I must ask the reader still to imagine that he is at a pianoforte recital, although I frankly admit that I have been guilty of many digressions, so that it must appear to him as if he had been whisked from Mendelssohn Hall up to Carnegie Hall, then down to the Metropolitan Opera House and back to Mendelssohn Hall again. This, however, as I have sought to make clear before, is due to the universality of the pianoforte as an instrument and to the comprehensiveness of pianoforte music, which in itself illustrates in great part the development of the art.
At this point, then, of our imaginary pianoforte recital there is likely to be a group of compositions by Chopin; and the larger the group, or the more groups by this composer on the program, the better satisfied the audience is apt to be. Baker calls Frédéric Chopin (1810-1849) the “incomparable composer for the pianoforte.” But he was more. He was an incomparable composer from every point of view, great, unique, a tone poet, as well as the first composer who searched the very soul of the instrument for which he specialized. Extraordinary as is his significance for that instrument, his influence extends through it into other realms of music, and his art is making itself felt to 117 this day in orchestra, opera and music-drama as well as in pianoforte music. For he was an innovator in form, an intrepid adventurer in harmony and a sublime singer of melody.
Tempo Rubato.
Before the pianist whose recital we are supposed to be attending will have played many bars of the first piece in the Chopin group, the individuality of this composer will become apparent. Melody will pervade the recital hall like the fragrance of flowers. At the same time there will be an iridescence not noticeable in any of the music that preceded Chopin, and produced as if by cascades of jewels—those remarkable ornamental notes which yet are not ornamental, but, in spite of all their light and shade, and their play of changeable colors, part of the great undercurrent of melody itself. Here we have then, nearly at the very outset of the first Chopin piece, the famous tempo rubato, so-called, which has been explained in various ways, but which with Chopin really means that while the rhythm goes calmly on with one hand, the other weaves a veil of iridescent notes around the melodic idea. Liszt expressed it exactly when he said: “You see that tree? Its leaves move to and fro in the wind and follow the gentle motion of the air; but its trunk stands there immovable in its form.” Or the tempo rubato is like a shower of petals from a tree in full bloom; the firm outline of the tree, its foliage are there, while we see the delicately tinted blossoms falling from the branches and filling the air with color and fragrance; or like the myriad shafts from the facets of a 118 jewel, piercing in all directions while the jewel itself remains immovable, the centre of its own rays; or like the crisp ripple on a river, while the stream itself flows on in majesty; or, in one or two passages when Chopin becomes a cynic, like the twaddle of critics while the person they criticise calmly goes about his mission.
The Soul of the Pianoforte.
What you will notice about these compositions of Chopin—and I say “these compositions” deliberately, although I have not named any (for it makes no difference what pieces of his are on the program, the effect will be the same)—is the fact that in none of them is there the slightest suggestion of anything but pianoforte music. Chopin’s great achievement so far as the pianoforte is concerned is the fact that he liberated it completely from orchestral and choral influences, and made it an instrument sufficient unto itself, brought it into its own in all its beauty of tone and expression and enlarged its capacity; sought out its soul and reproduced it in tone, as no other composer had done before him or has done since. The recognition of the true piano tone seems to have been instinctive with him. It appears in his earliest works. Nothing he ever wrote suggests orchestra or voice. For the beautiful singing quality he brings out in much of his music is a singing quality which belongs to the noble instrument to which he devoted himself. Not once while listening to a Chopin composition do you think to yourself, as you do so often with classical works, like the Beethoven sonatas, “How well this would sound on the orchestra!” 119 Yet Chopin is as sonorous, as passionate, as pleading, as melancholy and as rich in effect, although he is played only on the black and white keys of the pianoforte, as if he were given forth by a hundred instrumentalists, so thoroughly did he understand the instrument for which he wrote. He was the Wagner of the pianoforte.
A Clear Melodic Line.
What you will notice, too, about his music is the general distinctness of his melody. There may be times, as in some of his arabesque compositions, like the “F Minor Étude,” when the effect is slightly blurred. But this is done purposely, and as a rule there will be found a clear melodic line running through everything he wrote. Combined with this melody are weird, exquisite, entrancing harmonies, and those showers of tempo rubato notes which glitter like a veil of mist in the sunlight and yet, although a veil, allow you to see what is beneath it, like a delicate fabric which seems rather to emphasize and reveal the very things it is intended to conceal.
Chopin was a Pole. He had the melancholy of his race, but also its verve. Profoundly affected by his country’s sorrow, he also had its haughty spirit. In Paris, where he spent the most significant years of his life, he was surrounded by the aristocracy of his own country who were in exile, and by the aristocracy of the arts. Liszt speaks of an evening at his salon where he met, besides some of the Polish aristocrats, people like Heinrich Heine, Meyerbeer, Delacroix, Nourrit, 120 the tenor, and Bellini. Chopin admired Bellini’s music, its clear and beautiful melodiousness, and I myself think that Chopin’s melody often has Italian characteristics, although it is combined with harmony that is German in its seriousness, but wholly Chopinesque in all its essentials. In those numerous groups of ornamental, or rather semi-ornamental, notes, so many of them chromatic, and all of them usually designated by the technical term “passing notes,” signifying that they are merely incidental to the melody and to the harmonic structure, there are nevertheless many that have far greater importance than if they were merely “passing.” It is in bringing out this significance by slight accelerations and retards, by allowing a few of them to flash out here while the others remain slightly veiled, that the inspired Chopin player shows his true conception of what the composer meant by tempo rubato.
It was Liszt, afterward the first to recognize Wagner, who was the first to recognize Chopin. It was Liszt also who introduced him to George Sand (Mme. Dudevant), the great passion of his life. Chopin was the friend of many women. They adored his poetic nature, and there is much in his music that is effeminate, delicate and sensitive; but altogether too much has been made of this side of his art, and of certain morbid pieces like some of the Nocturnes. The affair with George Sand was not only a passion, but was a tragedy, and like all such tragedies it left on his music the imprint of something deeper and greater than mere delicacy and morbidity. Then, too, we have to count with his patriotism and his sympathy with his struggling 121 country, and there is much more of the virile and heroic in his music than either the average virtuoso or the average listener allows for.
