment opportune, or delay it if you +feel that it would add to his too recent sufferings. +Possibly you have already made it. I approve of and +confirm anything and everything you have done or will +do.</p> + +<p>“As to the question of possession or non-possession, +that seems secondary to the question we are now discussing. +It is, however, an important question in itself, +it is a woman’s whole life, her dearest secret, her most +pondered philosophy, her most mysterious coquetry. +As for me, I shall tell you quite simply, you, my brother +and my friend, this great mystery, about which everyone +who mentions my name makes such curious observations. +I have no secrets about it, no theory, no +doctrine, no definite opinion, no prejudice, no pretence +of power, no spiritual aping—in fact, nothing studied +and no set habit, and (I believe) no false principles, +either of licence or of restraint. I have trusted largely +to my instincts, which have always been worthy; sometimes +I have been deceived in people, never in myself. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span>I reproach myself for many stupidities, but for no platitudes +or wickednesses. I hear many things said on +the question of human morality, of shame and of social +virtue. All that is still not clear to me. Nor have I +ever reached a conclusion. Yet I am not unmindful +of the question; I admit to you that the desire to fit +any philosophy at all to my own sentiments has been +the great preoccupation and the great pain of my life. +Feelings have always been stronger than reason with me, +and the limits I have wanted to set for myself have never +been of any use to me. I have changed my ideas twenty +times. Above everything I have believed in fidelity. +I have preached it, practised it, demanded it. Others +have lacked it and so have I. And yet I have felt no +remorse, because in my infidelities I have always submitted +to a kind of fatality, an instinct for the ideal +which pushed me into leaving the imperfect for what +seemed to me to come nearer to the perfect. I have +known many kinds of love. The love of the artist, +the love of the woman, the love of the sister, the love +of the mother, the nun’s love, the poet’s love,—I know +not what. Some have been born and dead in me within +the same day without being revealed to the person who +inspired them. Some have martyred my life and have +hurled me into despair, almost into madness. Some +have held me cloistered for years in an excessive spirituality. +All of it has been perfectly sincere. My being +passed through these different phases as the sun, as +Sainte-Beuve said, passes through the signs of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span>zodiac. To one who watched my progress superficially +I would have seemed mad or hypocritical; to one who +watched, reading me deeply, I seemed just what I am, +a lover of beauty, greedy for truth, very sensitive of +heart, very weak of judgment, often absurd, always +sincere, never small or vindictive, hot tempered enough, +and, thank God, perfectly forgetful of evil things and +evil people.</p> + +<p>“That is my life, dear friend. You see it is not +much. There is nothing to admire, much to regret, +nothing for good souls to condemn. I am sure that +those who have accused me of being bad have lied, +and it would be very easy to prove it if I wished to +take the trouble to remember and recount it; but that +bores me, and I have no more memory than I have +rancour.</p> + +<p>“Thus far I have been faithful to what I loved, absolutely +faithful, in the sense that I have never deceived +anyone, and that I have never been unfaithful without +very strong reasons, which, by the fault of others, have +killed the love in me. I am not inconstant by nature. +On the contrary, I am so accustomed to loving him +who loves me, so difficult to inflame, so habituated to +living with men without consciousness of being a woman, +that really I have been a little confused and dismayed +by the effect produced on me by this little being. I +have not yet recovered from my astonishment, and if I +had a great deal of pride I should be greatly humiliated +to have fallen full into an infidelity of the heart, at the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span>very moment when I believed myself for ever calm and +settled. I think this would be wrong; if I had been +able to foresee, to reason, and combat this inroad; +but I was suddenly attacked, and it is not in my nature +to govern myself by reason when love possesses me. +So I am not reproaching myself, but I realize that I +am still very impressionable and weaker than I thought. +That matters little; I have small vanity. This proves +to me that I should have none at all, and should never +make any boast of valour and strength. This makes +me sad, for here is my beautiful sincerity, that I had +practised for so long and of which I was a little proud, +bruised and compromised. I shall be forced to lie like +the others. I assure you that this is more mortifying +to my self-respect than a bad novel or a hissed play. +It hurts me a little; this hurt is perhaps the remains of +pride; perhaps it is a voice from above that cries to +me that I must guard more carefully my eyes and my +ears, and above all my heart. But if heaven wishes +us to remain faithful to our earthly affections, why does +it sometimes allow the angels to stray among us and +meet us on our path?</p> + +<p>“So the great question of love is raised again in me! +No love without fidelity, I said only two words ago, +and certainly, alas! I did not feel the same tenderness +for poor M[allefille] when I saw him again. Certainly +since he went back to Paris (you must have seen him), +instead of awaiting his return with impatience and being +sad while he is away, I suffer less and breathe more +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span>freely. If I believed that a frequent sign of C[hopin] +would increase this chill, I would feel it my <i>duty</i> to +refrain.</p> + +<p>“That is what I wanted to get to—a talk with you +on this question of possession, which to some minds +constitutes the whole question of faithfulness. This is, +I believe, a false idea; one can be more unfaithful or +less, but when one has allowed one’s soul to be invaded, +and has granted the simplest caress, with a feeling of +love, then the infidelity is already consummated, and +the rest is less serious; because whoever has lost the +heart has lost everything. It would be better to lose +the body and keep the soul intact. So, <i>in principle</i>, I +do not believe a complete consecration to the new bond +would greatly increase the sin; but, in practice, it is +possible that the attachment might become more human, +more violent, more dominating, after possession. It is +even probable. It is even certain. That is why, when +two people wish to live together, they must not outrage +either nature or truth in recoiling from a complete +union; but when they are forced to live apart, doubtless +it is the part of prudence. Consequently, it is the part +of duty and of true virtue (which is sacrifice) to abstain. +I have not reflected seriously on this and, if he had asked +me in Paris, I should have given in, because of this +natural straightness that makes me hate precautions, +restrictions, false distinctions and subtleties of any kind. +But your letter makes me think of scuttling that resolution. +Then, too, the trouble and sadness I have endured in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span>again experiencing the caresses of M[allefille], the courage +it has taken to hide it, is a warning to me. So I shall +follow your advice, dear friend. May this sacrifice be +a kind of expiation for the perjury I have committed.</p> + +<p>“I say sacrifice, because it would be painful for me +to see this angel suffer. So far he has had great strength; +but I am not a child. I saw clearly that human passion +was making rapid progress in him and that it was time +we parted. That is why, the night before my departure, +I did not wish to stay with him and why I almost sent +you both home.</p> + +<p>“And since I am telling you everything, I want to +say to you that only one thing about him displeased +me; that is, that he himself had bad reasons for abstaining. +Until then I thought it fine that he should abstain +out of respect for me, from timidity, even from fidelity +for someone else. All that was sacrifice, and consequently +strength and chastity, of course. That is what +charmed and attracted me most in him. But at your +house, just as he was leaving us, and as if he wished +to conquer one last temptation, he said two or three +words to me that did not answer to my ideas. He +seemed, after the fashion of devotees, to despise <i>human</i> +grossness and to redden at the temptations he had had, +and to fear to soil our love by one more transport. +This way of looking at the last embrace of love has +always been repugnant to me. If the last embrace is +not as sacred, as pure, as devoted as the rest, there is +no virtue in abstaining from it. These words, physical +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span>love, by which we call what has no name under heaven, +<i>displease</i> and <i>shock</i> me, like a sacrilege and at the same +time like a false notion. Can there be, for lofty natures, +a purely physical love, and for sincere natures a purely +intellectual one? Is there ever love without a single +kiss and a kiss of love without passion? <i>To despise +the flesh</i> cannot be good and useful except for those who +are all <i>flesh</i>; with someone one loves, not the word +<i>despise</i>, but the word <i>respect</i> must serve when one abstains. +Besides, these are not the words he used. I +do not exactly remember them. He said, I think, that +<i>certain acts</i> could spoil a memory. Surely, that was +a stupid thing to say, and he did not mean it? Who +is the unhappy woman who left him with such ideas +of physical love? Has he then had a mistress unworthy +of him? Poor angel! They should hang all the women +who degrade in men’s eyes the most honourable and +sacred thing in creation, the divine mystery, the most +serious act of life and the most sublime in the life of the +universe. The magnet embraces the iron, the animals +come together by the difference of sex. Plants obey +love, and man, who alone on this earth has received +from God the gift of feeling divinely what the animals, +the plants and the metals feel only materially, man in +whom the electric attraction is transformed into an attraction +felt, understood, intelligent, man alone regards +this miracle which takes place simultaneously in his +soul and in his body as a miserable necessity, and he +speaks of it with scorn, with irony or with shame! +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span>This is passing strange! The result of this fashion of +separating the spirit from the flesh is that it has necessitated +convents and bad places.</p> + +<p>“This is a frightful letter. It will take you six +weeks to decipher it. It is my <i>ultimatum</i>. If he is happy, +or would be happy through <i>her</i>, <i>let him be</i>. If he would +be unhappy, <i>prevent him</i>. If he could be happy through +me, without ceasing to be happy through <i>her</i>, <i>I can for +my part do likewise</i>. If he cannot be happy through me +without being unhappy with her, <i>we must not see each +other and he must forget me</i>. There is no way of getting +around these four points. I shall be strong about it, +I promise you, because it is a question of <i>him</i>, and if I +have no great virtue for myself, I have great devotion +for those I love. You are to tell me the truth frankly. +I count on it and wait for it.</p> + +<p>“It is absolutely useless to write me a discreet letter +that I can show. We have not reached that point, +M[allefille] and I. We respect each other too much to +demand, even in thought, an account of the details of +our lives....</p> + +<p>“There has been some question of my going to +Paris, and it is still not impossible that if my business, +which M[allefille] is now looking after, should be prolonged +I shall join him. Do not say anything about it +to the <i>child</i>. If I go, I shall notify you and we will +surprise him. In any case, since it takes time for you +to get freedom to travel, begin your preparations now, +because I want you at Nohant this summer, as soon +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span>and for as long as possible. You shall see how happy +you will be. There is not a hint of what you fear +There is no spying, no gossip, no provincialism; it is an +oasis in the desert. There is not a soul in the country +who knows what a Chopin or a Grzymala is. No one +knows what happens in my house. I see no one but +<i>intimate</i> friends, angels like you, who have never had +an evil thought about those they love. You will come, +my dear good friend, we shall talk at our ease and your +battered soul will regenerate itself in the country. As +for the <i>child</i>, he shall come if he likes; but in that case +I should like to be forewarned, for I should send M[allefille] +either to Paris or to Geneva. There is no lack +of pretexts, and he will never suspect anything. If the +<i>child</i> does not want to come, leave him to his ideas; he +fears the world, he fears I know not what. I respect +in those I love everything I do not understand. I shall +go to Paris in September myself, before the final departure. +I shall conduct myself with him according to +your reply to this letter. If you have no solution for +the problems I put, try to draw one from him, ransack +his soul; I must know what he feels.</p> + +<p>“But now you know me through and through. +This is such a letter as I do not write twice in ten years. +I am too lazy, and I do so hate talking about myself. +But this will spare me further talk on that subject. +You know me by heart now, and you can <i>fire at sight +on me</i> when you balance the accounts of the Trinity.</p> + +<p>“Yours, dear good friend, yours with all my heart. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span>Ostensibly I have not spoken of you in all this long chat. +That is because it seemed as though I were talking of +myself to another <i>me</i>, the better and the dearer of the +two, I swear.</p> + +<p class="right"> + “<span class="smcap">George Sand.</span>” +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Let us, above all, admire the woman’s method of so +conducting her battle that she necessarily remains victorious, +no matter what the attacks or shifts of the +enemy. Everything is foreseen, arranged, admitted, +except the omission to become the lover of George +Sand. Besides, she must have known perfectly well +that the little “Russia” she pretended to fear had already +surrendered her arms, that Chopin had flung her out of +his proud heart. But such a letter, such a rare psychological +document, deserves to be included intact in the +<i>dossier</i> of this love. The personality of the writer becomes +clearly illuminated, even—perhaps above all—in +what it tries to hide. One feels the intelligence; +weighs the slightly heavy goodness, once more maternal, +<i>pelicanish</i>; one wonders at the moist-lipped desire of a +woman of thirty-four for the “child” of twenty-eight, +who looked still younger and whose very purity intoxicated +the voluptuous woman enamoured of it. She +called it “doing her duty.” It is all a matter of well-chosen +words. She admitted also: “I must love or +die,” which is less pretentious.</p> + +<p>To sum up the matter, be it admitted that Chopin +needed a fine, generous tenderness after the poor, dried-up +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span>little romance he had hidden in an envelope. He +also needed care. George began by sending him to +Doctor Gaubert, who sounded him, and swore that +he was not phthisical. But he needed air, walks, rest. +The new lovers set out in quest of solitude.</p> + +<p>Paris soon heard that the novelist had left with her +three children: Maurice, Solange and Chopin, for the +Balearic Isles.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI"> + CHAPTER XI + <br> + <span class="smcap">The Chartreuse of Valdemosa</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>As a matter of fact, they had agreed to meet at +Perpignan, because Chopin’s decent soul stuck at +advertising his departure, and at proclaiming his resounding +luck. Perhaps, too, George wanted to smooth the +pride of poor Mallefille. So the two left in their own +way, and came together at Perpignan in the last two days +of October. George was happy, at peace. She had +travelled slowly, visiting friends on the way, and passing +through Lyons, Avignon, Vaucluse, and le Pont du +Gard. Furthermore, it was not so much a question +with her of travelling as of getting away, of seeking, as +she always said on such occasions, some nest in which +to love or some hole in which to die. Doubtless she +hardly remembered having made the same trip with +Musset four years before, when they had encountered +fat Stendhal-Beyle on the steamship. Chopin, for his +part, did not stop on the road; he had four days and +four heroically borne nights by mailcoach. Yet he +descended “fresh as a rose and as rosy as a turnip.” +Grzymala, Matuszinski and Fontana alone knew +of this journey, which he wanted to conceal even +from his family in Poland. Fontana undertook to +forward his mail. Chopin had a little money on +hand because he had sold Pleyel his first <i>Preludes</i> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span>for two thousand francs, a quarter of which he had +received.</p> + +<p>They all embarked for Barcelona on board the <i>Phénicien</i>, +on “the bluest sea, the purest, the smoothest; you +might call it a Greek sea, or a Swiss lake on its loveliest +day,” wrote George to her friend Marliani just before +they left. They stopped a few days at Barcelona, where +they visited the ruins of the Palace of the Inquisition.</p> + +<p>Then a fresh embarkation on the <i>El Mallorquin</i>. The +crossing was made on a mild and phosphorescent night. +On board all slept, except Chopin, Sand and the helmsman, +who sang, but with a voice so sweet and so subdued +that he too seemed to be half-asleep. Chopin listened +to this rambling song that resembled his own vague +improvisations. “The voice of contemplation,” said +George. They landed at Palma, on Majorca, in the +morning, under a precipitous coast, the summit of which +is indented with palms and aloes. But learning to their +amazement that there was no hotel, nor even rooms where +they could live, they sought out the French Consul and, +thanks to him, succeeded in discovering the house of a +certain Señor Gomez. It was outside the town, in a +valley from which could be seen the distant yellow walls +of Palma and its cathedral. This uncomfortable oasis, +which had to be furnished and equipped with all accessories, +was called <i>The House of the Wind</i>. The travellers +were at first jubilant.</p> + +<p>“The sky is turquoise,” wrote Chopin to Fontana, +“the sea lapis-lazuli, the mountains emerald. The air +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span>is like heaven. In the daytime there is sunshine, and it +is warm, and everybody is in summer dress. At night, +you hear songs and guitars on all sides for hours on end. +Enormous balconies hung with vines, houses dating from +the Moors.... The town, like everything here, +resembles Africa. In short, life is delicious. My dear +Jules, go and see Pleyel, because the piano has not yet +arrived. How was it sent? Tell him he will soon +receive the <i>Preludes</i>. I shall probably live in an enchanting +monastery, in the most lovely country in the world; +the sea, mountains, palms, a cemetery, a crusaders’ +church, a ruined mosque, thousand-year-old olive trees.... +Ah! dear friend, I now take a little more pleasure +in life; I am near the most beautiful thing in the world, +I am a better man.”</p> + +<p>This <i>House of the Wind</i> was rented for a hundred francs +a month. But as it did not completely satisfy their +appetite for isolation, and as they wanted something +more “artistic,” more rare, they found three rooms and +a garden full of oranges for thirty-five francs a year in +the Chartreuse of Valdemosa itself, two leagues away. +“It is poetry, it is solitude, it is everything that is most +enchanting under the sky; and what sky! what country! +We are in a dream of happiness,” Sand wrote. This +joy at once expressed itself in too long walks. Chopin +wore himself out, tore his feet on the stones of the +paths, caught cold in the first rain. He had hardly +been there a few days when he was forced to take to +his bed with bad bronchitis. The tuberculosis, momentarily +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span>checked, came on again, in spite of a temperature +of 65 degrees, in spite of roses, lemons, palms, fig trees +in bloom. “The three most celebrated doctors of the +Island came together for a consultation. One sniffed +what I had expectorated, another tapped me where I +had expectorated, the third listened while I expectorated. +The first said I would die, the second said I was about +to die, the third said I was already dead. But I go on +living as I have always lived.... I cannot forgive +Jeannot (Dr. Matuszinski) for not having given me any +instructions about this acute bronchitis which he should +have foreseen when I was at home. I was barely able +to escape their bleedings and cuppings and suchlike +operations. Thank God, I am myself again. But my +sickness delayed my <i>Preludes</i>, which you will receive God +knows when.... In a few days I shall be living in +the most beautiful spot in the world; sea, mountains, +everything you could want. We are going to live in +an enormous old ruined monastery, abandoned by the +Carthusians, whom Mendizabal seems to have driven +out just for me. It is quite close to Palma and incomparably +marvellous: cells, a most romantic graveyard.... +In fact, I feel I shall be well off there. Only my +piano is still lacking. I have written direct to Pleyel, rue +Rochechouart. Ask him about it and tell him I was +taken sick the day after I arrived, but that I am already +better. Do not say much in general about me or my +manuscripts.... Do not tell anyone I have been +ill; they would only make a fuss about it.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span></p> + +<p>Here was George in action. She had her hands full. +She wrote, managed the household as well as her novels, +explored the shops of the little town, gave their lessons +to her two children and nursed the third, who claimed +her every other moment. “He improves from day +to day and I hope that he will be better than before. +He is an angel of gentleness and goodness.” But the +material side of life became more and more difficult. +They lacked everything, even mattresses, sheets, cooking-pots. +They had to buy expensive furnishings, write to +Buloz, the editor of the <i>Revue des Deux Mondes</i>, and +borrow. Soon <i>The House of the Wind</i> became uninhabitable. +The walls were so thin that under the autumn +rains the lime swelled like a sponge. There was no stove, +of course, as in all so-called hot countries, and a coat of +ice settled on the travellers’ shoulders. They had to fall +back on the asphyxiating warmth of braziers. The invalid +began to suffer greatly, coughed incessantly, could +hardly be nourished, because he could not stand the +native food, and George was obliged to do the cooking +herself. “In fact,” she wrote, again to her friend +Marliani, “our trip here has been, in many ways, a +frightful fiasco. But here we are. We cannot get out +without exposing ourselves to the bad season and without +encountering new expenses at every step. Besides, +it took a great deal of courage and perseverance to install +myself here. If Providence is not too unkind, I think +the worst is over, and we shall gather the fruit of our +labours. Spring will be delicious, Maurice will regain +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>his health.... Solange is almost continually charming +since she was seasick; Maurice pretends she lost all her +venom.”</p> + +<p>The invalid, whom they hid at the back of the least +damp room, became an object of horror and fear to the +natives. Service was refused. Señor Gomez, learning +that it was a matter of lung trouble, demanded the +departure of his tenants after a complete replastering +and whitewashing of his house at their expense and an +<i>auto-da-fé</i> of the linen and furnishings. The Consul +intervened, and sheltered the miserable emigrants for a +few days. At last, on the fifteenth of December, a +beautiful day, they set out for their monastery. Just +before they started, Chopin wrote again to Fontana: +“I shall work in a cell of some old monk who had perhaps +in his soul a greater flame than I, but stifled and mortified +it because he did not know what to do with it.... +I think I can shortly send you my <i>Preludes</i> and the <i>Ballade</i>.”</p> + +<p>As for George Sand: “I shall never forget,” she +wrote later on in her <i>Winter at Majorca</i>, “a certain bend +in the gorge where, turning back, you espy, at the top +of a mountain, one of those lovely little Arab houses +I have described, half-hidden among the flat branches +of cactus, and a tall palm bending over the chasm and +tracing its silhouette against the sky. When the sight +of the mud and fog of Paris gives me the spleen, I close +my eyes and see again as in a dream that green mountain, +those tawny rocks, and this solitary palm tree, lost in +a rose-coloured sky.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span></p> + +<p>The Chartreuse of Valdemosa... The name alone, +associated with the names of Chopin and Sand in this +African setting, evokes an image which is not only +romantic and picturesque, but fixed, as in a poem. +Here is the scene of their sickly passion. We still love +the picture, mingled with the music into which this +Nordic consumptive threw his heart-rending sweetness. +What indeed would Majorca be in the story of human +dreams without this encampment of the rainy winter of +1838? This abandoned island has no other worth than +its unhappy monastery, which for two months served +as the prison of a hopeless love. Because no search, +even between the lines of their letters, reveals any happiness. +George tried in vain to blow the embers of her +tired heart, and kindled but a tender pity, full of nostalgia, +raising with each puff of smoke the memory of those +terrible Venetian delights. And Chopin, bruised by +a thousand little sufferings, proud and lacking in virility, +felt the strength for pleasures ebbing from him day by +day. In one way or another, nerves got the upper +hand. Work alone was deliverance for them, and +solitude, riveting them together, filled them with fraternity.</p> + +<p>Valdemosa is an enormous pile of masonry. An +army corps could be lodged in it. There are the quarters +of the Superior, cells for the lay brothers, cells for the +novices, and the three cloisters that constitute the monastery +proper. But that is all empty and deserted. The +oldest part is fifteenth century, and is pierced by Gothic +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span>windows over which creep vines. In the centre is the +old Carthusian cemetery, without stones or inscriptions. +A few cypresses frame a tall cross of white wood and +a pointed well-head, against which have grown up a +pink laurel and a dwarf palm. All the cells were locked +and a yellow sacristan jealously guarded the keys. Although +he was extremely ugly, this fat satyr had wronged +a girl who with her parents was spending a few months +in that solitude. But he gave as an excuse that he was +employed by the State to protect only the painted +virgins.</p> + +<p>The new cloisters, girded by evergreens, enclosed +twelve chapels and a church decorated with wood +carvings and paved with Hispano-Moresque majolica. +A Saint Bruno in painted wood, provincial Spanish in +style, is the only work of art in this temple. The design +and colour are curious, and George Sand found in the +head an expression of sublime faith, in the hands a +heartbreaking and pious gesture of invocation. “I +doubt,” she said, “if this fanatical saint of Grenoble has +ever been understood and depicted with such deep and +ardent feeling. It is the personification of Christian +asceticism.” The church, alas! is without an organ, +according to the Carthusian regulations.</p> + +<p>Sand, Chopin, and the children occupied three spacious +cells, vaulted, with walls three feet in thickness. The +rooms faced south, opening on to a garden-plot planted +with pomegranates, lemon trees, orange tress. Brick +paths intersected this verdant and fragrant pleasaunce. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span>And on the threshold of this garden of silence Chopin +wrote to Fontana three days after Christmas:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“Can you imagine me thus: between the sea and +the mountains in a great abandoned Carthusian monastery, +in a cell with doors higher than the porte-cochères +in Paris, my hair uncurled, no white gloves, but pale, +as usual? The cell is shaped like a coffin; it is high, +with a cobwebbed ceiling. The windows are small.... +My bed faces them, under a filigreed Moorish +rose-window. Beside the bed stands a square thing +resembling a desk, but its use is very problematic. +Above, a heavy chandelier (this is a great luxury) with +one tiny candle. The works of Bach, my own scrawls +and some manuscripts that are not mine,—that is all my +furniture. You can shout as loud as you like and no +one will hear; in short, it is a strange place from which +I am writing.... The moon is marvellous this evening. +I have never seen it more beautiful.... Nature here +is kind, but the men are pirates. They never see strangers, +and in consequence don’t know what to charge +them. So they will give you an orange for nothing but +ask a fabulous price for a trouser button. Under this +sky one feels permeated with a poetic sentiment that +seems to emanate from all the surrounding objects. +Eagles hover over our heads every day and no one +disturbs them.”</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>But it was in vain that he sought to enjoy himself +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span>there; this rather lofty setting did not suit Chopin. +He had too great a taste for intimate habits, for sophisticated +surroundings, to feel at his ease in these unfurnished +rooms where his mind had nothing on which to fasten. +And then, unfortunately, they had come in for the +height of the rainy season, which at Majorca is diluvian. +The air is so relaxing in its humidity that one drags +heavily about. Maurice and Solange were perfectly +well, “but little Chopin is very exhausted, and still +coughs a great deal. For his sake, I am impatient for +the return of good weather, which cannot be long now +in coming.” His piano at last arrived, a joy that carried +with it forgiveness for everything. Chopin worked, +composed, studied. “The very vaults of the monastery +rejoice. And all this is not profaned by the admiration +of fools. We do not see so much as a cat,” apart from +the natives of the country, a superstitious and inquisitive +people, who climbed, one after another, up to this old +monastery in the charge of one ancient monk and a +few devils. In order to get a look at them they came +to have their beasts blessed. It became a holiday of +mules, horses, donkeys, goats and pigs. “Real animals +themselves,” said George, “stinking, gross and cowardly, +but nevertheless them superb, nicely dressed, +playing the guitar and dancing the fandango.... I +am supposed to be sold to the devil because I do not +go to Mass, nor to the dances, and because I live alone +in the mountains, teaching my children the rule of +participles and other graces.... In the middle of all +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span>this, comes the warbling of Chopin, who goes his own +pretty way, and to whom the walls of his cell listen with +astonishment.”</p> + +<p>One evening they had an alarm and a ghost which +made their hair stand on end. First there was a strange +noise, like thousands of sacks of nuts being rolled across +a parquet floor. They rushed out of their cells to +investigate, but the cloister was as deserted as ever. +Yet the noise drew nearer. Soon a feeble light illuminated +the vaulting, torches appeared, and there, enveloped in +red smoke, came a whole battalion of abominable +beings; a horned leading devil, all in black, with a +face the colour of blood, little devils with birds’ heads, +lady devils and shepherdesses in pink and white robes. +It was the villagers celebrating Shrove Tuesday who +had come to hold their dance in one of the cells. The +noise that accompanied their procession was that of the +castanets that the youngsters clacked with a sustained +and rolling rhythm. They stopped it suddenly to sing +in unison a <i>coplita</i> on a musical phrase which kept +recurring and seemed never to end.</p> + +<p>This was a shock to poor Chopin’s nerves. It was +worse when Maurice and Solange disappeared in the +echoing depths of the monastery, or when George left +him for excursions that lasted whole days. Then the +deserted cloister seemed to him full of phantoms. Returning +from one of her nocturnal explorations among +the ruins, George surprised him at his piano, white, with +haggard eyes, and it took him several minutes to recognize +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span>her. Yet it was then, during or after these spells +of nervous exaltation, that he composed some of his +most beautiful pages.</p> + +<p>Sand affirms that several of the <i>Preludes</i> were begotten +of these agonies. “There is one,” she says, “which +came to him one lugubrious rainy evening that plunged +his soul into a frightful depression. Maurice and I +had left him that day feeling very well, to go to Palma +to buy some necessities for our camp. The rain had +come, torrents were unloosed; we made three leagues in +six hours, coming back in the midst of the flood, and +it was full night when we arrived, without shoes, abandoned +by our driver in the midst of untold dangers. +We had hurried on account of our patient’s anxiety. +It had indeed been lively; but it had, as it were, congealed +into a kind of resigned despair, and he was +playing, in tears, his fine prelude. When he saw us +come in, he rose with a great cry; then he said to us +with a vague stare and in a strange voice: ‘Ah, I knew +you were dead!’ When he had recovered himself and +saw the state we were in, he became ill at the thought +of our past dangers; but he then swore to me that +while he was awaiting us, he had seen it all in a dream, +and that, unable to tell what was dream and what was +reality, he had become quiet and as though drugged +while playing the piano, convinced that he was dead +himself. He saw himself drowned in a lake; heavy +drops of icy water fell with a regular beat on his chest, +and when I made him listen to the sound of the drops +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span>that were really falling on the roof, he denied having +heard them. He was even angry at what I meant by +the words ‘imitative harmony.’ He protested with all +his strength, and rightly, at the puerility of these auditory +imitations. His genius was full of the mysterious +harmonies of nature, rendered in his musical thought +by sublime equivalents and not by a slavish mimicry +of outside sounds. That evening’s composition was full +of the raindrops sounding on the resonant tiles of the +monastery, but they were transposed in his imagination and +in his music into tears falling from heaven on his heart.”</p> + +<p>There has been a great deal of discussion as to what +<i>Prelude</i> this might be. Some call it No. 6, in B minor, +others No. 8, in F sharp minor, or the 15th, in D flat +major, or the 17th, or the 19th. In my own opinion +there is no possible doubt. It is certainly the Sixth +Prelude, where the drops of sorrow fall with a slow +inexorable regularity on the brain of man. But it +matters little, after all. Each one will find it where +he will, at the bidding of his own imagination. Let us +credit music with this unique power, that of adapting +itself to us rather than us to it, of being the Ariel that +serves our fancy. Here is the place to recall Beethoven’s +words: “You must create everything in yourself.” +Liszt, so fond of psychology and æsthetics, said that +Chopin contented himself, like a true musician, with +extracting the <i>feeling</i> of pictures he saw, ignoring the +drawing, the pictorial shell, which did not enter into +the form of his art and did not belong to his more spiritual +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span>sphere. Then, returning to that rainy twilight when +his friend had composed so beautiful a melody, Liszt +wondered if George Sand had been able to perceive in +it the anguish of Chopin’s love, the fever of that overexcited +spirit; if the genius of that masculine woman +could attain “to the humblest grandeurs of the heart, to +those burnt offerings of oneself which have every right to +be called devotion.” Probably not. She never inspired +a song in this miraculous bird. The only one that came +to him through her was that moment of agony and grief.</p> + +<p>The next day he played over again, with comments +and finishing touches, this unique musical expression +snatched from his depths. But she understood it no +better. All the incompatibility of these two natures +is revealed here. “His heart,” said Liszt, “was torn +and bruised at the thought of losing her who had just +given him back to life; but her spirit saw nothing but +an amusing pastime in the adventurous trip, the danger +of which did not outweigh the charm of novelty. What +wonder that this episode of his French life should be +the only one of which his work showed the influence? +After that he divided his life into two distinct parts. +For a long time he continued to suffer in an environment +material almost to the point of grossness, in which his +frail and sensitive temperament was engulfed; then,—he +escaped from the present into the impalpable regions of +art, taking refuge among the memories of his earliest youth +in his beloved Poland, which alone he immortalized in +his songs.