Naxos. Chopin
Naxos. Chopin
Naxos. Chopin
A N D
W O R K S
Frdric
Chopin
Written and Narrated by
Jeremy Siepmann
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Preface
If music is about anything, its about life. No other medium can so quickly or more
comprehensively lay bare the very soul of those who make or compose it. Biographies confined
to the limitations of text are therefore at a serious disadvantage when it comes to the lives of
composers. Only by combining verbal language with the music itself can one hope to achieve a
fully rounded portrait. In the present series, the words of composers and their contemporaries are
brought to life by distinguished actors in a narrative liberally spiced with musical illustrations.
The substantial booklet contains an assessment of the composer in relation to his era, an
overview of his major works and their significance, a Graded Listening Plan, a summary of
recommended books, a gallery of biographical entries on the most significant figures in his life
and times, and a calendar of his life showing parallel developments in the arts, politics,
philosophies, sciences and social developments of the day.
Jeremy Siepmann
Recorded at Bucks Audio Recording, Buckinghamshire, UK and Hats Off Studios, Oxfordshire, UK
Engineers: Alan Smyth, Michael Taylor
Sound Editors: Simon Weir, Classical Recording Company; Michael Taylor, Ariel Productions
Design: Sue Norman. Editor: Hugh Griffith
Written and produced by Jeremy Siepmann
Cover Picture: Chopin (Lebrecht Collection, London)
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Chopin
Frdric
Contents
CD Track Listings
Biographies
1 Historical Background
2 Chopin in his Time
3 The Major Works and Their Significance
4 A Graded Listening Plan
5 Recommended Reading
6 Personalities
7 A Calendar of Chopins Life
8 Glossary
9 Discography
10 Spoken Text
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Success in Vienna
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Chopin in love
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Arrival in Paris
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Music: Mazurkas
Music: Impromptu in F#
The Idyll continues
5:47
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Cast
Jeremy Siepmann Narrator
Anton Lesser Chopin
Other parts read by Neville Jason, Elaine Claxton and Karen Archer.
Recorded at Bucks Audio Recording, Buckinghamshire, UK and Hats Off Studios,
Oxfordshire, UK.
Engineers: Alan Smyth, Michael Taylor
Sound Editor: Simon Weir, Classical Recording Company; Michael Taylor, Ariel Productions
Design: Sue Norman Editor: Hugh Griffith Written and produced by Jeremy Siepmann
Cover Picture: Chopin (Lebrecht Collection, London)
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Jeremy Siepmann
Though long resident in England, Jeremy Siepmann was born and formally educated in the United
States. Having completed his studies at the Mannes College of Music in New York, he moved to
London at the suggestion of Sir Malcolm Sargent in 1964. After several years as a freelance
lecturer he was invited to join the staff of London University. For most of the last 20 years he has
confined his teaching activity to the piano, his pupils including pianists of worldwide repute.
As a writer he has contributed articles, reviews and interviews to numerous journals and
reference works (including New Statesman, The Musical Times, Gramophone, BBC Music
Magazine, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians), some of them being reprinted in
book form (Oxford University Press, Robson Books). His books include a widely acclaimed
biography of Chopin (The Reluctant Romantic, Gollancz/Northeastern University Press, 1995),
two volumes on the history and literature of the piano, and a biography of Brahms
(Everyman/EMI, 1997). In December 1997 he was appointed editor of Piano magazine.
His career as a broadcaster began in New York in 1963 with an East Coast radio series on the
life and work of Mozart, described by Alistair Cooke as the best music program on American
radio. On the strength of this, improbably, he was hired by the BBC as a humorist, in which
capacity he furnished weekly satirical items on various aspects of American life.
After a long break he returned to broadcasting in 1977, since when he has devised, written and
presented more than 1,000 programmes for the BBC, including the international-award-winning
series The Elements of Music. In 1988 he was appointed Head of Music at the BBC World
Service, broadcasting to an estimated audience of 135 million. He left the Corporation in Spring
1994 to form his own independent production company.
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Anton Lesser
Anton Lesser is one of Britains leading classical actors. He has played many of
the principal Shakespearean roles for the Royal Shakespeare Company and other
leading theatres, including Richard III, Hamlet and Romeo. He is also known for
contemporary drama on stage in Londons West End and on television and film.
He has made many recordings for Naxos AudioBooks, including Paradise Lost
and the novels of Charles Dickens.
Neville Jason
Neville Jason trained at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, where he was
awarded the Diction Prize by Sir John Gielgud. He is a familiar voice on BBC
Radio. For Naxos AudioBooks he has abridged and recorded Prousts
Remembrance of Things Past in 12 volumes.
Elaine Claxton
Elaine Claxton has worked extensively in UK theatre, including Londons Royal
National Theatre. She has twice been a member of the BBC Radio Company, during which time she participated in over 200 broadcasts.
Karen Archer
Karen Archer has worked for the Royal Shakespeare Company in Nicholas
Nickleby and as Mrs Erlynne in Lady Windermeres Fan, as well as across the UK
in plays such as Ghosts, She Stoops to Conquer and Whos Afraid of Virginia
Woolf? Her television appearances include The Chief, Ruth Rendell Mysteries,
Casualty and Chancer and she has been seen in the films The Secret Garden and
Forever Young.
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Overview
The nineteenth century, especially in Europe and North America, was an era of unprecedented
change, peppered, inevitably, with wars and revolutions of almost every kind and at every level
of society. The continuing advance of the Industrial Revolution, while far from abolishing
poverty, brought new wealth to an ever-expanding middle class; factories proliferated throughout
Europe, soon exceeding the supply of indigenous raw materials and thereby intensifying the
impulse towards colonisation. The British Empire increased its dominions dramatically, Africa
was carved up by Britain and other European colonists, and despite increasing unease, the slave
trade continued, though its days were numbered. It was outlawed throughout the British Empire
in 1807, but it was not until 1870 that the last slave was shipped to the Americas.
Alarmed by European expansionism, China and Japan attempted to shut out the West altogether.
But empire-building went on apace within Europe itself, never more dramatically than during the
Napoleonic Wars (17991815), which had the incidental effect of igniting in countries from Italy
to Russia a fervent nationalism which became a running feature of the century as a whole. In 1848
revolutions broke out all over Europe, and Marx and Engels published their epoch-making
Communist Manifesto. In 1837 Queen Victoria began her 63-year reign in Britain, presiding over
the most far-flung empire ever known (encompassing more than a quarter of the worlds lands and
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people) while seeing the monarchy itself steadily reduced to a merely symbolic significance as
increasing numbers became educated and acquired the right to vote.
Agriculture
Easily sidelined by the achievements of the Industrial Revolution, agriculture experienced
revolutions of its own, with breeding experiments leading to ever bigger crops and fatter animals.
Cyrus McCormick invented his reaping machine in America in 1831, heralding a new age of
mechanised harvesting. Justus von Liebigs Chemistry in its Application to Agriculture
inaugurated the age of scientific farming and the use of artificial fertilisers in 1855.
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Trade
In the 1840s, Britains adoption of a free trade policy (no customs duties) helped to establish
London as the centre of world trade, with the pound sterling as the dominant currency. Many other
countries later introduced import levies as a means of protecting their own industries from
economic imperialism.
Ideas
As might be expected in a time of such ferment, the century was rich in philosophers, though the
ideas which had, and continue to have, the most impact came from other quarters.