The Études.
These contrasts in his music can readily be recognized when a great pianist makes up the Chopin group on his program from the Études, which are among the greatest compositions of all times, whether we consider them as pianoforte music or as music in general. They touch the soul in many places, and in many and varied ways, and they reflect the alternate delicacy and daintiness of his genius as well as its vigor and nobility. Suppose, for the sake of a brilliant beginning, the virtuoso chooses to start off with the fifth, the so-called “Étude on Black Keys,” and flashes it in our eyes, making the pianoforte play the part of a mirror held in the sunlight. This gives us one side of Chopin’s music, its brilliancy; and it is noticeable that while the tempo of the piece is given as vivace, the style in which it is to be played is indicated by the direction brillante.
If the pianist continues with the third Étude, we shall hear one of the most tender and beautiful melodies that Chopin ever composed. Let him follow this with number thirteen, the one in A flat major, and we are reminded of what Schumann said, in his review of this book of Études, in which he speaks of the A flat major as “an æolian harp, possessed of all the musical scales, the hand of the artist causing them all to intermingle in many varieties of fantastic embellishment, 122 yet in such a way as to leave everywhere audible a deep fundamental tone and a soft continuously singing upper voice.”
Schumann heard Chopin himself play this Étude, and he says that whoever will play it in the way described will get the correct idea of Chopin’s performance. “But it would be an error to think that Chopin permitted every one of the small notes to be distinctly heard. It was rather an undulation of the A flat major chord here and there thrown aloft anew by the pedal. Throughout all the harmonies one always heard in great tones a wondrous melody, while once only in the middle of the piece, besides that chief song, a tenor voice became prominent in the midst of the chords. After the Étude, a feeling came over one as of having seen in a dream a beatific picture which, when half awake, one would gladly recall.”
Vigor, Passion, and Impetus.
If now the pianist wishes to show by contrast Chopin in his full vigor, passionate and impetuous, let him take the great C Minor Étude, the twelfth, Allegro con fuoco. “Great in outline, pride, force and velocity, it never relaxes its grim grip from the first shrill dissonance to the overwhelming chordal close,” says Huneker, adding that “this end rings out like the crack of creation.” It is supposed to be an expression of the alternating wrath and despair with which Chopin received the tidings of the taking of Warsaw by the Russians in September, 1831, for it was shortly after this that the Étude was composed. No wonder, to 123 quote again from Huneker, that “all sweeps along in tornadic passion.”
A pianist hardly can go amiss in making his selection from the twenty-seven Études, for the contrasts which he can effect are obvious, and there is among these compositions not one which has not its special merits. There is the tenth, of which Von Bülow said whoever could play it in a really finished manner might congratulate himself on having climbed to the highest point of the pianist’s Parnassus, and that the whole repertory of music for the pianoforte does not contain a study of perpetual motion so full of genius and fancy as this especial one is universally acknowledged to be, excepting, possibly, Liszt’s “Feux Follets.” Then there is number nineteen in C sharp minor, like a nocturne with the melody in the left hand, with the right hand answering as a flute would a ’cello. For contrast take number twenty-one, the so-called “Butterfly Étude”—a wretched misnomer, because a pianist gifted with true musical clairvoyance can work up such a gust of passion in this Étude that any butterfly would be swept away as if by a hurricane. Nor, in order to accomplish this, is it necessary to make such a bravura piece of the Étude as so many pianists ignorantly do. We have, too, the “Winter Wind Étude,” in A minor, Opus 25, number eleven—the twenty-third in the collection as usually published—planned on a grand scale and carried out in a manner equal to the plan.
Von Bülow calls attention to the fact that, with all its sonorousness, “the greatest fullness of sound imaginable,” it nowhere trespasses upon the domain of 124 the orchestra, but remains pianoforte music in the strictest sense of the word. “To Chopin,” says Von Bülow, in referring to this Étude, “is due the honor and credit of having set fast the boundary between piano and orchestral music which, through other composers of the romantic school, especially Robert Schumann, has been defaced and blotted out, to the prejudice and damage of both species.” While agreeing with Von Bülow that Chopin was the great liberator of the pianoforte, I cannot agree with the exception he takes to the music of Robert Schumann. If he had referred back to the unpianistic classical sonata form, he would have been more accurate.
The Préludes.
I have gone into some detail regarding these Études because I regard them, as a whole, among the greatest of Chopin’s works. But I once heard Rubinstein play the entire set of twenty-four Préludes, and I sometimes wonder, as one often does with the compositions of a great genius, whether these Préludes, in spite of their comparative brevity, should not be ranked as high as anything Chopin ever wrote. According to tradition, they were composed during the winter of 1838, which Chopin spent with George Sand at Majorca in the Balearic Islands. But there is authority for saying that they received only the finishing touches there, and are in fact the gleanings of his portfolios.
It seems as if in these twenty-four pieces every phase of human emotion were brought out. If my memory is correct, Rubinstein played them as a solo group at 125 a Philharmonic concert, or he may have given them about the same time at one of his recitals. It was in 1872; and while after this long lapse of time it is impossible to remember every detail of his performance, I shall never forget the exquisite tenderness with which he played the very brief Prélude in A major, the seventh. He simply caressed the keyboard, touched it as if his fingers were tipped with velvet; and though into the other compositions of the series he put, according as their character varied, an immense amount of passion, or more subdued emotion, I can still hear this seventh Prélude sounding in my memory, note for note and bar for bar, as he rendered it—a prolonged, tremulous whisper. Schumann regarded the Préludes as most remarkable, saying that “in every piece we find in his own hand ‘Frédéric Chopin wrote it.’ One recognizes him in his pauses, in his quick-coming breath. He is the boldest, the proudest poet-soul of his time.”