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span></p> + +<p>Chopin soon acquired a horror of Majorca. He felt +seriously ill. In addition, he had little taste for the +country, and less still for this Spanish monastery where +his imagination failed to find the intimate warmth and +urbanity in which alone it could unfold. His spirit +was wounded to the quick; “the fold of a rose leaf, +the shadow of a fly, made him bleed.” He was dying +of impatience to get away, and even Sand confessed +that “these poetic intervals which one voluntarily +interpolates into life are but periods of transition, +moments of repose granted to the spirit before it again +undertakes the <i>exercise of the emotions</i>.” Underline +these words, so luminous in the analysis of their characters. +For this deceived woman Valdemosa was a +poetic interlude, a time of waiting, an intellectual +vacation. Already she was dreaming only of taking +up again the exercise of her feelings, while for Chopin, +his life was done, his emotions were exhausted. There +was but one joy left to which he aspired: the great +peace of work. “For the love of God, write,” he +enjoins Fontana. “I am sending you the <i>Preludes</i>. +Re-copy them with Wolf. I think there are no mistakes. +Give one copy to Probst (publisher) and the manuscript +to Pleyel. Out of the 1,500 francs he will give you, pay +the rent on my apartment up to the first of January, +that is, 450 francs. Give the place up if you think you +can find another for April....”</p> + +<p>This savours of a return, and is like an odour of +Paris. The life at the monastery was becoming really +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span>unbearable. A servant left them, swearing they were +plague infected. They had all the trouble in the world +to procure supplies, thanks to the bad faith of the +peasants, who made them pay ten times too much for +everything. The skimmed goat’s milk meant for Chopin +was stolen from them. No one would consent to +wait on the consumptive, whose health declined. Even +their clothes mildewed on their backs. There was nothing +for it but flight from this hard-hearted land.</p> + +<p>They strapped their baggage at last, nailed up their +boxes,—and were refused a carriage in which to go +down to Palma. They were obliged to do the three +leagues by <i>birlocho</i>, a sort of wheelbarrow, Chopin +barely able to breathe. At Palma he had a dreadful +hæmorrhage. Nevertheless, they embarked on the one +boat of the island, on which a hundred pigs were already +grunting. The artist was given the most miserable +bunk, as they said it would have to be burned. The +next day, at Barcelona, he lost a full bowl of blood +and drooped like a ghost. But it was the end of their +miseries. The Consul and the commandant of the +French naval station took them in and had them put +on board a sloop-of-war, <i>Le Méléagre</i>, whose doctor +succeeded in arresting Chopin’s hæmorrhage.</p> + +<p>They rested eight days at an inn. On the fifteenth +of February, 1839, George wrote to Madame Marliani: +“My sweet dear, here I am at Barcelona. God grant +that I get out soon and never again set foot in Spain! +It is a country that I do not relish in any respect.... +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span>Read Grzymala the part about Chopin, and warn him +not to mention it, because after the good hope the +doctor gives me, it is useless to alarm his family.”</p> + +<p>A few days later, they landed at Marseilles. It was +perfect happiness.</p> + +<p>“At last, my dear, I am here in France.... A +month more and we should have died in Spain, Chopin +and I; he of melancholy and disgust; I of fury and +indignation. They wounded me in the tenderest spot +in my heart, with their pinpricks at a being who was +suffering before my eyes; I shall never forgive them, +and if I write of them it shall be with gall.”</p> + +<p>To François Rollinat, the real confidant of her life: +“Dear friend, I should not like to learn that you have +suffered as much as I during my absence....”</p> + +<p>Such was the brilliant return from this honeymoon.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII"> + CHAPTER XII + <br> + <span class="smcap">“If music be the food of love, play on”</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Nietzsche, on a very dark day, wrote to a +friend: “Isn’t it a work of art: to hope?” In +landing at Marseilles in the early spring of 1839, Chopin +and George Sand built a work of art, because they +hoped, because they were overflowing with that inexplicable +enthusiasm that the most banal things inspire +at certain predestined hours. Anything sufficed: an +expected letter, a beautiful face, the shadow of a church +on the street, the reassuring words of a doctor, to convince +them that this was the dawn of a convalescence +that would dry their almost rotted love and ripen +it, transmute it into a peaceful and lasting friendship. +Sometimes nothing more than a chance landscape is +enough to change the rhythm of souls.</p> + +<p>At Majorca, one might wonder if the deserted monastery +was not a sort of Dantesque Purgatory from +which Sand explored the Hells and the invalid felt himself +already rising towards Heaven. “This Chopin is +an angel,” George had written. “At Majorca, while +he was sick unto death, he wrote music that had the +very smell of Paradise; but I am so used to seeing +him in Heaven that neither his life nor his death seems +likely to prove anything for him. He does not know +himself on which planet he exists.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span></p> + +<p>At Marseilles, a good town of grocers, perfumers, +soap sellers, their feet were once more on the earth. +They settled at the Hôtel de Beauvau, saw a physician, +and decided to await the summer in the south. This +resolution was not carried out without a certain amount +of boredom, but boredom itself contributes to rest, +which was so necessary after their voyage of miscarried +love. They had, besides, to shut themselves up against +the mistral and the pests that entered by all the doors. +But they lay hidden. Dr. Cauvières regularly sounded +Chopin’s lungs, made him wear cupping glasses, put +him on a diet and pronounced him well on the way to +cicatrization. He could begin to play again, to walk, +to talk like anybody else, he whose voice for weeks +had been nothing more than a breath. He slept a great +deal. He busied himself with the publication of his +works, wrote to Fontana on the subject of their dedications, +and discussed with him the price of his new +compositions. For he had to think of the future, about +the Paris apartment he had decided to re-rent: “Take +Schlesinger the 500 francs you will receive from Probst +for the <i>Ballade</i>.” “Schlesinger is trying to cheat me, +but he makes enough out of me; be polite to him.” +“Tell him I shall sell the <i>Ballade</i> for France and England +for 800 francs and the <i>Polonaises</i> for Germany, +England and France for 1,500.” He grew angry. He +stood out against the publishers and would cede nothing. +“As for money, you must make a clear contract and +not hand over the manuscripts except for cash....” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span>“I should rather give my manuscripts as I did before, +for a low price, than stoop to these....” He returned +to the charge in April: “Keep everything till +I come back since they are such Jews. I have sold the +<i>Preludes</i> to Pleyel and have so far received only 500 +francs. He has the right to do as he pleases about +them. As for the <i>Ballade</i> and the <i>Polonaises</i>, do not +sell them either to Schlesinger or to Probst... get +them back... Enough. Enough for you and for +me. My health improves but I am angry.” “It is +not my fault if I seem like a toadstool that poisons you +when you dig it up and eat it. You know perfectly +well that I have never been of any use to anyone, not +even myself. Meanwhile, they continue to regard me +as not tubercular. I drink neither coffee nor wine, only +milk. I keep in the warmth and look like a young +lady.”</p> + +<p>In March the famous singer Nourrit died at Naples +and it was rumoured that he had committed suicide. +His body was brought to Marseilles the following +month, and a funeral service was arranged at Notre-Dame-du-Mont. +To honour the memory of a friend +whom he had seen so often at Liszt’s and had even +entertained himself, Chopin agreed to take the organ +during the Elevation. Although the instrument was +squeaky and out of tune, he drew from it what music +he could. He played <i>The Stars</i> of Schubert, which +Nourrit had sung a short time before at Marseilles: and, +renouncing all theatricality, the artist played this melody +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span>with the softest stops. George was in the organ stall +with a few friends, and her fine eyes filled with tears. +The public did not recognize the novelist in this little +woman dressed in black.</p> + +<p>In May, Chopin was strong enough to take a short +trip to Genoa with his mistress. It was a beautiful +interlude. They visited the palaces, the terraced gardens, +the picture-galleries. Did she think of that journey of +almost four years earlier, when with Musset she first +put foot on this Italian soil? Genoa is perhaps the +only town where their love was not overcast. She +has written that to see it again was a pleasure. I do +not know if the word is sincere but it does not ring +true. Something like a wrinkle of fatigue, however, +can be seen in the statement which she made, on her +return, to Mme. Marliani: “I no longer like journeys, +or rather, <i>I am no longer in such condition that I am able +to enjoy them</i>.” One hopes, too, that Chopin knew +nothing of that first Genoese visit, because, for a distrustful +heart, such a picture would have been terrific.</p> + +<p>On May 22nd, they left Marseilles and started for +Nohant, where they planned to spend the entire summer. +After a week of jolting, they at last reached the wide, +well-cultivated district of Berry, “studded with great +round walnut trees” and cut by shady roads that George +loved. All at once, there was the modest village, the +church with its tiled roof, and, bordering the square, +the château. A country château that symbolized the +double origin, royal and plebeian, of this woman of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span>thirty-five years whom all Europe regarded with admiration, +and who brought to the nest her <i>little one</i>, her +new little one, a noble and diaphanous young man who +seemed to have dropped down like a sea-bird into this +ancient French country-side.</p> + +<p>Dear woman, must we admire you for the period of +rest you accorded to this beautiful weary soul? We +know that you were bad for him, sometimes, because +you were sound, ardent, and, in spite of everything, +curious about that inviolable mind, about those limbs +without desire. But we have seen too that you knew +your rôle of guardian. “Of whom shall I take care?” +you cried, when your other invalid had left you because +he could no longer bear the sufferings with which you +seasoned your pleasure. Dear woman, nevertheless! +You cannot be judged by any common standards, you +with your hot blood and your heart always so soon +feasted by the very strength of its own hungers. The +enormous labour you accomplished was but the result of +your own energies. They burdened you with work. +They tired you out like a man. You never found +those horrible mental tasks too stupid, those tasks from +which they feigned to derive an elastic and libertarian +moral, when you were really made but for love and +travail and the old human order. This is all rather +amusing, and sad as truth. But we must thank you for +having in some sort made Musset and broken that easy fop +to healthy sorrows. We cannot blame you, as others +do, for having finished Chopin. You fought for him +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span>a long time against his malady. If you bruised him +further, it is because even your friendship was costly. +But always, it was your best that you gave.</p> + +<p>Now that we have seen you enter Nohant with this +new prey to your tenderness, let us say with Shakespeare: +“If music be the food of love, play on.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Chopin never liked the country. Yet he enjoyed +Nohant. The house was comfortable. After Majorca +and Marseilles, it was a joy to have a large room, fine +sheets, a well-ordered table, a few beautiful pieces of +furniture. Without being luxurious, the big house +had a pleasant air. There was a sense of ease. He +was spoiled, petted. An old friend of George’s, Dr. +Papet, ran up at once to examine the invalid thoroughly. +He diagnosed a chronic affection of the larynx: he +ordered plenty of rest and a long stay in the country. +Chopin submitted with no difficulty to this programme, +and adopted a perfectly regulated, wise way of living. +While George went back to the education of her children +and her job as a novelist, he corrected a new edition of +Bach, finished his <i>Sonata in B flat minor</i>, the second +<i>Nocturne</i> of op. 37 and four <i>Mazurkas</i> (op. 41). They +dined out of doors, between five and six o’clock. Then +a few neighbours dropped in, the Fleurys, the Duteils, +Duvernet, Rollinat, and they talked and smoked. From +the first, they all treated Chopin with respectful sympathy. +Hippolyte Chatiron, George’s half-brother, who +lived with his wife in the immediate neighbourhood, a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span>kind of squireen, good-natured and convivial, formed +a passionate friendship for him.</p> + +<p>When they had gone Chopin played the piano in the +twilight; then at Solange’s and Maurice’s bedtime, he +too went to bed and slept like a child. As for George, +she took up the Encyclopædia and prepared the lessons +for the next day. Truly a family life, such, exactly, as +Chopin understood best; such also as he needed during +his working periods.</p> + +<p>“I am composing here a <i>Sonata</i> in B flat minor,” he +wrote to Fontana, “in which the <i>Funeral March</i> you +already have will be incorporated. There is an <i>allegro</i>, +then a <i>scherzo</i> in E flat minor, the <i>March</i>, and a short +<i>finale</i> of about three pages. After the <i>March</i> the left +hand babbles along <i>unisono</i> with the right. I have a +new <i>Nocturne</i> in G major to accompany the one in G +minor, if you remember it. You know I have four +new <i>Mazurkas</i>: one from Palma in E minor, three +from here in B major, in A flat major, and C sharp minor. +To me they seem as pretty as the youngest children +seem to parents who are growing old. Otherwise, I +am doing nothing; I am correcting a Paris edition of +Bach’s works. There are not only misprints, but, I +believe, harmonic errors committed by those who think +they understand Bach. I am not correcting them with +the pretention of understanding him better than they, +but with the conviction that I can sometimes divine +how the thing ought to go.”</p> + +<p>Every evening, during that hour of music that Chopin +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span>dedicated to George alone, she listened and dreamed. +She was a choice listener. Without doubt, it was in those +moments that these two souls, so impenetrable to each +other, understood each other best. She fully realized +that he was the extreme artist type; that it would never +be possible to make him accept any jot of reality; that +his continued dream was too far from the world, too +little philosophic for her to be able to follow into those +unpeopled regions. But it was, nevertheless, sweet to +be the object of such a man’s preference. Cruel also, because +if Chopin kept usurious account of the least light +given him, “he did not take the trouble to hide his +disappointment at the first darkness.” His fantastic +humour, his profound depressions, at once interested +and worried the amateur of emotions in George. But +a kind of terror gripped her heart at the thought of a +new obligation she would assume if Frederick were +definitely to install himself with her. She was no longer +under the illusion of passion. She was afraid of having +some day to struggle against some other love that might +conquer her and prove the death of this frail being she +had torn from himself. Then she stiffened. One more +duty in a life already so burdened, would this not be +precisely a defence against temptation—an even greater +chance for her to attain to that austerity towards which +she felt herself drawn by the old depths of religious +enthusiasm of which she had never freed herself? How +should she settle the matter? She compromised by +leaving it for time to tell.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span></p> + +<p>As for Chopin, this peaceful lot was too perfectly +fitted to the measure of his strength for him to dream +of any change. He was radiating all his gentleness, he +was creating; such was his beautiful present, his only +possible future. While he improvised George opened +a scrapbook and wrote: “The genius of Chopin is +the most profound and pregnant of feeling and emotions +that has ever existed. He makes a single instrument +speak the language of the infinite. He knows how to +gather into ten lines that even a child could play poems +of immense elevation, dramas of unequalled power. +He never needs great material means.... He needs +neither saxophone nor bass horns to fill the soul with +terror; neither Cathedral organs nor the human voice +to give it faith and exultation. There must be great +advances in taste and artistic intelligence if his works are +ever to become popular.... Chopin knows his +strength and his weakness. His weakness lies in the +very excess of that strength, which he cannot control. +His music is full of delicate shades of feeling and of the +unexpected. Sometimes, rarely, it is bizarre, mysterious, +and tormented. In spite of his horror of the unintelligible, +his overpowering emotions sometimes +sweep him unconsciously into regions known to him +alone.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Towards the end of the summer, they all decided +to return to Paris. Sand was persuaded that she could +not manage to finish the education of her children +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span>without assistance. Maurice was eager to learn drawing; +Solange was difficult, a little sullen, stubborn. +George also had to see her publisher, Buloz, the editor +of the <i>Revue des Deux Mondes</i>. Chopin wanted to get +to his pupils again and resume their lessons, the main +source of his revenue. So they bombarded friends with +letters, asking them to find two apartments not too far +from each other. Grzymala, Arago and Fontana started +a search. From Nohant, instructions rained on the +heads of the three friends.</p> + +<p>Chopin asked them to choose a <i>dove-like</i> wallpaper, +glowing and glossy, for his rooms. Something else for +the vestibule, but still <i>respectable</i>. If there was anything +more beautiful, more fashionable, they were not to hesitate +to get it.</p> + +<p>“I prefer something simple, modest, elegant, to the +loud, common colours the shopkeepers use. That is +why I like pearl-grey, because it is neither striking nor +vulgar. Thank you for the servant’s room, because it +is really essential.”</p> + +<p>For George, it was vital that the house should be +quiet. There must be three bedrooms, two next to +each other, and one separated by the drawing-room. +Close to the third there must be a well-lighted work-room. +Drawing- and dining-room must be next each other. +Two servants’ rooms and a cellar. Inlaid floors in good +condition if possible. But most of all, quiet,—“no +blacksmith in the neighbourhood.” A decent staircase, +windows facing south. “No young ladies, no smoke +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span>or unpleasant odours.” Chopin even took the trouble +to sketch the plan of this imagined suite.</p> + +<p>Soon they had good news. Chopin was to live at +5, rue Tronchet, while George was to have two small +pavilions in a garden at 16, rue Pigalle. Nohant was +in a state of joy, and Frederick, always so particular +about matters of elegance, now began to think of his +clothes. He wrote again to Fontana: “I forgot to +ask you to order a hat for me at Duport’s, rue de la +Chausée d’Antin. He has my measure and knows what +I want. Show him this year’s shape, not too exaggerated, +because I don’t know how you are dressing now. +Also, drop in on Dautremont, my tailor, on the Boulevards, +and tell him to make me a pair of grey trousers. +Will you choose a dark shade, for winter trousers, +something good, not striped, but plain and soft. You +are English; so you know what I ought to have. +Dautremont will be glad to know that I am coming +back. I also need a black velvet waistcoat, but one +with very little ornament and not loud,—a plain waistcoat, +but elegant. If he has no very fine velvet, let him +make a waistcoat of fine wool, but not too open....” +In recompense for all these errands: “... I shall keep +changing the second part of the <i>Polonaise</i> for you till +the end of my life. Yesterday’s version may not please +you either, though it put my brain on the rack for +eighty seconds. I have copied out my manuscripts in +good order. There are six with your <i>Polonaises</i>, not +counting the seventh, an impromptu, which may be +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span>worthless. I can’t judge of it, myself, because it is too +new. Titus advises me to compose an oratorio. I +have asked him in reply why he is building a sugar mill +rather than a Dominican monastery. As you are such a +clever fellow, you can arrange so that neither black +thoughts nor suffocating cough shall bother me in my +new rooms. Arrange for me to be good. Erase, if +you can, many episodes of my past. And it would +be no bad thing if I set myself a task that will last me +several years. Finally, you would oblige me by growing +much younger, or in finding a way of arranging for us +to be not yet born.</p> + +<p class="right"> + “Your old <span class="smcap">Frederick</span>.” +</p> + +<p>Both Frederick and George settled in Paris in October +of that year, 1839. But they were soon convinced that +after a whole year of existence together it would be +difficult to live apart. Chopin still had need of attentions, +precautions. He gave up his lodging to Dr. Matuszinski, +and moved with his furniture to the lower +floor of one of the two pavilions in the rue Pigalle.</p> + +<p>So these longed-for years of great and perfect work, +unrolled themselves in about the desired rhythm. +During the morning, the professors for Maurice and +Solange succeeded one another. In Chopin’s part of +the house it was a procession of pupils. His lessons +lasted at least an hour, sometimes more. It often happened +that the master would play the pieces himself. +On one occasion he played from memory to one of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span>his pupils fourteen <i>Preludes</i> and <i>Fugues</i> of Bach. And +as the young girl expressed her admiration for this +<i>tour de force</i>, “One can never forget them,” he said, +smiling. “For a year I have not practised a quarter +of an hour at a time. I have no strength, no energy. +I am always waiting for a little health to take all that +up again, but—I am still waiting.” Such efforts exhausted +him. He used to take a little opium in a glass +of water, and rub his temples with <i>eau-de-Cologne</i>.</p> + +<p>“The final triumph,” he continued, “is simplicity. +When you have exhausted all the difficulties, and have +played an immense quantity of notes, simplicity emerges +in all its charm, as the final seal of art. Anyone who +expects to achieve it at the outset will never succeed +in so doing; you cannot begin at the end.”</p> + +<p>The afternoon was generally devoted to the personal +work of the two artists. In the evening they met at +George’s, and dined together; then someone or another +of the intimates of the household came to see them. +The salon was <i>café au lait</i> in colour, decorated with very +fine Chinese vases always filled with flowers in the +Chopinesque mode. The furniture was green; there +was a sideboard of oak laden with curiosities and, on +the wall, the portrait of the hostess by Calamatta and +several canvases by Delacroix. The piano was bare, +square, ebony. Chopin almost always sat at it. At +one side, George’s bedroom could be seen, where two +mattresses on the floor covered with a Persian rug +served as a bed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span></p> + +<p>Sand arose late, because she sat up most of the night. +Chopin polished and put the final touches to his works, +the first versions of which had in general come to him +during the summer. His creation was entirely spontaneous. +It gushed forth during a walk, an hour of +meditation, or it might unfold sudden and complete, +while he was sitting before his piano. He played it to +himself, sang it, took it up again, modified its accents. +Then began that immensely laborious quest of perfection, +which will always be, whatever people may say, +the essential mandate of the artist. “He locked himself +in his room for whole days at a time, weeping, walking +up and down, shattering his pens, repeating or changing +a single bar a hundred times, writing it down only +to rub it out again, and beginning all over again the +next day with minute and despairing perseverance. +He spent six weeks on one page, only to write it finally +as he had jotted it down in the first flush.” In noting +these things, George was exasperated with the genuine +surprise of facile creators who are not tortured by any +yearning for finality. But, like Giotto, who, when +the Pope asked for a perfect example of his knowledge, +wanted to send only a true circle, so Chopin, having filled +one line with all the ornament of his thought, came +back to exquisite nudity, the final and sufficient symbol +of the idea. So a poet works. So he squeezes his +universe into the smallest possible limits, makes it as +heavy as a crystal, but gleaming from a thousand facets. +That is what made that great blackener of paper, Sand, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span>say that Chopin could compress into a few bars “poems +of immense elevation, dramas of unequalled power.” +Mozart alone, she thought, was superior to him, because +he had the calm of health, and so the fullness of life. +But who knows what happy accidents illness may bring +to art? It is certain that Chopin’s breathlessness, his +nervousness, brought to his virile inspiration those +qualities of languor, those weary echoes by which he +touches us most finely.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIII"> + CHAPTER XIII + <br> + <span class="smcap">On some Friendships of Chopin, and on his Æsthetics</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>It was not only furniture and habits that were held +in common in the rue Pigalle, but friends as well. +Sharing,—that was the great doctrine of Pierre Leroux, +George’s new director of conscience and “preacher of +eternal Truth in its steady progress.” According to +this philosophic typographer, it passed from people to +people according to mysterious laws, becoming incarnate +now in one, now in another, and had just settled in +Poland. The mission of the Poles was thus all equality, +fraternity, love. Chopin smiled at this, without revealing +his opinion. But he often invited his compatriots, +who joined all of George’s friends: Leroux, Delacroix, +Pauline Viardot, the great singer, and Heinrich Heine +at the head. Frederick introduced the Grzymala brothers, +Prince Czartoryski, Franchomme, the violoncellist, +Fontana, the poets Slowacki and Krasinski, the +artist Kwiatkowsky, and above all Miçkiewicz, the author +of <i>Dziady</i> (or <i>The Feast of the Dead</i>), whom they thought +profounder than Goethe and Byron.</p> + +<p>He was an ecstatic, a visionary, inspired, at any rate, +and, like Socrates, St. John, or Dante, was smitten +occasionally with “intellectual falling-sickness.” At +such times he became fired with an eloquence that +enraptured his listeners and sent them into veritable +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span>trances. George Sand, so sensitive to disturbances, +either the highest or the lowest, found herself ravished +to the point of ecstasy before the sublime abstractions +of this dreamer, the whispers of his soul, by which +she was led into those dangerous regions where reason +and madness go hand in hand. Ecstasy is contagious. +Assuredly it is an evil for simple souls; but with +the great spirits, such as Apollonius of Tyre, Moses, +Swedenborg, Pierre Leroux, Miçkiewicz, and, who knows, +George Sand, perhaps, is it not a sacred enthusiasm, +a divine faculty of understanding the incomprehensible, +“capable of producing the most noble results when +inspired by a great moral and metaphysical cause?” +This is the question George put to herself in her <i>Journal</i>. +Meanwhile, this Miçkiewicz gave at the College de +France a course of lectures full of logic and clarity. He +was great hearted, had himself perfectly in hand, and +reasoned with mastery. But he was transported into +exaltation by the very nature of his beliefs, by the violence +of his partially savage instincts, the momentum of his +poetic faith, and the sentiment, so fecund in all these +exiles, of the misfortunes of their fatherland.</p> + +<p>Chopin also believed in the mystic aureole of this +saintly bard. He did not know that Miçkiewicz, overjoyed +at having been able to win so great a convert as +George, thought her lover “her evil genius, her moral +vampire, her cross, who tortured and would possibly +end by killing her.” How surprising such a judgment +from one who received secret communications from the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span>other world! Fortunately, Sainte-Beuve came along, +lent his delicate ear to Miçkiewicz and declared that if +he had eloquence his faults should be noticed as well. +However delicate Chopin’s perceptions, he no longer +regarded them because for him Miçkiewicz was the +great bell that tolled the sorrows of Poland. Who could +be more stimulating than this apostle prophesying the +resurrection of his country? The Redeemer was announced. +The Saviour was about to arise, and his +coming must be hastened by deeds of faith and by +repentance.</p> + +<p>Sometimes in the evening the seer came to the rue +Pigalle accompanied by several of his compatriots. He +would retire into a dim corner of the little salon and read +his <i>Infernal Comedy</i> or one of his <i>Ballades</i>, some new poem +filled with the odour of his forests. Or else, in a divine +delirium, he would improvise. That great Slavic dismay, +mute and passive, soon appeared on the face of the +exiles and was prolonged in a silence loaded with memories. +Then Chopin would rise and seat himself at the +piano. The lamp would be still further lowered. He +would begin with feathery arpeggios, stealing over the +keys in his usual way, until he encountered the <i>blue +note</i>, the pitch which seemed to correspond best to the +general atmosphere. Then he would start one of his +favourite pieces, the <i>Etude</i> in thirds from the second +volume, for instance (G sharp minor). One of his +compatriots called it <i>The Siberian</i> because it symbolized +the journey of the deported Pole. The snow falls on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span>the endless plains. (An ascending and descending scale +for each hand pictures this universal infinity in a striking +manner.) You hear the bells of the troika that approaches, +passes, and disappears towards the horizon. +And each one of them has seen a brother or a friend pass +by, escorted by two Russian police who were taking +him off for ever. Or else a <i>scherzo</i> takes shape, crystallizes: +an old popular refrain that Frederick has heard +in his childhood at the doors of the village inn. All of +them, recognizing it, follow with muted humming from +between tightened lips, while tears cover their faces. +And the artist varies it, scans it softly, throws it up +and catches it again, neglects the colouring, seeking only +the design. For him the design is the soul. In spite +of effects of resonance, of cloudlike fluidity, it is the +design he pursues, the pure line of his thought. One +of the friends who heard him writes: “His eyes burned +with a feverish animation, his lips became blood-red, his +breath short. He felt, we felt, that part of his life was +running out with the sounds.” Suddenly a little dry +cough, a sudden pause in a <i>pianissimo</i> passage, and in +the dim light Chopin raises his fine white face with black-circled +eyes.</p> + +<p>But the evenings did not always end on this affecting +scene. Sometimes, on the contrary, there would burst +out from behind the piano the Emperor of Austria, an +insolent old man, a phlegmatic Englishman, a sentimental +and ridiculous Englishwoman, a sordid old Jew. It +was again Chopin, past master of grimaces, who, after +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span>having drawn tears from all eyes, wrinkled their faces +with fits of laughter.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Among George Sand’s old friends was a delicate, +pale, nervous little man, with however, a will and a +mind so strong that he stands out from his time like +a bronze figure in an Olympus of plaster casts. In his +own profession he was at once the most violent, the +steadiest, the purest of creators. But, as in art everything +is, as he said, a matter of the soul, here is an opinion +which coming from his pen has some weight. He +wrote: “Times without number, I have talked intimately +to Chopin, whom I like greatly. He is a man +of rare distinction and the truest artist I have ever met. +He is of that small number that one can admire and +esteem.”</p> + +<p>This man was named Eugène Delacroix. His very +young friend, Baudelaire, said of him that he loved the +big, the national, the overwhelming, the universal, as +is seen in his so-called decorative painting or in his <i>big +machines</i>. What could be farther from Chopin’s whole +æsthetic? But they had both a certain taste for the +conventional, especially in the arts which were not their +own. Delacroix, the powerful innovator, liked only +the classic in literature, only Mozart in music. Chopin, +in painting, greatly preferred M. Ingres to Delacroix. +Opposite as they were in culture, in tendencies, in taste, +yet Chopin and Delacroix understood each profoundly +in their hearts. Delacroix, a great lover and connoisseur +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span>of music, soon placed Chopin directly after Mozart. +As for Chopin, who loved and respected the man, he +continued to detest his painting. It was above all in +temperament that they were brothers. “... A mixture +of scepticism, politeness, dandyism, of burning +will, of finesse, of despotism, and finally of an especial +kind of goodness, and of <i>restrained tenderness</i> that always +goes with genius.” Well now, who is the subject of +this portrait that so resembles Chopin? It is still Baudelaire +talking of Delacroix. A hater of crowds, a polished +sceptic, a man of the world entirely preoccupied in +dissimulating the cholers of his heart,—such characteristics +applied to either of them. Both violent, both +reserved, both modest, such were these aristocrats born +among the people. Delacroix taking his old servant +to the Louvre to explain the Assyrian sculpture to her, +or Chopin playing the piano for his valet,—these are +pictures which give a better critical estimate than ten +pages of abstractions. Let us add that both of them +were invalids, both sufferers, both tubercular, and that +the only revenge they could take upon life was to live +by the spirit. I should say: by the emotional spirit. +Exquisite judges of nuances, music furnished them with +incomparable ones. Mozart was their God because his +science naturally was equal to his inspiration. Of the +works of Beethoven they said: “Vulgar passages side by +side with sublime beauty.” To the ear of Delacroix +he was sometimes diffuse, tortuous; to Chopin’s too +athletic, too Shakespearean, with a passion that always +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span>bordered on a cataclysm. Yet the painter admired him +because he found him modern, entirely of his own +times. That is precisely the reason that made him +suspect to Chopin, who before everything demanded +a delicately decanted wine, a liqueur from which rose +the bouquet of memory. Nietzsche said later on: “All +music begins to have its <i>magical</i> effect only from the +moment when we hear the language of our past in it.” +Now that exile, Chopin, never heard anything but the +oldest voices of his memory. That was his poetry.</p> + +<p>“When Beethoven is obscure,” he said, “and seems +to lack unity, the cause is not the rather savage, pretended +originality, for which people honour him; it +is that he turns his back on the eternal principles; +Mozart never. Each of the parts has its own direction +which, even while harmonizing with the others, forms +a song and follows it perfectly. In that is the counterpoint, +<i>punto contrapunto</i>. It’s the custom to learn harmony +before counterpoint, that is, the succession of +notes that lead up to the chords. Berlioz pounds out +the chords and fills up the intervals as best he can. In +music, the purest logic is the <i>fugue</i>. To know the fugue +thoroughly is to know the element of all reason and all +deduction.”</p> + +<p>Sand tells us that one day she came to Delacroix’s +studio to take him to dine at her house where Chopin +was asking for him. She found him at work, his neck +wrapped in woollens, just like her “regular invalid,” +coughing like him, and husky, but raging none the less +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span>against Ingres and his Stratonice. They joined Chopin. +He did not like the Stratonice either; he found the +figures mannered, but the “finish” of the painting +pleased him. In everything he was a lover of the exact, +of the finished.</p> + +<p>“About colour,” he said, “I don’t understand a +thing.”</p> + +<p>They dined. At dessert, Maurice asked his master +to explain the phenomenon of reflections to him, and +Delacroix drew a comparison between the tones of a painting +and the sounds of music. Chopin was astonished.