Philosophically, the high ground was held by the Germans, much as the French had held it in
the previous century. The great names are Hegel (17701831), Schopenhauer (17881860) and
Nietzsche (18441900), all of whom were much concerned with music in one way or another. Nor
should one forget the Danish Sren Kierkegaard (18131855). Hegel argued that consciousness
and the world of external objects were inseparable aspects of a single whole, and that truth is
discoverable only through a dialectic process of contradiction and resolution a thoroughly
rationalist idea with clear parallels in the concept of sonata form [see Glossary]. Schopenhauer
took a more pessimistic view (and one more in keeping with the preoccupations of the
Romantics), in which the irrational will is seen as the governing principle of our perception,
dominated by an endless cycle of desire and frustration from which the only escape is aesthetic
contemplation. His thinking had a powerful effect on both Wagner and Nietzsche, who rejected
established concepts of Christian morality, Nietzsche proclaiming that God is dead and
postulating the ideal of the bermensch, or Superman, who would impose his self-created will
on the weak and the worthless a view fully in keeping with the gargantuan nature of the
Romantic ego, with its roots in the controlling powers of the Industrial Revolution and the spate
of scientific discoveries which granted man an ever greater mastery of his environment.
Kierkegaard, the founder of existential philosophy, was fundamentally out of step with these
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ideas, taking what was in many ways a specifically Christian stance and arguing that no amount
of rational thought could explain the uniqueness of individual experience or account for the
existence of God, which could be understood only through a leap of faith. His suggestion that
not only God but exceptional individuals stood outside the laws of morality, however, did not
endear him to the established church.
The Arts
In the realm of literature it was the century of the novel, in which such writers as Dickens, Zola,
Hugo, Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky managed both to absorb and entertain and to lay bare the realities
of life for the mass of society, who suffered rather than benefited from the effects of the Industrial
Revolution. Others, like Thackeray, Austen, Stendahl, George Eliot and Flaubert, dealt in various
ways with the lives, fantasies and pretensions of the upwardly-mobile middle class.
Timeless issues of love, death, disappointment and adventure were memorably explored by Sir
Walter Scott, the fantastical E.T.A. Hoffmann and the three Bront sisters. It was also the century
of the great Romantic poets: Goethe, Wordsworth, Heine, Byron, Keats, Shelley, Coleridge and
Pushkin. Of these, Goethe, Byron, Heine and Pushkin had the greatest impact on composers,
prominent amongst them Schubert, Schumann, Liszt, Berlioz and Tchaikovsky.
In the world of painting and sculpture, the greatest figures in the earlier part of the century
included Goya, Constable (heralding a new wave of landscape painters), Ingres (as a natural
classicist born into a century of Romanticism, he had much in common with Chopin, though not
friendship), the arch-Romantics Gricault and Delacroix (whose obsession with the distant past
arose from a characteristically Romantic distaste for the present), and the staggeringly original
J.M.W. Turner, whose work foreshadowed the development of the French Impressionist school in
the latter half of the century.
In the realm of dance, ballet underwent some important transformations, including the
introduction of tights, calf-length white dresses and toe-shoes. The technique of female dancers
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was developed at the expense of the male, who was reduced to a largely supporting role. In the
modern repertoire, the most typical examples of Romantic ballet at its best are La Sylphide (1832)
and Giselle (1841).
Architecture
Nineteenth-century architecture in Europe and America reflected both the Romantic obsession
with the past and the industrialists concerns with practicality and economy.
Public buildings tended for most of the century toward an ever more massive grandiosity,
drawing on a wide variety of styles ranging from the distant to the recent past, often within a
single building. A famous example, from 1835, are the neo-Gothic Houses of Parliament in
London. Housing for the working class, however, bore many of the hallmarks of present-day
factory farming, consisting in the main of terraced brick houses small, crowded, lacking in
facilities which today we take for granted, and of a soul-numbing sameness.
Music
Never has an art known greater changes in so relatively short a time than music in the nineteenth
century. When the century began, Beethoven was only 30, Schubert only three. Haydn (68) was
still at the height of his powers. When it ended, Debussys revolutionary Prlude laprs-midi
dun faune, often cited, even today, as the beginning of modern music, was already seven years
old, and Schnberg (26), Ives (also 26), Bartok (19) and Stravinsky (18) were all fully active. In
between, the end of the Classical era and the dawning of Romanticism could be seen in the
maturest works of Beethoven and Schubert (whose symphonies, sonatas and chamber music
reached previously undreamt-of proportions and expanded classical forms to their outermost
limits). Harmony underwent unprecedented transformations, including the progressive
dissolution of traditional tonality by Liszt, Wagner, Debussy, Mahler and Ives [for more on
tonality, see Glossary]; the piano attained its full maturity and became the worlds most popular
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and commercially successful instrument; the art of orchestration became a front-line issue, thanks
to the pioneering work of Berlioz, Liszt and Wagner; and nationalism became a driving force,
especially in Russia, Bohemia, Spain, Scandinavia, Poland, Hungary, Italy and America. There
was a major shift from the relative objectivity of the Classical era to the intensely emotional and
formally self-generating outpourings of the Romantics. Illustrative programme music achieved
a popularity never approached before or since, and the cult of virtuosity became a dominant
feature, thanks largely to Paganini and Liszt. The specialist (i.e. non-composing) performer
became the rule rather than the exception (such figures were scarcely to be found in the previous
century), and musical schools and conservatories became commonplace. Despite this, the
discipline of counterpoint, once amongst the most highly prized of musical attributes, fell into
widespread disuse. In the works of Schubert, Lanner, Weber and the Strauss family, the waltz
became the most popular form of the century. Forms in general polarised, from the millions of
piano miniatures and character pieces to the most lavish theatrical extravaganzas. It was the
century of Grand Opera, whose most prominent exponents included Meyerbeer, Auber, Halvy
and Massenet. Their works were long (five acts), spectacularly staged, complete with ballet and
special effects.
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It is strange but true that Chopin, while writing some of the most romantic music ever composed,
felt himself out of sympathy with almost every aspect of the Romantic movement (the only two
composers he loved unreservedly were Mozart and Bach). His most notable musical
contemporaries, on the other hand Liszt, Schumann, Berlioz, Bellini, Meyerbeer and, to a lesser
extent, Mendelssohn not only subscribed to Romanticism, they virtually invented it (though that
honour, if were to be properly inclusive, would probably have to be shared by Beethoven, Weber
and Schubert). They all had in common the time in which they lived (though only Chopin grew
up on the periphery of the European heartland) but their responses to it could hardly have been
more various.
Chopin, Liszt, Schumann and Mendelssohn were all born at around the same time
Mendelssohn in 1809, Chopin and Schumann in 1810, Liszt in 1811 and they were all pianists.
The piano stood at the heart of the Romantic movement. Its popularity was unparalleled. It came
in all shapes and sizes and it was cheap enough, at the lower end of the financial spectrum, for
almost every middle-class home to have one. And the Romantic movement was emphatically a
middle-class phenomenon. Where classical music, so-called, had once been an adornment of the
ruling classes, and a well-manipulated agent of political distraction, it was now taken up by the
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an idealisation of universal experience. In the Romantic Age, which lasted roughly from the death
of Beethoven to the outbreak of the First World War, this was largely replaced by a cult of
individual expression, the crystallisation of the experience of the moment, the unfettered
confession of powerful emotions and primal urges, the glorification of sensuality, a flirtation with
the supernatural, an emphasis on spontaneity and improvisation and the cultivation of extremes
emotional, sensual, spiritual, and structural. Where a near-reverence for symmetry had
characterised the Classical era, Romanticism delighted in asymmetry. And if there was a rebellion
against the recent past, there was an almost ritualised nostalgia for the distant past, and in many
cases an obsession with literature and descriptive imagery. Form was no longer seen as a receptacle
but as a by-product of emotion, to be generated from within. While the great Romantic painters
covered their canvases with grandiose landscapes, lavish depictions of atmospheric ruins, historical
scenes, portraits of legendary heroes and so on, the great Romantic composers, Liszt, Berlioz and
Wagner most of all, attempted similar representations in sound but not by sound alone. Notes,
rhythms, tone colours, melodic fragments were consciously related to specific ideas, to characters
and their development. Music took on an illustrative function to a degree never previously
attempted. In its cultivation and transformations of folk music (or that which was mistakenly
perceived as folk music) it became an agent of rampant nationalism.