Each number in the series is complete in itself, a mood picture; but the series as a whole, in its collection of moods, its panorama of emotions, represents the entire range of Chopin’s art. The fourth in E minor, covering only a page, is one of the most pathetic plaints ever penned. The fifteenth in D flat major, with its continual reiteration of the dominant, like the incessant drip of rain on a roof, is a nocturne—Chopin in one of his morbid moments; while the eighteenth in F minor is as bold a piece of dramatic recitative as though it had been lifted bodily out of a music-drama. And so we might run the whole range of the collection, finding each admirable in itself, yet different from 126 all the others. What a group for a recital these twenty-four Préludes make!
Nocturnes.
If Chopin had not written the Nocturnes I doubt if those who play and those who comment on him would err so often in attributing such an excess of morbidness to him as they do, or lay the charge of effeminacy against him. Morbid these Nocturnes undoubtedly are in many parts, and yet they often rise to the dignity of elegy, and sometimes even of tragedy. Exquisitely melodious they are, too, and full of the haunting mystery of night. The one in C sharp minor, Opus 27, No. 1, is perhaps the most dramatic of the series, and Henry T. Finck, in his Chopin essay, is entirely within bounds when he says that it embodies a greater variety of emotion and more genuine dramatic spirit on four pages than many operas on four hundred. There are greater nocturnes than the one in G, Opus 37, No. 2, but I must nevertheless regard it as the most beautiful of all. It may bewitch and unman the player, as Niecks has said, but, on the other hand, I think its second melody, like a Venetian barcarolle breathed through the moonlight, is the most exquisite thing Chopin ever composed; and note how, without any undulating accompaniment, its rhythm nevertheless produces a gentle wavy effect.
Probably the most familiar of all the Nocturnes is the one in E flat, the second in the first set, Opus 9. It has been played so much that unless it is interpreted in a perfect manner it comes perilously near to being hackneyed; but under the hands of a great pianist, who 127 unites with absolute independence of all his ten fingers, the soul of a poet, it becomes an iridescent play of color, with a sombre picture of melancholy seen through the iridescence. Remenyi played a violin arrangement of it with such delicacy and so much poetry of feeling that he actually reconciled one to its transfer from the pianoforte to the soprano instrument of four strings.
Chopin and Poe.
John Field, an Irish composer (1782-1837), was the first to compose nocturnes, and it is not unlikely that Chopin got the pattern from him. Occasionally at historical recitals one hears a nocturne by John Field; but I think that if even those who love to question the originality of great men were familiar with the nocturnes of Field, they would realize how far Chopin went beyond him, making out of a small type an art form of such poetic content that, in spite of Field having been first in the lists, Chopin may be said to have originated the form. Naturally, Field did not relish seeing himself supplanted by this greater genius, and he said of Chopin that he composed music for a sick-room, and had “a talent of the hospital.” On recital programs Chopin’s nocturnes often appear, and, when played by a master like Paderewski, who is sensitive to every shade of Chopin’s genius, they are heard with an exquisite feeling of sorrow. In these Nocturnes, Chopin always seems to me like Edgar Allan Poe in “Ullalume” or in “Annabel Lee”—and was not Poe one of the only two American poets of real genius?
Waltzes and Mazurkas.
A Chopin waltz will admirably afford contrast in a group of Chopin pieces on a recital program. Possibly the waltzes are the most frequently played by amateurs of all Chopin’s compositions. But, to perpetrate an Irish bull, even those that have been played to death still are very much alive. It was Schumann who said that if these waltzes were to be played for dancing more than half the dancers should be Countesses, the music is so aristocratic. Indeed, to listen to these waltzes is like looking at a dance through a fairy lens. They seem to be improvisations of the pianist during a dance, and to reflect the thoughts that arise in the player’s mind as he looks on, giving out the rhythm with the left hand, while the melody and the ornamental note-groups indicate his fancies—love, a jealous plaint, joy, ecstasy, and the tender whispering of enamored couples as they glide past. The slow A minor “Waltz,” with its viola-like left-hand melody, was Chopin’s favorite, and he was so pleased when Stephen Heller told him that it was his favorite one, too, that he invited him to luncheon. (Strange that we always should regard food as the most appropriate reward of artistic sympathy!) Each waltz, with the exception of some of the posthumous ones, has its individual charm, but to me the most beautiful is the one in C sharp minor, with its infinite expression of longing in its leading theme and its remarkable chromatic descent before the brilliant right-hand passage that follows in the second episode. These chromatics should be emphasized, as they are a feature of the 129 passage and form gems of harmonization. But few pianists seem to appreciate their significance and pay sole attention to bringing out the upper voice.
Thoroughly characteristic of Chopin, thoroughly in keeping with his Polish nationality and its traditions, are the Mazurkas—jewels of music, full of the finest feeling, the most delicate harmonization, and with a dash and spirit entirely their own. Weitzmann truly says that they are the most faithful and animated pictures of his nation which Chopin has left us, and that they are masterpieces of their class: “Here he stands forth in his full originality as the head of the romantic school of music; in them his novel and alluring melodic and harmonic progressions are even more surprising than in his larger compositions.”
Liszt on the Mazurkas.
Liszt, too, pauses to pay his tribute to them: “Some portray foolhardy gaiety in the sultry and oppressive air of a ball, and on the eve of a battle; one hears the low sighs of parting, whose sobs are stifled by sharp rhythms of the dance. Others portray the grief of the sorely anxious soul amid festivities, whose tumult is unable to drown the profound woe of the heart. Others, again, show the tears, premonitions and struggles of a broken heart, devoured by jealousy, sorrowing over its loss, but repressing the curse. Now we are surrounded by a swirling frenzy, pierced by an ever-recurring palpitating melody like the anxious beating of a loving but rejected heart; and anon distant trumpet calls resound like dim memories of bygone fame.” 130 All this is very fine, although a trifle over-sentimental. The fact is that the Chopin Mazurkas are archly coquettish, passionately pleading, full of delicate banter, love, despair and conquest—and always thoroughly original and thoroughly interesting. In fact Chopin never is commonplace. A Mazurka or two will add zest to any group of his works on a recital program.