</p> + +<p>“The harmony of music,” explained the painter, “is +not only in the construction of chords, but also in their +relations, their logical sequence, their sweep, their +auditory reflections. Well, painting is no different. +The reflection of reflections...”</p> + +<p>Chopin bursts out: “Let me breathe. One reflection +is enough for the moment. It’s ingenious, new, +but it is alchemy to me.”</p> + +<p>“No, it’s pure chemistry. The tones decompose and +recompose themselves constantly, and the reflection is +not separated from the <i>relief</i>.”</p> + +<p>Here is Delacroix well in the saddle. He explains +colour, line, flat tones; that all colour is an exchange +of reflections; that what M. Ingres lacks is half of +painting, half of sight, half of life, that he is half a man +of genius, the other half an imbecile.</p> + +<p>But Chopin is not listening. He rises and goes to +the piano. He improvises an instant, stops.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span></p> + +<p>“But,” cries Delacroix, “it’s not finished.”</p> + +<p>“It’s not begun. Nothing comes to me... Nothing +but reflections, shadows, reliefs that won’t become +clear. I look for colour, and can’t even find design.”</p> + +<p>“You’ll never find one without the other, and you +are going to find both of them.”</p> + +<p>“But if I only find moonlight?”</p> + +<p>“You will have found a reflection of a reflection.”</p> + +<p>Chopin returned to his theme without seeming to +begin again, so vague was his melody. Then the <i>blue +note</i> sounded, and they were transported into the heavens, +straying with the clouds above the roofs of the square.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Several times already we have noticed this <i>blue note</i>. +It did not alone proceed from the characteristic Chopin +pitches. It was the song of his touch, the timbre of +his hand. Like Liszt, Chopin had a distinct state of +consciousness in each of his fingers. He managed to +disassociate their impressions, to make them transmit +to his brain a harmony of infinitely varied manual +sensations. It was a whole education in technique and +observation which taught a new method of self-knowledge, +how to think of oneself in a new way.</p> + +<p>For him, a good technique had for its object not the +ability to play everything with an equal tone but to +acquire a beautiful quality of touch in order to bring +out nuances perfectly. “For a long time,” he said, +“pianists have gone against nature in trying to give equal +tone to each finger. On the contrary, each finger should +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span>play its proper part. The thumb has the greatest +strength, because it is the largest and most independent +of the fingers. After that comes the little finger, at the +other end of the hand. Then the index, the principal +support of the hand. Then the middle finger, the +weakest of all. As for its Siamese twin, some pianists +try, by putting all their strength into it, to make it independent. +That is impossible, and perfectly useless. +So there are several kinds of tones, as there are several +fingers. It is a matter of profiting by these differences. +This, in other words, is the whole art of fingering.”</p> + +<p>Chopin had worked a great deal on these questions +of transcendental mechanics. Taking his hand, which +was small, people were surprised by its bony resistence. +One of his friends has said that it was the frame of a +soldier covered with the muscles of a woman. Another, +on the contrary, thought it a boneless hand. Stephen +Heller was stupefied to see him cover a third of the +keyboard, and compared his hand to the jaw of a snake +opening suddenly to swallow a whole rabbit in one +mouthful.</p> + +<p>He had invented a method of fingering all his own. +His touch was, thanks to this care, softer than any other +in the world, opposed to all theatricality, and of a beauty +that charmed from the first bars. In order to give the +hand a correct position, he had it placed lightly on the +keyboard in such a way that the fingers struck the <i>E, +F sharp, G sharp, A sharp</i>, and <i>B</i>. This was, to his mind, +the normal position. Without changing it, he made +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span>his pupils do exercises designed to give independence +and equality to the fingers. Then he put them at +<i>staccato</i>, to give them lightness, then at <i>staccato-legato</i>, and +finally at <i>accented-legato</i>. He taught a special system +to keep the hand in its close and easy position while +using the thumb in scales and in <i>arpeggio</i> passages. +This perfect ease of the hand seemed to him a major +virtue, and the only means of attaining exact and equalized +playing, even when it was necessary to pass the +thumb under the fourth or fifth finger. But these +exercises explain also how Chopin executed his extremely +difficult accompaniments (unknown until his time), +which consist in striking notes that are very distant from +each other. We can easily understand how much he +must have shocked the pianists of the old school by +his original fingering, which had always the object of +keeping the hand in the same position, even while +passing the third or fourth finger over the fifth. Sometimes +he held it completely flat, and thus obtained effects +of velvet and of finesse that threw Berlioz, and even +Liszt, into ecstasy. To acquire the independence of the +fingers, he recommended letting them fall freely and +lightly, while holding the hand as if suspended in the air +without any pressure. He did not want his pupils to +take the rapid movements too soon, and made them +play all the passages very <i>forte</i> and very <i>piano</i>. In this +way the qualities of sound were formed of themselves, +and the hand was never tired. It is he who, always for +the purpose which he considered so important, of gaining +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span>the independence of the fingers, conceived the idea +of making his pupils play the scales with an accent on +each third or fourth note. He was very angry when +accused of being too free in his handling of the beat. +“Let your left hand be your precentor,” he said, “while +your right hand plays <i>ad lib</i>.”</p> + +<p>Reading these rapid technical indications ought not +to be disheartening. In every art the technique and +the material are the living joys of the intelligence. They +are the beautiful secrets of the potter. Chopin, moreover, +did not leave a <i>method</i>. He dreamed of it, but it +all remained in the state of a project. The big, the +developed, the scholarly frightened him. He always +inhabited closed regions where he did not much like +to be accompanied. He never felt the strength to compose +an opera. His teachers and his friends pressed +him to do it. “With your admirable ideas,” demanded +M. de Perthuis, “why don’t you do an opera for us?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, Count,” replied Chopin, “let me write only +piano music. I do not know enough to build operas.”</p> + +<p>He had a taste for the rare and the finished rather +than for great applause. It was in the detail that he +excelled. His most pregnant harmonic inventions are +made of nothings, but of nothings essential to the +character of his art. Professor Kleczynski, one of his +compatriots to whom I am indebted for several of these +details, has written: “Given the richness of his talent, +he, like Schumann, disappointed us a little. But on +the other hand, putting his whole soul into the little +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span>things, he finished and perfected them in an admirable +manner.” It is precisely in these “little things” that +Chopin was great. Perhaps for him nothing was little. +Indeed, where does the little end, and the big begin? +Without doubt he put his soul into everything from which +he expected a pitch of perfection.</p> + +<p>“When I am ill-disposed,” he said, “I play on an +Erard piano, and easily find a <i>ready-made</i> tone; but when +I feel keyed up, and strong enough to discover <i>my own +tone</i>, then I need a Pleyel piano.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Another friend of Chopin’s was Liszt, a friend by +heart and by profession. People often tried to pitt +one against the other, to persuade each of them that +the contrast of their methods, of their playing as of their +characters, made them rivals. But this was not so, +and if Chopin sometimes seemed rather retiring, and +even timid before the other great virtuoso of his time, +it is because the women interfered.</p> + +<p>George Sand and Marie d’Agoult had known each +other for a long time. Before the reign of Chopin +George had gone to Geneva, where she had sojourned +for a season in the intimacy of this pretty, romantic +left-handed establishment. Then Franz and Marie had +come to spend a summer at Nohant. On both sides +there had been curiosity, admiration, but also secret +jealousies. The Countess prided herself on her writing. +She had a noble style, a sceptical but well-furnished +mind, and, except in love, balance in everything. With +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span>George, spontaneity carried the day. She had at first +a temperamental sympathy for this beautiful tall woman +who threw her bonnet over the great houses of the +Faubourg. It was a brilliant putting into practice of +her theories on love and liberty. “You seem to me +the only beautiful, estimable and truly noble thing that +I have seen shine in the patrician sphere,” she wrote to +her. “You are to me the true type of the Princess +of romance, artistic, loving and noble in manner, language, +and dress, like the daughters of the Kings in +heroic days.” But this extravagant admiration was +entirely literary. So also was it with Marie d’Agoult, +who was much more interested in the almost illustrious +novelist than in this strange descendant of a line of kings +and of a bird-seller. She soon decided to withdraw +Liszt from her influence, and it was with displeasure +that she saw the arrival of that Chopin whose sweet and +profound genius her lover prophesied. So they became +cold. They separated. George sent the Countess to +all the devils.</p> + +<p>But Liszt continued to see Chopin because he loved +him. No one played the Pole’s compositions better +than he, because no one knew them better, nor had +sounded them more deeply and played them more in +his concerts. “I love my music when Liszt plays it,” +said Chopin. In the work which Liszt dedicated, later +on, to his friend, he compares the <i>Etudes</i>, the <i>Preludes</i>, +and the <i>Nocturnes</i> to the masterpieces of La Fontaine. +I do not know that anyone has made a truer comparison. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span>Two great poets, who tried to hold the very-big in the +very-little, and who salted with irony their daily-wounded +hearts. This is the place to recall the words of Heine, +who called Chopin “the Raphaël of the pianoforte.” +In his music “each note is a syllable, each bar a word,” +and each phrase a thought. He invented “those admirable +harmonic progressions by which he dowered +with serious character even those pages which, in view +of the lightness of their subject, seemed to have no claim +to such importance.” It is by their sentiment that they +excel, and on closer examination one recognizes, according +to Liszt, those transitions that unite emotion and thought, +these degrees of tone of which Delacroix speaks. Of the +<i>classic</i> works of Chopin, Liszt admired above all the +<i>adagio</i> of the <i>Second Concerto</i>, for which Chopin himself +had a marked predilection. “The secondary melodies +belong to the author’s most beautiful manner; the +principal phrase is of admirable breadth: it alternates +with a <i>recitative</i> that strikes the minor key and is like +an antistrophe.” In several of the <i>Etudes</i> and of the +<i>Scherzos</i> Liszt discovers the concentrated exasperation, +the proud and ironic despair of Fritz. Yet it takes a +trained ear, because Chopin allowed hardly a suspicion +to be entertained of the “secret convulsions” that +disturbed him. His character “was made up of a thousand +nuances which, in overlapping, disguised each +other in an indecipherable manner.” And Liszt, whose +intelligence always stands out so sharply, wrote this +fine comment on the last works of Chopin: “He used +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span>his art only to play to himself his own tragedy.” After +having sung his feeling, he set himself to disintegrate +it. But even then, the emotion that inspired these +pages remains pure nobility, their expression rests within +“the true limits of the language of art,” without vulgarity, +without wild shrieks, without contortion. “Far +from being diminished, the quality of the harmonic stuff +becomes only more interesting in itself, more curious to +study.”</p> + +<p>Needless to say Chopin considered himself a romantic, +and yet he invoked two masters: Bach and Mozart; +Bach, whom he admired boundlessly, without a single +reserve, and Mozart, in whom he found “the laws of +all the liberties of which he made abundant use.” And +yet he would not admit that “one should demolish +the Greek architrave with the Gothic tower, nor that +one should abolish the pure and exquisite grace of +Italian architecture to the profit of the luxuriant fantasy +of Moorish buildings... He never lent the lightest +approval to what he did not judge to be an effective +conquest for art. His disinterestedness was his strength.” +(Liszt.) We know that Beethoven, Michelangelo, Shakespeare, +frightened him. It seems stranger that he should +not have liked Schumann more. He found Mendelssohn +common, and he would not willingly listen to +certain works of Schubert, “whose contours were too +sharp for his ear, where the feelings seemed to be stripped +naked. All savage brutality repelled him. In music, +as in literature, as in the habit of life, everything that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span>approached melodrama was torture to him.” Apropos +of Schubert he said to Liszt one day:</p> + +<p>“The sublime is defamed when the common or the +trivial takes its place.”</p> + +<p>Even in Mozart he found blemishes. He regretted +certain passages of <i>Don Juan</i>, the work that he adored. +“He managed,” Liszt always said, “to forget what +was repugnant to him, but to reconcile himself to it was +always impossible.” Romantic that he was, yet he +never engaged in any of the controversies of the epoch. +He stood apart from the battles into which Liszt and +Berlioz wholeheartedly threw themselves, but he brought +to their group, nevertheless, convictions that were +“absolute, stubborn, and inflexible.” When his opinions +had prevailed, like a true <i>grand Seigneur</i> and party leader, +he kept himself from pushing his victory too far, and +returned to all his habits of art and of the spirit.</p> + +<p>How often did Liszt bend over the keyboard at Chopin’s +side to follow the sylph-like touch! He studied it with +love and infinite care, and he was the only one who +succeeded in imitating it. “He always made the melody +undulate ...; or else he made it move, indecisive, +like an airy <a id="quote"></a>apparition.” This is the famous <i>rubato</i>. +But the word conveys nothing to those who know, and +nothing to those who do not know, and Chopin ceased +to add this explanation to his music. If one has the +intelligence it is impossible not to divine this <i>rule of +irregularity</i>. Liszt explained it thus to one of his pupils: +“Look at those trees; the wind plays in their leaves +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span>and awakens life in them, yet they do not stir.” His +compositions should be played “with this kind of +accented and prosodic balance, this <i>morbidezza</i> of which +it is difficult to grasp the secret when one has not often +heard Chopin himself play.... He impressed upon +all of them some mystery of nameless colour, of vague +form, of vibrating pulsations, that were almost devoid of +materiality, and, like imponderable things, seemed to +act upon the soul without passing through the senses. +Chopin also liked to throw himself into burlesque +fantasies; of his own accord he sometimes evoked some +scene from Jacques Callot, with laughing, grimacing, +gambolling caricatures, witty and malicious, full of +musical flings, crackling with wit and English humour +like a fire of green boughs. One of these piquant +improvisations remains for us in the fifth <i>Etude</i>, where +only the black keys are played,—just as Chopin’s gaiety +moved only on the higher keys of the spirit.”</p> + +<p>It was to his compatriots that he demonstrated it +most willingly, to a few choice friends. It is said that +even to-day the pupils of his pupils shine in the reflected +glory of these preciously transmitted recipes. Doubtless +there will always be born here or there a Chopinian +soul; but can the intangible be taught? Liszt said: +“Chopin passed among us like a phantom.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIV"> + CHAPTER XIV + <br> + <span class="smcap">Misunderstandings, Loneliness</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>In October, 1839, King Louis-Philippe expressed a +desire to hear Chopin play, and had him invited with +Moschelès, the pianist, to Saint-Cloud. Count de +Perthuis received the two artists at the entrance of the +castle. They had to cross a succession of rooms before +arriving at the Salon Carré, where the royal family were +informally gathered. Round the table sat the Queen +with her work-basket, Madame Adélaïde, the Duchess +of Orleans, and the ladies-in-waiting. Near to these, +the fat King filled his arm-chair. Chopin and Moschelès +were welcomed as old friends. They took turns at the +piano. Chopin played his <i>Nocturnes</i> and <i>Etudes</i>, Moschelès +his own <i>Etudes</i>; then they played as a duet a sonata +by Mozart. At the end of the <i>andante</i> there was a shower +of “delicious!” “divine!” and they were asked to +repeat it. Chopin’s fervour electrified the audience, so +much so that he gave himself up to a real “musical +delirium.” Enthusiasm on all sides. Chopin received +as a souvenir a cup of silver-gilt, Moschelès a travelling-case.</p> + +<p>Such an evening was exactly what was needed to +stimulate Chopin to work. The three years of the rue +Pigalle (1839–1842) which opened under these royal +auspices, were just such as he had wished; years of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span>great and perfect labour. If the year 1839 saw the publication +of only <i>Trois valses brillantes</i>, it was pre-eminently +the year of the <i>Preludes</i>, perhaps the most rare and perfect +of Chopin’s masterpieces. Then came the famous +<i>Sonata in B flat minor</i> of which Schumann said strangely +enough: “... A certain pitiless genius blows in our +face, strikes anyone who tries to stand out against him +with a heavy fist, and makes us listen to the end, fascinated +and uncomplaining... but also without praise, because +this is not music. The sonata ends as it began, +in a riddle, like a mocking Sphinx.”</p> + +<p>Following this, Chopin gave to the world in 1840 +and 1841 four <i>Nocturnes</i>, the second and third <i>Ballades</i>, +a <i>Scherzo</i>, three <i>Polonaises</i>, four <i>Mazurkas</i>, three new +<i>Etudes</i>, a <i>Waltz</i>, the <i>Fantasy in F minor</i>, the <i>Tarantella</i>, +and a <i>Concerto Allegro</i>.</p> + +<p>In the spring of 1841 he consented to play again in +public at Pleyel’s. The hall was crowded, naturally, +for at that time Chopin and Liszt were making the greatest +sensation at Paris. It was Liszt himself, that enthusiastic +heart, who claimed the honour of reporting it +for the <i>Gazette Musicale</i>. Here are a few of the variations +and cadenzas from the pen of the pianist:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“On Monday last, at eight in the evening, the Salon +Pleyel was magnificently lighted; to the foot of the +carpeted and flower-covered stairway a limitless line +of carriages brought the most elegant women, the most +fashionable young people, the most celebrated artists, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span>the richest financiers, the most illustrious of the great +Lords, the whole <i>élite</i> of society, a whole aristocracy of +birth, fortune, talent, and beauty.</p> + +<p>“A large grand piano was open on a stage; they +pressed about it; they sought the closest places, already +they lent their ears, collected their thoughts, and said +that they must not lose a chord, a note, an intention, a +thought of him who was to be seated there, and they +were right to be thus greedy, attentive, religiously stirred, +because he whom they awaited, whom they wanted to +see, to hear, to admire, to applaud, was not only an +accomplished virtuoso, a pianist expert in the art of +making notes, was not only an artist of great renown. +He was all that, and more than all that; he was Chopin.</p> + +<p>“... It is only rare, at very long intervals, that +Chopin is heard in public, but what would be a certain +cause of obscurity and neglect for anyone else is precisely +what assures him a renown beyond the whim of +fashion, and what puts him out of the reach of +rivalry, jealousy and injustice. Chopin, holding aloof +from the excessive turmoil which for the last several +years has driven executive artists from all parts of the +world, one on top of another, and one against another, +has remained constantly surrounded by faithful disciples, +enthusiastic pupils, warm friends, who, while protecting +him from vexing quarrels and painful slights, have never +ceased to spread his works and with them admiration +for his genius and respect for his name. Therefore +this exquisite celebrity always on a plane, excellently +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span>aristocratic, has been free from every attack. He +has been surrounded by a complete absence of criticism, +as though posterity had rendered its verdict; and in the +brilliant audience which flocked about the too long +silent poet, there was not a reticence, not a restriction; +there was but praise from every mouth.”</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Chopin was satisfied with his friend. Some weeks +later he left for Nohant, full of ideas, but with no real +pleasure. “I am not made for the country,” he said, +“although I do rejoice in the fresh air.” That was +really very little. For her part, Sand wrote: “He was +always wanting Nohant, and could never stand Nohant.” +His rural appetite was soon sated. He walked a little, +sat under a tree, or picked a few flowers. Then he +returned and shut himself in his room. He was reproached +for loving the artificial life. What he really +loved was his fever, his dimmed soul, his position as +Madame Sands’ “regular invalid.” Without realizing +it, he cultivated the old leanings of his childhood, his +irresolution, his most morbid sensibility, all the refinements +of luxury and of the spirit. What he did not like +he set himself, unthinkingly, to hate: the plebeian side +of George’s character, her humanitarian dreams, her +friends who were democratic by feeling and by birth, +especially Pierre Leroux, dirty, badly combed, with a +collar powdered with dandruff, who was continually +turning up to beg subsidy. Oh, how good it was to +see Delacroix appear, the perfect dandy, looking as if he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span>had just stepped out of a bandbox! He and Frederick +had the air of two princes strayed into evil company +at the table where Leroux and Maurice’s studio friends +exaggerated their open collar garb. Together the two +artists humorously bewailed George’s toleration of +such freedom. What would Liszt have said, Liszt +so particular in such matters, Liszt who, called himself +a “professor of good manners?” But Madame Sand +had small sympathy with such regard for appearances. +She overrode the bursts of coarse laughter, the shouts, +the disputes of her guests, the familiarity of her servants, +the drunkenness of her brother Hippolyte. She heeded +nothing but the sincerity of heart, listened to nothing +but ideas, and insisted that “flies should not be taken +for elephants.” She termed the exasperation of Chopin +unhealthy, incomprehensible, and refused to see in it +anything but the caprices of a sick child of genius. He +retired into his room and sulked. He was not visible +except at meal times when he looked on the company +with suspicion, with disgust.</p> + +<p>A rather painful incident marked the summer of +1841. It arose through Mlle. de Rozières, a pupil of +Chopin’s, who was George’s friend and the mistress of +Antoine Wodzinski. Chopin thought her an intriguer, +a parasite, and he was displeased that she had been able +to insinuate herself into intimacy with George. More +than that, he thought her ostentatious, loud, and grandiloquent +in the expression of her friendship. But what +loosed his anger was that Antoine, inspired perhaps +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span>by Mlle. de Rozières, had sent to the Wodzinski family +a replica of his, Chopin’s bust, by the sculptor Dantan. +What equivocal intention might they not read into such +an action? What might Marie, his old <i>fiancée</i>, think? +Frederick was aghast, and complained to Fontana, who +had given the statue to Antoine. “I gave Antoine +no permission,” he wrote to him.... “And how +strange this will appear to the family... They will +never believe that it was not I who gave it to him. +These are very delicate matters in which there should be +no meddling touch... Mlle. de Rozières is indiscreet, +loves to parade her intimacy, and delights in interfering +in other people’s affairs. She will embellish all this, +exaggerate it, and make a bull out of a frog, and it won’t +be for the first time. She is (between ourselves) an +insipid swine, who in an astonishing manner has dug +into my private affairs, thrown up the dirt, and rooted +around for truffles among the roses. She is a person +that one must on no account touch, because when one has +touched her the result is sure to be an indescribable +indiscretion. In fact, she is an old maid! We old +bachelors, we are worth a lot more!”</p> + +<p>On her side, George revealed the great man’s irritation +to this young lady. She unfolded on this friendly +heart, because was she not attacked from below and +pierced with pin pricks each time that she took sides +against the pronouncements of her friend? “If I had +not been a witness to these extravagant neurotic likes +and dislikes for three years, I should by no means understand +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span>them, but unfortunately I am too used to them,” +she wrote. “I tried to cheer him up by telling him +that W. was not coming here; he could count on that. +He hit the ceiling, and said that if I was certain, apparently +it was because I had told W. the truth. Thereupon +I said ‘Yes.’ I thought he would go mad. He wanted +to leave. He said I would make him look like a fool, +jealous, ridiculous, that I was embroiling him with his +best friends, that it all came from the gossip that had been +going on between you and me, etc., etc.... Anyway, +as usual, he wanted no one to suffer from his jealousy +but me.” And further on: “I have never had any +rest and I never shall have any with him. With his +distressing nature, you never know where you are. +The day before yesterday he passed the whole day without +saying a syllable to anyone at all.... I do not want +him to think he is the master. He would be so much +the more suspicious in the future, and even if he gained +this victory he would be in despair, because he does +not know what he wants, nor what he does not want.”</p> + +<p>Certainly Chopin was jealous, but a meaning slightly +different to the usual one should be attached to the word. +It was not the jealousy of a lover. His jealousy extended +to all the influences, the desires, the curiosities, and the +friendships of his mistress. It was the wild need of +absolute possession. He had to know at each moment +that all of George’s vital sources were born in his own +heart, that if he was the child in fact, he was the father +in spirit. He had to feel that his reign effaced preceding +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span>reigns, abolished them, and that in adopting him, in +loving him, George was born anew. He would have +liked her to be ignorant of the very existence of evil, +never to think of it in speaking to him, and without +ceasing to be good, tender, devoted, voluptuous, maternal, +still be the pale, the innocent, the severe, the virginal +spouse of his soul. “He would have demanded but +that of me, this poor lover of the impossible,” noted +Sand. And when he found himself losing this universal +possessorship, which his love should have given him, +he would have nothing more to do with it. He repulsed +feeble substitutes.</p> + +<p>Assuredly, he had some reason to be jealous of everyone, +of a too-forward servant, of the Doctor, of the great +simpleton of a cousin, half bourgeois, half lout, who +brought game to the mistress of Nohant, of a beggar, a +poacher with a strong face,—because this invalid with +sharpened nerves well understood what troubles, what +desires these passers-by aroused in a woman for whom +the “exercise of the emotions” was the true law of +knowledge; of a woman,—who, he well knew, had no +fear, and no scruples in the face of this kind of experience. +So he found the wit to torment her. “He seemed +to be gnawing softly to amuse himself, and the wound +that he made penetrated the entrails.” Then he would +leave her presence with a phrase that was perfectly +polite, but freezing, and once more shut himself up in +his own room. During her nights of toil, George +served as her own <i>écorché</i>, stripped the elusive soul of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span>her lover, and, good woman of letters that she was, +traced their double portrait in her <i>Lucrezia Floriani</i>. +Was it obtuseness, sadism, or an obscure vengeance that +led her the next day to make Chopin read these pitiless +reconstructions? But the artist saw nothing, or at +least he seemed not to. He bent over the pages, he +admired, he praised; but as always, he gave out nothing +of his inner self, and if Lucrezia delivered herself in +writing, Prince Karol returned to his room where the +light sounds of the piano interpreted all of his suppressed +misery. He, also, clung to his grief, and even to the +outward signs of his grief, “Take good care of my +manuscripts,” he advised Fontana. “Don’t tear them, +don’t dirty them, don’t spoil them.... I love my +<i>written pain</i> so much that I always tremble for my papers.”</p> + +<p>“The <i>friendship</i> of Chopin...” wrote George. Or +else: “Our own story had no romance in it.” And +even: “His piano was much more his torment than his +joy.” This shows to what a point beings who have +mingled their lives can reserve their souls. Here are +two such—very penetrating, very greedy, who yet were +never wedded.</p> + +<p>In the Autumn of 1842 George Sand and Chopin +left the rue Pigalle to move to Nos. 5 and 9 in the +Square d’Orléans. Between them at No. 7 lived their +great friend Mme. Marliani, the wife of a Spanish politician. +Near neighbours were Pauline Viardot and the +sculptor Dantan. Here they established a kind of <i>commune</i> +which provided diversion for them, and where +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span>freedom was “guaranteed.” Each one worked and +lived at home. Their meals were taken, at the common +expense, at Mme. Marliani’s. Chopin had a large salon +for his pianos; Sand, a billiard room. His quarters +were furnished in the modern style of Louis-Philippe, +with a clock and empire candelabra on the mantelshelf. +Behind one of the pianos was a painting by Frère of +a caravan on the desert, above the other a Coignet pastel +of the Pyramids. During the day they seldom met, +but in the evening they dropped in on one another like +good country neighbours. Chopin always cultivated +elegant society, and received at his house his titled and +amorous pupils. But he received only with a good deal +of distaste the innumerable pianists and priers who now +came to call on him and solicited his support.</p> + +<p>One day Chopin’s valet brought in the card of a M. +W. de Lenz, a Russian virtuoso and writer on musical +subjects. He would have stood less chance than any, +this enemy of his Poland, of being received by Chopin +if the card had not borne in pencil the words “<i>Laissez +passer</i>: Franz Liszt.” He therefore decided to have +this slightly importunate gentleman in, and begged him +to be seated at the piano. Lenz played well. It was +apparent that he was a pupil of Liszt. He surpassed +himself in one or two of Chopin’s <i>Mazurkas</i>, and like his +master, added a few embellishments. Chopin was both +amused and a little irritated.</p> + +<p>“He has to touch everything, this good Franz! +But a recommendation from him deserves something; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span>you are the first pupil who has come from him. I shall +give you two lessons a week. Be punctual; with me +everything runs on schedule. My house is a pigeon-cote.” +As M. de Lenz had expressed a lively desire to +make the acquaintance of Mme. Sand, Chopin invited +him to call again as a friend. He arrived, therefore, +one evening, and Chopin presented him to George, to +Pauline Viardot, to Mme. Marliani. Sand, hostile and +reserved, said not a word, for she detested Russians; but +Lenz pointedly seated himself at her side. He noticed +that Chopin was fluttering about “like a little frightened +bird in a cage.” In order to relieve the tension, Chopin +asked Lenz to play the <i>Invitation to the Waltz</i>, an elegant +specialty of the Russian, who several years before had +revealed it to Liszt himself. Lenz played it, slightly +intimidated. On which George continued to remain +silent. Chopin held out his hand amiably, then Lenz +seated himself with some embarrassment behind the table +on which a <i>Carcel</i> lamp was burning.</p> + +<p>“Aren’t you coming to St. Petersburg some time?” +demanded the stranger, addressing Sand.</p> + +<p>“I should never lower myself to a country of +slaves!”</p> + +<p>“You would be right not to come. You might find +the door shut.”</p> + +<p>The disconcerted George opened her big eyes which +Lenz described in his notes as “beautiful big heifer’s +eyes.” Chopin, however, did not seem displeased, as +if he enjoyed having his mistress put out of countenance. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span>She arose, went to the fireplace where a log was flaming, +and lighted a fat Havana cigar.</p> + +<p>“Frederick, a spill!” she cried. He rose and brought +the light.</p> + +<p>“At Petersburg,” went on George, blowing out a +cloud of smoke, “probably I could not smoke a cigar in +a drawing-room?”</p> + +<p>“In no drawing-room, Madame, have I ever seen a +cigar smoked,” replied this badly brought up Lenz, +looking at the pictures through his glasses.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, it must be supposed that these robust +manners were not altogether displeasing, for the day after +this visit while Chopin was giving him his lesson, he +said to Lenz:</p> + +<p>“Madame Sand thinks she has been rude to you. +She can be so pleasant. She liked you.”</p> + +<p>One can divine what obscure attractions this sensualist +obeyed. At times victories of the flesh are preceded +by victories of wit. But Chopin was not the man for +that sort of thing, Chopin who had so little muscle, so +little breath, and such a delicate skin “that a prick of +a gnat made a deep gash in him.” The whole complication +came about because he still loved with passion, while +she had, for a long time, dwelt in affection. Her “little +Chopin” she loved, she adored, but in the same way +that she loved Maurice and Solange.</p> + +<p>In the months during which they lived apart, she +was constantly disturbed about his health. She knew +that he did not take care of himself. She wrote to one +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span>person and another to ask them to keep a discreet watch. +Wasn’t he forgetting to drink his chocolate in the morning, +his bouillon at ten o’clock? They must make him +take care of himself, and not go out without his muffler.</p> + +<p>But, he had found a new way to exalt still further the +sentiments which, from their very lack of balance, are +an active stimulant to artistic production; he would not +worry her, he would leave her in ignorance of his moral +and physical illness, of his agonies, of his hæmorrhages. +Let her, at least, have the peace necessary for her work. +In every willing sacrifice to love there are humble joys, +all the deeper for remaining hidden; but it is the most +deeply buried love that nourishes the most.</p> + +<p>George now passed part of her winters in the country, +while Chopin wore himself out in Paris. It was a +problem not to let her notice anything. His letters +were gay, confiding. Sickness holds aloof, so he pretends, +and only happiness is ahead. “Your little garden +(in the Square d’Orléans) is all snowballs, sugar, swans, +ermine, cream cheese, Solange’s hands, and Maurice’s +teeth. Take care of yourself. Don’t tire yourself +out too much with your tasks. Your always older than +ever, and very, extremely, incredibly old,</p> + +<p class="right"> + “<span class="smcap">Chopin.</span>” +</p> + +<p>Perhaps he had never felt more alone, this “little +sufferer,” as his maternal friend calls him. But he was +the essential solitary.</p> + +<p>Forty years later than that time, I see another who +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span>resembles him, and who also feeds upon a terribly hard +<i>me</i>, a me which, no more than that of Chopin, could +expand over other beings, bleed on them, because he +was too high, too savage, too shamed; that is Nietzsche. +It is not surprising that Nietzsche loved Chopin like +a chosen brother. The love of both was too great for +their hearts.</p> + +<p>When I hear played the <i>Nocturne in C Minor</i> (op. 48), +where, under so much repressed suffering, there still +bursts forth, mingled with sadness, this ideal which is +built only upon the creative joys of the spirit, I think +of a page written by Nietzsche in a loggia overlooking +the Barberini Square at Rome, in May, 1883. This is +that beautiful <i>Night Song</i> through which pass the blue +and black visions of Chopin, his flower-like glance, his +young girl’s eyes, and his heart so “extremely, incredibly +old.” Some fragments of these strophes seem to me to +furnish for the <i>Nocturne</i> of which I speak—and for the +final solitudes into which the poet is now entering—a +commentary worthy of them. Before calling them +to mind I should say that a tradition among the Polish +artists has it that this piece was composed one stormy +day when Chopin had taken refuge in the Church of St.