A further feature of the Romantic imagination was a taste for extravagance. Grand Opera,
particularly in Paris, anticipated the biblical spectaculars of Hollywood in its heyday. In the
symphonic works of Berlioz and Liszt, as, later, in the works of Wagner, Strauss, Mahler,
Bruckner and the pre-revolutionary Schnberg, orchestras frequently assumed gargantuan
proportions.
To all or most of this, Chopin felt implacably opposed. Yet his music, in its overall tone, in its
ravishing sonorities and its highly emotional expression, is as romantic as music gets. Chopin has
won his continuous and undiminishing popularity through his crystallisation of emotions and
states of mind which can be recognised and felt by everyone, from whatever background,
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throughout the westernised, indeed throughout the so-called developed world, whatever its
geographical placement. It was a part of his genius to do this, in most cases, without any recourse
to exaggeration. In his music, emotions are never caricatured or overblown; the nationalism of his
mazurkas, even of the most military of his polonaises, is never jingoistic. Theres nothing
synthetic about his music. While never without feeling, it is never sentimental. Its sincerity is
beyond doubt. His gift for melody was unsurpassed, his gift for harmonic colouration hardly less
so. While he was a revolutionary, he never regarded himself as a futurist. He did not strive for
originality as such; it was a by-product of his questing, experimental cast of mind. While the work
of a man with an altogether exceptional intellect, his music is never self-consciously intellectual,
still less academic. Unlike Liszt, he wrote a great deal of very fine music indeed which could be
played by ordinary people. But he never condescended. That he also wrote some of the most
difficult and virtuosic music ever written is another matter, one closely related to the time in
which he lived a time of expansion, of aspirations to the superhuman and a stretching of
boundaries. Again unlike Liszt indeed unlike most of the reigning virtuosos of the day he
disliked competition. He shrank from the kind of pianistic duels indulged in by Liszt and even
Beethoven. Nor was his response to Paganinis achievements competitive. He was not out to excel
Paganini. He was seized by the dream of infinite discovery, of expanding the limits of the known
and first, last and always, of expanding the expressive possibilities of the piano.
Chopin was the only piano composer who unwaveringly derived his aural inspiration from the
intrinsic character of the instrument itself. All other important piano composers, especially after
the example of Beethoven, had envisaged the instrument as a kind of surrogate for other media:
orchestral, vocal, or specifically instrumental (Brahmss piano music is full of horns, Debussys
full of flutes, Liszts of shimmering string effects). Again and again they treated the piano as
a kind of celestial chameleon, forever turning into something else. Beethoven and Liszt
repeatedly and deliberately wrote beyond the instruments capabilities, thus forcing the course of
pianistic evolution. Chopin never did this. He is the only great composer who wrote exclusively
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for the piano. His music is so perfectly conceived for the instrument that theres never the faintest
hint of frustration. In a century hooked on transcriptions, arrangements and orchestrations, only
Chopins music resists. All attempts to orchestrate it have succeeded in lessening rather than
enhancing its quality.
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The Ballades
Chopins four Ballades are among his most substantial and dramatic works, and though they
werent designed as a set, they are frequently performed as such, with great success. No two of
them conform to a single, basic structure but they all have strong elements of so-called sonata
form, though none of them actually adheres to it in any conventional sense. This is combined,
particularly in the Fourth Ballade, with a sometimes highly polyphonic variation technique of
extraordinary resourcefulness and skill. In the depth of their emotion, their range of feeling and
their dramatic character, the Ballades particularly the first and the last give us Chopin at his
greatest, and make nonsense of the knee-jerk claim that he was essentially a miniaturist who was
at sea in larger forms.
Despite their generic title, the Ballades are not programmatic in the sense that so many of Liszts
pieces are, but the nationalist poetry of Adam Mickiewicz is said to have inspired at least the first
of them. The principal source of drama in the Second is the completely unexpected juxtaposition of
the serenely lilting, folk-like opening section and the violent explosion of passion which then
crashes in on it, strikingly contrasted with the first section in almost every aspect: rhythm, texture,
register and especially key. In fact, the piece is really in two keys (a still greater source of tension),
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beginning in one and ending in the other, with various intensifying diversions along the way.
If the first two Ballades are essentially tragic in their power, the Third is more lyrical in its
general character. Like the Second, it concerns the changing relationships between two main
themes, but in this case, the second is more like a complement to the first than a rival. The Fourth
Ballade (complete on CD 4) is generally felt to be the greatest, and demonstrates Chopins
mastery of developing variation. And characteristically, its form is true unto itself alone.
Appearing at first to be a series of variations on the inward-looking, almost circular theme heard
at the outset, it builds to a climax through the pursuit of material which seems on the surface to
be completely different. Few works in any medium manage to combine a sense of inevitability
with such apparent freshness and unpredictability. And this brings us to a typically Chopinesque
paradox. As in the First Ballade, he unfurls some of his most profoundly felt and meticulously
thought-out music in the trappings of a style generally identified with sensual frivolity the waltz,
whose stereotyped, oom-pah-pah accompaniment actually plays an important role in his music as
a whole. But this was an important part of his secret. The near-universal appeal of his music
derives partly from his unique combination of sophistication and a deep-rooted, wholly
uncondescending sense of the popular, from peasant to Parisian. Within the framework of the
waltz, the polonaise and the mazurka, he used extraordinary craftsmanship to express emotions
seldom even hinted at in any of these forms before.
Broadly speaking, the Ballades are more notable for their differences than for their similarities,
but in the nature of those similarities lies a clue to their enigmatic title: an almost ritualistic
rhythmic scheme which is one of the hallmarks of the folk ballad, where it serves as an aid to the
memory. Each of the four Ballades is characterised by a near-hypnotic grouping of beats in units
of six. This is particularly clear in the openings of the Second and Fourth.
The Scherzos
Chopins four Scherzos are among the most strangely named pieces in the repertoire. Only in the
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last of them could one conceivably guess that scherzo is the Italian word for joke. It wasnt
Chopin, though, who first appropriated the term for musical purposes. In the second half of the
eighteenth century, Haydn had used it for a speeded up version of the courtly minuet, but it was
Beethoven who really transformed it into a new form in its own right. His symphonic scherzos
leave hardly any trace of the minuet, or of the ballroom. In his hands, the tempo was accelerated
to the point where the chief unit of measurement was no longer the triple-metre grouping of single
beats within a bar, but the bars-of-three themselves. But and heres the catch these bar-long
units were grouped in twos. In a sense, that in itself could be seen as a joke: a piece which is in
triple and duple metre at the same time the aural equivalent of an optical illusion.
Chopins scherzos, unlike Beethovens and Haydns, were not conceived as parts of a larger
design, such as the symphony, but as self-contained works. They are more notable, on the whole,
for their alternating intensity and lyricism than for any sense of fun, and the dance element is
almost completely submerged in favour of an epic narrative style, drawing loosely and
idiosyncratically, as in the Ballades, on the principles of so-called sonata form.
Far from being in any sense joke-like, the First (as can be heard on CD 2) is one of the most
anguished, even tragic things Chopin ever wrote one of the very few of his works which can
justifiably be described as violent.
The Second, in B flat minor, was written six years after the First. Here, the general feeling is
altogether more buoyant and positive, and the sense of spontaneity is sustained right to the end of
the brilliantly integrated coda, which serves as a kind of dramatised curtain-call for the works
main thematic characters.