The Polonaises are Chopin’s battle-hymns. The roll of drums, the booming of cannon, the rattle of musketry and the plaint for the dead—all these things one may hear in some of these compositions. The mourning notes, however, are missing from the “A Major Polonaise,” Opus 40, and usually called “Le Militaire.” It is not a large canvas, but it is heroic and one of the most virile of all his works. It was of this polonaise Chopin said that if he could play it as it should be played, he would break all the strings of the pianoforte before he had finished.
Other Works.
And then the Ballades and the Scherzos. These are perhaps Chopin’s greatest contributions to the music of the pianoforte. They are wonderfully original, wonderfully emotional, yet never to the point of morbidness, full of his original harmonies, fascinating rhythms and glow. In the Scherzos he is not gaily abandoned, as the title would suggest, but often grim and mocking—tragedy mocking itself.
Chopin also wrote Sonatas—felt himself obliged to, perhaps, because he was writing for the pianoforte, because pianoforte music still was in the grip of the thirty-two 131 Beethoven pianoforte sonatas. By no means did he adhere to the classical form; yet these three sonatas are not to be counted among his most successful compositions. One of them, the B flat minor, contains the familiar funeral march which has been said to “give forth the pain and grief of an entire nation”—Chopin’s nation, sorrowing Poland; and, indeed, the middle episode, the trio of the march, is pathetic to the verge of tears, while in the other portions the march progresses to the grave amid the tolling of bells and the heavy tramp of soldiery. It is played and played, possibly played too much; and yet, when well played, never misses leaving a deep impression. Because people will persist in “playing” certain popular pieces, there is no reason these should not be enjoyed when interpreted by a master. There is a vast difference between interpretation and mere “playing.”
This funeral march is followed in the sonata by a finale which aptly enough has been described as night winds sweeping over graves. The funeral march often is played at recitals as a detached piece. I cannot see why pianists do not add this finale, which has real psychological connection with it. The “Berceuse,” a “Barcarolle,” two “Concertos for Piano and Orchestra,” which often are slightingly spoken of, and most unjustly, since they are full of beautiful melody and most grateful to play—beyond these it does not seem necessary to go here, unless, perhaps, to mention the Impromptus, which are full of the most delightful chiaroscuro, and the great F minor “Fantaisie.”
A Noble from Head to Foot.
Because Chopin wrote only for the pianoforte, because as a rule his pieces are not long, his greatness was not at first recognized. The conservatives seemed to think no man could be great unless he wrote sonatas in four movements for the piano and symphonies for the orchestra, unless he composed for fifty or sixty instruments instead of for only one. But although Jumbo was large, he was not accounted beautiful, and worship of the big is a mistaken kind of reverence. Chopin’s briefest mazurka is worth infinitely more than many sonatas that cover many pages. This composer was a tone poet of the highest order. While to-day we regard him mainly as the interpreter of beauty, in his own day he was an innovator, a reformer and, like his own Poles, a revolutionist. The pianoforte—the pianoforte as a solo instrument—sufficed for his most beautiful dreams, for his most passionate longings. Bie, in his “History of the Pianoforte and Pianoforte Players,” tells us that Chopin smiled when he heard that Czerny had composed another overture for eight pianos and sixteen persons, and was very happy over it. “Chopin,” adds Bie, “opened to the two hands a wider world than Czerny could give to thirty-two.”
Rubinstein, as quoted by Huneker, apostrophizes him as “the piano bard, the piano rhapsodist, the piano mind, the piano soul.... Tragic, romantic, virile, heroic, dramatic, fantastic, soulful, sweet, dreamy, brilliant, grand, simple—all possible expressions are found in his compositions and all are sung by him upon his instrument.” Huneker himself 133 says: “In Chopin’s music there are many pianists, many styles, and all are correct if they are poetically musical, logical and individually sincere.” Best of all, he enlarged the scope for individual expression in music. Once for all, he got pianoforte music away from the set form of the classical sonata. “He was sincere, and his survival when nearly all of Mendelssohn, much of Schumann, and half of Berlioz have suffered an eclipse, is proof positive of his vitality.”—Thus again Huneker. Bie says, in summing up his position, that his greatness is his aristocracy; that “he stands among musicians, in his faultless vesture, a noble from head to foot.” But, above all, he is a searcher of the human soul, and, because he searched it out on the pianoforte, is he therefore less great than if he had drawn it out on the strings, piped it on the reeds, blown it through the tubes and battered it on the drumheads of the orchestra?
Having finished with his Chopin group, the pianist is apt to follow it with his Schumann selections, and we meet with another original musical genius. Robert Schumann was born at Zwickau in June, 1810. His father was a book publisher and was in hopes that the son would show literary aptitude. In fact, the elder Schumann discouraged Robert’s musical aspirations; and as a result, instead of receiving early in life a systematic musical training, his education was along other lines. He studied law at Leipzig in 1828 and in Heidelberg in 1829, and was thus what is rare among musicians—a composer with an academic education.
His meeting with the celebrated pianoforte teacher, Frederick Wieck, the Leschetitzki of his day, determined Schumann to enter upon a musical career. Wieck took him into his home in Leipzig and he studied the pianoforte with a view of becoming a virtuoso. In order to gain greater freedom in fingering, he devised a mechanical apparatus by which one finger was suspended in a sling while the others played upon the keyboard. Unfortunately, through the use of this contrivance he strained the tendons of one hand and his dream of a virtuoso’s career vanished. Meanwhile he 135 had fallen in love with his teacher’s daughter, Clara Wieck, and finally, after determined opposition on the part of her father, married her in 1840. Later in life a brain trouble from which he had suffered intermittently became more severe, and in February, 1854, he became possessed of the idea that Schubert’s spirit had appeared to him and given him a theme to work out. He abruptly left the room in which he was sitting with some friends in his house at Düsseldorf and threw himself into the Rhine. Some boatmen rescued him from drowning, but he had to be taken to an asylum near Bonn, where he died in July, 1856.