-Germain +des Prés. He listened to the Mass under the +rolling thunder and, coming back home, improvised the +fine chorale that forms the centre of this solemn Elevation. +But that does not for a moment prevent me from associating +this prayer with the pagan song of Nietzsche. Quite +the contrary: both the one and the other have this +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span>transport, this point of enthusiasm, which draws the +cry from the philosopher: “There is in me a desire for +love which itself speaks the language of love.”</p> + +<blockquote style="margin-top:2em; width:60%; margin-left:20%; margin-right:20%;"> +<p class="center"> +THE NIGHT SONG +</p> + +<p>“It is night: now the voice of the trickling fountains rises +higher. And my soul, also, is a trickling fountain.</p> + +<p>“It is night: now all the songs of the lovers awake. And my +soul, also, is a lovers’ song.</p> + +<p>“There is in me something unappeased, and unappeasable, that +struggles to raise its voice. There is in me a desire for love which +itself speaks the language of love.</p> + +<p>“I am light: ah! if I were night! But this is my solitude, to +be enveloped in light.</p> + +<p class="center"> +· · · · · +</p> + +<p>“My poverty is that my hand never rests from giving; my +jealousy, to see eyes full of waiting and nights illuminated with +desire.</p> + +<p>“Oh, misery of all those who give! Oh, eclipse of my sun! +Oh, desire of desiring! Oh, the devouring hunger in satiety!”</p> + +<p class="center"> +· · · · · +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Thus sang Zarathustra.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XV"> + CHAPTER XV + <br> + <span class="smcap">Chagrin, Hate</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>It seems that it was about 1842 that life for Chopin +began to lower its tone. For whom should he cultivate +even the will to get well, now that love was no +longer ahead, but behind him? Lovers who feel the +power of suffering desiccating in them abandon themselves +immediately to the soft call of Death. If they +disappear, they are reproached for having been weaklings; +if they survive, for having been cynics. They themselves +do not suspect that they are emptied of their substance +like those hollow trees still full of leaves which a gust +of wind will vanquish. Chopin, dying, thought himself +eternal.</p> + +<p>In the spring of 1842, his childhood friend, Matuszinski, +succumbed to tuberculosis. In May, 1844, his +father passed away at Warsaw. It was the end of a +just man. He closed his eyes looking at the portraits +and the bust of his beloved son, and asked that after +death his body should be opened because he feared being +buried alive.</p> + +<p>These two shocks were terrific for the artist, yet +he wrote to his own people: “I have already survived +so many younger and stronger people than I that it +seems I am eternal.... You must never worry about +me: God gives me His Grace.” In view of his persistent +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span>depression, George conceived the idea of inviting +Frederick’s oldest sister and her husband, the Jedrzeïewiczs, +to Nohant. It was necessary to warn them of +the great changes they were to see in their brother’s +health. George wrote to them:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“You will find my dear child very thin and greatly +changed since the time when you saw him, yet you +must not be too fearful for his health. In general, it +has not changed for more than six years, during which +I have seen him every day. A strong paroxysm of +coughing every morning, and each winter two or three +more considerable spells, each lasting only two or three +days, some neuralgic pain from time to time, that is his +regular state. For the rest, his chest is healthy, and his +delicate organism has no lesion. I am always hoping +that with time it will grow stronger, but at least I am +sure that with a regulated life and care it will last as +long as any other. The happiness of seeing you, mixed +though it be with deep and poignant emotions, which +may perhaps wound him a little the first day, nevertheless +will do him immense good, and I am so happy for him +that I bless the decision you have made.... For a +long time he has cared for nothing but the happiness +of those whom he loves, instead of that which he +can no longer share with them. For my part, I +have done everything I could to soften this cruel lack, +and though I have not made him forget it, I have +at least the consolation of knowing that, after you, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span>I have given and inspired as much affection as is +possible.”</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>George even wrote to Mme. Nicolas Chopin to assure +her that henceforth she would consecrate her life to +Frederick and regard him as her own son.</p> + +<p>So Louise and her husband came in 1844 to spend +part of the summer at Nohant, and the joy that Chopin +experienced was translated into a new feeling of gratitude +for his friend. Some of the bitterness left his soul, +making him stronger and more courageous. Even +confidence returned for a time. The filial and family +side of his tenderness was thus reënforced.</p> + +<p>When they had gone, Frederick clung even more +closely to his “dear ones,” those pieces of himself. He +saw them again in dreams. He looked for their places +on the sofa, preserved like a relic an embroidered slipper +forgotten by his sister, and used the pencil from her +pocket-book as in other days Marie Wodzinska had used +his. He sent them news of the autumn, of the garden. +He entered into the most minute details, even to speaking +of the tiny bear which went up and down on the +barometer. How clearly one sees all that he lacked, +this deficient lover!</p> + +<p>On their walks he followed the others on a donkey +so as to tire himself less. But the autumn was cold and +rainy, and Chopin passed more time before the piano +than out of doors. He returned to Paris and reinstalled +himself in the Square d’Orléans at the very beginning +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span>of November. George was seriously concerned this +time about “her dear corpse,” and recommending him +to friends while she stayed in the country. This period +is marked in one way and another by a blaze of affectionate +solicitude. Chopin did not want her to worry, +and continued to hide the progress of his malady. +Without his knowledge, George got information about +him. “He must not know....” “I cannot rid myself +of these preoccupations which make up the happiness +of my life....” “Decidedly I cannot live without +my little sufferer.” She realized that “Chip’s” constitution +was attacked in a very serious way. He was visibly +declining. The bad winter, nerves, irritation, the +persistent bronchitis were perhaps the causes. In any +case, love was still powerful. But love had apparently +taken refuge in family feeling. “... Let him never +have the least inquietude about any of you,” wrote +George to Louise, “because his heart is always with +you, tormenting him at every moment and turning him +toward his dear family.”</p> + +<p>During the winter of 1845, and the spring of 1846, +he was ill with influenza, yet he made none but the usual +plans and proposed to spend the summer at Nohant. +Before leaving, he gave a little dinner. “Music, flowers, +grub.” For guests: Prince Czartoryski and his wife (the +latter, it may be said in passing, was the most brilliant +and the most authentic of the feminine pupils of her +master); Princess Sapieha, Delacroix, Louis Blanc, Pauline +Viardot; in short, old friends. But on his arrival at +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span>Nohant everything seemed strange to him, as in a house +abandoned by life. He moved his piano and rearranged +his table, his books of poetry, his music. “I have +always one foot with you,” he wrote to Louise and her +husband, “and the other in the room next door where +my hostess works, and none at all in my own home +just now, <i>but always in strange places</i>. These are without +doubt imaginary <i>places</i>, but I don’t blush for them.”</p> + +<p>His delight was to make Pauline Viardot sing the +Spanish melodies that she had noted down herself. +“I am very fond of these songs. She has promised +me to sing them to you when she goes to Warsaw. +This music will unite me with you. I have always +listened to it with great enthusiasm.”</p> + +<p>But we must look below the surface, because in the +depths of all these beings who lived in common a drama +was preparing. One can say that it had been brewing for +several years. And neither George nor Frederick was +to be responsible for its explosion, but the children.</p> + +<p>First there was Maurice, the oldest, a young man of +twenty-two adored and very much spoiled by his mother, +wretchedly brought up, a dabbler, as the whim took +him, in painting and literature, and a collector of lepidoptera +and of minerals, he promised, in sum, to become +a fairly complete type of the intelligent failure. He +was not without talent; he had charm and gaiety, +touched, however, with bitterness and gruffness. Since +the trip to Majorca, he had had time to get accustomed +to Chopin, having seen this friend of his mother every +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span>day, so to speak. But if there had been at first a certain +sympathy between them, it quickly flagged, and for +several years now they had not got on. No doubt, this +is easily explained. Maurice loved his mother above +everything, and he saw clearly that her life was not +easy, or smooth; he came upon disputes, he was exasperated +by the nervousness of the so-called great man, +who was to him merely a difficult, reserved, and sometimes +ill-natured invalid. Perhaps he even suffered from the +ambiguous smiles that followed the two celebrated +lovers. And then his father, the mediocre Dudevant, +must occasionally have let fall outrageously gross witticisms +when his son came to see him. Maurice was +chilled also by the character of Chopin, by the aristocratic +manners, the often disdainful eye of this puzzling +and encumbering parasite. Children never forgive a +stranger who allows himself a criticism, much less if +it is well founded. Chopin made one, severe enough, +concerning Maurice and Augustine. This Augustine was +a relation of Mme. Sand, daughter of her cousin, Adèle +Brault, who belonged to the side of the family that was +entirely bourgeois and who was nothing else than a +lady of easy virtue. Out of pity for the girl, George had +taken her into her home, where Augustine, charming +and tender-hearted, had become the favourite of all +the young people with one exception, Solange. Chopin +did not like Augustine. He took Solange’s side. As +for Maurice, the born enemy of his sister, he was <i>for</i> +Augustine to such a degree that he was suspected of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span>having become her lover. George denied this vociferously, +with authority, but Chopin willingly believed it, +first because of his intuition, secondly because Solange +tried, by all manner of means, to fix the idea in his head.</p> + +<p>A strange child, this Solange. Physically, she was +the image of her great-grandmother, Marie-Aurore of +Saxe, that is to say, blonde, fresh, beautifully built. +In character, she was cold, brilliant and lively, passionate, +vain, very excitable, sullen, possibly false, certainly strong +willed, vicious without any doubt, absolutely unbalanced. +This neurotic, who might have developed in such a very +interesting way, they always regarded as hard-hearted. +They pestered her, they soured her, they made her ruthless. +Pauline Viardot contended that she did wrong for +the love of it. She was, in point of fact, innately ardent +and unhappy. A nature such as this has need of being +loved deeply, and her trials came above all through +jealousy. Offences slowly recorded by her heart made +it solitary and injurious. Her mother herself said: +“She is nineteen years old, she is beautiful, she has a +remarkable mind, she has been brought up with love +under conditions of happiness, growth and morality, +which should have made of her a saint or a heroine. +But this century is damned, and she is a child of this +century.... Everything is passion with her, an <i>icy</i> +passion, that is very deep, inexplicable and terrifying.” +Whose fault was that? It is only in families that one +finds these refined hatreds which are one of the sad +aspects of love.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span></p> + +<p>For a long time the mystery of this soul had attracted +Chopin. Solange was essentially a coquette. Ever +since her puberty she had practised the power of her +troubled age on him, and this man of nerves had not +seemed insensible. Did he not rediscover in her the +seductions and even that free and animal grace that George +must have had at fifteen? A lover loves, in the daughter +of his mistress, the happiness that he has missed, +and the rejuvenated memory of his sufferings. Solange +was less frank than her mother; she was even somewhat +perverse. She tried a few games that were not altogether +innocent; first from predilection, and also to +appease the amorous rancour that she vowed against +her own people. It would be fine to avenge her own +spurned heart by stealing Chopin’s tenderness from +her mother. Another of his attractions for Solange +was his elegance, his distinction, his high worldly connections. +For she was a snob, and it was delicious to flee +to the great friend’s salon, which was filled with countesses, +when that of her mother resounded with the roars +of Maurice and his comrades, or the “great thoughts” +of Pierre Leroux. Lately there had even been found +there a herd of poet-workmen to whom the novelist was +stubbornly attached.</p> + +<p>Here then was a whole obscure drama daily averted +but daily reawakened, sown with misunderstandings, +and complicated by embarrassments. For Sand, many +times, wanted to talk it out with her lover, to force him to +interfere, but he shied away, or even openly took +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span>Solange’s part. George tried in vain to break her +daughter. Rather she broke herself against the sharp +edges of the character which in many ways were so like +her own.</p> + +<p>It was Chopin who suffered the most from these +misunderstandings, because he could never relieve +himself by words, by vain explanations, because he +could never express anything except in music. His +nervousness increased. He allowed himself to become +exasperated to the point of tears by incidents affecting +servants. He could not conceive that an old servant +could be dismissed, and Mme. Sand, that good <i>communist</i>, +was quite capable of reconstructing her household with +a sweep of her arm. It was a calamity. Frederick’s +Polish <i>valet de chambre</i> was dismissed “because the +children (Read: ‘Maurice and Augustine’) did not +like him.” Then it was the old gardener, Pierre, who +was turned off after forty years of service. Next came +the turn of Françoise, the chambermaid, to whom, +nevertheless, George had dedicated one of her books. +“God grant,” wrote Frederick to his sister, “that the +new ones will please the young man and his cousin +more.” He was tired. And, when he was tired he was +not gay. That reacted on everyone’s spirits. He felt old.</p> + +<p>George also felt old. She was forty-two. And even +while correcting a passage in her <i>Lucrezia Floriani</i>, she +was thinking so strongly of herself, and of her first lover, +that she returned for the first time in fifteen years to the +little wood she could see from her window, where +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span>she used to meet Jules Sandeau. It was in this “sacred +wood” that her flight from the conjugal house had been +decided, in 1831. There she searched, and there she +found a tree under which her lover had been in the habit +of waiting for her. Their initials cut into the bark were +still faintly visible. “She went over in her memory the +details and the whole story of her first passion, and compared +them to those of her last, not to establish a parallel +between the two men, whom she did not dream of judging +coldly, but to ask her own heart if it could still feel +passion and bear suffering.... ‘Am I still capable +of loving? Yes, more than ever, because it is the +essence of my life, and through pain I experience intensity +of life; if I could no longer love, I could no longer +suffer. I suffer, therefore I love and I exist.’” And +yet she felt that she must renounce something. What +then? The hope of happiness? “‘At a certain age,’ +she finished by thinking, ‘there is no other happiness +than that which one gives; to look for any other is +madness.’... So La Floriani was seized with an +immense sadness in saying an eternal farewell to her +cherished illusions. She rolled on the ground, drowned +in tears.”</p> + +<p>This summer’s end of 1846 was a trying period, a +period of crises. The sky itself was full of storm. +Yet Chopin worked. He wrote to the loved ones at +Warsaw. He told them all the stories which one must +pack into a letter when one wishes to hide one’s true +feelings. The giraffe at the Jardin des Plantes was dead. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span>The <i>Italians</i> had reopened in Paris. M. Le Verier had +discovered a new planet. M. Faber of London, a +Professor of Mathematics, had built a machine that +sang an air of Haydn, and <i>God Save the Queen</i>. “I play +a little, and also write a little. I am one moment happy +about my <i>Sonata</i> with the violoncello, and the next +unhappy; I throw it in the corner and then take it up +again. I have three new <i>Mazurkas</i> (in B major, F +minor, and C sharp minor, dedicated to Countess Czosnowska. +These are his last works—op. 63 and 65). +When I am composing them I think they are good; +otherwise one would never compose. Later on comes +reflection, and one rejects or accepts. Time is the best +judge and patience the best master. I hope to have a +letter from you soon, yet I am not impatient, and I +know that with your large family it is difficult for each +one to write me a word, especially as with us a pen is +not enough. I don’t know how many years we would +have to talk to be at the end of our Latin, as they say +here. So you must not be surprised or sad when you +do not receive a letter from me, because there is no +real reason, any more than there is with you. A certain +sadness blends with the pleasure of writing to you; it +is the knowledge that between us there are no words, +hardly even deeds.... The winter does not promise +badly, and by taking care of myself a little it will pass +like the last, and God willing, not worse. How many +people are worse off than I! It is true that many are +better, but I do not think about them.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span></p> + +<p>Have we noticed those words: “Especially as with +us a pen is not enough...?” There sounds the +exquisite mute on Chopin’s plaints. For George the +pen was enough. Everyone around Frederick, in +default of being happy, was noisy. They played comedies. +They got up <i>tableaux vivants</i> and charades. Pantomime, +over which the whole world was soon to go crazy, +was Chopin’s invention. It was he who sat at the piano +and improvised while the young people danced comic +ballets, with the assistance of a few guests: Arago, +Louis Blanc. But no one suspected that between +George and Frederick the break was complete. Desire +had been dead for a long time. And now tenderness, +affection, the attachment of the soul, no longer existed +but on one side. In weeping over her lost youth in the +“sacred wood,” George had shed her last tears.</p> + +<p>Thenceforth she was to be only a mother, pitilessly +a mother, and only of her <i>two</i> children. She was busy +now in marrying off Solange. Two or three aspirants +succeeded each other at Nohant, one after the other, +among them Victor de Laprade, followed by a young +Berry lad, with whom Solange flirted gaily.</p> + +<p>Then one fine day, a dispute burst out between +Maurice and Chopin over some silly question. One +of those grave, irreparable disputes. The two wounded +each other unmercifully. A moment later they embraced, +“but the grain of sand has fallen into the quiet lake, +and little by little the stones fall in, one by one,” wrote +George. It soon began again. Maurice spoke of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span>leaving the group and the house. His mother took his +side, naturally. So Chopin bowed his head. It was +he who would go. No one said a word to restrain +him.</p> + +<p>He started out in the first days of November. Seven +years and a half before, he had arrived at Nohant for +the first time, his physique already much deteriorated. +That is nothing, however, when the soul is strong. +But on this late autumn day that, too, had collapsed.</p> + +<p>They saw the invalid, wrapped in rugs, getting into +his carriage. With his hand, pale and dry, he made +a sign of farewell. No one understood its meaning, +not even himself. He was about to get into his grave.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVI"> + CHAPTER XVI + <br> + <span class="smcap">The Story of an Estrangement</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>There was a great deal of sickness in Paris. Grzymala +had just passed seventeen days without sleeping; +Delacroix, more ill than ever, dragged himself +nevertheless to the Luxembourg. Chopin too, tried +to put people off the scent, as he had done all those past +years. But at length he was forced to admit that he +had not the courage to leave his own hearth for an instant. +New Year’s Day, 1847, arrived. He sent George the +customary bonbons, and his best wishes, and, smothered +in coats, had himself driven to the Hôtel Lambert, to +his friends the Czartoryskis.</p> + +<p>At Nohant, they kept up the semblance of happiness. +Pantomime raged. Scenery was brushed up, costumes +were made. This united family played out its comedy +also. But suddenly the luggage was packed for a +return to Paris early in January, leaving Solange’s fiancé, +M. des Préaulx, stranded. And hardly had they been +settled a month in the Square d’Orléans when everything +was unsettled again by the entrance on the scene of a +new actor: the sculptor Clésinger. He was a man of +thirty-three, violent, full-blooded, enthusiastic, who had +just made a name in the exhibitions and achieved fame +at the first stroke. He had asked to do a bust of Mme. +Sand, came to call, saw Solange and was lost. She was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span>almost as quickly inflamed. The projected marriage +with M. des Préaulx was postponed in spite of the misgivings +of George, who had gathered decidedly vexing +information about the sculptor. “A hot-tempered +and disorderly gentleman, a one-time dragoon, now a +great sculptor everywhere conducting himself as though +he were in the café of the regiment, or in the studio,” +said Arsène Houssaye. All decisions were postponed. +The novelist took her daughter back to Nohant immediately +after the first days of Holy Week, at the beginning +of April.</p> + +<p>Chopin at once had a very decided opinion about +these events. First; regret to see the Berry union fall +through, as it seemed to him a very sweet and proper +one. Then, an instinctive dislike made him hostile to +the “stone tailor,” as he called Clésinger. He wrote to +his people: “Sol is not to be married yet. By the +time they had all come to Paris to sign the contract, +she no longer wanted it. I am sorry, and I pity the +young man, who is very honest and very much in love; +but it is better that it should have happened before the +marriage than after. They say it is postponed till +later on, but I know what that means.” George, for her +part, confided her difficulties to a friend: “Within six +weeks she has broken off a love affair she had hardly felt, +and she has accepted another on which she is ardently +set. She was engaged to one when she drove him off +and became engaged to another. It’s odd, it’s above all +bold; but still, it is her right, and fortune smiles on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span>her. She substitutes for a gentle and modest marriage +a brilliant and burning one. She has it all her own way, +and is taking me to Paris at the end of April.... +Work and emotion take up all my days and all my nights.... +This wedding must take place suddenly, as though +by surprise. Also it is a <i>deep</i> secret I am confiding to +you, and one that even Maurice does not know. (He +is in Holland.”)</p> + +<p>Above all, Chopin was not to know anything,—Chopin, +who was now refused all intimate participation in the +family affairs. George really knew she had met her +master this time, in his fierce Clésinger who boasted +that he would attain his ends at any cost. He appeared +suddenly at La Châtre, he repeatedly met Solange in the +woods, he demanded a definite answer. Naturally she +said yes, since she loved him. George was forced to +give in, despite her apprehensions, her terror. On +the 16th of April, she called her son to the rescue +because she was afraid, she needed to be reassured. +She added at the end of the letter: “Not a word +of all this to Chopin; it does not concern him, and +when the Rubicon is crossed, <i>ifs</i> and <i>buts</i> do only +harm.”</p> + +<p>When the Rubicon is crossed.... One more time! +How many times had she crossed it during her life, +this old hand at ruptures? And yet she pretended not +to see that this was the critical point of her long liaison. +The marriage of Solange, this fact, indeed, entirely outside +of her own love-life, had become the plank to which +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span>the hand of the pianist still clung, and she kicked it away +with her heel.</p> + +<p>Chopin heard whispered gossip about the affair, but +he said nothing, he questioned no one. He waited for +a renewal of confidence. If all the mystery astonished +him, if he even guessed at the deliberate and childish +side of the now obvious rupture of his friendship, he +made no sign. As always, it was his health that paid +for his muzzled pangs. He was taken gravely ill. But +it was no longer George who nursed him; it was Princess +Marceline Czartoryska. She sent a bulletin of his +health to Nohant. “One more trouble added to all +the rest,” replied George on May 7th. “Is he really +seriously ill? Write to me, I count on you to tell me +the truth and to nurse him.” Yet on that very day she +wrote in her <i>Journal</i> with a calmer pen: “Here I am +at the age of forty-three with a constitution of iron, +streaked with painful indispositions, which give me, +however, <i>only a few hours of spleen, dissipated the next day.... +To-day my soul is well, and my body also.</i>” Was it +that day that she was sincere, or the next, the 8th of +May, when she said to Mlle. de Rozières: “I am sick +with worry and am having an attack of giddiness while +writing to you. I cannot leave my family at such a +moment, when I have not even Maurice to save the +proprieties and protect his sister from wicked insinuations. +I suffer a great deal, I assure you. Write to me, +I beg. Tell Chopin whatever you think best about +me. Yet I dare not to write him, I am afraid of disturbing +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span>him, I am afraid that Solange’s marriage displeases +him greatly and that he has a disagreeable shock each +time I speak to him about it. Yet I could not make a +mystery of it to him and I have had to act as I have done. +I cannot make Chopin the head and counsellor of the +family; my children would not accept him, and the +dignity of my life would be lost.”</p> + +<p>Had it been a question of dignity it would have been +better to have thought of that earlier. Had it been a +question of sparing Chopin’s health, then it was too +late for that, too. She did not even perceive the contradictions +in her letter. The poor great artist remained +firm in his determined silence, and desperately proud.</p> + +<p>Yet George had just published her <i>Lucrezia Floriani</i>, +already the funeral march of her love. But Chopin +continued to see in it nothing but “beautiful characters +of women and men, great naturalness and poetry.” +This would force her to confess differently, to explain +herself further. For there was always in her this impetuous +need of justification which drove her, at the decisive +moments of the beginning or of the end of a love affair, +to acknowledge the forces that motivated her. To +whom should she, this time, fling the comments of her +sick brain, and expose the fatigue of a body which thenceforth +would be able to demand but the briefest of gratifications? +Eight years before she had written to Count +Grzymala to show of what she was capable, and that +a heart like hers could pass through the most diverse +phases of passion. If the whole horizon of love had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span>been traversed, it seemed right, even useful, to call a +halt at the threshold of the oncoming night. So she +took a sheet of paper and wrote to the same confidant—he +of the first and of the final hour—the following +lines:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“<i>12th May, 1847.</i></p> + +<p>“Thank you, my dear friend, for your good letters. +I knew in a vague and uncertain way that he was ill +twenty-four hours before the letter from the good +Princess. Thank that angel also for me. How I suffered +during those twenty-four hours it is impossible to tell +you. Whatever had happened I was in such a position +that I could not have budged.</p> + +<p>“Anyway, once again he is saved, but how dark the +future is for me in that quarter!</p> + +<p>“I do not yet know if my daughter is to be married +here in a week, or at Paris in a fortnight. In any case, +I shall be in Paris for a few days at the end of the month, +and if Chopin can be moved I shall bring him back here. +My friend, I am as happy as can be over the marriage +of my daughter, as she is transported with love and joy, +and as Clésinger seems to deserve it, loves her passionately, +and will give her the life she wants. But in any +case, one suffers a great deal in making such a decision.</p> + +<p>“I feel that Chopin must for his part have suffered +also at not knowing, at not understanding, and at not +being able to advise anything; but it is impossible to +take his advice on the real affairs of life into consideration. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span>He has never seen facts truly, nor understood +human nature on a single point; his soul is all poetry +and music, and he cannot bear what is different from +himself. Besides, his influence in my family affairs would +mean for me the loss of all dignity and of all love for +and from my children.</p> + +<p>“Talk to him and try to make him understand in a +general way that he should refrain from thinking about +them. If I tell him that Clésinger (whom he does not +like), deserves our affection, he will only hate him the +more, and will bring on himself Solange’s hatred. +This is all very difficult and delicate, and I know of no +way of calming and restoring a sick soul who is irritated +by efforts to heal him. The evil that consumes this poor +being, both morally and physically, has been killing me +for a long time, and I see him go away without ever +having been able to do him any good, since it is the +anxious, jealous and suspicious affection he has for me +that is the principal cause of his sadness. For seven +years I have lived like a virgin with him and with others; +I have grown old before my time, without effort or +sacrifice even, so tired was I of passions and so irremediably +disillusioned. If any woman on earth should +have inspired him with the most absolute confidence, +it was I, and he never understood that; and I know +that many people are accusing me, some with having +exhausted by the violence of my senses, others with +having made him desperate with my outbursts. I +believe you know the truth. He complains of me that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span>I have killed him by privation, while I was certain that +I should kill him if I acted otherwise. See how I stand +in this dismal friendship, in which I have made myself +his slave whenever I could without showing an impossible +and culpable preference for him over my children, in +which the respect that I had to inspire in my children +and in my friends has been so delicate and so important +to preserve. I have achieved in this respect prodigies of +patience of which I did not believe myself capable, I, +who had not the nature of a saint like the Princess. I +have attained to martyrdom; but Heaven is inexorable +against me, as though I had great crimes to expiate, +because in the midst of all these efforts and sacrifices, +he whom I love with an absolutely chaste and maternal +love is dying a victim of the mad attachment he bears +for me.</p> + +<p>“God grant, in His Goodness, that, at least, my +children be happy, that is to say, good, generous, and +at peace with their consciences; because I do not believe +in happiness in this world, and the law of Heaven is so +strict in this regard that it is almost an impious revolt +to dream of not suffering from all external things. The +only strength in which we can take refuge is in the wish +to fulfil our duty.</p> + +<p>“Remember me to our Anna, and tell her what is +in the bottom of my heart, then burn my letter. I am +sending you one for that dear Gutmann, whose address +I do not know. Do not give it to him in the presence +of Chopin, who does not yet know that I have been +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span>told of his sickness, and who does not want me to know +it. His worthy and generous heart has always a thousand +exquisite delicacies side by side with the cruel +aberrations that are killing him. Ah! If Anna could +but talk to him one day, and probe into his heart to +heal it! But he closes it hermetically against his best +friends. Good-bye, my dear, I love you. Remember +that I shall always have courage and perseverance and +devotion, in spite of my suffering, and that I do not +complain. Solange embraces you.</p> + +<p class="right"> + “<span class="smcap">George.</span>” +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>What contradictions again, and how this time each +phrase rings false! The only truths that shine out here +in spite of the author are the twitchings of her will in +the affair of her daughter, and her decision to be finished +with Chopin. She is, once more, in the pangs of delivery, +and a woman when a prey to that ill sticks at nothing. +It was in spite of her also—and perhaps because there +is in love affairs as in those of art, a sort of symmetry, +a secret equilibrium—that this last association had +opened almost nine years earlier and is closed to-day on +a letter to the same man. These nearly nine years lie +completely between these two missives, of which the +one expressed the initial desire to unite two opposite +souls by forcing nature; the other, to jilt the ill-assorted +partner—“all poetry and music”—for whom the +practical part of existence and the realities of the flesh +remain the true grounds of illusion. It is vain to try +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span>to comment further on so perfectly intelligible a conflict. +I am trying to be just in giving neither right nor wrong +to either of the two persons concerned. Each brought +his own contribution to the establishment, and, as it +usually happens, the one who had eaten his first took +from the other that in which he was more rich. George +was bound to remain the stronger because she had nothing +left to give. Chopin was bound to founder because +his very wealth had ruined him.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>On the 20th of May, Solange was married in haste, +almost by stealth, at Nohant. M. Dudevant was present +at this curious wedding, where his daughter did not +even sign her name on the register, but the pseudonym +of her mother. The latter, having strained a muscle, +had to be carried to the church. “Never was a wedding +less gay,” she said. Evil presentiments were in the air. +There followed yet another engagement,—that of Augustine, +Maurice’s friend, whom the young man wanted +to marry to his friend Théodore Rousseau, the painter. +Then certain strange events occurred. The engagement +of Augustine was abruptly broken off on some absurd +pretext. In reality this was the revenge of Solange. +Out of her hate for her cousin and bitterness against +her brother, she informed Rousseau of the relationship +she assigned to them. They separated. George was +outraged and complained with bitterness. Then the +Clésinger couple, two months married, returned to Nohant +and raised the mask, and there took place between +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span>George and her son on the one side, and the sculptor and +his wife on the other, scenes of unprecedented violence.</p> + +<p>“We have been nearly cutting each other’s throats +here,” wrote the unfortunate Sand to Mlle. de Rozières. +“My son-in-law raised a hammer against Maurice, and +would perhaps have killed him if I had not thrown +myself between them, striking my son-in-law in the face, +and receiving a blow of his fist in the chest. If the +priest, who was present, and friends and a servant, had not +interfered by main force, Maurice, who was armed with +a pistol, would have killed him on the spot. Solange +fanned the flame with cold ferocity, having caused these +deplorable furies by backstairs gossip, lies, unimaginable +slanders, without having had here from Maurice or +from anybody whatever the slightest shadow of teasing +or the hint of a wrong. This diabolic couple left yesterday +evening, riddled with debt, triumphant in their +insolence, and leaving a scandal in the country-side +that they can never live down. Lastly, I was confined +to my house for three days by the blow of a murderer. +I do not want ever to see them again, never again shall +they put foot in my house. They have gone too far. +My God! I have done nothing to deserve such a daughter.