The Third Scherzo followed in 1839. Its form is about as near as Chopin ever got to the straight
ABABA pattern of Beethovens scherzos, and its harmonies are both daring and prophetic. In the
effectively keyless introduction, all twelve notes of the chromatic scale appear, thus anticipating
the revolutionary procedures of Arnold Schnberg by about three-quarters of a century. The
opening rhythm is a perfect example of Chopins love of ambiguity: two bars of four beats each,
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at the outset of a work whose triple metre is proclaimed by its very title.
If the first three Scherzos give us Chopin at his most serious, the Fourth, in
E major, finds him at his most carefree and capricious. In keeping with its serene good humour, it
lacks the extreme contrasts of the others. In fact there are very few works of this length which have
such a restricted dynamic range. Only rarely does Chopin suggest anything stronger than piano.
And again unlike its companions, most of the works main themes are quite audibly related.
The Prludes
The 24 Prludes, Op. 28, one in each key, were loosely based on the model of Bachs Welltempered Clavier a monumental work which Chopin carried in his head and played, generally
to himself, throughout his life. As usual with Chopin, the title is more confusing than helpful. A
prlude isnt a form, as such, and the range of styles, forms and durations here is enormous. In
several cases, the Prludes are generically indistinguishable from the Etudes, many of them
clearly dealing with a single musical-cum-technical idea. Examples of this type are No. 3 with its
rapid left-hand figuration a kind of lightweight counterpart of the famous Revolutionary Etude
(complete on CD 2), No. 6 in B minor (a study in left-hand cantabile [singingness] and a
miniature cousin of the so-called Cello Etude from Op. 25), the extraordinary F sharp minor
which anticipates Wagner (No. 8), No. 12 in G sharp minor, similar in the nature of its difficulties
(though not in its mood) to the Second Etude from Op. 10, the dazzling, demoniacally exuberant
B flat minor (No. 16, one of the most sheerly exciting exercises in bravura ever penned) and the
very taxing and rhapsodic E flat (No. 19).
Ironically, this most neutrally entitled opus by the nineteenth-centurys most reluctant
Romantic is among the most definitively romantic things he ever wrote. It lacks the sprawling
grandiosity and the allusiveness of the operatic and symphonic Romantics still to come, it hasnt
anything like the sensation-drenched egotism of a Berlioz, Liszt or Richard Strauss (however
magnificent), nor does it descend, as Chopin would have viewed it, to the merely pictorial, but in
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its startling brevity of utterance (almost half of the Prludes last less than a minute), its subversion
of traditional notions of key, its myriad colours and its spell-binding virtuosity, Chopins Op. 28
could well be enshrined as a keyboard Romantics manifesto. Those preludes which are not
undercover studies in pianism are equally striking studies in emotion: Dream Visions,
Schumann might have called them (some of them nightmarish). The starkly prophetic A minor
(No. 2) is one of the bleakest meditations ever entrusted to the piano; hardly less disturbing is the
E flat minor (No. 14). The nocturne-like D flat (No. 15, the so-called Raindrop) is one of the
most powerfully involving and sensuously beautiful of all Chopins works, fully justifying its
popularity. The unbuttoned E flat Prlude (No. 19, complete on CD 3) gives us Chopin at his most
pianistically enchanting and exultant. No. 22 (also on CD 3) is brief, turbulent and terrifying. The
penultimate Prlude, in F major, is perhaps the one that most justifies George Sands reference to
the scent of Heaven, and the last one (concluding the group on CD 3) plunges straight into one
of the most dramatic and doom-laden finales ever penned.
Envisaged as a single, continuous cycle, the Prludes amount to a tragic drama of
extraordinary power and conviction, in which Chopin gives of himself with an almost frightening
candour and intensity. Equally remarkable is the revolutionary originality of his imagination.
Even today, things like the A minor Prlude (No. 2) have an almost disturbing sense of modernity.
The importance of these pieces lies both in their intrinsic and unparalleled range and in the
consistently soaring quality of the mind behind them. In the Prludes he turns a pitiless and
unflinching eye on the human condition and creates a drama whose tragic stature is fully revealed
in Idil Birets uncompromising playing of them. Sceptics need only listen to her sovereign timing
of the last three notes.
The Nocturnes
The Nocturne was invented by the Irish composer-pianist John Field, from whom Chopin took
the name and the general concept of a dreamy melody over a broad-spanned, lilting harmonic
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accompaniment, offset by a contrasting middle section before a reprise of the opening section.
Like Fields, Chopins Nocturnes cultivate a lyrical, non-virtuosic style and conform to a taste for
moodscapes which we now take for granted but which then enjoyed a fashionable novelty.
Comparisons of Chopins earlier Nocturnes with some of Fields leave no doubt that the influence
was both real and conscious, but the difference in quality is enormous. In the subtlety and power
of their harmonies, the flexibility of their rhythm and the unprecedented suppleness and
significance of their often highly ornamented melody, Chopins Nocturnes are in a class of their
own. That identity of style and substance which blossomed so luxuriantly in his youthful
Concertos reaches its peak in the Nocturnes, and their far-reaching effects on composers as
diverse as Scriabin, Debussy, Rachmaninov and Ravel are generally acknowledged.
The Nocturnes may not generally give us Chopin at his most adventurous, but they contain
some of the most beautiful and resourceful music he ever wrote and one amazing stroke of
originality which places him in the avant-garde of his day. In its original version, the hauntingly
beautiful C sharp minor Nocturne of 1830 contains a passage in which the tune is written out in
3/4 time against an accompaniment in 4/4. That Chopin should even have thought of such a
notation in 1830 is remarkable in itself. The combining of two or more incompatible metres is
normally regarded as a twentieth-century development.
The Nocturnes are as much studies in feeling as they are works of art, and more than any other
of his works they helped to establish Chopins often misguided reputation for soulfulness and
manipulative sentimentality. The summit of this particular strain is the D flat of Op. 27 (complete
on CD 3), which happens also to be an unsurpassed jewel of craftsmanship in every way.
The Sonatas
Chopin wrote only four sonatas: three for solo piano and one for cello and piano (plus a fifth if
we include the Piano Trio in G minor of 1829). Of these, only two hold a secure place in the
repertoire today. The C minor Sonata, Op. 4 (composed in 182728, and discussed in CD 1)
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was clearly a student work, and in later life he effectively disowned it. His next sonata was
begun in 1837, though Chopin was not aware of this at the time. It was only later that he
decided to embed a previously self-contained Funeral March of that year in the midst of a major
four-movement work. Conceived and composed two years before the sonata in question, it has
an almost hypnotic power which has made it the most famous funeral march in history. Its
place, and indeed its placement, at the heart of Chopins most celebrated Sonata is one of the
relatively few instances where his music reveals the direct and openly acknowledged influence
of Beethoven. Beethovens own so-called Funeral March Sonata, the A flat, Op. 26, was
Chopins favourite. He studied, taught and played it many times. Like Beethoven, Chopin puts
his scherzo second and the Funeral March third, but the finale which follows is the weirdest
and most original movement he ever wrote. The whole thing is over and done with in a mere
90 seconds, and it still retains its power to amaze, to disturb and shock and to baffle. Theres
nothing else like it in history.
The second of his two great Sonatas, No. 3 in B minor (written five years later, in 1844), was
composed when Chopins reverence for Bach was at its height. This didnt lead him, as it
sometimes led Mendelssohn, to write in a vaguely Bachian idiom (no work is more purely
Chopin) but it bore rich fruit in the lavishly polyphonic fabric of the first movement, in particular.