These circumstances in his life are mentioned here not only because of their interest, but because they explain some aspects of his music. Schumann was of a brooding disposition, intensely introspective. Compared with Chopin, his music lacks iridescence and shows a want of brilliancy. This will be immediately apparent if at a recital a pianist places the Schumann pieces after a Chopin group, as he is apt to do for the sake of the very contrast which they afford. But if Schumann’s compositions are wanting in superficially attractive brightness, they more than make up for it in their profounder characteristics. All through them one seems to hear a deep-sounding tone. One might say that his works for the keyboard instrument are pianoforte music for the viola, and for that reason they appear to me so expressive and so appealing. The harmonies are wonderfully compact. One feels after striking a Schumann chord like stiffening the fingers in order to hold it down more firmly, keep a grip on it, and let it sound to its last echo.
Poet, Bourgeois, and Philosopher.
In Schumann’s music the sensitive listener will find a curious blending of poet, bourgeois, and philosopher. He had the higher fancy, the warmth of the poet, a bourgeois love of what was intimate and homely, and the introspection of the philosopher. Sometimes he is so introspective that he appears to me actually to be burrowing in harmony like a mole. The melodies are interwoven; sometimes the upper voice flutters lightly down upon “contrapuntal collisions in the bass”; frequently his rhythms are syncopated; melodies are superimposed upon each other; he uses “imitations,” canonic figuration, and often by introducing a single note foreign to the scale, suddenly lowers or lifts an entire passage. There are interior voices in his music, half suppressed, yet making themselves heard now and then above the principal melody. He loves “anticipations”—advancing a single note or a few notes of the harmony and then filling in the sustained tone or tones with what was at first lacking. These characteristics are so marked that it is as easy to recognize Schumann as it is to distinguish Chopin in the first few bars of a work by either. Each is sui generis, each has his own hallmark, and it is a great thing in music, as in other arts, to have one’s product so personal that there can be no mistaking whose it is.
Schumann made valuable contributions to so-called program music. His pieces, besides intrinsic musical worth, have a distinct meaning, usually indicated by the titles he gives them. And these titles themselves often are suggested by the works of authors whom he admired, 137 or hark back to certain fanciful figures like harlequins and columbines. His second work for the pianoforte, “The Papillons,” derived its inspiration from the poet, Jean Paul, who was at that time an object of his intense worship. But whoever expects to find butterflies fluttering through these Schumann pieces will be mistaken. They are rather symbols of thoughts still in the chrysalis state and waiting, like butterflies, to cast off the shell and gain air and freedom. This symbolism must be borne in mind in listening to “The Papillons.”
Schumann himself said, in a general way, regarding his programmatic intentions in this and other works, that the titles given to his music should be taken very much like the titles of poems, and that, as in the case of poems, the music in itself should be beautiful, irrespective of title or printed explanation. This is true of all program music that has survived. It will be found beautiful in itself; but it also is easy to discover that the titles and explanations which are calculated to place the hearer in certain receptive moods vastly add to his enjoyment.
“Carnaval” and “Kreisleriana.”
I am always glad when a pianist elects to place the Schumann “Carnaval” on his program, because it is so characteristic of the composer’s method of work and of his writing short pieces en suite, giving a separate name to each of his diversions yet uniting them into one composition by means of a comprehensive title. The complete title to this work is “Carnaval Scènes 138 Mignonnes sur Quatre Notes pour Piano, Op. 9.” The four notes are A S C H, and in explanation it should be said that in German S (es) is E flat, and H the B of our musical scale. Asch was the birthplace of Ernestine von Fricken, one of Schumann’s early loves. Three of the divisions of the “Carnaval” are entitled Florestan, Eusebius, and March of the Davidsbündler. Schumann had founded the “Neue Zeitschrift für Musik,” and he contributed to it under the noms-de-plume of Florestan, Eusebius and Raro; while his associates were denominated the Davidsbündler, it being their mission to combat and put to flight the old fogies of music, as David had the Philistines. Schumann himself is the looker-on at this carnival, a thinker wandering through the gay whirl, drawing his own conclusions, and noting down in music the varied figures as they pass, and his reflections on them. We meet Chopin and Paganini, each neatly characterized; Chiarina (the Italian diminutive of Clara) and Estrella (none other than Ernestine herself); also Harlequin, Pantalon, and Columbine. The Davidsbündler march in to the strains of the German folk-song,
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“Grandfather wedded my grandmother dear, |
and the whole ends in a merry uproar. He wrote another carnival suite, Opus 26, the “Faschingschwank aus Wien,” in which he introduced a suggestion of the “Marseillaise,” which was at that time forbidden to be played in Vienna.
The title of another work which ranks among his 139 finest productions, the “Kreisleriana,” also requires explanation. This he derived from a book by E. T. A. Hoffmann, who sometimes is spoken of as the German Poe, although he lacks the exquisite art of the American author—in fact, is a Poe bound up in much heavy German philosophy and turgid introspection. The Kreisler of Hoffmann’s book is an exuberant sentimentalist, and is said to have had his prototype in Kapellmeister Ludwig Böhner, who, after a brilliant early career, had become addicted to drink and was reduced to maudlin memories of his former triumphs. In Hoffmann’s book there is a contrast drawn between this pathetic character, whose ideals have become shadows which he vainly chases, and the prosaic views of life as set forth by another character Kater Murr (literally Tomcat Purr). But these “Kreisleriana,” of which Bie says “the joys and sorrows expressed in these pieces were never put into form with more sovereign power,” should be entitled “Schumanniana,” for although the title is derived from Hoffmann, the content is Schumann.
Thoughts of His Clara.
Concerning the work as a whole he wrote to Clara while in the throes of composition: “This music now in me, and always such beautiful melodies! Think of it, since my last letter to you I have another entire book of new things ready. I intend to call them ‘Kreisleriana,’ and in them you and a thought of you play the chief rôle, and I shall dedicate them to you. Yes, they belong to you as to no one else, and how sweetly 140 you will smile when you find yourself in them! My music seems to me so wonderfully interwoven, in spite of all its simplicity, and speaking right from the heart. It has that effect upon all for whom I play these things, as I now do gladly and often.” If Clara and a thought of Clara play the chief rôle, what becomes of Kreisler and Kater Murr? Surely “Kreisleriana” are Schumanniana.