</p> + +<p>“It was quite necessary for me to write part of this +to Chopin; I was afraid he might arrive in the middle +of a catastrophe, and that he would die of pain and +shock. Do not tell him how far things went; they are +to be kept from him if possible. Do not tell him I wrote +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span>to you and if M. and Mme. Clésinger do not boast of +their behaviour, keep it secret for my sake....</p> + +<p>“I have a favour to ask of you, my child. That is +to take complete charge of the keys of my apartment, +as soon as Chopin has left (if he has not already), and +not to let Clésinger, or his wife, or anyone connected +with them set foot in it. They are supreme robbers +and with prodigious coolness they would leave me +without a bed. They carried off everything from here, +down to the counterpanes and candlesticks....”</p> + +<p>It is most important to note two things. In this first +letter to Mlle. de Rozières, Sand supposes that Chopin +has already left the Square d’Orléans, or is on the point +of so doing. We shall see why later on. In the second +letter—which I shall reprint below—notice the date: +<i>July the twenty-fifth</i>. These points will serve to shed a +certain light on a situation that is at first glance obscure, +but which becomes clear enough if these two landmarks +are kept in sight.</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="right"> + “<span class="smcap">Nohant</span>, <i>25 July.</i> +</p> + +<p>“My friend, I am worried, frightened. I have had +no news of Chopin for several days, for I don’t know +how many days because in the trouble that is crushing +me I cannot keep count of the time. But it seems too +long a time. He was about to leave and suddenly +he does not arrive, he does not write. Did he start? +Has he been stopped, ill somewhere? If he were +seriously ill, wouldn’t you have written me when you +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span>saw his state of illness prolonged? I myself, should +already have left if it had not been for my fear of passing +him, and for the horror I have of going to Paris and +exposing myself to the hate of her whom you think so +good, so kind to me....</p> + +<p>“Sometimes I think, to reassure myself, that Chopin +loves her much more than he does me, looks sourly +at me and takes her part.</p> + +<p>“I would rather that a hundred times than know +him to be ill. Tell me quite frankly how matters stand. +If Solange’s frightful maliciousness, if her incredible +lies sway him,—so be it! Nothing matters to me if he +only gets well.”</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Chopin had already suffered too much, renounced +too much to come to heel again and let himself be +recaptured by the cries of this despoiled mother, this +hardened mistress. He did not want her pity. He +did not even give her his. Solange came to him. She +had little difficulty in convincing him that she was right, +his distrust and suspicions had so crystallized. Did not +all the darkness in which they tried to keep him hide +still other breaches of faith, other riddances? His long +docility had turned at one bound into bitter disgust. +“The cypresses also have their caprices,” he said. It +was his only complaint. He wrote to George, but neither +his letter, nor the one he received in reply has been +preserved. The lovers who had given each other eight +years of their lives could not consent to preserve in their +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span>archives the bulletin of their supreme defeat. On the +other hand, if we do not know the terms in which they +drew up the act of dissociation, we do know their +echo.</p> + +<p>To Delacroix alone Chopin showed the letter of +farewell he had received. “I must admit that it is +atrocious,” this friend wrote in his <i>Journal</i> under the +date of <i>July the twentieth</i>. “Cruel passions, long-suppressed +impatience come to the surface; and as a contrast +which would be laughable if the subject were not +so sad, the author from time to time takes the place +of the woman and spreads herself in tirades that seem +borrowed from a novel or a philosophical homily.”</p> + +<p>If I have underlined the date, July the twenty-fifth, +above, where George complains of having been abandoned, +it is to make the fact stand out more clearly that +already, five days before, on the twentieth, Delacroix +in his diary signals the existence of the letter of rupture, +which he describes as <i>atrocious</i>. So the astonishment +of George may be called astonishing. Note well her +duplicity. There can be no doubt that she foresaw its +effect too well to suppose for an instant that Chopin +would come running to Nohant. Rather she counted +on his moving out. Yet she still wanted to play a +part, to pose as the victim. Though she had decided +on the break, she feared the fame and the friends of +Chopin, who, later on, might search out the truth in +the name of history. So in her third letter to Mlle. de +Rozières she wrote thus:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span></p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="right"> + <i>(No date.)</i> +</p> + +<p>“... Sick to death, I was about to go and see why +no one wrote to me. Finally, I received by the morning +post a letter from Chopin. I see that, as usual, I have +been duped by my stupid heart, and that while I passed +six sleepless nights torturing myself about his health, he +was engaged in talking and thinking ill of me with the +Clésingers. Very well. His letter has a ridiculous +dignity and the sermons of this good <i>pater familias</i> shall +serve as lessons to me. A man warned is worth two. +From now on I shall be perfectly easy in that regard.</p> + +<p>“There are many points about the affair that I can +guess, and I know what my daughter is capable of in the +way of calumny. I know what the poor brain of Chopin +is capable of in the way of prejudice and credulity.... +But my eyes are open at last! and I shall conduct myself +accordingly; I will no longer allow ingratitude and +perversity to pasture on my flesh and blood. From now +on I shall remain here, peaceful and entrenched at +Nohant, far from the bloodthirsty enemies that are +after me. I shall know how to guard the gate of my +fortress against the scoundrels and madmen. I know +that meanwhile they will be tearing me to pieces with +their slanders. Well and good! When they have +glutted their hatred of me, they will devour each other.</p> + +<p>“... I think it <i>magnificent</i> of Chopin to see, associate +with, and approve Clésinger, who <i>struck</i> me, because I +tore from his hands a hammer he had raised against +Maurice. Chopin, whom all the world told me was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span>my most faithful and most devoted friend! Marvellous! +My child, life is a bitter irony, and those who have the +folly to love and believe must close their careers with +a lugubrious laugh and a despairing sob, as I hope will +soon be my lot. I believe in God and in the immortality +of my soul. The more I suffer in this world, the +more I believe. I shall quit this transitory life with a +profound disgust, to enter into life eternal with a great +confidence....”</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>She took up her pen a fourth time, on August the +14th:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“I am more seriously ill than they think. Thank +God for it. I have had enough of life, and I am packing +up with great joy. I do not ask you for news of Solange; +I have it indirectly. As for Chopin, I hear nothing further +of him, and I beg you to tell me truthfully how +he is; no more. The rest does not in the least interest +me and I have no reason to miss his affection.”</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>There is a strong dose of the “<i>mélo</i>” that Chopin +thought so hateful in several passages of these documents, +and the evident desire to extract all possible pathos. +But without doubt certain authentic accents are to be +found as well. It is probable that she herself would not +recognize them any too clearly. George Sand had +suffered from this rupture of which she was the cause, +the agent and the victim. If the same cries are no +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span>longer to be heard as in the Venetian days, it is because +thirteen years had passed since the de Musset experience. +But perhaps I am making her part seem too easy. For +what are years to passionate hearts? No, growing old +is a poor reason. The only true one is that this woman +no longer tears anything living from her soul. If she +has not yet arrived at the time of the great cold, of +which we have already spoken, at least she has come +to that of the first serenities. A favourable epoch for +her literature. She took advantage of it so well that +she chose it precisely for <i>L’Histoire de ma Vie</i>, the best +of her books.</p> + +<p>As for Chopin, to complain was not in his nature. +Even in these mortal weeks all his pain had a beautiful +discretion. As before, as always, it rose and fell within +himself. No blame passed his lips. To Louis Viardot +(the husband of the singer), who questioned him, he +replied simply: “Solange’s marriage is a great misfortune +for her, for her family, for her friends. Daughter +and mother have been deceived, and the mistake has +been realized too late. But why blame only one for +this mistake that was shared by both? The daughter +wished, demanded, an ill-assorted marriage; but the +mother, in consenting, has she not part of the blame? +With her great mind and her great experience, should +she not have enlightened a girl who was impelled by +spite even more than by love? If she had any illusion, +we must not be without pity for an error that is shared. +And I, pitying them both from the depths of my soul, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span>I am trying to bring some consolation to the only one +of them I am permitted to see.”</p> + +<p>He wanted to inform his sister about these happenings, +but could not at first manage to do it. To write certain +words is sometimes so great a cruelty to oneself! At +last, after having burned several sheets of paper, he +succeeded in giving the essentials in his Christmas +letter.</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="right"> + “<i>25 December, 1847.</i> +</p> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">Beloved children</span>,</p> + +<p>“I did not reply to you immediately because I have +been so horribly busy. I am sending you, by the usual +channel, some New Year pictures.... I spent Christmas +Eve in the most prosaic way, but I thought of you +all. All my best wishes to you, as always....</p> + +<p>“Sol is with her father, in Gascony. She saw her +mother on the way. She went to Nohant with the +Duvernets, but her mother received her coldly and told +her that if she would leave her husband she might return +to Nohant. Sol saw her nuptial room turned into a +theatre, her boudoir into a wardrobe for the actors, +and she wrote me that her mother spoke only of money +matters. Her brother was playing with his dog and +all he found to say to her was: ‘Will you have something +to eat?’ The mother now seems more angry +with her son-in-law than with her daughter, though in her +famous letter she wrote to me that her son-in-law was +not bad, that it was her daughter who made him so. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span>One might think she had wanted to rid herself at one +sweep of her daughter and of me, because we were +in the way. She will continue to correspond with her +daughter; thus her maternal heart, which cannot completely +do without news of her child, will be appeased +for a moment and her conscience lulled to sleep. She +will think herself in the right, and will proclaim me her +enemy, for taking the part of the son-in-law she cannot +tolerate, simply because he married her daughter, while +I really opposed the marriage as much as I could. Singular +creature, with all her intelligence! A frenzy seizes +her, and she spoils her life, she spoils her daughter’s +life. It will end badly with her son, too, I predict and +am certain. To excuse herself, she would like to pick +holes in those who wish her well, who believe in her, +who have never insulted her, and whom she cannot +bear near her because they are the mirror of her conscience. +That is why she has not written me a single +word; that is why she is not coming to Paris this winter; +that is also why she has not said a single word to her +daughter. I do not regret having helped her to bear +the eight most difficult years of her life, those in which +her daughter was growing up, those in which she was +bringing up her son; I do not regret all that I have +suffered; but I do regret that her daughter, that perfectly +tended plant, sheltered from so many storms, +should have been broken at her mother’s hands by an +imprudence and a laxity that one might pass over in a +woman of twenty years, but not in a woman of forty.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span></p> + +<p>“That which has been and no longer is will not be +written in the annals. When, later on, she delves into +her past, Mme. Sand will be able to find in her soul +only a happy memory of me. For the moment she is +in the strangest paroxysm of maternity, playing the rôle +of a juster and a more perfect mother than she really +is, and it is a fever for which there is no remedy, especially +when it takes possession of an excitable imagination +that is easily carried away.</p> + +<p>“... A new novel by Mme. Sand is appearing in +the <i>Débats</i>, a novel in the manner of the Berry novels, +like <i>La Mare Au Diable</i>, and it begins admirably. It +is called <i>François Le Champi</i>.... There is talk also +of her <i>Mémoires</i>; but in a letter to Mme. Marliani, +Mme. Sand wrote that this would be rather the thoughts +she has had up until now on art, letters, etc.... and +not what is generally meant by memoirs. Indeed, it is +too early for that, because dear Mme. Sand will have +many more adventures in her life before she grows old; +many beautiful things will still happen to her, and ugly +ones too...”</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>The irony is hardly malicious, and “the enemy” +who would “tear her to pieces” is very gentle. Indeed +one must admire the way the artist holds his temper in +hand. The same day he wrote to Solange:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“... How the story of your two visits to Nohant +saddened me! Still, the first step is taken. You +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span>have shown heart, and this was followed by a certain +<i>rapprochement</i>, since you have been begged to write. +Time will do the rest. You know you must not take +everything that is said at face value. If they no longer +want to know a <i>stranger like me</i>, for instance, that cannot +be the lot of your husband, because he belongs to the +family... I feel suffocated, have headaches, and beg +you to excuse my erasures and my French...”</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>This was in January, 1848. February. Soon it +would be ten months since George and Frederick had +separated. But Chopin did not get well. Quite the +contrary. His broken tenderness had not only killed +his heart, it had dried up the one source of his consolation, +music. Since 1847, the <i>bad year</i>, as he called +it, Chopin composed nothing more.</p> + +<p>“She has not written me another word, nor I to +her,” he confided again to his sister on the 10th of +February. “She has instructed the landlord to let +her Paris apartment.... She plays comedies in the +country, in her daughter’s wedding-chamber; she +forgets herself, acts as wildly as only she can, and will +not rouse herself until her heart hurts too much, a +heart that is at present overpowered by the head. I +make a cross above it. God protect her, if she cannot +discern the true value of flattery! Besides, it may be +to me alone that the others seem flatterers, while her +happiness really lies in that direction and I do not perceive +it. For some time her friends and neighbours +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span>have been able to make nothing of what has been going +on down there of late, but they are probably used to +it already. Anyway, no one could ever follow the +caprices of such a soul. Eight years of a half-steady +life were too much. God permitted them to be the +years when the children were growing up, and if it had +not been for me I do not know how long ago they would +have been with their father and no longer with her. +And Maurice will run off at the first opportunity to his +father. But perhaps these are the conditions of her +existence, of her talent as a writer, of her happiness? +Don’t let it bother you,—it is already so far away! +Time is a great healer. Up till now, I have not got over +it; that is why I have not written to you. Everything +I begin I burn the next moment. And I should have so +much to write to you! It is better to write nothing +at all.”</p> + +<p>They saw each other again one last time, on the +fourth of March, 1848, quite by accident. Chopin was +leaving Mme. Marliani’s as Mme. Sand was going in. +She pressed his trembling and icy hand. Chopin asked +her if she had recently had news of her daughter.</p> + +<p>“A week ago,” she replied.</p> + +<p>“Not yesterday, or the day before?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“Then I inform you that you are a grandmother. +Solange has a little girl, and I am very happy to be +the first to give you the news.”</p> + +<p>Then he bowed and went down the stairs. At the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span>bottom he had a pang of remorse, and wanted to go +back. He had forgotten to add that Solange and the +child were doing well. He begged a friend who was +with him to give Mme. Sand this additional information, +because going up steps had become a frightfully painful +business. George came back immediately. She wanted +further talk, and asked for news about himself. He +replied that he was well, and left. “There were mischievous +meddlers between us,” she said later in telling +of this minute in the <i>Histoire de ma Vie</i>.</p> + +<p>As for Chopin, he reported this fortuitous encounter +with her mother to Mme. Clésinger, and added, “She +seemed to be in good health. I am sure that the triumph +of the Republican idea makes her happy....”</p> + +<p>Eight days before, in fact, the Revolution had burst. +It must have been singularly displeasing to <i>Prince Karol</i>. +He wrote again to Solange: “The birth of your child +gave me more joy, you may well believe, than the birth +of the Republic.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVII"> + CHAPTER XVII + <br> + <span class="smcap">Swan Song</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>For twenty years Chopin had been playing hide-and-seek +with revolutions. He had left Warsaw a +few weeks before that of 1830. His projected trip to +Italy in the spring of 1831 had been put off because of +the insurrections at Bologna, Milan, Ancona, Rome. +He had arrived in Paris a year after the “Three Glorious +Days,” but still he had witnessed from his balcony on +the Boulevard Poissonnière the last squalls of the storm. +Louis-Philippe was then King of France. Now he +was abdicating after a reign of little more than seventeen +years, just the length of Chopin’s stay at Paris. ’48 +promised to be a bad year for artists. Very bad for +Chopin, with that gaping wound in his heart, and the +phthisis against which he no longer even struggled. He +decided to leave France for a time, and to undertake a +tour in Great Britain that Miss Stirling, a Scotch lady +whom he greatly liked, proposed to organize. She had +been his pupil for four years. But his friends advised +him to give a last concert in Paris before leaving. He +allowed himself to be persuaded. This was at the +beginning of February.</p> + +<p>In eight days all the tickets were sold, three hundred +seats at 20 francs in the Salons Pleyel. “I shall have +all Parisian society,” he wrote to his family. “The +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span>King, the Queen, the Duke of Orleans, the Duke of +Montpensier have each taken ten places, even though +they are in mourning and none of them can come. +Subscriptions are coming in for a second concert, which +I shall probably not give because the first one already +bores me.” And he adds the next day: “My friends +tell me that I shall not have to bother about anything, +only to sit down and play... They are writing to +my publisher from Brest and Nantes to reserve places. +Such enthusiasm astonishes me, and I must begin +playing to-day, if only for the sake of my conscience, +because I play less than I used to do. (Before his concerts +Chopin always practised on Bach.) I am going +to play, as a curiosity, the Mozart trio with Franchomme +and Allard. There will be neither free programmes nor +free tickets. The room will be comfortably arranged, +and can hold three hundred people. Pleyel always jokes +about my foolishness, and to encourage me for this +concert, he is going to have the stairs banked with +flowers. I shall be just as though I were at home, and +my eyes will meet, so to speak, none but familiar faces... +I am giving a great many lessons. I am overwhelmed +with all sorts of work, yet, with all that, I +do nothing... If you leave I shall move, too, because +I doubt if I could stomach another summer such as the +last in Paris. If God gives us health, we shall see each +other again, and we shall talk, and embrace each other.”</p> + +<p>It is not only lassitude that this letter breathes; +does one not read beneath the weary smiles the certainty +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span>of an approaching end? This gathering of friends, +this atmosphere of flowers and wreaths, has about it +something funereal. We detect in the eagerness of this +élite of worldlings and of artists an anxiety, something +like a presentiment of the twilight of a whole peaceful +and elegant epoch. Poet and King are passing away. +Society is hastening to catch the last perfume of the +ancient lilies of France, and of the young Polish rose. +Sweeping closer was the triumph of George Sand, of +the philosophers with dandruff, and of Barbès.</p> + +<p>Frederick Chopin’s supreme concert took place on +Wednesday, the 16th of February, 1848, one week before +the abdication of Louis-Philippe. Everything about it +was extraordinary. The room was decorated with +flowers and carpets. The list of the selected audience +had been revised by Chopin himself. The text of the +programme had been steel-engraved in English script, +and printed on beautiful paper. It read:</p> + +<div style="width:60%; margin:2em 20% 2em 20%; text-align: left; padding-left: 2em; text-indent: -2em;"> + <p class="smcap center">Part One</p> + <div><i>Trio</i> of Mozart, for piano, violin and violoncello, + by MM. Chopin, Allard and Franchomme.</div> + <div><i>Airs</i> sung by Mlle. Antonia Molina di Mondi.</div> + <div><i>Nocturne</i></div> + <div><i>Barcarolle</i> } composed and played by M. Chopin.</div> + + <div><i>Air</i> sung by Mlle. Antonia Molina di Mondi.</div> + + <div><i>Etude</i></div> + <div><i>Berceuse</i> } composed and played by M. Chopin.</div> + + <p class="smcap center" style="margin-top:1em;">Part Two</p> + + <div><i>Scherzo</i>, <i>Adagio</i> and <i>Finale</i> of the <i>Sonata in</i> + <i>G Minor for piano and violoncello</i>, composed by M. Chopin and + played by the composer and M. Franchomme.</div> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span> + <div><i>Air nouveau</i> from <i>Robert the Devil</i>, by Meyerbeer, + sung by M. Roger.</div> + + <div><i>Preludes</i></div> + <div><i>Mazurkas</i> } composed and played by M. Chopin.</div> + <div><i>Valses</i></div> + + <div>Accompanists: MM. Aulary and de Garaudé.</div> +</div> + +<p>The <i>Barcarolle</i> is that of 1846 (op. 60). The <i>Berceuse</i> +(op. 57) dates from 1845. As for the <i>Nocturne</i> and the +<i>Etude</i> that were announced, one can only guess. The +<i>Sonata for piano and violoncello</i> is the last work he published. +As to the <i>Preludes</i> and the <i>Mazurkas</i> we are +again at a loss. But it is known that the Waltz chosen +was that which is called “The Waltz of the Little Dog” +(op. 64, no. 1).</p> + +<p>Chopin appeared. He was extremely weak, but erect. +His face, though pale, showed no change. Neither did +his playing betray any exhaustion, and they were sufficiently +accustomed to the softness and surprises of his +touch not to wonder that he played <i>pianissimo</i> the two +<i>forte</i> passages at the end of his <i>Barcarolle</i>. One is glad +to know that for that evening he chose this lovely +plaint, the story of a lovers’ meeting in an Italian country-side. +Thirds and sixths, always distinct, turn this +dialogue for two voices, for two souls, into a very easily +read commentary on his own story. “One dreams +of a mysterious apotheosis,” Maurice Ravel has said +of this piece. Perhaps, indeed, it is an inner climax, +the glorification of his unexpressed tenderness.</p> + +<p>The effort was so great that Chopin nearly fainted +in the foyer when he had finished. As for the enthusiasm +of the public, it hardly needs to be mentioned. “The +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span>sylph has kept faith,” said the <i>Gazette Musicale</i>, a few days +later, “and with what success, what enthusiasm! It +is easier to tell of the welcome he received, the transports +he excited, than to describe, to analyse, and to +lay bare the secrets of an execution that has no like in +our earthly world. When we can command the pen +that traced the delicate marvels of Queen Mab, no +bigger than the agate that shines on the finger of an +alderman... it will be as much as we can do if we +succeed in giving you an idea of a purely ideal talent +into which the material hardly enters. No one can +interpret Chopin’s music, but Chopin: all who were +present on Wednesday are as convinced of that as we +are.”</p> + +<p>Chopin arrived in London on the 20th of April, +1848, and settled in a comfortable room in Dover Street +with his three pianos: a Pleyel, an Erard and a Broadwood. +He did not arrive alone: England was invaded +by a swarm of artists fleeing the Continent, where +revolutions were breaking out on all sides. But Miss +Stirling and her sister, Mrs. Erskine, had thought of +everything, and already society and the Press were talking +of Chopin’s visit.</p> + +<p>At first, the change of air and of life seemed favourable +to his health. He breathed more easily and could +make a few calls. He went to the theatre, heard Jenny +Lind sing, and the Philharmonic play, but “their orchestra +is like their roast beef, or their turtle soup: energetic, +serious, but nothing more.” His greatest trouble was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span>the lack of all rehearsals, and Chopin, before giving a +concert, always demanded rehearsals of the most detailed +kind. For this reason he decided not to appear in +public. In addition, his spirits were low, because of +the bad political news from Poland. Furthermore, he +learned with pain of the complete misunderstandings of +the Clésinger couple, of a possible separation, and he +thought at once of George. It was to be hoped that +this unhappy mother would have no new tears to shed!</p> + +<p>Soon he was again overwhelmed with fatigue. He +was obliged to be out very late every evening, to give +lessons all day long in order to pay for his costly rooms, +his servant, and his carriage. He began again to spit +blood. Still he was received with many attentions by +diverse great lords and ladies: the Duke of Westminster, +the Duchesses of Somerset and Sutherland, Lord Falmouth, +Lady Gainsborough. Miss Stirling and her +sister, who adored him, wanted to drag him about to +all their friends. Finally, he played in two or three +drawing-rooms for a fee of twenty guineas, a fee that +Mme. Rothschild advised him to reduce a little “because +at this season (June) it is necessary to make prices +more moderate.” The first evening took place at the +Duchess of Sutherland’s, at which were present the +Queen, Prince Albert, the Prince of Prussia, and more +than eighty of the aristocracy, among them the old +Duke of Wellington. Stafford House, the ancient seat +of the Sutherlands, struck the artist with admiration +He gave a marvelling description of it: “All the royal +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span>palaces and old castles are splendid, but not decorated +with such taste and elegance as Stafford House. The +stairs are celebrated for their splendour, and it is a sight +to see the Queen on these staircases in a blaze of light, +surrounded by all those diamonds, ribbons, and garters, +and descending with the most perfect elegance, conversing, +stopping on the different landings. In truth, it is +regrettable that a Paul Veronese could not have seen +such a spectacle and left one more masterpiece.”</p> + +<p>Dear Chopin, he did not dream that in looking at +such a picture we should have hunted only for his poor +bloodless face! What do this ephemeral glitter and all +these tinsel grandeurs mean to us beside his little person, +so wasted, but near to our hearts. We see the magnificence +of this gala evening merely for his sake, obscure +actor in a fête where nothing seems extraordinary to us +save his feverish glance. “I suffer from an idiotic +home-sickness,” he wrote, “and in spite of my absolute +resignation, I am preoccupied, God knows why, with +what is to become of me.” He played at the Marquis +of Douglas’s, at Lady Gainsborough’s, at Lord Falmouth’s, +in the midst of an affluence of titled personages. +“You know they live on grandeur. Why cite these +vain names again?” Yet he cites a great many. Among +celebrities, he was presented to Carlyle, to Bulwer, to +Dickens, to Hogarth, a friend of Walter Scott, who wrote +a very beautiful article about him in the <i>Daily News</i>. +Among the “curiosities,” was Lady Byron. “We +conversed almost without understanding each other, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span>she in English, I in French. I can understand how she +must have bored Byron.” Mr. Broadwood, the piano +manufacturer, was among the most attentive of his +bourgeois friends. Occasionally he had a visit from +him in the mornings. Chopin told him one day that +he had slept badly. Coming in that evening, he found +on his bed a new spring mattress and pillows, provided +by this faithful protector.</p> + +<p>These various recitals brought Chopin about five +thousand francs, no great sum, all told. But what did +money matter? What could he do with it? He had +never been more sad. Not for a long while had he +experienced a real joy, he confided to Grzymala. “At +bottom I am really past all feeling. I vegetate, simply, +and patiently await my end.”</p> + +<p>On the 9th of August he left London for Scotland, +where he went to the house of his friends the Stirlings +and their brother-in-law, Lord Torphichen. The excellent +Broadwood had reserved two places for him in +the train so that he might have more room, and had +given him a Mr. Wood, a music-seller, as a companion. +He arrived in Edinburgh. His apartment was reserved +in the best hotel, where he rested a day and a half. A +tour of the city. A halt at a music shop where he heard +one of his <i>Mazurkas</i> played by a blind pianist. He +left again in an English carriage, with a postilion, for +Calder House, twelve miles from Edinburgh. There +Lord Torphichen received him in an old manor surrounded +by an immense park. There was nothing in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span>sight but lawns, trees, mountains and sky. “The +walls of the castle are eight feet thick. There are +galleries on all sides and dark corridors hung with an +incalculable number of ancestral portraits of all colours +and costumes, some Scotch, others in armour, or again +in panniers. There is nothing lacking to satisfy the +imagination. There is even a little Red Riding Hood +in the form of a ghost. But I have not yet seen her.” +As for his hosts, they were perfect, discreet and generous. +“What splendid people my Scots are!” wrote +Chopin. “There is nothing I can desire that I do not +immediately receive. They even bring me the Paris +papers every day. I am well. I have peace and sleep, +but I must leave in a week.”</p> + +<p>These Stirlings of Keir were a very ancient family. +They went back to the fourteenth century, and had +acquired wealth in the Indies. Jane and her older +sister, Mrs. Erskine, had known Chopin in Paris. They +were two noble women, older than Frederick, but the +younger still very beautiful. Ary Scheffer painted her +several times, because she represented to his eyes the +ideal of beauty. It was said that she wanted to marry +Chopin. To those who spoke to him about it, “As well +marry her to Death,” he said.</p> + +<p>Life was agreeable at Calder House; quiet mornings, +drives in the afternoon, and in the evening music. +Chopin harmonized for the old lord the Scotch airs that +the latter hummed. A picture that does not lack +piquancy. But the poor swan was restless. He thought +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span>always of George, of whom he had just received news +through Solange. It was bad. As the proclamations +which had ignited Civil War, even in the provinces, +were attributed to her, she had been in bad odour in her +Nohant world. Taking refuge at Tours, “she is stuck +in a sea of mud,” wrote Chopin to his sister, “and she +has dragged many others with her.” A filthy lampoon +was circulating about her, published by the father of +that same Augustine whom Chopin detested. This man +complained that “she had corrupted his daughter, whom +she had made the mistress of Maurice, and then married +to the first comer... The father cites Mme. Sand’s +own letters. In one word, a most dirty sensation, in +which all Paris is interested to-day. It is an outrage +on the part of the father, <i>but it is the truth</i>. So much for +the philanthropic deed she thought she was doing, and +against which I fought with all my strength when the +girl came into the house! She should have been left +with her parents, not put into the head of this young +man, who will never marry except for money. But +he wanted to have a pretty cousin in the house. She +was dressed like Sol, and better groomed, because +Maurice insisted on it.... Solange saw the whole +thing, which made them uncomfortable... Hence, +lies, shame, embarrassment, and the rest.”</p> + +<p>All the rancours, all the bitternesses are seen coming +to the surface again. And immense regrets. “The +English are so different from the French, to whom I +am attached as to my own people,” he wrote again in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span>this same letter to his family. “They weigh everything +by the pound sterling, and love art only because +it is superfluous. They are excellent people, but so +original that I understand how one could oneself +become stiff here: one changes into a machine.”</p> + +<p>He was obliged to leave Calder House to give several +concerts. Manchester at the end of August; Glasgow +at the end of September; Edinburgh at the beginning +of October. And if everywhere he reaped the same +success, the same admiring surprise, a kind of tempered +enthusiasm, yet most of the criticisms noted that his +playing was no more than a kind of murmur. “Chopin +seems about thirty years old,” said the <i>Manchester Guardian</i>. +(He was thirty-eight.) “He is very frail of +body, and in his walk. This impression vanishes when +he seats himself at the piano, in which he seems completely +absorbed. Chopin’s music, and the style of his +playing, have the same dominant characteristics; he +has more refinement than vigour; he prefers a subtle +elaboration to a simple grasp of the composition; his +touch is elegant and quick without his striking the +instrument with any joyful firmness. His music and +his playing are the perfection of chamber music... +but they need more inspiration, more frankness of +design, and more power in the execution to be felt in +a large hall.”</p> + +<p>These are the same discreet reproaches that were +made in Vienna in 1828. But only his friends knew +how ill he was, and how he now had to be carried up +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span>the stairs. He remained <i>chic</i>, however, as refined in +his dress as a woman, exercised about his linen, his +shoes, insisting on their being irreproachable. His +servant curled him every morning with an iron. The +imperious side of his nature revealed itself. Everything +weighed him down: attentions, even affection, +became heavy on his shoulders, like his greatcoat or +even his cashmere shawl. These are the irritations of +a very sick man: “People kill me with their useless +solicitude. I feel alone, alone, alone, although I am +surrounded... I grow weaker every day. I can +compose nothing, not that the will is lacking, but rather +the physical strength... My Scots will not leave +me in peace; they smother me with politeness and out +of politeness I will not reproach them.” These were +his plaints to Grzymala. He was carried to Stirling, +to Keir, from one castle to another, from a Lord to a +Duke. Everywhere he found sumptuous hospitality, +excellent pianos, beautiful pictures, well-selected libraries, +hunting, horses, dogs; but wherever he is, he expires +of coughing and irritation. What was he to do after +dinner when the gentlemen settled down in the dining-room +around their whisky and when, not knowing their +tongue, he was obliged “to watch them talk, and hear +them drink”? A renewal of home-sickness, of sickness +for Nohant. While they talked of their family trees, +and, “as in the Gospel, cited names and names that went +back to the Lord Jesus,” Chopin drafted letters to his +friends. “If Solange settles in Russia,” he wrote to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span>Mlle. de Rozières, “with whom will she talk of France? +With whom can she prattle in the Berry <i>patois</i>? Does +that seem of no importance to you? Well, it is, +nevertheless, a great consolation in a strange country +to have someone about you who, as soon as you +see him, carries you back in thought to your own +country.”