The weave of intertwining melodic strands is among its most striking characteristics. Structurally,
the work follows the same basic layout as its predecessor. Again the scherzo comes second, and
here, as in the first movement, the prevailing texture is polyphonic. The slow movement, which
contains some of the most ravishing music ever written, isnt so remarkable for its form as for its
relative proportions. It follows a straightforward A-B-A pattern, but the middle section is so
expansive that it fairly dwarfs its neighbours by comparison. The finale is about as different from
that of the previous sonata as it would be possible to get. Its one of the biggest, boldest and most
stirring things he ever wrote. Its hard to believe that anyone could retain an image of Chopin as
a miniaturist after hearing this.
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Chopins final sonata gave him endless trouble. Written for his cellist friend Auguste
Franchomme, whose musicianship he admired enormously, the Sonata in G minor for Cello and
Piano, completed in 1846, has a studious kind of objectivity which has prevented it from ever
becoming popular, even amongst cellists. Its the most deliberately un-Romantic, even antiRomantic work he ever wrote and the last of any great substance. Its dramatic change of course
has fuelled endless speculation as to how his music might have changed if death hadnt claimed
him at the age of 39.
The Polonaises
Like the mazurka, the polonaise comes originally from the Polish folk tradition. Like the
mazurka, too, it was originally a sung dance. In the seventeenth century it began to be cultivated
by the landed gentry, but it was only when it moved into the palaces of the Polish nobility that it
became a purely instrumental form. There it lost most of its folk-like character and was eventually
transformed into a dance of such splendour that it was taken up throughout Europe, where it also
lost much of its Polishness. Its most outstanding feature was its insistent, rather martial rhythmic
motto. Many composers took it up, among them Bach, Mozart and Beethoven, none of whom,
of course, had the slightest interest in its nationality. It was Chopin who almost single-handedly
won it back for Poland and further transformed it into a blazing nationalist tone poem. For that
we have the Russian Tsar to thank. Prior to the Russian crushing of Warsaw, Chopin too had taken
a fairly light view of the form, and of his seventeen Polonaises, the first eleven cant be regarded
in any way as major works.
Only with the two Polonaises of 1835 (Op. 26) did he take hold of the form and lift the whole
conception of it onto a higher plane than ever before. From Op. 26 onwards, the Polonaise became
for Chopin a fervent patriotic hymn in which the fearsome, the tender and the grandiose combined
to reflect the glory of Polands past, the tragedy of her present and his hopes for her future. For
further comment on these, see the Listening Plan (p. 29).
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The Waltzes
After the mazurka and the polonaise, the waltz was Chopins favourite dance, or at least it came
to be. When he first visited Vienna, he wrote home scornfully reporting, Here they actually call
waltzes works. But it wasnt long before he did the same. Not that he hadnt already written
quite a few waltzes of his own, but they were definitely at the lightest end of his stylistic
spectrum. The waltzes of his Polish years are attractive and some are distinctly more than that (the
E minor of 1830 being a good example), but it was in Paris that he really elevated the concert
waltz (or more often, in his case, the salon waltz) to the realms of highest art.
Taken as a whole, Chopins mature waltzes are sparkling, often virtuosic pieces, clearly
written to please and none the worse for that. Chopin was never more effortlessly elegant than in
his Parisian waltzes and his refined charm seldom paid more wide-ranging dividends. The waltzes
did more, perhaps, than any of his other works to assure both his social and commercial success,
and they remain the most popular branch of his output. What separates his Parisian from his
Polish waltzes isnt just their elegance and impeccable craftsmanship, its their frequent and rather
Mozartian suggestion of hidden depths beneath the glistening surface. The ever-popular C sharp
minor, for instance, is both fashionably wistful and genuinely profound. In the haunting A minor
waltz (his favourite) there is no surface, glistening or otherwise. It confronts us head-on with the
first waltz in history which can rightly be described as tragic.
Chopin took unusual trouble over the structure and, in particular, the continuity of his waltzes.
Behind almost all of the later ones lies the organic principle of developing variation, one of his
subtlest techniques. Unlike many lesser composers he was never content to assemble a sequence
of waltz tunes like so many beads on a string: they had to have an inner coherence. One of the
truly extraordinary features of Chopins waltzes is the sheer variety of moods and styles which he
discovers within an outwardly rigid framework, dominated by the square, relentless four-bar
phrase and its equally relentless oom-pah-pah accompaniment. His waltzes emphatically were
works. But it was a part of his genius to conceal the fact.
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The Etudes
Most of Chopins 27 Etudes rank with the most difficult piano pieces ever written. But many of
their difficulties are often hidden from the non-pianist. Some many are clearly virtuoso pieces,
which are hard even to play badly. In others, the difficulties may be more subtle. These arent just
studies in speed, endurance, leaps, trills, octaves and so on. Several are studies in rhythm, others
in articulation, but the great majority are also studies in sound, in the control, variation and uses
of tone colour. Chopin was the first great composer to mix sounds as a painter mixes colours on
a palette, revealing in the process a kaleidoscope of aural possibilities. In the realm of technique,
his Etudes were the first works since Bach to demonstrate that the technical requirements of a
study could be combined with artistic perfection, though the variety of emotions, musical textures
and technical challenges which they embrace dwarfs even Bachs achievements in that line.
Following Bachs example, each study is predominantly focused on a single technical problem
the rapid expansion and contraction of the hand, quicksilver scales and trills in double thirds, the
combination of two or more outwardly conflicting rhythms and on a single musical idea.
Chopins Etudes are predominantly studies in various forms of legato, the smooth, seamless
succession of consecutive notes on the model of the human voice. Where Liszt exploited the
essentially percussive nature of the piano (it is, after all, an instrument in which strings are struck,
and in which every note begins at its loudest and then rapidly diminishes in strength), Chopin
does everything in his power to transcend it. In many ways he seems to anticipate Debussys ideal
of the piano as an instrument without hammers. To this end, he requires the almost continuous
use of the sustaining pedal as a primary source of colour, though his legato is to be achieved by
the fingers alone, the pedal being more a source of ever shifting-light sometimes helping to
emphasise the harmonic rhythm, sometimes deliberately blurring it. At the time of their
composition, the Etudes constituted the most idiomatic music ever conceived for the piano. A
century and a half later, they still do.
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The One-offs
There are a number of Chopins works which dont fit into any of the usual categories. Many
of these are justifiably neglected, but some are among his greatest works. The Barcarolle
(CD 4), the Fantasy in F minor and the bewitching Berceuse are such jewels which will never
tarnish.
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Like Liszts music, but in very different ways, Chopins music ranges from the instantly seductive
to the weird, enigmatic and intellectually demanding (though there are very few works which fall
into the latter category). Unlike Liszts, most of it has remained uninterruptedly in the mainstream
repertoire from his time to our own. The following itinerary progresses from the most accessible
to the most challenging and is thus neither chronological nor strictly generic (Prludes,
Nocturnes, Ballades etc.). The 24 Prludes, Op. 28 contain both extremes, so do the Mazurkas
and the B flat minor Sonata, while the Waltzes belong entirely to the first category and the Cello
Sonata mostly to the latter.
One-offs
Chopin wrote nothing more innocently ravishing than the D flat Berceuse, which can be heard, in
part, near the beginning of CD 1 (and complete on Naxos 8.550508, which also includes the
beautiful Trois Nouvelles Etudes and the four Ballades). His raw material is a simple, five-note
figure (too short even to be called a tune), heard unadorned at the very opening and then repeated
again and again throughout the piece while Chopin spins a succession of ever more elaborate
variations above it. Pure magic and the work of a superior craftsman.