Full of varied characteristics are the “Fantasie Pieces.” Among these is the familiar “Warum,” which one has but to hear to recognize at once that it is no ordinary Why, but a question upon the answer to which depends the happiness of a lifetime; “At Evening” (Abends), with its sense of perfect peace; the buoyant “Soaring” (Aufschwung); “Whims” (Grillen); “Night Scene,” an echo of the legend of Hero and Leander; the fable, “Dream-Whirls” (Traumeswirren) and the “End of the Song,” with its mingling of humor and sadness. These “Fantasie Pieces” and the aptly named “Novelettes” seem destined always to retain their popularity. And then there are the “Scenes from Childhood,” to which belongs the “Träumerei”; the “Forest Scenes,” the “Sonatas;” the heroic technical studies, based on the Paganini “Capriccios,” and the “Études Symphoniques,” and the “Fantasie,” above the first movement of which he placed these lines from Schlegel:
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“Through every tone there passes, |
Clara was the “tone,” as he told her. It was largely through Madame Schumann’s public playing of her husband’s works that they won their way. Even so, owing to their lack of brilliancy and their introspection, they were long in coming to their own. But the best of them, including, of course, the admirable “A Minor Concerto,” long will retain their hold on the modern pianist’s repertoire. William Mason went to Leipzig in 1849. “Only a few years before I arrived at Leipzig,” he says in his “Memories,” “Schumann’s genius was so little appreciated that when he entered the store of Breitkopf & Härtel with a new manuscript under his arm, the clerks would nudge one another and laugh. One of them told me that they regarded him as a crank and a failure because his pieces remained on the shelf and were in the way. * * * Shortly after my return from Germany (to New York) I went to Breusing’s, then one of the principal music stores in the city,—the Schirmers are his successors,—and asking for certain compositions by Schumann, I was informed that they had his music in stock, but as there was no demand for it, it was packed away in a bundle, and kept in the basement.” What a contrast now!
It is possible, but not likely, that some pianist willing, for the moment at least, to sacrifice outward success to inward satisfaction, will, after he has played the Schumann selections on his program, essay one of Brahms’s shorter pianoforte compositions. These are even more introspective than Schumann’s works and combine a wealth of learning with great depth of musical feeling. It is almost necessary, however, that one should know them thoroughly in order to appreciate them, and audiences have been so slow to welcome them that they appear but infrequently on recital programs. Those of my readers, however, who are pianists yet still unacquainted with these rare and beautiful compositions, will soon find themselves under the spell of their intimate personal expression if they will get them and start to learn them. The Brahms Variations on a theme by Händel make a stupendous work, and the rare occasions on which it is played by any one capable of mastering it should be regarded as “events.”
Grieg, with his clear, fascinating Norwegian clang-tints, which also play through his fascinating “Concerta” in A minor; Dvorak, the Bohemian; Tschaikowsky, whose first “Concerto” in B flat minor 143 is among the finest modern works of its kind; or some of the neo-Russians, are composers who may figure on the program of a modern pianoforte recital. But it is more likely that the virtuoso will here elect to bring his recital to a close with some work by the grandest figure in the history of pianoforte playing and one of the greatest in the history of composition—Franz Liszt.
Kissed by Beethoven.
Liszt was born at Raiding, near Odenburg in Hungary, in October, 1811, and he died in Bayreuth in July, 1886. From early boyhood, when he was a pianoforte prodigy, almost until his death, he occupied a unique position in the musical world. He was the Paganini of the pianoforte, the greatest pianist that ever lived, and he was a great composer; and although, as a virtuoso, he retired from public performances long before he died, his fame as a player and his still greater fame as a composer have not diminished and his influence still is potent.
His father was an amateur, and began giving him instruction when he was six years old. The boy’s talent was so pronounced that even without professional instruction he was able, when he was nine years old, to appear in public and play a difficult concerto by Ries. So great was his success that his father arranged for other concerts at Pressburg. After the second of these, several Hungarian noblemen agreed to provide an annual stipend of 600 florins for six years for Franz’s further musical education. The family then removed to Vienna, where, for about a year and a half, the boy 144 took pianoforte lessons from Czerny and theory with Salieri. Beethoven heard of him, and asked to see him, and at their meeting, after Franz had played, without notes and without the other instruments, Beethoven’s pianoforte trio, Op. 97 (the large one in B flat major), the great master embraced and kissed him. In 1823 he was taken to Paris with a view to being placed in the Conservatoire. But although he passed his examination without difficulty, Cherubini, at that time the director of the institution and prejudiced against infant phenomena, revived a rule excluding foreigners and admission was denied him.
His success as a pianist, however, was enormous and there was the greatest demand in salons and musical circles for “le petit Litz.” (As some writer, whose name I cannot recall, has said, “the nearest Paris came to appreciating Liszt was to call him ‘Litz.’”) He was the friend of Chopin, of other musicians, and of painters and literary men, and the doors of the most exclusive drawing-rooms of the French capital were open to him. Paganini played in Paris in 1831, and his wonderful feats of technique inspired Liszt to efforts to develop the technique of the pianoforte with as much daring as Paganini had shown in developing the capacity of the violin. This was the beginning of those wonderful feats of virtuosity as well as of the remarkable technical demands made in his compositions, both of which combined have done so much to make the pianoforte what it is, and to bring out its full potentiality as regards execution and expression.
Episode with Countess D’Agoult.