</p> + +<p>He came back at last to London in the beginning of +October, to go straight to bed. Breathlessness, headaches, +cold, bronchitis, all the regular symptoms. His +Scots followed him, cared for him, as did also Princess +Czartoryska, who constituted herself his sick-nurse. +From that time on, his one dream was to get back to +France. As before, on his return from Majorca, he +charged Grzymala to find him a lodging near the Boulevards +between the rue de la Paix and the Madeleine. +He needed also a room for his valet. “Why I give you +all this trouble, I don’t know, for nothing gives me +pleasure, but I’ve got to think of myself.” And suddenly +the old pain bursts forth without apparent rhyme +or reason in the very middle of these domestic affairs: +“I have never cursed anyone, but at this moment everything +is so insupportable to me that it would soothe me, +it seems to me, if I could curse Lucrezia!...” Three +lines follow which he immediately effaced, and made +indecipherable. Then coming back to himself, or +having once more swallowed what he could never +consent to express, he adds: “But they are suffering +down there, too, no doubt; they suffer so much the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span>more in that they are growing old in their anger. As +for Solange, I shall eternally pity her.”</p> + +<p>So the mystery of this soul remains. No one will +ever clearly trace its meetings of the extremes of love, +scorn, and hate. The only certain fact is that from +the time of his break with George, the life both of his +body and of his spirit was finished for Chopin. It will +be said that was already condemned. Not more than +at the return from Majorca. And his father did not +succumb to the same illness until he was seventy-five +years old. Chopin had deliberately given up a struggle +in which he had no further motive for the will to win. +In fact, he says as much: “And why should I come +back? Why does God not kill me at once instead of +letting me die slowly of a fever of irresolution? And +my Scots torture me more than I can bear. Mrs. +Erskine, who is a very good Protestant, possibly wants +to make a Protestant out of me, because she is always +bringing me the Bible, and talking to me of the soul, +and marking Psalms for me to read. She is religious +and good, but she is very much worried about my soul. +She <i>saws</i> away all the time at me, telling me that the +other world is better than this, and I know that by +heart. I reply by citations from Scripture and tell her +that I know all about it.”</p> + +<p>This dying man dragged himself again from London +to Edinburgh, to a castle of the Duke of Hamilton, +came back to London, gave a concert for the benefit +of the Poles, and made his will. Gutmann, his friend +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span>and pupil, informed him that a rumour of his marriage +was circulating in Paris. Those unfortunate Scots, no +doubt! “Friendship remains friendship,” replied Chopin. +“And even if I could fall in love with a being +who would love me as I should want to be loved, I +still should not marry, because I should have nothing +to eat, nor anywhere to go. A rich woman looks for +a rich man, and if she loves a poor man, at least he +shouldn’t be an invalid!... No, I am not thinking +of a wife; much rather of my father’s house, of my +mother, of my sisters... And my art, where has +that gone? And my heart, where have I squandered +it? I can scarcely still remember how they sing at +home. All round me the world is vanishing in an +utterly strange manner—I am losing my way—I have +no strength at all... I am not complaining to you, +but you question and I reply: I am closer to the coffin +than to the nuptial bed. My soul is at peace. I am +resigned.”</p> + +<p>He left at last, at the beginning of the year 1849, to +return to the Square d’Orléans, and he sent his last +instructions to Grzymala. Let pine cones be bought +for his fire. Let curtains and carpet be in place. Also +a Pleyel piano and a bouquet of violets in the salon, +that the room may be perfumed. “On my return, I +want still to find a little poetry when I pass from the +salon to my room, where no doubt I shall be in bed +for a long time.”</p> + +<p>With what joy he saw again his little apartment! +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span>Unhappily, Dr. Molin, who alone had the secret of +setting him on his legs again, had died not long before. +He consulted Dr. Roth, Dr. Louis, Dr. Simon, a homeopath. +They all prescribed the old inefficacious remedies: +<i>l’eau de gomme</i>, rest, precautions. Chopin shrugged +his shoulders. He saw death everywhere: Kalkbrenner +was dead; Dr. Molin was dead; the son of the painter +Delaroche was dead; a servant of Franchomme’s was +dead; the singer Catalani (who had given him his first +watch at the age of ten) had just died also.</p> + +<p>“On the other hand, Noailles is better,” said one of +his Scots.</p> + +<p>“Yes, but the King of Spain has died at Lisbon,” +replied Chopin.</p> + +<p>All his friends visited him: Prince Czartoryski and +his wife, Delphine Potoçka, Mme. de Rothschild, +Legouvé, Jenny Lind, Delacroix, Franchomme, Gutmann.</p> + +<p>And then,—he had not a sou. Absent-minded and +negligent, Chopin never knew much about the state of +his finances. Just then they were at zero, for he could +no longer give a single lesson. Franchomme served +as his banker, but he had to exercise his ingenuity, and +invent stories to explain the origin of the funds advanced +by one or other of his friends. If he had suspected this +state of things, Chopin would have flatly refused. The +idea of such charity would have been insupportable to +him. In this connection there came about a curious +happening. The Stirling ladies, wishing to remove this +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span>worry, thought of sending to his concierge the sum of +25,000 francs in a sealed and anonymous envelope. +Mme. Etienne received the envelope, slipped it behind +the glass of her clock, and forgot it. When Mrs. Erskine +perceived that Chopin had not received this money +she made her confession to the artist. He shouted aloud. +“I must have told her a lot of truths,” he told Grzymala, +“as, for example, this: ‘that she would have to be +the Queen of England to make me accept such princely +presents.’” Meanwhile, as the money was not found, +the postman who had delivered it to the concierge +consulted a fortune-teller. The latter requested, in order +to consult his oracles properly, a lock of Mme. Etienne’s +hair. Chopin obtained it by subterfuge, upon which +the clairvoyant declared that the envelope was under +the clock glass. And in truth it was discovered there +intact. “Hein! What do you say to that? What do +you think of this fortune-teller? My head is in a whirl +with wonder.”</p> + +<p>As is the case with very nervous people, Chopin’s +health was capricious. There were ups and downs. +With the return of spring he could go out a little, in +a carriage, but he could not leave it. His publisher, +Schlesinger, came to the edge of the pavement to talk +business to him. Delacroix often accompanied him. +He consigned to his <i>Journal</i> notes that remain precious +to us.</p> + +<p>January 29th. “In the evening to see Chopin; I +stayed with him till ten o’clock. Dear man! We spoke +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span>of Mme. Sand, that woman of strange destiny, made +up of so many qualities and vices. It was apropos +of her <i>Mémoires</i>. He told me that it would be impossible +for her to write them. She has forgotten it all; she has +flashes of feeling, and forgets quickly.... I said +that I predicted in advance an unhappy old age for her. +He did not think so.... Her conscience does not +reproach her for anything of all that for which her +friends reproach her. She has good health, which may +easily last; only one thing would affect her profoundly: +the loss of Maurice or that he should turn out badly.</p> + +<p>“As for Chopin, illness prevents him from interesting +himself in anything, and especially in work. I said to +him that age and the agitations of the times would not +be long in chilling me, too. He replied that he thought +I had strength to resist. ‘You rejoice in your talent,’ +he said, ‘with a sort of security that is a rare privilege, +and is better than this feverish chase after fame.’”</p> + +<p>March 30th. “Saw in the evening at Chopin’s the +enchantress, Mme. Potoçka. I had heard her twice, I +have hardly ever seen anything more perfect... Saw +Mme. Kalerji. She played, but not very sympathetically; +on the other hand, she is really extremely lovely +when she raises her eyes in playing, like the Magdalens +of Guido Reni or of Rubens.”</p> + +<p>April 14th. “In the evening to Chopin’s: I found +him very much weakened, hardly breathing. After +awhile my presence restored him. He told me that his +cruellest torment was boredom. I asked him if he had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span>not known in earlier times the insupportable emptiness +that I still sometimes feel. He said that he had always +been able to find something to do; an occupation, +however unimportant, filled the moments, and kept off +those vapours. Grief was another matter.”</p> + +<p>April 22nd. “After dinner to see Chopin, a man +of exquisite heart, and, I need not say, mind. He spoke +to me of people we have known together... He had +dragged himself to the first performance of <i>The Prophet</i>. +His horror of this rhapsody!”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>In May, Chopin burned his manuscripts. He tried +to work up a method for the piano, gave it up, burned +it with the rest. Clearly the idea of the imperfect, of +the unfinished, was insupportable to his spirit.</p> + +<p>The doctors having recommended a purer air, a +quieter neighbourhood, his friends rented an apartment +in the rue de Chaillot, on the second floor of a new +house, and took him there. There was a beautiful view +over Paris. He stayed there motionless behind his window, +speaking very little. Towards the end of June +he desired suddenly, and at any cost, to see his own +people again. He sent a letter summoning them which +took him two days to write.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"> + CHAPTER XVIII + <br> + <span class="smcap">“The Cypresses have their caprices”</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>“To Madame Louise Jedrzeïewicz.</p> + +<p class="right"> + “<span class="smcap">Paris</span>, <i>Monday, June 25, 1849.</i> +</p> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">My dearly beloveds</span>,</p> + +<p>“If you can, come. I am ill, and no doctor can help +me as you can. If you need money, borrow it; when +I am better I can easily make it and return it to whoever +lends it to you, but just now I am too broke to be able +to send you anything. My Chaillot apartment is big +enough to receive you, even with the two children. +Little Louise will benefit in every way. Papa Calasante⁠<a id="FNanchor_1_1" href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> +shall run about all day long; we have the Agricultural +Products Exhibition close to us here; in a word, he will +have much more time for himself than he did the other +time, because I am weaker, and shall stay more in the +house with Louise. My friends and all my well-wishers +are convinced that the best remedy for me would be the +arrival of Louise, as she will certainly learn from Mme. +Obreskow’s letter. So get your passport. People +whom Louise does not know, one from the North, and +one from the South, told me to-day that it would benefit, +not only my health, but also my sister’s.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_1_1" href="#FNanchor_1_1" class="label">[1]</a> His brother-in-law.</p></div> + +<p>“So, mother Louise and daughter Louise, bring +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span>your thimbles and your needles. I’ll give you handkerchiefs +to mark, socks to knit, and you shall spend your +time for a few months in the fresh air with your old +brother and uncle. The journey is easier now; also +you don’t need much luggage. We’ll try to be happy +here on very little. You shall find food and shelter. +And even if sometimes Calasante finds that it is far +from the Champs Elysées to town, he can stay in my +apartment in the Square d’Orléans. The omnibus goes +right from the Square to my door here. I don’t know +myself why I want so much to have Louise, it’s like the +longing of a pregnant woman. I swear to you that it +will be good for her, too. I hope that the family council +will send her to me: who knows whether I shan’t take +her back when I am well! Then we could all rejoice +and embrace each other, as I have already written, but +without wigs and with our own teeth. The wife +always owes obedience to her husband; so it’s the +husband whom I beg to bring his wife; I beg it with +my whole heart, and if he weighs it well he will see +that he cannot give a greater pleasure either to her, or +to me, or do a greater service even to the children, if he +should bring one of them. (As to the little girl I do not +doubt it.) It will cost money, it is true, but it cannot +be better spent nor could you travel more cheaply. +Once here, your quarters will be provided. Write me +a little word. Mme. Obreskow, who had the kindness +to want to write (I have given her Louise’s address), will +perhaps be more persuasive. Mlle. de Rozières will +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span>also add a word, and Cochet, if he were here, would +speak for me, because there is no doubt that he would +find me no better. His Æsculapius has not shown himself +for ten days because he has at last perceived that there +is something in my sickness that passes his science. In +spite of that, you must praise him to your tenant, and +to all who know him, and say that he has done me a +great deal of good; but my head is made that way: +when I am a little bit better, that’s enough for me. +Say also that everyone is convinced that he has cured +a quantity of people of cholera. The cholera is diminishing +a great deal; it has almost disappeared. The +weather is superb; I am sitting in the salon from where +I can admire the whole panorama of Paris: the towers, +the Tuileries, the Chambres, St.-Germain l’Auxerrois, +St. Etienne du Mont, Notre-Dame, the Panthéon, St. +Sulpice, Val de Grâce, the five windows of the Invalides, +and between these buildings and me nothing but gardens. +You will see it all when you come. Now get busy on +the passport and the money, but do it quickly. Write +me a word at once. You know that the cypresses have +their caprices: my caprice to-day is to see you in my +house. Maybe God will permit everything to go well: +but if God does not wish it, act at least as though He +did. I have great hope, because I never ask for very +much, and I should have refrained from this also if I +had not been urged on by all who wish me well. Bestir +yourself, Monsieur Calasante. In return, I shall give +you <i>huge</i> and excellent cigars; I know someone who +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span>smokes marvellous ones—in the garden, mind you! +I hope the letter I wrote for Mamma’s birthday arrived, +and that I did not miss the date too far. I don’t want +to think of all that because it makes me feverish, and, +thank God, I have no fever, which disconcerts and vexes +all the ordinary doctors.</p> + +<p>“Your affectionate but very feeble brother,</p> + +<p class="right"> + “<span class="smcap">Ch.</span>” +</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIX"> + CHAPTER XIX + <br> + <span class="smcap">The Death of Chopin</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>“Mother Louise and daughter Louise” +hurried to him at once. Calasante accompanied +them. Chopin would have greatly liked to see again +the friend of his youth, Titus, who had just arrived at +Ostend. But as he was a Russian subject, passport +difficulties prevented him from entering France. “The +doctors do not allow me to travel,” wrote the invalid, +who had hoped to be able to go to meet him. “I +drink Pyrenees water in my room, but your presence +would be more healing than any medicine. Yours even +in death, your Frederick.”</p> + +<p>About six weeks glided by without any improvement. +Chopin hardly spoke any more and made himself understood +by signs. A consultation took place between the +Doctors Cruveillé, Louis and Blache. They decided +that any change to the South of France was thenceforth +useless, but that it would be preferable to take the dying +man to quarters that could be heated, and were more +convenient, and very airy. After long search, they +found what they needed at No. 12, Place Vendôme. +Chopin was carried there. One last time he took up +his pen to write to Franchomme. “I shall see you next +winter, being settled at last in a comfortable manner. +My sister will remain with me unless they should call +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span>her back for something important, I love you, that is +all that I can say for the moment because I am crushed +with fatigue and weakness.”</p> + +<p>Charles Gavard, the young brother of one of his +pupils, often came to see him and read to him. Chopin +indicated his preferences. He returned with the greatest +pleasure to Voltaire’s <i>Dictionnaire Philosophique</i>, in which +he appreciated especially the form, the conciseness, and +the impeccable taste. It was, in fact, the chapter on +“The Different Tastes of Peoples” that Gavard read to +him one of the last times.</p> + +<p>His condition grew rapidly worse; yet he complained +little. The thought of his end did not seem to affect +him much. In the first days of October he had no +longer strength enough to sit up. The spells of suffocation +grew worse. Gutmann, who was very tall and +robust, knew better than any how to hold him, to settle +him in his pillows. Princess Marceline Czartoryska +again took up her service as nurse, spending the greater +part of her days at the Place Vendôme. Franchomme +came back from the country. The family and friends +assembled about the dying man ready to help as they +could. All of them waited in the room next to that in +which Chopin lived his last days.</p> + +<p>One of his childhood friends, Abbé Alexandre Jelowiçki, +with whom he had been on cold terms, wanted to +see him again when he learned of the gravity of his +illness. Three times in succession they refused to +receive him; but the Abbé succeeded in informing +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span>Chopin of his presence, and was admitted immediately. +After that he came back every day. Chopin had +great pleasure in recovering this comrade of other +days.</p> + +<p>“I would not like to die,” he said, “without having +received the sacraments, lest I should pain my mother; +but I do not understand them as you wish. I can see +nothing in confession beyond the relief of a burdened +heart on the heart of a friend.”</p> + +<p>The Abbé has related that on the 13th of October, +in the morning, he found Chopin a little better.</p> + +<p>“My friend,” the Abbé said, “to-day is the birthday +of my poor dead brother. You must give me something +for this day.”</p> + +<p>“What can I give you?”</p> + +<p>“Your soul.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! I understand,” cried Frederick. “Here it is. +Take it.”</p> + +<p>Jelowiçki fell on his knees and presented the Crucifix +to Chopin, who began to weep. He immediately confessed, +made his communion, and received extreme +unction. Then he said, embracing his friend with both +arms in the Polish fashion: “Thank you, dear friend. +Thanks to you I shan’t die like a pig.” That day was +calmer, but the fits of suffocation began again very +shortly. As Gutmann was holding him in his arms +during one of these wearing attacks, Chopin said after +a long breathless silence:</p> + +<p>“Now I begin my agony.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span></p> + +<p>The doctor felt his pulse and sought for a reassuring +word, but Chopin went on with authority:</p> + +<p>“It is a rare favour that God gives to a man in revealing +the moment when his agony begins; this grace He has +given to me. Do not disturb me.”</p> + +<p>It was that evening also that Franchomme heard him +murmur: “Still, she told me that I should not die except +in her arms.”</p> + +<p>On Sunday the 15th of October his friend Delphine +Potoçka arrived from Nice, whence a telegram had +recalled her. When Chopin knew that she was in his +drawing-room he said: “So that is why God has delayed +calling me to Him. He wanted to let me have the +pleasure of seeing her again.”</p> + +<p>She had hardly approached his bed when the dying +man expressed the desire to hear the voice that he had +loved. They pushed the piano on to the threshold of +the room. Smothering her sobs, the Countess sang. +In the general emotion no one could remember later on, +with certainty, what pieces she chose. Yet at the request +of Chopin she sang twice.</p> + +<p>Suddenly they heard the death-rattle. The piano +was pushed back, and all knelt down. Yet that was +not the end, and he lived through that night. On the +16th his voice failed, and he lost consciousness for several +hours. But he came to himself, made a sign that he wished +to write, and placed on a sheet of paper his last wish:</p> + +<p>“<i>As this Earth will smother me I conjure you to have my +body opened so that I may not be buried alive.</i>”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span></p> + +<p>Later he again recovered the feeble use of his voice. +Then he said:</p> + +<p>“You will find many compositions more or less +sketched out; I beg of you, by the love you bear me, +to burn them all, with the exception of the beginning +of a <i>Method</i>, which I bequeath to Alkan and Reber to +make some use of it. The rest, without exception, must +be burned, for I have a great respect for the public, +and my efforts are as finished as it has been in my power +to make them. I will not have my name made responsible +for the circulation of works unworthy of the +public.”</p> + +<p>Then he made his farewells to each of them. Calling +Princess Marceline and Mlle. Gavard, he said to them: +“When you make music together, think of me, and I shall +hear you.” Addressing Franchomme: “Play Mozart +in memory of me.” All that night Abbé Jelowiçki +recited the prayers for the dying, which they all repeated +together. Chopin alone remained mute; life now +revealed itself only by nervous spasms. Gutmann held +his hand between his own, and from time to time gave +him something to drink. “Dear friend,” murmured +Chopin once. His face became black and rigid. The +doctor bent over him and asked if he suffered. “No +more,” replied Chopin. This was the last word. A few +instants later they saw that he had ceased to live.</p> + +<p>It was the 17th of October, 1849, at two o’clock in +the morning.</p> + +<p>They all went out to weep.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span></p> + +<p>From the early morning hours Chopin’s favourite +flowers were brought in quantities. Clésinger came +to make the death-mask. Kwiatkowski made several +sketches. He said to Jane Stirling, because he understood +how much she loved him: “He was as pure as a tear.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XX"> + CHAPTER XX + <br> + <span class="smcap">An Epitaph for a Poet</span> + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>The death of an artist is the moment of his transfiguration. +There are many who were thought +great, whose work nevertheless returns at once to the +dust. For others, on the contrary, the state of glory +only begins with death. Perhaps, as Delacroix said, +in art everything is a matter of the soul. We have not +yet reached agreement as to the meaning and value of +that little word. But if it were necessary to give a +working idea of it, nothing would furnish it better than +music. “A cry made manifest,” Wagner called it. +Doubtless that means: the most spontaneous expression +of oneself. The artist is he who has need to give form +to his cry.</p> + +<p>Each one sets about it in his own manner. With a +life expended sumptuously like that of Liszt, contrast that +of Chopin, entirely reserved, not to be plucked by any +hand, but so much the more filled with perfume. All +that he did not give forth, his love which none could +seize, his modesty and his timidity, that constant fever +for perfection, his elegancies, his exile’s home-sickness, +and even his moments of communication with the unknowable,—all +these things are potent in his work. +To-day that is still the secret of its strength; music +received what men and women disdained. It is for +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span>music that he refused himself. How one understands +the desolation of Schumann when he learned of the +death of the swan, and this beautiful metaphor gushed +spontaneously from his pen: “The soul of music has +passed over the world.”</p> + +<p>Just this must the crowds have dimly felt as they +pressed to the Temple of the Madeleine on the 30th of +October, 1849. Thirteen days had been required to +prepare for the funeral that they wished to be as solemn +as the life of the dead had not been. But he was not +even a Chevalier of the Legion of Honour, this Monsieur +Frederick Chopin! No matter. “Nature had a holiday +air,” reported the papers. Many lovely toilettes. (He +would have been flattered.) All the leaders of the +musical and literary world, Meyerbeer at their head, +Berlioz, Gautier, Janin. Only George Sand was missing. +M. Daguerry, the Curé of the Madeleine, spent two +weeks in obtaining permission for women to sing in his +church. It is to the obsequies of Chopin that we owe +this tolerance. Without that, it would have been +impossible to give Mozart’s <i>Requiem</i>. It was played by +the orchestra of the Conservatoire, conducted by Giraud. +The soloists were hidden by a black drapery behind +the altar: Pauline Viardot and Mme. Castellan, Lablache +and Alexis Dupont. Lefébure-Wély was at the organ. +During the Offertory, they played two <i>Preludes</i>, that in +E minor (no. 4) and the 6th, in B minor, written at +Majorca in that dusk when Chopin had seen death while +the rain fell in torrents on the Chartreuse of Valdemosa.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span></p> + +<p>The coffin was then lowered in the midst of the congregation, +while the famous <i>Funeral March</i>, orchestrated +by Reber, sounded for the first time. The cords of +the pall were held by Prince Czartoryski, Franchomme, +Delacroix and Gutmann. Meyerbeer walked behind +the hearse. They set out, down the Boulevards, for the +cemetery of Père-Lachaise. There the body of Chopin +was buried, except the heart, which was sent to Warsaw, +where it has since remained in the church of the Holy +Cross. A beautiful symbol which accords with that +faithful heart.</p> + +<p>No eulogy was pronounced. In the moments of +meditation that followed the descent of the bier a friendly +hand was seen to throw on the coffin that Polish earth +that had been given to Chopin on the day he left his +country. Exactly nineteen years had passed since then. +During all those years the native soil had remained +in the silver cup awaiting this supreme use. But now +Poland no longer existed. Nowhere but in this delicate +handful of earth,—and the work of Chopin: a few +score pages in which were to burn for three-quarters of a +century the mysticism of a Nation.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>On the next 17th of October, in 1850, Miss Stirling +went early in the morning to Michon, the florist, who +had served Chopin, and bought all the violets she could +find. Then she went to Père-Lachaise and placed +them on the tomb with a wreath in the name of the +family of the dead. At noon, Mass was celebrated in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span>the chapel at the cemetery. Those who were present +then went back to the tomb, where Clésinger’s monument +was unveiled. It is a mediocre allegory, made by a +man who hated Chopin. How could such a thing have +been beautiful? Only the medallion has a little life. +These words are engraved on the pedestal: “To Frederick +Chopin, his friends.” Deputy Wolowski tried to +make a speech, but his throat tightened and nothing +was heard. All those who were brought together there +had been friends of the dead. They were still listening +to his voice, his piano, his consumptive cough. One +of them recalled a saying of his: “None can take from +me that which belongs to me.”</p> + +<p>To-day, these remains, pelted by the rain, this sorry +Muse bent over its lyre with broken strings, blend well +enough with the trees of Mont St.-Louis. There are +strollers in this park of the dead. They stop before +the bust of de Musset, the handsome boy-lover who +spelt his sorrows into such charming rhymes. They +make a little pilgrimage to the tomb of Abélard and +Héloïse, where a pious Abbess has had these words cut: +“The love that united their spirits during their life, +and which is preserved during their separation by the +most tender and spiritual of letters, has reunited their +bodies in this tomb.” This reassures the silent lovers +who come secretly to throw a flower at the foot of these +two stone symbols lying side by side. But no one is +seen on the narrow path that leads from the central +avenue to the grave of Chopin. For he did not exemplify +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span>the career of a great lover, this musician of souls. No +soul was found that could be attuned to his. It never +found its lute-maker.</p> + +<p>That word makes me think of a letter he wrote to +Fontana fourteen months before he died, and in which +he throws some light on the depths of his being: “The +only unhappiness,” he wrote, “consists in this: that +we issue from the workshop of a celebrated master, +some <i>sui generis</i> Stradivarius, who is no longer there to +mend us. Inexpert hands do not know the secret of +drawing new tones from us, and we push back into our +depths what no one has been able to evoke, for want +of a lute-maker.”</p> + +<p>There is a beautiful epitaph for a poet: dead for want +of a lute-maker. But where is he, this lute-maker of +our lives?</p> + +<p> + <i>Etoy, October 17, 1926.</i><br> + <i>77th Anniversary of the death of Chopin.</i> +</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_262"></a><a id="Page_263"></a>[263]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="SOURCES"> + SOURCES + </h2> +</div> + + +<p><i>The sources from which one can gather an authentic documentation +of the life of Chopin are extremely scarce. During his life, few +people took the trouble to preserve his letters, although he wrote but few. +Some, doubtless, attached but little value to them. Others caused them +to disappear because they exposed too intimate a part of their lives.</i></p> + +<p><i>An historic anecdote has it that Alexandre Dumas</i> fils, <i>in the course +of a sentimental pilgrimage to Poland in the spring of 1851, fell by chance +upon the complete file of letters written by George Sand to Chopin. Dumas +brought the file back to France and, having restored it to the novelist, saw +her re-read her letters and then throw them into the fire. Doubtless she +thus thought to bury in eternal oblivion the sad remains of a love whose +raptures and whose pains alike would not return to her. The burning, +in 1863, of the Warsaw house of Mme. Barcinska, Chopin’s youngest +sister, destroyed other precious relics.</i></p> + +<p><i>So there remains to us but a very small number of the composer’s letters. +Even these were altered at will by their first editor, Maurice Karasowski. +Many biographers, however, have placidly copied them, without taking +the trouble to collate them with the original texts, or even with the faithful +and inexpurgated German translation which M. B. Scharlitt published +at Leipzig in 1911. M. Henri Bidou has been the first to restore to us +some of these letters in their libelled original form. Karasowski’s work +is important, nevertheless, because the author, writing between 1860 and +1863, was intimately associated with Chopin’s sisters and niece, and he +gathered from their lips the family traditions. Parts of this I have used +particularly those concerned with the composer’s childish years and his death, +being convinced that the pious legend is based on fact.</i></p> + +<p><i>Other episodes, notably the journey to Berlin and his love for Constance +Gladkowska, have been borrowed from the work of Count Wodzinski. +I have also adopted certain picturesque details furnished by this same +biographer, as well as some family information concerning his relation, +Marie Wodzinska. Let me say this much once for all, in order not to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span>load my text with references. The curious reader will find all these on a +later page in the list of Works Consulted.</i></p> + +<p><i>The first complete and soundly documented work on the life of Chopin +was published by F. Niecks, in London, in 1888. Niecks too had known +a number of friends and pupils of the master. His study has therefore +an individual flavour which has not been superseded by later works. Elsewhere +have been issued a whole series of works on the musician, particularly +in Polish, German and English. I cite first of all the monumental</i> Chopin +<i>of Ferdynand Hoesick. But if we exclude the imaginative and erroneous +little books published in France during the latter half of the nineteenth +century (and up to our own day) we must go to the work of M. E. Ganche +to discover the first complete and serious study of the Polish musician +that has been published in French. The recent volume of M. H. Bidou +rectifies certain points in it and amplifies certain others. It is an indispensable +work for those who wish to fathom Chopin’s music.</i></p> + +<p><i>As I lately attempted with Liszt, I have sought here only to discover +a face and to replace it in its frame. With this object, I have always +allowed my characters to speak and act. I have scrupulously refrained +from</i> invention. <i>On the other hand, I have not hesitated to</i> interpret, +<i>believing, as I have said several times elsewhere, that every fact draws +its enduring value from artistic interpretation. My effort has been only to +group events in a certain order, to disentangle the lines of the heart and +those of the spirit without trying to explain that which, in the soul of +Chopin, has remained always inexplicable; not to lift, indeed, from my +subject that shadow that gives him his inner meaning and his nebulous +beauty.</i></p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="PRINCIPAL_WORKS_CONSULTED"> + PRINCIPAL WORKS CONSULTED + </h2> +</div> + +<div style="padding-left: 2em; text-indent: -2em;"> +<p><span class="smcap">Franz Liszt</span>: <i>F. Chopin.</i> Leipzig (Breitkopf). 1852 and 1923.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">George Sand</span>: <i>Histoire de ma vie.</i> 4 vol. Calmann-Lévy. Paris.</p> + +<p>—<i>Un hiver à Majorque.</i> 1 vol., <i>ibid.</i> 1843.</p> + +<p>—<i>Correspondance.</i></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Maurice Karasowski</span>: <i>F. Chopin.</i> Warsaw, 1862, and new ed. +Berlin, 1877 and 1925.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Comte Wodzinski</span>: <i>Les trois romans de F. Chopin.</i> Calmann, +Paris, 1886.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Robert Schumann</span>: <i>Etudes sur la musique et les musiciens.</i> Trad. +H. de Curzon. Paris, 1898.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">M. Karlowicz</span>: <i>Souvenirs inédits de F. Chopin.</i> Paris, and Leipzig, +1904. Trad. F. Disière.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Friedrich Niecks</span>: <i>F. Chopin as a Man and a Musician.</i> London. +(Novello), 1882, 2 vol.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Kleczinski</span>: <i>F. Chopin. De l’interpretation de ses œuvres.</i> Paris, +1906.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Wladimir Karénine</span>: <i>George Sand, sa vie et ses œuvres.</i> Plon, +1899–1926. 4 vol. (An important and remarkable work, +including a quantity of unpublished documents of which I +have made much use.)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Bernard Scharlitt</span>: <i>F. Chopin’s gesammelte Briefe.</i> Leipzig, 1911. +(Only authentic and complete text of the letters.)</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Samuel Rocheblave</span>: <i>George Sand et sa fille.</i> Paris, 1905.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Elie Poirée</span>: <i>Chopin.</i> Paris, 1907.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Edouard Ganche</span>: <i>Frédéric Chopin, sa vie et ses œuvres.</i> Paris, +10th ed. (<i>Mercure de France</i>), 1923.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ferdynand Hoesick</span>: <i>Chopin</i>, 3 vol. Warsaw, 1911.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">I. Paderewski</span>: <i>A la mémoire de F. Chopin</i> (speech). 1911.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Eugène Delacroix</span>: <i>Journal.</i> Plon, Paris. 3 vol., new ed., 1926.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Opienski</span>: <i>Chopin.</i> Lwow, 1910 (Altenberg).</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Henri Bidou</span>: <i>Chopin.</i> (Libr. Alcan). Paris, 1926.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Aurore Sand</span>: <i>Journal Intime de George Sand.</i> Calmann-Lévy, +Paris, 1926.