As an example of Chopins sheer songfulness it would be hard to beat the beautiful Andante
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woven, while No.4, with the simplicity of its floating opening melody is one of the most
seductive pieces Chopin ever wrote. The unprepared storm that erupts in the middle is a masterstroke of dramatic psychology, almost terrifying at a first hearing.
Barcarolle
The Barcarolle (complete on CD 4) is a one-off in name but not in nature. Essentially it belongs
to the family of Nocturnes, and is the greatest of them all.
Ballades [8.550508]
The most popular by a long chalk, if the record catalogues are anything to go by, is the near-tragic
but seductive and often exciting No. 1 in G minor. Next comes No. 3 in A flat, altogether gentler
and more lilting, closely followed by No. 2, which is actually in two keys (F major and A minor).
In its stark opposition of the serene and the turbulently virtuosic, it is a kind of large-scale
counterpart to the F major Nocturne described above. No. 4 in F minor is regarded by most
musicians as the greatest, but ironically it has always earned less popular favour than the others.
Middle Nocturnes [8.550357]
The greatest of these are the two of Op. 27, the second of which, in D flat (complete on CD 3),
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is quite simply one of the most beautiful piano pieces ever written. Its sibling, in C sharp minor,
is no less remarkable but entirely different in mood dark, mysterious, impassioned and utterly
compelling.
Early Mazurkas
These are less winning than the waltzes, but make for very agreeable listening nevertheless, and
its fascinating to hear how Chopin differentiates the rhythm from that of the waltzes, which share
the same triple metre. Clearly reflective of their rustic roots, the early mazurkas, while full of
catchy rhythms and intriguing harmonies, give little hint of the complexity and dimensions of
some of the later symphonic mazurkas (for instance, that played on CD 3).
Polonaises
No problem of accessibility here. The earlier ones [8.550361] are relatively lightweight, the later
ones [8.550360] progressively less so, but there is nothing notably demanding in any of them
(except for the player). The most famous is the last, the great A flat Polonaise (often aptly
subtitled the Heroic) which closes CD 4. Running a close second in popularity is the so-called
Military Polonaise in A major, Op. 40 No. 1. Its sibling in C minor, Op. 40 No. 2, is the only
downright sombre one, bordering at times on the funereal. The great F sharp minor Polonaise
which follows it (Op. 44) is fiercely defiant, almost grim, and not the easiest of access.
Scherzos [8.550362]
Like the Ballades and the Nocturnes, these were never intended to be played as a set. The dashing,
soaring No. 2 has always been the most popular, with the other three level-pegging not far below it.
No. 4 gives us Chopin at his sunniest and most confidently capricious, No. 1 (part of which can be
heard on CD 2) is the most dramatic, even tragic, in its turbulent writhings, and No. 3 is the most
darkly heroic. Like No. 1, it gives little hint that the literal meaning of the word scherzo is joke.
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Etudes [8.550364]
Far from being academic or evidently tutorial in any way, both books of twelve,
Op. 10 and Op. 25 find Chopin at the top of his form. The fact that most of the first set was
completed by the time he was twenty-one is astounding. The most famous of all is the so-called
Revolutionary (complete on CD 2), but this is probably due as much to its title (not Chopins)
as to the music itself. No. 3, in E major, perhaps the next most popular, is a study disguised as a
deeply lyrical Nocturne, and No. 5 (complete on CD 2) is irresistibly virtuosic and powerfully
heroic. No. 1 of the Op. 25 set also has a nickname, the Aeolian Harp, and gives us Chopin at
his most poetically soaring. But every one of these ground-breaking pieces is a jewel.
Later Nocturnes [8.550357]
These include some of Chopins greatest music. The best of them leave the seductive dreaminess
of the early ones way behind, and have a complexity that renders them less instantly attractive to
the musical novice. The C minor, Op. 48, No. 1, is a sombre, dramatic, large-scale canvas of
extraordinary intensity and drama. In tone and pianistic technique it brought Chopin as close as
he ever got to writing like Liszt. Its sibling, Op. 48, No. 2 in F sharp minor, is predominantly
agitated and restless. In the great E flat Nocturne, Op. 55, No. 2, Chopin demonstrates that
contrapuntal complexity and broad, sweeping, eloquent melody are in no way incompatible. The
B major, Op. 62, No. 1 is one of those works whose harmonic daring and outwardly fragmentary
and complicated structure make it less immediately appealing, but it repays repeated hearings
with further riches every time.
24 Prludes, Op. 28 [8.550366]
Written at around the same time as Chopins ill-fated stay with George Sand in Majorca in
183839, these astonishing pieces give us the whole Chopin at his greatest and most original.
There is scarcely a shade of human emotion that isnt captured here. The longest and most famous
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is the so-called Raindrop Prelude in D flat. The weirdest, most enigmatic and modern is the
second, in A minor (but which in reality is almost without key), closely followed by the grim
wrestling of No. 14 in E flat minor.
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Recommended Reading
Chopin, as befits his unwavering popularity, has had many books written about him, but
surprisingly few of these remain in print. Of those current at the time of writing, most are studies
of the music which can be recommended only to readers who are either sophisticated musicians
or exceptionally well-informed amateurs.
As straight biography, bypassing any but the most cursory comment on the music, Adam
Zamoyskis Chopin (Granada, 1981) is absorbing and highly informative. Painstakingly researched
and with a sympathetic feeling for its subject, it tells the story well and is written in good, highly
readable prose. Illustrations are confined to a mid-volume ghetto and are indifferently reproduced.
A very much more concise but equally readable biography, this one well and profusely
illustrated throughout, is that by Ates Orga in the Illustrated Lives of the Great Composers series
from the Omnibus Press. Written in 1976, and not updated for its paperback reprint (1981), it
packs a lot of material, including copious quotations from contemporary correspondence, into its
relatively brief span and makes an excellent introduction. As Naxos collectors may know from
his excellent programme notes, Orga, unlike Zamoyzki, is a trained and authoritative musician
and musicologist. A pity, then, that the requirements of this series dont allow for more musical
commentary.
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The most recent substantial biography written primarily for the general rather than the
musically sophisticated reader is my own Chopin: The Reluctant Romantic
(Gollancz/Northeastern University Press, 1995), though it does include serious discussion of the
music in a series of Interludes, each arising from the material of the preceding biographical
chapter. Thus Chopin and the Waltz follows the chapter on Chopins early life in Paris, Chopin
and the Etude follows the chapter on Chopin as a teacher, and so on. The idea is to give the reader
the chance to read the book as a straight biography, either skipping altogether or later going back
to read the musical Interludes. These discuss the music without recourse to jargon and are aimed
both at the interested layman and the professional musician. Among the books Appendices is a
symposium on Chopin in performance, featuring contributions from such notable interpreters as
Vladimir Ashkenazy, Emanuel Ax, Alfred Brendel, Mitsuko Uchida and Tams Vsry. The
Second Edition will include further contributions from (among others) Idil Biret, whose recording
for Naxos of the complete works remains unique.
Jim Samsons Chopin volume in the long-running Master Musicians series (Oxford University
Press, 1996) is informed by enormous scholarship and much musical insight, although the prose
is sometimes a little academic and the musical commentary requires considerable sophistication
and musical knowledge if one is to derive lasting sustenance from Samsons thoroughgoing
analytical approach.
Samsons predecessor in the Master Musicians series was Chopin by the late Arthur Hedley.
While obviously not so up-to-date, it still has very much to recommend it and for the relative
newcomer to Chopin biography it remains an excellent, concise and authoritative introduction.
There are two major collections in English of Chopins correspondence, one being Chopins
Letters (Dover reprint, 1988) in now elderly and dated translations by Ethel Voynich (some
readers may know her best-selling novel The Gadfly), the other and far superior being The
Selected Correspondence of Fryderyk Chopin, collected, edited and translated by Arthur Hedley
(Heinemann, 1962).