For a time Liszt left Paris with the Countess d’Agoult, who wrote under the nom-de-plume of Daniel Stern, and who was the mother of his three children, of whom Cosima became the wife, first of Von Bülow and then of Wagner. His four years with the Countess he passed in Geneva. Twice, however, he came forth from this retirement to cross the sword of virtuosity with and vanquish his only serious rival in pianoforte playing, Sigismund Thalberg, a brilliant player and a man, like Liszt himself, of fascinating personality, but lacking the Hungarian’s intellectual capacity. In 1829, he and Countess d’Agoult having separated, he began his triumphal progress through Europe, and for the following ten years the world rang with his fame. He then settled down as Court Conductor at Weimar, which became the headquarters of the new romantic movement in Germany. Hardly a person of distinction in music or any of the other arts passed through the town without a visit to the Altenburg, to pay his respects to Liszt. At Weimar, “Lohengrin” had its first performance; here Berlioz’s works found a hearing; here everything new in music that also was meritorious was made welcome. Liszt’s activity at Weimar continued until 1859, when he left there on account of the hostility displayed to the production of Cornelius’s opera, “The Barber of Bagdad,” and its resultant failure. He remained away from Weimar for eleven years, living for the most part in Rome, until 1870, when he was invited to conduct the Beethoven festival and re-established cordial relations with the Court. 146 Thereafter he divided his year between Rome, Buda-Pest, where he had been made President of the new Hungarian Academy of Music, and Weimar.
“Liszt, the artist and the man,” says Baker, in his “Biographical Dictionary of Musicians,” “is one of the grand figures in the history of music. Generous, kindly and liberal-minded, whole-souled in his devotion to art, superbly equipped as an interpreter of classic and romantic works alike, a composer of original conceptions and daring execution, a conductor of marvellous insight, worshipped as teacher and friend by a host of disciples, reverenced and admired by his fellow-musicians, honored by institutions of learning and by potentates as no artist before or since, his influence, spread by those whom he personally taught and swayed, will probably increase rather than diminish as time goes on.”
It has been said that Liszt passed through six lives in the course of his existence—only three less than a cat. As “petit Litz” he was the precocious child adored of Paris; as a youth, he plunged into the early romanticism which united the devotees of various branches of art in the French capital: next came the episode with the Countess d’Agoult; then his triumphal tours through Europe; settling at Weimar, he became the centre of the modern musical movement in Europe; finally, he revolved in a cycle through Rome, Buda-Pest and Weimar, followed from place to place by a band of devotees.
Liszt’s compositions for the pianoforte may be classified as follows: “Fantasies Dramatiques”; “Années de Pèlerinage”; “Harmonies Poetiques et Religieuses”; 147 the Sonata, Concertos, Études, and miscellaneous works; “Rhapsodies Hongroises”; arrangements and transcriptions from Berlioz, Beethoven, Weber, Paganini, Schubert and others.
The Don Juan Fantasie.
Among the “Fantasies Dramatiques,” which are variations on themes from operas, not mere potpourris or transcriptions, but genuine fantasies, and usually based on one or two themes only, the best known is the “Don Juan Fantasie.” It is founded upon the duet, “La ci darem la mano.” Liszt utilizes a passage from the overture as an introduction, then gives the entire duet, varying it, however, not in set form, but with the effect of a brilliant fantasia, and then winds up the whole with a presto on the “Champagne Song.” It is true it no longer is Mozart—but Mozart might be glad if it were. It is even possible that the time will come when “Don Giovanni” will have vanished from the operatic stage, yet be remembered by this brilliant fantasia of Liszt’s. It is one of the great tours de force of pianoforte music, and it is good music as well. Another of the better known “Fantasies Dramatiques” is the one Liszt made from “Norma,” in which occurs a long sustained trill and a melody for the right hand, while the left plays another melody and the accompaniment to the whole. In other words, there is in this passage a trill sustained throughout, two melodies and the accompaniment, all going on at the same time, yet written with such perfect knowledge of pianoforte technique 148 that any virtuoso worthy of the name as used in a modern sense, can compass it.
A work called the “Hexameron” is included in catalogues of Liszt’s compositions, although he only contributed part of it. It is the march from Bellini’s “Puritani” with six variations, written by six pianists and originally played by them on six pianofortes, five of them full grands, while Chopin, whose variation was not of the bravura, kind, sat at a two-stringed semi-grand. Liszt contributed the introduction, the connecting links and the finale of the “Hexameron.”
The “Années de Pèlerinage” were published in three divisions, extending in point of time from 1835 to 1883. They are a series of musical impressions, as the titles indicate—“Au lac de Wallenstadt, Pastoral,” “Au bord d’une source, Sposalizio” (after Raphael’s picture in the Brera), “Il Penseroso” (after Michael Angelo). Many of these are adroit and elegant in the treatment of the pianoforte, and at the same time beautiful as music. The “Harmonies” are partly transcriptions of his own vocal pieces, partly musical illustrations to poems. Among them is the familiar “Cantique d’Amour,” and the “Benediction de Dieu dans la solitude,” of which he himself was very fond. William Mason says that at the Altenburg a copy of it always was lying on the pianoforte, “which Liszt had used so many times when playing for his guests that it became associated with memories of Berlioz, Rubinstein, Vieuxtemps, Wieniawski, Joachim.” When Mr. Mason left Weimar he took this copy with him as a souvenir, still has it, and treasures it all the more for the marks of usage which it bears. The “Consolations,” 149 which, as Edward Dannreuther says, may be taken as corollaries to the “Harmonies,” are tenderly expressive pianoforte pieces.
Giant Strides in Virtuosity.
The Études bear the dates 1827, 1839 and 1852, and as they are in the main progressive editions of the same pieces, they represent the history of pianoforte technique as it developed under Liszt’s own fingers. In their earliest shape when issued in 1827, they were but little different from the classical Études of Czerny and Cramer. In their latest shape they form the extreme of virtuosity. Indeed, these three editions are three giant strides in the development of pianoforte technique. Von Bülow’s coupling of the Étude called “Feux Follets” with the A flat study (No. 10) of Chopin already has been quoted under that composer. He considered it even more difficult. Schumann called the collection “Sturm und Graus Etuden” (Studies of Storm and Dread), and expressed the opinion that there were only ten or twelve pianists living who could play them. In the Étude called “Waldesrauschen” will be found some ingenious double counterpoint. The theme is divided into two portions, a descending and ascending one, which later on appear together, with first one and then the other uppermost. Other titles among the Études are “Paysage,” “Mazeppa” (a tremendous test of endurance), “Vision,” “Chasse-neige,” “Harmonies de Soir” and “Gnomentanz.” Through Liszt’s transcriptions of some of the Paganini pieces in the form of Études, which include the famous “Bell Rondo” from 150 one of the Paganini concertos, this piece, for example, now is far better known as a pianoforte composition than in its original form for violin.