</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_266"></a><a id="Page_267"></a>[267–<br>280]</span></p> + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="INDEX"> + INDEX + </h2> +</div> + + +<ul class="index"> + <li class="ifrst">Abélard, <a href="#Page_260">260</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Academy of Singing (Berlin), <a href="#Page_27">27</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Académie Royale (Paris), <a href="#Page_57">57</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Adagio in E major</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_37">37</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Adagio</i> of <i>Concerto in F minor</i> (op. 21) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_34">34</a>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>, <a href="#Page_173">173</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Adélaïde, Madame, <a href="#Page_177">177</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Agnes</i> (Paër), <a href="#Page_35">35</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Agoult, Countess Marie d’, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>, <a href="#Page_101">101–103</a>, <a href="#Page_171">171–172</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Aix-la-Chapelle, <a href="#Page_71">71</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Albert, Prince, <a href="#Page_233">233</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Alexandre, Czar (Emperor), <a href="#Page_23">23</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Allard, Monsieur, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Allegro</i> (Moschelès), <a href="#Page_23">23</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Allgemeine Musikalisches</i> (Vienna), <a href="#Page_32">32</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Amboise, <a href="#Page_67">67</a></li> + + <li class="indx">America, <a href="#Page_64">64</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Ancona, <a href="#Page_218">218</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Andante Spianato</i>, <a href="#Page_73">73</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Antonin, Château d’, <a href="#Page_23">23–24</a>, <a href="#Page_35">35</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Appassionata, The</i> (Beethoven), <a href="#Page_19">19</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Apollonius of Tyre, <a href="#Page_160">160</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Apponyi, Count, <a href="#Page_68">68</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Arago, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>, <a href="#Page_203">203</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Archbishop of Paris, <a href="#Page_55">55</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Artillery and Engineers, School of (Warsaw), <a href="#Page_20">20</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Auber, Daniel François Esprit, <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Augusta, Princess (Infante), <a href="#Page_43">43–44</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Augustine, <a href="#Page_197">197–198</a>, <a href="#Page_214">214</a>, <a href="#Page_237">237</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Aulary, Monsieur, <a href="#Page_231">231</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Austerlitz, battle of, <a href="#Page_18">18</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Avignon, <a href="#Page_127">127</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Bach, Johann Sebastian, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>, <a href="#Page_69">69</a>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>, <a href="#Page_229">229</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Baillot, violinist, <a href="#Page_62">62</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Balearic Isles, <i>see also</i> Majorca, Palma, Valdemosa, <a href="#Page_127">127–142</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Ballade in G minor</i> (op. 23) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_85">85–86</a>, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_145">145</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Balzac, Honoré de, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_103">103–107</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Barberini, Place (Rome), <a href="#Page_190">190</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Barber of Seville, The</i> (Rossini), <a href="#Page_57">57</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Barbès, <a href="#Page_230">230</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Barcarolle</i> (op. 60) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_230">230–231</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Barcelona, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>, <a href="#Page_142">142</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Baudelaire, Pierre-Charles, <a href="#Page_163">163</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Bayer, Mme. Constance, <a href="#Page_48">48</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Beauvau, Hôtel de (Marseilles), <a href="#Page_145">145</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Beethoven, Ludwig van, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>, + <a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_51">51</a>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_69">69</a>, <a href="#Page_74">74</a>, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>, + <a href="#Page_174">174</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Bellini, Vincenzo, <a href="#Page_73">73</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Belvédère, Palais de (Warsaw), <a href="#Page_45">45</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Berceuse</i> (op. 57) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_230">230–231</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Berlin, <a href="#Page_27">27</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Berlioz, Hector, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>, <a href="#Page_72">72</a>, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>, + <a href="#Page_169">169</a>, <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Berry (France), <a href="#Page_147">147</a> <i>et seq.</i>, <a href="#Page_240">240</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Berry, Mme. la Duchesse de, <a href="#Page_56">56</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Bertram</i> (Meyerbeer), <a href="#Page_109">109</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Blache, Dr., <a href="#Page_251">251</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Blanc, Louis, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_203">203</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Böhmischen Köchin, Café zur (Vienna), <a href="#Page_47">47</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Bologna, <a href="#Page_228">228</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Bona Sforza, <a href="#Page_77">77</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Bonstetten, Charles-Victor de, <a href="#Page_77">77</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Bossuet, Jaques Bénigne, <a href="#Page_19">19</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Bourges, Michel de, <a href="#Page_100">100–101</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Brault, Adèle, <a href="#Page_197">197</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Breslau, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>, <a href="#Page_43">43</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Brest, <a href="#Page_229">229</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Broadwood, piano, <a href="#Page_232">232</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Broadwood, piano manufacturer, <a href="#Page_235">235</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Bruhl, <a href="#Page_79">79</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Buloz, publisher, <a href="#Page_131">131</a>, <a href="#Page_153">153</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Bulwer, Lord, <a href="#Page_234">234</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Byron, George Gordon, Lord, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>, 285</li> + + <li class="indx">Byron, Lady, <a href="#Page_234">234</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Calamatta, Louis, <a href="#Page_156">156</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Calder House (Scotland), <a href="#Page_235">235</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Callot, Jacques, <a href="#Page_176">176</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Carlist Party (Paris), <a href="#Page_55">55</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Carlsbad, <a href="#Page_76">76</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Carlyle, Thomas, <a href="#Page_234">234</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Carthusians, Order of, <a href="#Page_130">130</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Castellan, Mme., <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Catalani, Angelica, <a href="#Page_243">243</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Cauvières, Dr., <a href="#Page_145">145</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Chaillot, rue de (Paris), <a href="#Page_246">246</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Chambres des Députés (Paris), <a href="#Page_249">249</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Champs Elysées (Paris), <a href="#Page_248">248</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Chartreuse of Valdemosa. <i>See</i> Valdemosa</li> + + <li class="indx">Chateaubriand, François-René, Vicomte de, <a href="#Page_56">56</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Chatiron, Hippolyte, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>, <a href="#Page_181">181</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Chaussée d’Antin (Paris), <a href="#Page_68">68</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Cherubini, Marie-Louis-Charles-Zénobi-Salvador, <a href="#Page_58">58</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Chmiel</i>, improvisation from (Chopin), <a href="#Page_31">31</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Chopin: Compositions, Pieces, Transcriptions, etc.</li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Adagio</i> of <i>Concerto in F minor</i> (op. 21), <a href="#Page_34">34</a>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>, <a href="#Page_173">173</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Adagio in E major</i>, <a href="#Page_37">37</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Ballade in G minor</i> (op. 23), <a href="#Page_85">85–86</a>, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_145">145</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Barcarolle</i> (op. 60), <a href="#Page_231">231</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Berceuse</i> (op. 57), <a href="#Page_231">231</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Chmiel</i>, improvisation from, <a href="#Page_31">31</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Concerto In E minor</i> (op. 11), <a href="#Page_40">40</a>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_72">72</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Concerto in F minor</i> (op. 21), <a href="#Page_34">34</a>, <a href="#Page_37">37</a>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_84">84</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Etude</i> (no. 5), <a href="#Page_176">176</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Etude in C minor</i> (op. 10, no. 12), <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Etude in E major</i> (no. 3), <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Etude in G sharp minor</i>, <a href="#Page_161">161</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Fantasia in E minor</i>, <a href="#Page_178">178</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Fantasia on Polish Airs</i>, <a href="#Page_40">40</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Funeral March</i>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Grand Fantasia on Polish Airs</i>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Grande Polonaise</i>, <a href="#Page_84">84</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Grande Valse in E flat major</i>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Impromptu</i> (op. 29), <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Mazurkas</i> (op. 41), <a href="#Page_149">149</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Mazurka in A flat major</i>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Mazurka in B major</i>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, <a href="#Page_202">202</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Mazurka in B minor</i> (op. 30), <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Mazurka in C minor</i> (op. 30), <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Mazurka in C sharp major</i> (op. 30), <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Mazurka in C sharp minor</i> (op. 63), <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, <a href="#Page_202">202</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Mazurka in D flat major</i> (op. 30), <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Mazurka in E minor</i>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Mazurka in F minor</i> (op. 63), <a href="#Page_202">202</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Mazurka in G major</i>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Mazurka in G minor</i> (op. 30), <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Nocturne</i> (op. 37, no. 2), <a href="#Page_149">149</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Nocturne in C minor</i> (op. 48), <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, <a href="#Page_190">190–191</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Nocturne in G major</i>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Polonaise Brillante</i>, <a href="#Page_73">73</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Polonaise in F minor</i>, <a href="#Page_36">36</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Polonaise for piano and violoncello</i>, <a href="#Page_36">36</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Potpourri on the setting moon</i>, <a href="#Page_41">41</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Prelude in B minor</i> (no. 6), <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Prelude in E minor</i> (no. 4), <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Prelude in B minor</i> (op. 6), <a href="#Page_139">139</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Premier Rondo, in C minor</i> (op. 1), <a href="#Page_23">23</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Revolutionary, The</i> (<i>Etude in C minor</i>, op. 10, no. 12), <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Rondeau in E flat major</i>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Rondo à la Krakoviak</i>, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_37">37</a>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Second Scherzo</i> (op. 31), <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Siberian, The</i>, <a href="#Page_161">161</a>, <a href="#Page_162">162</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Sonata in B flat minor</i>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Sonata in E flat minor</i>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Sonata in G flat minor</i>, <a href="#Page_178">178</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Sonata in G minor, for piano and violoncello</i>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Sonata with violoncello</i>, <a href="#Page_202">202</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Tarantella</i>, <a href="#Page_178">178</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Three Mazurkas</i> (op. 33), <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Trio, for piano, violin, and violoncello</i>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Twelve Etudes</i> (2nd vol., op. 25), <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Two Nocturnes</i> (op. 32), <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Valses Brillantes</i> (op. 34), <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_178">178</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Valse de l’Adieu, in A flat major</i> (op. 69, no. 1), <a href="#Page_81">81</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Variations</i> on the <i>La ci darem</i>, <a href="#Page_26">26–27</a>, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Waltz in D flat major</i> (op. 70, no. 3), <a href="#Page_34">34</a>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>Waltz of the Little Dog, The</i> (op. 64, no. 1), <a href="#Page_231">231</a></li> + <li class="isub1"><i>White Lady, The</i>, variations from, <a href="#Page_31">31</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Chopin, Emilie, <a href="#Page_20">20</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Chopin, Isabelle, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Chopin, Louise, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>, <a href="#Page_60">60–62</a>.</li> + <li class="isub1"><i>See also</i> Jedrzeïewicz, Louise</li> + + <li class="indx">Chopin, Nicolas, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>, + <a href="#Page_59">59</a>, <a href="#Page_76">76–77</a>, <a href="#Page_80">80</a>, <a href="#Page_193">193–194</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Chopin, Mme. Nicolas, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_76">76–77</a>, <a href="#Page_194">194</a>, <a href="#Page_247">247–251</a>.</li> + <li class="isub1"><i>See also</i> Krzyzanowska, Justine</li> + + <li class="indx">Cichowski, Monsieur, <a href="#Page_82">82</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Cimarosa, Domenico, <a href="#Page_27">27</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Clary, Prince, <a href="#Page_33">33</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Clary, Princess, <a href="#Page_33">33</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Clésinger, Jean-Baptiste-Auguste-Stello, <a href="#Page_205">205–227</a>, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>, <a href="#Page_256">256</a>, <a href="#Page_260">260</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Clésinger, Mme., <a href="#Page_214">214–227</a>, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>, <a href="#Page_239">239</a>, <a href="#Page_241">241</a>.</li> + <li class="isub1"><i>See also</i> Sand, Solange</li> + + <li class="indx">Coignet, Jules-Louis-Philippe, <a href="#Page_186">186</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Cologne, <a href="#Page_71">71</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Concerto in E minor</i> (op. 11) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_40">40</a>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, + <a href="#Page_72">72</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Concerto in F minor</i> (op. 21) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_34">34</a>, <a href="#Page_37">37</a>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, + <a href="#Page_84">84</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Congress of Naturalists (Berlin), <a href="#Page_27">27</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Conservatory of Music (Paris), <a href="#Page_73">73</a>, <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Conservatory of Music (Warsaw), <a href="#Page_22">22</a>, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>, <a href="#Page_30">30</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Constantin, Grand Duke, Governor of Warsaw, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_45">45</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Cramer, pianist, <a href="#Page_58">58</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Crans, Mlle. Saladin de, <a href="#Page_77">77</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Cruveillé, Dr., <a href="#Page_251">251</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Custine, Marquis de, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Czartoryski, Prince Adam, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>, <a href="#Page_243">243</a>, + <a href="#Page_259">259</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Czartoryska, Princess Marceline, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>, <a href="#Page_208">208</a>, <a href="#Page_240">240</a>, <a href="#Page_243">243</a>, + <a href="#Page_252">252–255</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Czerny, Charles, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>, <a href="#Page_33">33</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Czosnowska, Countess, <a href="#Page_202">202</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Daguerry, Monsieur, <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Daily News</i> (London), <a href="#Page_234">234</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Dantan, Jean-Pierre, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>, <a href="#Page_185">185</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Dante, Alighieri, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>, <a href="#Page_159">159</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Danube, The, <a href="#Page_41">41</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Dautremont, tailor (Paris), <a href="#Page_154">154</a></li> + + <li class="indx">da Vinci, Leonardo, <a href="#Page_67">67</a></li> + + <li class="indx">de Garaudé, Monsieur, <a href="#Page_231">231</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Delacroix, Eugène, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>, <a href="#Page_158">158</a>, <a href="#Page_163">163–167</a>, <a href="#Page_173">173</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>, + <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>, <a href="#Page_218">218</a>, <a href="#Page_243">243–246</a>, <a href="#Page_257">257</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a></li> + + <li class="indx">de Laprade, Victor, <a href="#Page_203">203</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Delaroche, Hippolyte-Paul, <a href="#Page_243">243</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Desdemona</i> (<i>see also Othello</i>), <a href="#Page_58">58</a></li> + + <li class="indx">des Préaulx, M., <a href="#Page_205">205–206</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Dickens, Charles, <a href="#Page_234">234</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Dictionnaire Philosophique</i> (Voltaire), <a href="#Page_252">252</a></li> + + <li class="indx">di Mondi, Mlle. Antonia Molina, <a href="#Page_230">230</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Dobrzyçka, Mme., <a href="#Page_43">43–44</a>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Don Juan</i> (Mozart), <a href="#Page_175">175</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Douglas, Marquis of, <a href="#Page_234">234</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Dover Street (London), <a href="#Page_232">232</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Dresden, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>, <a href="#Page_43">43</a>, <a href="#Page_77">77–81</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Dudevant, Aurore. <i>See</i> Sand, George</li> + + <li class="indx">Dudevant, Casimir, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>, <a href="#Page_197">197</a>, <a href="#Page_214">214</a>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Dudevant, Maurice. <i>See</i> Sand, Maurice</li> + + <li class="indx">Dudevant, Solange. <i>See</i> Sand, Solange</li> + + <li class="indx">Dupont, Alexis, <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Duport, hatmaker (Paris), <a href="#Page_154">154</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Düsseldorf, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Duteil, family of, <a href="#Page_149">149</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Duvernet, Théophile-Imarigeon, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Dziady (The Feast of the Dead)</i> (Miçkiewicz), <a href="#Page_159">159</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Ecole de Médecine. <i>See</i> School of Medicine (Paris)</li> + + <li class="indx">Edinburgh, <a href="#Page_235">235</a>, <a href="#Page_238">238</a>, <a href="#Page_241">241</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Elbe, <a href="#Page_79">79</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Elizabeth, Queen, <a href="#Page_67">67</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>El Mallorquin</i>, <a href="#Page_128">128</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Elsner, Joseph-Xavier, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>, <a href="#Page_37">37</a>, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>, <a href="#Page_60">60–62</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Enfer, rue d’ (Paris), <a href="#Page_56">56</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Erard, piano, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Erard, Salle, <a href="#Page_72">72</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Erskine, Mrs. <i>See also</i> Stirling, family, <a href="#Page_232">232</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Etienne, Mme., <a href="#Page_244">244</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Etude</i> (no. 5) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_176">176</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Etude in C minor</i> (op. 10, no. 12) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Etude in E major</i> (no. 3) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Etude in G sharp minor</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_161">161</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Eusebius, <a href="#Page_26">26</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Euterpe</i>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Everard. <i>See</i> Bourges, Michel de</li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Faber, Monsieur, <a href="#Page_202">202</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Falmouth, Lord, <a href="#Page_233">233–234</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Fantasia in E minor</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_78">78</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Fantasia on Polish Airs</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_40">40</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Farewells, The (Sonata in E flat major)</i> (Beethoven), <a href="#Page_19">19</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Faust</i> (Gounod), <a href="#Page_35">35</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Ferdinand Cortez</i> (Spontini), <a href="#Page_27">27</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Festival of Music (Aix-la-Chapelle), <a href="#Page_71">71</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Fétis, music critic, <a href="#Page_63">63</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Fidélio</i> (Beethoven), <a href="#Page_19">19</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Field, pianist, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Fleury, family of, <a href="#Page_149">149</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Fontana, Jules, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_127">127</a>, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>, + <a href="#Page_145">145–146</a>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154–155</a>, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>, + <a href="#Page_185">185</a>, <a href="#Page_261">261</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Fouquet, Nicolas, <a href="#Page_67">67</a></li> + + <li class="indx">France, Hôtel de (Paris), <a href="#Page_102">102</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Franchomme, violoncellist, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>, <a href="#Page_243">243</a>, + <a href="#Page_251">251–252</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a></li> + + <li class="indx">François I, <a href="#Page_67">67</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Françoise, the chambermaid, <a href="#Page_200">200</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>François Le Champi</i> (Sand), <a href="#Page_224">224</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Frankfurt-am-Oder, <a href="#Page_28">28</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Frauenkirche, The (Dresden), <a href="#Page_80">80</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Frère, Charles-Théodore, <a href="#Page_186">186</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Freyschutz Die</i> (Handel), <a href="#Page_27">27</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Funeral March</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Gainsborough, Lady, <a href="#Page_233">233–234</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Gallenberg, Count, <a href="#Page_30">30</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Gaubert, Dr., <a href="#Page_126">126</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Gautier, Théophile, <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Gavard, Charles, <a href="#Page_252">252</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Gavard, Mlle., <a href="#Page_252">252</a>, <a href="#Page_255">255</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Gazette Musicale</i> (Paris), <a href="#Page_178">178–180</a>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Geneva, <a href="#Page_77">77</a>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Genoa, <a href="#Page_147">147</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Geological Museum (Berlin), <a href="#Page_28">28</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Germany</i> (Heine), <a href="#Page_91">91</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Giotto, Ambrogio, <a href="#Page_157">157</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Giraud, Monsieur, <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Gladkowska, Constance, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>, <a href="#Page_33">33–42</a>, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>, <a href="#Page_48">48–50</a>, + <a href="#Page_66">66</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Glasgow, <a href="#Page_238">238</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_159">159</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Gomez, Señor, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>, <a href="#Page_132">132</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Grand Fantasia on Polish Airs</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Grande Polonaise</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_84">84</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Grande Polonaise</i> (Kalkbrenner), <a href="#Page_62">62</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Grande Valse in E flat major</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Grenoble, <a href="#Page_134">134</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Grzymala, Count Albert, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108–125</a>, <a href="#Page_127">127</a>, <a href="#Page_143">143</a>, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>, + <a href="#Page_159">159</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>, <a href="#Page_209">209–213</a>, <a href="#Page_235">235</a>, <a href="#Page_239">239–240</a>, <a href="#Page_242">242</a>, + <a href="#Page_244">244</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Gutmann, Monsieur, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_241">241</a>, <a href="#Page_243">243</a>, <a href="#Page_252">252–255</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Habeneck, conductor, <a href="#Page_57">57</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Hamilton, Duke of, <a href="#Page_241">241</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Handel, George Friedrich, <a href="#Page_27">27</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Hanska, Countess, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Hartmann, Caroline, <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Haslinger, music publisher (Vienna), <a href="#Page_30">30</a>, <a href="#Page_44">44</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Haydn, Joseph, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_202">202</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Heine, Heinrich, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>, <a href="#Page_173">173</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Heller, Stephen, <a href="#Page_168">168</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Héloïse, <a href="#Page_260">260</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Hiller, Ferdinand, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Histoire de ma Vie</i> (Sand), <a href="#Page_221">221</a>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Hogarth, William, <a href="#Page_234">234</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Holy Cross, Church of (Warsaw), <a href="#Page_259">259</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Hortense, Queen, <a href="#Page_77">77</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>House of the Wind, The</i> (Majorca), <a href="#Page_128">128–132</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Houssaye, Arsène, <a href="#Page_206">206</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Hugo, Victor, <a href="#Page_19">19</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Hummel, Jean-Népomucène, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Imperial Theatre (Vienna), <a href="#Page_31">31</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Infernal Comedy</i> (Miçkiewicz), <a href="#Page_161">161</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Ingres, Jean-Auguste-Dominique, <a href="#Page_163">163</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Inquisition, Palace of (Barcelona), <a href="#Page_128">128</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Invalides, Hôtel des (Paris), <a href="#Page_249">249</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Invitation to the Waltz</i> (von Weber), <a href="#Page_187">187</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Isambert, Mlle., singer, <a href="#Page_62">62</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Italian Opera House (Paris), <a href="#Page_57">57</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Italienne à Alger, L’</i> (Rossini), <a href="#Page_57">57</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Italy, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>, <a href="#Page_218">218</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Jagellons, dynasty of, <a href="#Page_77">77</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Janin, <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Jardin des Plantes (Paris), <a href="#Page_201">201</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Jaroçki, Professor, <a href="#Page_27">27–28</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Jean, Prince of Lucca, future King of Saxony, <a href="#Page_43">43–44</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Jedrzeïewicz, Calasante, <a href="#Page_193">193</a>, <a href="#Page_196">196</a>, <a href="#Page_247">247–250</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Jedrzeïewicz, Louise, <a href="#Page_193">193–195</a>, <a href="#Page_237">237–238</a>, <a href="#Page_247">247–250</a>.</li> + <li class="isub1"><i>See also</i> Chopin, Louise</li> + + <li class="indx">Jelowiçki, Abbé Alexandre, <a href="#Page_252">252–255</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Jéna, battle of, <a href="#Page_20">20</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Jésuites, rue des (Warsaw), <a href="#Page_22">22</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Journal</i> (Delacroix), <a href="#Page_218">218</a>, <a href="#Page_244">244–246</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Journal des Débats</i> (Paris), <a href="#Page_224">224</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Journal Intime</i> (Sand), <a href="#Page_99">99–100</a>, <a href="#Page_169">169</a>, <a href="#Page_208">208</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Jules II, <a href="#Page_67">67</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Kalerji, Mme., <a href="#Page_245">245</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Kalisz, <a href="#Page_43">43</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Kalkbrenner, Frédéric-Guillaume, <a href="#Page_58">58–63</a>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_243">243</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Karol, Prince</i> (Sand), <a href="#Page_185">185</a>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>.</li> + <li class="isub1"><i>See also Lucrezia Floriani</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Keats, John, <a href="#Page_19">19</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Keir, The Stirlings of, <a href="#Page_236">236</a>, <a href="#Page_239">239</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Kisting, piano factory, <a href="#Page_27">27</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Kleczynski, Professor, <a href="#Page_170">170</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Klengel, Alexandre, composer, <a href="#Page_33">33</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Krakoviak. See Rondo à la Krakoviak</i> (Chopin)</li> + + <li class="indx">Krasinski, <a href="#Page_159">159</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Kreutzer Sonata</i> (Beethoven), <a href="#Page_19">19</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Kronprinz, Hôtel du (Berlin), <a href="#Page_27">27</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Krzyzanowska, Justine, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>.