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Personalities
Alkan, Charles Henri Valentin (181388), reclusive French composer and virtuoso pianist who
wrote many tudes and other works rivalling Liszts and Chopins in both originality and
difficulty. An astounding prodigy, he was admitted to the Paris Conservatoire when he was only
six. In adulthood, his temperament proved unsuitable for the life of a performer, and he spent the
last 40 years of his life as a virtual hermit. He was among the relatively few contemporary
composers whom Chopin genuinely admired.
Baillot, Pierre (17711842), distinguished French violinist, much admired by Chopin, and a onetime member of Napoleons private orchestra. He studied composition with Cherubini and
Reicha, and wrote many violin and chamber works, most of them now long-forgotten.
Berlioz, Hector (180369), flamboyant French composer. He was an arch-Romantic and the
opposite of Chopin in almost every way. Not proficient on any instrument, he became the first of
the true orchestral virtuosos, as both composer and conductor. His mastery of instrumental tonecolour was unique in his time and almost all his works were programmatic or tied in some way
to literary or historical models. His most famous work, the Symphonie fantastique, is flagrantly
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Catalani, Angela (17801849), famous Italian soprano. Her singing and personality made a great
impression on Chopin when she visited Warsaw in 1820 and presented the 10-year-old composer
with a gold watch as a token of her artistic esteem.
Cherubini, Maria Luigi (17601842), Italian composer, resident in Paris from 1778, and
admired by Beethoven. In 1822 he was appointed director of the Paris Conservatoire. His famous
Treatise on Counterpoint and Fugue was avidly studied by Chopin. Renowned for his gruff
conservatism, he was amusingly (and unfairly) pilloried by Berlioz in his highly readable and
equally suspect Memoirs.
Clementi, Muzio (17521832), Italian composer and virtuoso pianist. He pioneered a truly
idiomatic piano style when the instrument was only just beginning to oust the harpsichord in
public favour. A teacher of both Cramer and Field, he composed a celebrated book of pianistic
studies, Gradus ad Parnassum, still widely used today. Chopin made extensive use of this and
Clementis Prludes et exercices in his own teaching.
Cramer, Johann Baptist (17711858), German pianist and composer. A pupil of Clementi, he
too produced many studies for the piano, a number of which are still in use today and have
considerable artistic merit. These too were used by Chopin in his teaching.
Czerny, Karl (17911857), Austrian pianist and composer, a pupil of Hummel, Clementi and
Beethoven and the teacher of Liszt. Astoundingly prolific, he had several writing desks in his
study, each supporting a different work in progress. While the ink dried on one, he moved on to
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the next, thus becoming musics first one-man assembly line. His many studies have driven
countless piano students to distraction. While declaring Czerny to be his close friend, Chopin
nevertheless lamented that there was more warmth in the man than in his music.
Delacroix, Eugne (17981863), French Romantic painter and perhaps the greatest figure in
nineteenth-century French art, whose loose style of drawing and brilliant use of colour shocked
the classically-minded establishment of the day even more than the prominence of violence and
the macabre among his chosen subjects. Despite this, he and the outwardly conservative Chopin
had a very high regard for one another and enjoyed many rich and stimulating conversations.
Elsner, Joseph (17691854), noted composer and educator (and Chopins principal teacher). He
was born in Germany and educated there before settling in Warsaw, where he founded the Warsaw
Conservatory and became more Polish than the Poles. Of his 32 operas, 30 are in Polish, as are all
of his 25 songbooks, and only one of his several published treatises is concerned with a non-Polish
subject. As a teacher he was quick to recognise Chopins individuality and drive, and wisely made
no attempt to force his education into a rigid, traditional framework.
Ftis, Franois Joseph (17841871), French composer, musicologist and critic. A professor at
the Paris Conservatoire from 1821, he became its librarian in 1827. His Biographie universelle
des musiciens was an important forerunner of Groves Dictionary of Music and Musicians, and
his Histoire gnrale de la musique is still a valuable reference book for scholars.
Field, John (17821837), Irish-born pianist and composer. A pupil of Clementi, his music and
playing were admired by Schumann and Liszt. It was he who first devised the form and name of
the Nocturne, which Chopin was to transform, leaving Field at the starting gate. His most
notorious pronouncement was his description of Chopin as a sickroom talent.
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Filtsch, Karl (183045), brilliant Hungarian pianist. He studied with Liszt and Chopin and died
of tuberculosis before his fifteenth birthday. Liszt said of him, When that boy starts to travel, Ill
shut up shop. That he was spared.
Fontana, Julian (181065), Polish composer, pianist and writer. A fellow pupil of Elsner at the
Warsaw Conservatory, he followed his friend Chopin to Paris in 1832 and was lavishly exploited
by him, becoming in effect a glorified dogsbody. He acted as intermediary between Chopin and
his publishers, copied out more than eighty of Chopins compositions and published a
posthumous edition of Chopins works from Op. 66 to 77.
Franchomme, Auguste (180884), minor composer and major cellist. He played in the
orchestras of the Paris Opra and Thatre Italien, and was cellist of the Alard Quartet. A close and
much admired friend of Chopin.
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von (17491832), German poet, dramatist, scientist and courtier. The
most renowned of all German writers, his works had an incalculable effect on the birth and early
development of the Romantic movement.
Gutmann, Adolf (181982), German pianist and composer. He was a pupil of Chopin who won
the composers affection and was present at his death.
Gyrowetz, Adalbert (17631850), prolific Bohemian composer in many genres. It was with one of
his concertos that Chopin made his public debut at the age of eight. Among the most admired
musicians of his time, his name is barely known today.
Heine, Heinrich (17971856), German poet, essayist, journalist, politician and lawyer, who
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chose to live as a self-styled exile in Paris. His poetry has found musical immortality in the songs
of Robert Schumann.
Herz, Henri (180688), German piano virtuoso and composer of much saloniste confectionery.
He was a minor darling of Parisian high society and later made a great reputation for himself in
America.
Hiller, Ferdinand (181185), German pianist and minor composer. He studied with Hummel,
settled in Paris in 1828 and enjoyed the friendship of Mendelssohn, Chopin and Liszt.
Hugo, Victor (180285), French poet, dramatist and author, and a leading champion of French
Romanticism. He was among the most stellar lights in the Paris of Chopins time. His greatest
work was the novel Les Misrables.
Hummel, Johann Nepomuk (17781837), German-Hungarian pianist and composer. He studied
with Mozart and Clementi, taught Czerny and Thalberg and was ranked in his day only just below
Mozart and Beethoven. As a pianist he was considered supreme between the death of Mozart and
the emergence of Liszt, Chopin and Thalberg. His music had a pronounced effect on Chopins
own.
Kalkbrenner, Friedrich (17881849), immensely accomplished German pianist and very minor
composer. He spent much of his life in Paris where he was more admired by the public than by
his peers, with the notable exception of Chopin.
Kurpinski, Karol Kasimir (17851857), Polish composer, conductor and violinist. He was a
prolific and popular opera composer.
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Kosciuszko, Tadeusz (17461817), Polish soldier and patriot. In 1794, after the Second Partition,
he headed the national movement in Krakow, of which he was appointed dictator and
commander-in-chief. He died when the horse he was riding fell over a precipice.
Lenz, Wilhelm von (180983), Russian writer on music. It was he who first divided Beethovens
work into three chronological periods. In Paris he had piano lessons from both Chopin and Liszt,
and his book The Great Pianists of Our Time (pub. 1872) is an absorbing and valuable (though
not entirely reliable) source of information on the subject.