Sonata, Concertos and Rhapsodies.
The “Sonata in B Minor” dedicated to Schumann is one of the few sonatas in which there is psychological unity throughout. This is due to the fact that it is one movement; although by employing various themes both in rapid and in slow time, Liszt has given it a certain aspect of division into movements. It might well serve as a model to younger composers who think they have to write sonatas. Dannreuther, it is true, says of it that it is “a curious compound of true genius and empty rhetoric,” but admits that it contains enough of genuine impulse and originality in the themes of the opening section, and of suave calm in the melody of the section that stands for the slow movement, to secure the hearer’s attention. Mr. Hanchett’s characterization of it as one of the most masterly compositions ever put into this form—a gigantic, wholly admirable and original work—is more just.
The two pianoforte concertos (in E flat and A major) are superb works. Not only are they written with all the skill which Liszt knew so well how to apply when composing for the instrument, but with this technical perfection they also unite thought and feeling. Like the sonata, they show throughout their development the psychological unity which is so essentially modern. What the pianoforte owes to Chopin and Liszt can be summed up by saying that they were 151 poets and thinkers who took the trouble to thoroughly understand the instrument. Because their music sounds so well on it, at least one of them, Liszt, frequently is stigmatized as a trickster of virtuosity and a charlatan, as if there were some wonderful mark of genius in writing something for one instrument that sounds better on another or may not sound as well as it ought to on any. If Liszt’s pianoforte music is grateful to the player and equally grateful to the listener, it is not only because he knew how to write for the pianoforte, but because, with deep thoughts and poetic feelings, he also understood how to express them clearly and pianistically.
The “Rhapsodies Hongroises” are of such dazzling brilliancy and show off a pianist’s technique to such good purpose and so brilliantly, that their real musical worth has been under-estimated. They are full of splendid fire, vitality and passion, and their rhythmic throb is simply irresistible. Like the Études, their history is curious. At first they were merely short transcriptions of Hungarian tunes. These were elaborated and republished and canceled, and then rewritten and published again. In all there are fifteen pieces in the set, ending with the “Rakoczy March.” As “Ungarische Melodien” they began to appear in 1838; as “Melodies Hongroises” in 1846; as “Rhapsodies Hongroises” in 1854. Consider that they are over fifty years old, yet remain the greatest pieces for the display of brilliant technique and the most grateful works for which a pianist can ask, and that at the same time they are full of admirable musical content! Because they happen to be brilliant and effective they are called 152 trashy, whereas they owe their brilliancy and effectiveness to Liszt’s own transcendent virtuosity, to his knowledge of the pianoforte. In order to be great must music be “classic,” heavy and dull, and badly written for the instrument on which it is to be played?
How Liszt Played.
In those charming reminiscences from which I already have had occasion to quote several times, William Mason’s “Memories of a Musical Life,” Mr. Mason says that time and again at Weimar he heard Liszt play, and that there is absolutely no doubt in his mind that Liszt was the greatest pianist of the nineteenth century, what the Germans call an Erscheinung, an epoch-making genius. Tausig said of him: “Liszt dwells alone upon a solitary mountain-top and none of us can approach him.” Rubinstein said to Mr. William Steinway, in the year 1873 (I quote from Mason): “Put all the rest of us together and we would not make one Liszt.” While Mr. Mason willingly acknowledges that there have been other great pianists, some of them now living, he adds: “But I must dissent from those writers who affirm that any of these can be placed upon a level with Liszt. Those who make this assertion are too young to have heard Liszt other than in his declining years, and it is unjust to compare the playing of one who has long since passed his prime with that of one who is still in it.”
Edward Dannreuther, who heard Liszt play from 1863 onward, says that there was about his playing an air of improvisation and the expression of a grand and 153 fine personality, perfect self-possession, grace, dignity and never-failing fire; that his tone was large and penetrating, but not hard, every effect being produced naturally and easily. Dannreuther adds that he has heard performances, it may be of the same pieces, by younger men, such as Rubinstein and Tausig, but that they left an impression as of Liszt at second-hand or of Liszt past his prime. “None of his contemporaries or pupils were so spontaneous, individual and convincing in their playing; and none except Tausig so infallible with their fingers and wrists.”
Liszt himself paid this superb tribute to the pianoforte as an instrument: “To me my pianoforte is what to the seaman is his boat, to the Arab his horse; nay, more, it has been till now my eye, my speech, my life. Its strings have vibrated under my passions and its yielding keys have obeyed my every caprice. It may be that the secret tie which binds me to it so closely is a delusion, but I hold the pianoforte very high. In my view, it takes the first place in the hierarchy of instruments. It is the oftenest used and the widest spread. In the circumference of its seven octaves it embraces the whole range of an orchestra, and a man’s ten fingers are enough to render the harmonies which in an orchestra are brought out only by the combination of hundreds of musicians. The pianoforte has on the one side the capacity of assimilation, the capacity of taking unto itself the life of all instruments; on the other hand it has its own life, its own growth, its own individual development. My highest ambition is to leave to the piano players to come after me, some useful instructions, the footprints of advanced attainment, 154 something which may some day provide a worthy witness of the labor and study of my youth.”
Bear in mind that Liszt played for Beethoven, that he was a contemporary of Chopin and Schumann, that he was one of the first to throw himself heart and soul into the Wagner movement, and that death came to him while he was attending the festival performances at Bayreuth; bear in mind, I repeat, that he played for Beethoven and died at “Parsifal”; strive to appreciate the extremes of musical history and development implied by this; then remember that he remains a potent force in music—and you may be able to form some idea of his greatness.