</li> + <li class="isub1"><i>See also</i> Chopin, Mme. Nicolas</li> + + <li class="indx">Kurpinski, <a href="#Page_37">37</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Kwiatkowsky, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>, <a href="#Page_256">256</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Lablache, Mme. Louis, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>, <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + + <li class="indx">La Châtre (France), <a href="#Page_207">207</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Lady of the Lake, The</i> (Rossini), <a href="#Page_41">41</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Laffitte, rue (Paris), <a href="#Page_102">102</a></li> + + <li class="indx">La Fontaine, Jean de, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_67">67</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Lambert, Hôtel (Paris), <a href="#Page_205">205</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Lamennais, Abbé de, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Lannes, Maréchale, <a href="#Page_68">68</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Lefébure-Wély, <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Légion d’Honneur, La</i>, <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Legouvé, Monsieur, <a href="#Page_243">243</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Leipzig, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>, <a href="#Page_85">85</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Leipzig, battle of, <a href="#Page_79">79</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Lélia</i> (Sand), <a href="#Page_97">97</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Le Méléagre</i>, <a href="#Page_142">142</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Lenz, Monsieur W. de, <a href="#Page_186">186–188</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Le Phénicien</i>, <a href="#Page_128">128</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Leroux, Pierre, <a href="#Page_159">159–160</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>, <a href="#Page_199">199</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Le Verier, Monsieur, <a href="#Page_202">202</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Lichnowsky, Count, <a href="#Page_32">32</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Lind, Jenny, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>, <a href="#Page_243">243</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Linde, Mme., <a href="#Page_23">23</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Liszt, Franz, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>, + <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>, + <a href="#Page_103">103</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>, <a href="#Page_146">146</a>, <a href="#Page_167">167</a>, <a href="#Page_171">171–176</a>, <a href="#Page_178">178</a>, + <a href="#Page_181">181</a>, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>, <a href="#Page_257">257</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Lorraine (France), <a href="#Page_18">18</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Louis XVI, King, <a href="#Page_56">56</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Louis, Dr., <a href="#Page_243">243</a>, <a href="#Page_251">251</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Louis-Philippe, King, <a href="#Page_177">177–178</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228–230</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Louvre, The (Paris), <a href="#Page_164">164</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Lucca, Prince of. <i>See</i> Jean</li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Lucrezia Floriani</i> (Sand), <a href="#Page_185">185</a>, <a href="#Page_200">200–201</a>, <a href="#Page_209">209</a>, <a href="#Page_240">240</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Luxembourg, Musée du (Paris), <a href="#Page_205">205</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Madeleine, Church of the (Paris), <a href="#Page_240">240</a>, <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Majorca, <a href="#Page_128">128–143</a>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>, <a href="#Page_240">240</a>, <a href="#Page_258">258</a>.</li> + <li class="isub1"><i>See also</i> Balearic Isles, Palma, Valdemosa</li> + + <li class="indx">Malfatti, Dr., <a href="#Page_51">51</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Malibran, Maria-Félicité Garcia, <a href="#Page_57">57–58</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Mallefille, Félicien, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>, <a href="#Page_111">111</a>, <a href="#Page_116">116</a>, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>, + <a href="#Page_123">123–124</a>, <a href="#Page_127">127</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Manchester, <a href="#Page_238">238</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Manchester Guardian</i>, <a href="#Page_238">238</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Marainville (France), <a href="#Page_18">18</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Mardi Gras, <a href="#Page_137">137</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Mare Au Diable, La</i> (Sand), <a href="#Page_224">224</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Marliani, Mme., <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>, <a href="#Page_131">131</a>, <a href="#Page_142">142–143</a>, <a href="#Page_147">147</a>, + <a href="#Page_184">184</a>, <a href="#Page_185">185</a>, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>, <a href="#Page_226">226</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Marie-Aurore of Saxe, Queen, <a href="#Page_198">198</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Marienbad, <a href="#Page_87">87–88</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Marmontel, <a href="#Page_58">58</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Marot, Clément, <a href="#Page_67">67</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Marseilles, <a href="#Page_143">143–147</a>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Matuszinski, Dr. Jean, <a href="#Page_47">47–49</a>, <a href="#Page_53">53</a>, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>, <a href="#Page_127">127</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>, + <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_192">192</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Maurras, Charles, <a href="#Page_34">34</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Mazurkas</i> (op. 41) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_149">149</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Mazurka in A flat major</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_150">150</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Mazurka in C sharp major</i> (op. 30) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Mazurka in C sharp minor</i> (op. 63) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, <a href="#Page_202">202</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Mazurka in C minor</i> (op. 30) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Mazurka in D flat major</i> (op. 30) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Mazurka in E minor</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_150">150</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Mazurka in F minor</i> (op. 63) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_202">202</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Mazurka in G major</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_150">150</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Mazurka in G major</i> (op. 63) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_202">202</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Mazurka in G minor</i> (op. 30) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Mémoires</i> (Sand), <a href="#Page_224">224</a>, <a href="#Page_245">245</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Mendelssohn, Bartholdy Felix, <a href="#Page_27">27</a>, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>, <a href="#Page_72">72</a>, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Mendizabal, Don Juan Alvarez y, <a href="#Page_130">130</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Mérimée, Prosper, <a href="#Page_95">95–96</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Merry Wives of Windsor, The</i> (Shakespeare), <a href="#Page_67">67</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Meyerbeer, Giacomo, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a>, <a href="#Page_258">258–259</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Michelangelo, Buomarroti, <a href="#Page_67">67</a>, <a href="#Page_174">174</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Miçkiewicz, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_159">159–160</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Milan, <a href="#Page_77">77</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Mohilew, General, <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Molière (Jean Baptiste Poquelin), <a href="#Page_19">19</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Molin, Dr., <a href="#Page_243">243</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Montpensier, Duke of, <a href="#Page_229">229</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Moschelès, Ignace, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_177">177</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Moscow, <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Moses, <a href="#Page_160">160</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Moses</i> (Rossini), <a href="#Page_33">33</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Mostowska, Countess, <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Mozart, Wolfgang von, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>, <a href="#Page_69">69</a>, <a href="#Page_158">158</a>, <a href="#Page_163">163–165</a>, + <a href="#Page_174">174–175</a>, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>, <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Munich, <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Musset, Viscount Alfred de, <a href="#Page_98">98–100</a>, <a href="#Page_105">105</a>, <a href="#Page_126">126</a>, <a href="#Page_147">147</a>, <a href="#Page_148">148</a>, + <a href="#Page_221">221</a>, <a href="#Page_260">260</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Nantes, <a href="#Page_229">229</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Naples, <a href="#Page_146">146</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Napoleon I, Emperor, <a href="#Page_17">17</a>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Napoleon III, Emperor. <i>See</i> Napoleon, Prince Louis</li> + + <li class="indx">Napoleon, Prince Louis, <a href="#Page_77">77</a>, <a href="#Page_98">98</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Nidecki, <a href="#Page_47">47</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Niemcewicz, Julian-Orsin, <a href="#Page_21">21</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Nietzsche, Friedrich, <a href="#Page_144">144</a>, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>, <a href="#Page_190">190–191</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Night Song</i> (Nietzsche), <a href="#Page_190">190</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Noailles, Duke of, <a href="#Page_243">243</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Nocturne</i> (op. 37, no. 2) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_149">149</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Nocturne in C minor</i> (op. 48) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, <a href="#Page_190">190–191</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Nocturne in G major</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_150">150</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Nohant, Château de, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>, <a href="#Page_103">103–107</a>, <a href="#Page_147">147</a> <i>et seq.</i>, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>, + <a href="#Page_239">239</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Notre Dame de Paris, Church of (Paris), <a href="#Page_249">249</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Nourrit, Adolph, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_146">146</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Obreskow, Mme., <a href="#Page_247">247–248</a></li> + + <li class="indx">O’Meara, Mlle., <a href="#Page_69">69</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Opera, The (Berlin), <a href="#Page_27">27</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Opera, The (Warsaw), <a href="#Page_30">30</a>, <a href="#Page_35">35</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Orleans, Duchess of, <a href="#Page_177">177</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Orleans, Duke of, <a href="#Page_229">229</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Orléans, Square d’ (Paris), <a href="#Page_185">185</a> <i>et seq.</i>, <a href="#Page_242">242</a>, <a href="#Page_248">248</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Orlowski, <a href="#Page_70">70–71</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Orsetti, family of, <a href="#Page_77">77</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Osborne, pianist, <a href="#Page_62">62</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Ostend, <a href="#Page_250">250</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Othello</i> (Rossini), <a href="#Page_57">57</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Paderewski, Ignace, <a href="#Page_54">54</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Paër, Fernando, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_58">58</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Paganini, Nicolo, <a href="#Page_51">51</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Paix, rue de la, <a href="#Page_240">240</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Palma, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>.</li> + <li class="isub1"><i>See also</i> Majorca, Balearic Isles, Valdemosa</li> + + <li class="indx">Panthéon, The (Paris), <a href="#Page_249">249</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Papet, Dr., <a href="#Page_149">149</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Paskewitch, General, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>, <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Pasta, Giuditta Negri, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>, <a href="#Page_58">58</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Pelletan, <a href="#Page_102">102</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Père-Lachaise, Cemetery of (Paris), <a href="#Page_259">259</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Perpignan, <a href="#Page_127">127</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Perthuis, Count de, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>, <a href="#Page_177">177</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Philharmonic Orchestra (London), <a href="#Page_232">232</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Pierre, the gardener, <a href="#Page_200">200</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Pigalle, rue (Paris), <a href="#Page_154">154</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Pixis, violinist, <a href="#Page_33">33</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Plater, Count, <a href="#Page_65">65</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Pleyel, Camille, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>, <a href="#Page_127">127–128</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>, + <a href="#Page_141">141</a>, <a href="#Page_146">146</a>, <a href="#Page_229">229</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Pleyel, piano, <a href="#Page_90">90</a>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>, <a href="#Page_242">242</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Pleyel, Salon, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_72">72</a>, <a href="#Page_178">178–180</a>, <a href="#Page_229">229–232</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Poissonnière, Boulevard (Paris), <a href="#Page_56">56</a> <i>et seq.</i>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Polonaise Brillante</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_73">73</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Polonaise in F minor</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_36">36</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Polonaise for piano and violoncello</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_36">36</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Poniatowski, Prince Joseph-Antoine, <a href="#Page_79">79</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Pont du Gard, <a href="#Page_127">127</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Posen, <a href="#Page_28">28</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Potoçka, Countess Delphine, <a href="#Page_69">69</a>, <a href="#Page_73">73–75</a>, <a href="#Page_243">243</a>, <a href="#Page_245">245</a>, <a href="#Page_254">254–255</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Potpourri on the setting moon</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_41">41</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Prague, <a href="#Page_32">32–33</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Prelude in B minor</i> (no. 6) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Prelude in E minor</i> (no. 4) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Prelude in G minor</i> (op. 6) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_139">139</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Premier Rondo, in C minor</i> (op. 1) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_23">23</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Preparatory Military Academy (Warsaw), <a href="#Page_20">20</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Probst, music publisher (Paris), <a href="#Page_141">141</a>, <a href="#Page_146">146</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Prophet, The</i> (Meyerbeer), <a href="#Page_246">246</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Prussia, Napoleon’s campaign in, <a href="#Page_18">18</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Prussia, Prince of, <a href="#Page_233">233</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst"><i>Quatuor Serioso</i> (Beethoven), <a href="#Page_19">19</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Quintette</i> (Beethoven), <a href="#Page_62">62</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Racine, Jean, <a href="#Page_19">19</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Radziwill, Prince Antoine, <a href="#Page_23">23–24</a>, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_38">38</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Radziwill, Princess, <a href="#Page_35">35</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Radziwill, Princess Elise, <a href="#Page_24">24</a>, <a href="#Page_36">36</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Radziwill, Princess Marceline, <a href="#Page_68">68</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Radziwill, Prince Valentin, <a href="#Page_67">67</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Radziwill, Princess Wanda, <a href="#Page_24">24</a>, <a href="#Page_36">36</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Ramorino, General, <a href="#Page_56">56</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Ravel, Maurice, <a href="#Page_231">231</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Reber, Monsieur, <a href="#Page_255">255</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Rénovateur, Le</i> (Paris), <a href="#Page_72">72</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Republican Party (Paris), <a href="#Page_55">55</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Requiem</i> (Mozart), <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Revolution of 1830 (Poland), <a href="#Page_45">45</a>, <a href="#Page_77">77</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Revolution of 1848 (France), <a href="#Page_228">228</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Revolutionary, The</i> (<i>Etude in C minor</i>, op. 10, no. 12) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Revue des Deux Mondes</i> (Paris), <a href="#Page_153">153</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Richter, Johann-Paul von, <a href="#Page_75">75</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Robert the Devil</i> (Meyerbeer), <a href="#Page_64">64</a>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Rochechouart, rue (Paris), <a href="#Page_130">130</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Roger, Monsieur, <a href="#Page_231">231</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Rollinat, François, <a href="#Page_143">143</a>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Rome, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Rondeau in E flat major</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Rondo à la Krakoviak</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_37">37</a>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Rossini, Gioachino, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>, <a href="#Page_58">58</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Roth, Dr., <a href="#Page_243">243</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Rothschild, Baron James de, <a href="#Page_68">68</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Rothschild, Baroness, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>, <a href="#Page_243">243</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Rousseau, Théodore, <a href="#Page_214">214</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Rozières, Mlle. de, <a href="#Page_181">181–182</a>, <a href="#Page_208">208</a>, <a href="#Page_215">215–217</a>, <a href="#Page_240">240</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">St.-Antoine, Place (Geneva), <a href="#Page_77">77</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Saint Bruno, <a href="#Page_134">134</a></li> + + <li class="indx">St.-Etienne, Church of (Vienna), <a href="#Page_46">46</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Sainte-Beuve, Charles-Augustin de, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>, <a href="#Page_161">161</a></li> + + <li class="indx">St.-Etienne du Mont, Church of (Paris), <a href="#Page_249">249</a></li> + + <li class="indx">St.-Germain des Prés, Church of (Paris), <a href="#Page_190">190</a></li> + + <li class="indx">St.-Germain l’Auxerrois, Church of (Paris), <a href="#Page_249">249</a></li> + + <li class="indx">St. John, <a href="#Page_159">159</a></li> + + <li class="indx">St.-Louis, Mont (Paris), <a href="#Page_260">260</a></li> + + <li class="indx">St. Petersburg, <a href="#Page_187">187</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Saint-Saëns, Charles-Camille, <a href="#Page_86">86</a></li> + + <li class="indx">St.-Simon, Henri-Jean-Victor de Rouvroy, Duc de, <a href="#Page_97">97</a></li> + + <li class="indx">St. Simonien Party (Paris), <a href="#Page_55">55</a></li> + + <li class="indx">St.-Sulpice, Church of (Paris), <a href="#Page_249">249</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Salzburg, <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Sand, George, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>, <a href="#Page_94">94</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Sand, Maurice, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>, <a href="#Page_126">126</a>, <a href="#Page_131">131</a>, <a href="#Page_137">137–138</a>, + <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_166">166–167</a>, <a href="#Page_181">181</a>, <a href="#Page_188">188</a>, + <a href="#Page_196">196–197</a>, <a href="#Page_203">203</a>, <a href="#Page_207">207</a>, <a href="#Page_208">208</a>, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>, + <a href="#Page_245">245</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Sand, Solange, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_126">126</a>, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_137">137</a>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, + <a href="#Page_153">153</a>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_188">188</a>, <a href="#Page_197">197–199</a>, <a href="#Page_203">203</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205–227</a>.</li> + <li class="isub1"><i>See also</i> Clésinger, Mme.</li> + + <li class="indx">Sandeau, Jules, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_201">201</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Sapieha, Princess, <a href="#Page_195">195</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Saxe, Maréchal de, <a href="#Page_94">94</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Saxony, King of. <i>See</i> Jean, Prince of Lucca</li> + + <li class="indx">Saxony, Queen of, <a href="#Page_44">44</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Scheffer, Ary, <a href="#Page_236">236</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Schlesinger, publisher (Paris), <a href="#Page_146">146</a>, <a href="#Page_244">244</a></li> + + <li class="indx">School of Medicine (Paris), <a href="#Page_55">55</a>, <a href="#Page_71">71</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Schubert, Franz, <a href="#Page_146">146</a>, <a href="#Page_174">174–175</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Schumann, Robert, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>, + <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>, <a href="#Page_178">178</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Scott, Sir Walter, <a href="#Page_234">234</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Secret Marriage, The</i> (Cimarosa), <a href="#Page_27">27</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Secrétaire Intime, Le</i> (Sand), <a href="#Page_106">106</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Seine, The, <a href="#Page_41">41</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Shakespeare, William, <a href="#Page_67">67</a>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>, <a href="#Page_174">174</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Shelley, Percy Bysshe, <a href="#Page_19">19</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Shroeder-Devrient, <a href="#Page_58">58</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Siberian, The</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_161">161–162</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Simon, Dr., <a href="#Page_243">243</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Skarbeck, Countess, <a href="#Page_18">18</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Slavik, violinist, <a href="#Page_51">51</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Slowacki, <a href="#Page_159">159</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Smithson, Henrietta, <a href="#Page_72">72</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Socrates, <a href="#Page_159">159</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Somerset, Duchess of, <a href="#Page_233">233</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Sonata in B flat minor</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_150">150</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Sonata in E flat major</i> (Beethoven), <a href="#Page_19">19</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Sonata in E flat minor</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_149">149</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Sonata in G flat minor</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_178">178</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Sonata in G minor for piano and violoncello</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_230">230</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Sonata with violoncello</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_202">202</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Sontag, German singer, <a href="#Page_38">38</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Sowinski, pianist, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_65">65</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Spain, King of, <a href="#Page_243">243</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Spontini, Gasparo Luigi Pacifico, <a href="#Page_27">27</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Sprée, The, <a href="#Page_41">41</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Stafford House (London), <a href="#Page_233">233–234</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Stamati, pianist, <a href="#Page_62">62</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Stars, The</i> (Schubert), <a href="#Page_146">146</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Stendhal (Marie Henri Beyle), <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_127">127</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Stirling, Jane, <a href="#Page_228">228</a> <i>et seq.</i>, <a href="#Page_256">256</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Stradivarius, <a href="#Page_261">261</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Strauss, Johann, <a href="#Page_51">51</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Stuttgart, <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Sue, Eugène, <a href="#Page_102">102</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Sutherland, Duchess of, <a href="#Page_233">233</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Swedenborg, Emmanuel, <a href="#Page_160">160</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst"><i>Tarantella</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_178">178</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Tempe, valley of, <a href="#Page_50">50</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Teplitz, <a href="#Page_33">33</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Théâtre Italien (Paris), <a href="#Page_72">72</a></li> + + <li class="indx">“Three Glorious Days” (Paris), <a href="#Page_228">228</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Three Mazurkas</i> (op. 33) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Tiber, The, <a href="#Page_41">41</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Tilsit, battle of, <a href="#Page_18">18</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Titus. <i>See</i> Woyçieckowski, Titus</li> + + <li class="indx">Tomeoni, Mlle., singer, <a href="#Page_62">62</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Torphichen, Lord, <a href="#Page_235">235</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Tours, <a href="#Page_237">237</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Trio for piano, violin and violoncello</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Trio for piano, violin and violoncello</i> (Mozart), <a href="#Page_230">230</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Tronchet, rue (Paris), <a href="#Page_154">154</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Tuileries, The (Paris), <a href="#Page_249">249</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Twelve Etudes</i> (2nd vol., op. 25) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Ukraine, <a href="#Page_65">65</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Urhan, violinist, <a href="#Page_62">62</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Val de Grâce Hospital (Paris), <a href="#Page_249">249</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Valdemosa, Chartreuse of, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>, <a href="#Page_133">133–142</a>, <a href="#Page_258">258</a>.</li> + <li class="isub1"><i>See also</i> Palma, Majorca, Balearic Isles</li> + + <li class="indx"><i>“Valse de l’Adieu” in A flat major</i> (op. 69, no. 1) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_81">81</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Valses Brillantes</i> (op. 34) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_178">178</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Variations</i> on the <i>La ci darem</i> (Chopin), <a href="#Page_26">26–27</a>, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Vaucluse, <a href="#Page_127">127</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Vaudemont, Princess de, <a href="#Page_68">68</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Vendôme, Place (Paris), <a href="#Page_251">251</a> <i>et seq.</i></li> + + <li class="indx">Venice, <a href="#Page_98">98</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Veron, Louis-Désiré, <a href="#Page_57">57</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Veronese, Paul, <a href="#Page_234">234</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Viardot, Louis, <a href="#Page_221">221</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Viardot, Pauline, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>, <a href="#Page_185">185</a>, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_258">258</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Victoria, Queen, <a href="#Page_234">234</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Vienna, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>, <a href="#Page_53">53</a>, <a href="#Page_238">238</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Voltaire, François-Marie Arouet, <a href="#Page_252">252</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Wagner, Richard, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_59">59</a>, <a href="#Page_69">69</a>, <a href="#Page_257">257</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Wagram, battle of, <a href="#Page_18">18</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Waltz in D flat major</i> (op. 70, no. 3) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_34">34</a>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a></li> + + <li class="indx">“<i>Waltz of the Little Dog</i>” (op. 64, no. 1) (Chopin), <a href="#Page_231">231</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Warsaw, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>, + <a href="#Page_45">45–46</a>, <a href="#Page_53">53</a>, <a href="#Page_76">76</a>, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a>, + <a href="#Page_259">259</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Warsaw, Duchy of, <a href="#Page_18">18</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Warsaw High School, <a href="#Page_20">20</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Wellington, Duke of, <a href="#Page_233">233</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Westminster, Duke of, <a href="#Page_233">233</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>White Lady, The</i>, improvisation from (Chopin), <a href="#Page_31">31</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Wieck, Clara, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_81">81</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Wieck, Herr, <a href="#Page_81">81</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Wiener Theaterzeitung</i> (Vienna), <a href="#Page_32">32</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Wilna, <a href="#Page_79">79</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Winter at Majorca</i> (Sand), <a href="#Page_132">132</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Witwicki, Polish writer, <a href="#Page_52">52</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Wodzinska, Countess, <a href="#Page_80">80–92</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Wodzinska, Marie, <a href="#Page_76">76–93</a>, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>, <a href="#Page_194">194</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Wodzinska, Mlle. Thérèse, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>, <a href="#Page_92">92</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Wodzinski, Casimir, <a href="#Page_80">80</a>, <a href="#Page_82">82</a>, <a href="#Page_90">90</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Wodzinski, Count Antoine, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>, <a href="#Page_181">181</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Wodzinski, family, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_77">77–93</a>, <a href="#Page_181">181</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Wodzinski, Félix, <a href="#Page_80">80</a>, <a href="#Page_82">82</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Wodzinski, Palatin, <a href="#Page_79">79–80</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Wola, suburb of Warsaw, <a href="#Page_41">41</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Wolowski, deputy, <a href="#Page_260">260</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Woyciechowski, Titus, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_34">34</a>, <a href="#Page_36">36–39</a>, <a href="#Page_43">43–46</a>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>, + <a href="#Page_53">53</a>, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>, <a href="#Page_251">251</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Young French Party (Paris), <a href="#Page_55">55</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst"><i>zal</i>, <a href="#Page_25">25</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Zamboni, conductor, <a href="#Page_57">57</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Zarathustra</i> (Nietzsche), <a href="#Page_191">191</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Zelazowa, Wola, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>, <a href="#Page_19">19</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Zielinski, <a href="#Page_41">41</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Zullichau (Poland), <a href="#Page_28">28</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Zwinger Museum (Dresden), <a href="#Page_79">79</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Zywny, <a href="#Page_22">22</a></li> +</ul> + + +<p class="center"> +Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London +</p> + + +<p class="center mt3">Transcriber’s Note</p> + +<p class="center">New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to +the public domain.</p> + +<p class="center">A closing quotation mark was added after: like an airy +<a href="#quote">apparition</a> on page 175</p> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76904 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/76904-h/images/cover.jpg b/76904-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..470cd44 --- /dev/null +++ b/76904-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/76904-h/images/illo.jpg b/76904-h/images/illo.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ddc85b8 --- /dev/null +++ b/76904-h/images/illo.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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