Lind, Jenny (182087), famous soprano, known as the Swedish Nightingale. Her path and
Chopins crossed both in Paris and in London, where she attended his British debut at the home
of Mrs Sartoris in 1848.
Malibran, Maria (180836), Franco-Spanish soprano. She was perhaps the most famous female
singer of her time, and was the sister of Pauline Viardot.
Meyerbeer, Giacomo (17911864), German-born composer of operas. The most famous of his
spectacular blockbusters for the Paris Opra are Robert le diable, Les Huguenots, Le prophte and
LAfricaine. Chopins enthusiasm for this apostle of French Romanticism is among the great
surprises of his early Parisian days.
Mickiewicz, Adam (17981855), great Polish poet and patriot. He was banished to Russia
between 1824 and 1829. His epic Pan Tadeusz was published in 1834 and has been acknowledged
ever since as his greatest work.
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Moniuszko, Stanislaw (181972), Polish composer and conductor. Ranked in Poland second
only to Chopin among nineteenth-century musical nationalists.
Moscheles, Ignaz (17941870), Bohemian composer and pianist of great distinction. Commonly
ranked with Hummel, he was among the first peripatetic concert virtuosos, and settled first in
Paris and then London.
Musset, Alfred de (181057), French poet and dramatist. Met George Sand in Paris in 1833 and
became her lover. Their relationship was tempestuous and left de Musset broken in health and
spirit. Their affair coloured most of his later work.
Orlowski, Antoni (181161), Polish violinist, pianist, conductor and composer. A fellow pupil of
Chopins at the Warsaw Conservatory, he composed many piano miniatures heavily influenced by
the music of his more gifted friend.
Paderewski, Ignacy Jan (18601941), great Polish pianist and composer. The most popular
pianist of his day, he became a national figure and served as the first Prime Minister of modern
Poland. He was most famous as a player of Chopin, and his edition of Chopins works is still
widely used today.
Paer, Ferdinando (17711839), Italian composer and Napoleons musical director. He composed
more than 40 operas.
Paganini, Niccol (17821840), the most famous (and very probably the greatest) violinist the
world has ever known. So incredible were his feats that he was widely rumoured to have made a
bargain with the Devil. Some even suspected him of being the Devil himself. Paganinis influence
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had a formative effect on such disparate composers as Chopin, Liszt, Schubert, Schumann and
Brahms. At the time of his death, he was also the richest musical performer in history, though it
brought him little solace.
Pashkievitch, Ivan (17821856), brilliant Russian soldier. He took part in successful campaigns
against the French, the Turks and the Hungarians and was pronounced Prince of Warsaw after his
crushing of the Polish revolt in 1831.
Pixis, Johann Peter (17881874), German pianist and composer, equally noted for the size of his
nose and his libido.
Pleyel, Camille (17881855), French piano manufacturer, publisher and pianist. He was a friend
and sometime publisher of Chopin, and it was at the Salle Pleyel that Chopin played his first
Parisian concert in 1832 and his last in 1848.
Potocka, Countess Delfina, Polish noblewoman and immensely accomplished amateur singer. A
close friend of Chopins, she was widely believed to have had a torrid love affair with him, but
the evidence is both slim and suspect. Most of it didnt surface until 1945, when a mentally
disturbed Polish scholar, Pauline Czernika, claimed to have unearthed a series of hitherto
suppressed letters (or typed copies of them) in which Chopin refers in the most forthright
language to their sexual adventures. This evidence has now been authoritatively discredited.
Potocka was among the friends who were with Chopin in his final, agonising days and one of his
last wishes was that she should sing to him, which she duly did.
Reicha, Antonin (17701836), Bohemian composer and teacher. He was among the first to
experiment with polytonality.
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Rellstab, Heinrich (17991860), German music critic. He was among Chopins fiercest
detractors before undergoing a late and fashionable conversion. It was he who saddled
Beethovens C sharp minor Sonata with the nickname Moonlight.
Sand, George (180476). Born Amandine Aurore Lucie Dupin, Baronne Dudevant, but known as
George Sand. A prominent novelist of the French romantic movement, she was a prolific writer,
though she is now best remembered for her affairs with Chopin and the writer Alfred de Musset.
Schumann, Clara (ne Wieck) (181996), one of the foremost pianists of her day and a gifted
composer. She married Robert Schumann in 1840 and was the first in Germany to champion the
music of Chopin in performance, winning his wholehearted approval: She is the only pianist in
Germany who knows how to play my music.
Schumann, Robert (181056), German composer and crusading journalist. He was the first man
outside Poland to recognise Chopins true stature, heading a review of the early Variations on La
ci darem la mano with the famous exhortation Hats off, gentlemen! A genius! Chopin
nevertheless felt that Schumann generally misunderstood his music and never sought to make his
acquaintance.
Thalberg, Sigismond (181271), Swiss-German pianist and composer. A pupil of Hummel, he
was one of the most famous virtuosos of the day and specialised in a style of keyboard
composition designed to give the illusion of three hands.
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Viardot, Pauline (18211910), one of the greatest mezzo-sopranos of the nineteenth century. She
was also an accomplished pianist and a fluent composer of operettas and songs. She was the sister
of the great soprano Maria Malibran and a close friend of both Chopin and George Sand. She did
all she could to mediate between them when the break came, but to little avail.
Weber, Carl Maria von (17861826), influential German pianist and composer. He was one of
the foremost exponents of Romantic opera, foreshadowing Wagner, and his most famous work,
Der Freischtz, is still in the repertoire today.
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7
Year
1810
1811
52
Historical Events
Chopins Life
53
Year
1812
Chopins Age
1813
1814
1815
Beethoven writes his Op. 102 Cello Sonatas and the cantata
Meeresstille und glckliche Fahrt, dedicated to Goethe; Schubert (18)
composes two symphonies (2 & 3), four operas, two masses and
roughly 150 songs; advent of the Biedermeier era in Vienna
1816
54
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Historical Events
Chopins Life
55
Year
Chopins Age
1818
1819
1820
10
1817
56
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Historical Events
Chopins Life
Year
Chopins Age
11
1822
12
1823
13
1824
14
1825
15
1821
58
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Historical Events
Chopins Life
Year
Chopins Age
16
1827
17
Beethoven dies at 56; Schubert writes his two Piano Trios, his two
books of Impromptus and his greatest song-cycle, Winterreise;
Bellinis Il Pirata staged in Milan; death of William Blake; Nash
designs Carlton House Terrace, Westminster, London
1828
18
Schubert composes his last three piano sonatas, C major String Quintet
for strings, Mass in E flat and Schwanengesang; dies at 31; Auber: La
Muette de Portici; Marschner: Der Vampyr; Rossini: Le Comte Ory;
Alexandre Dumas (pre) writes The Three Musketeers; death of
Francisco Goya; Websters American Dictionary published
1829
19
1826
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Historical Events
Chopins Life
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61
Year
Chopins Age
20
1831
21
1832
22
1833
23
1830
62
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Historical Events
Chopins Life
Year
Chopins Age
24
1835
25
1836
26
1834
64
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Historical Events
Chopins Life
65
Year
Chopins Age
27
1838
28
1839
29
1840
30
1837
66
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Historical Events
Chopins Life
Year
Chopins Age
31
1842
32
Glinka follows success of A Life for the Tsar with second nationalist
opera Ruslan and Ludmilla; Schumann writes Piano Quintet and the
lesser-known Piano Quartet; Mendelssohn completes Scottish
Symphony and founds Leipzig Conservatory; Wagners Rienzi staged
in Dresden; births of Boito and Massenet; New York Philharmonic
founded
1843
33
1844
34
1841
68
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Historical Events
Chopins Life
Year
Chopins Age
35
1846
36
1847
37
1848
38
1845
70
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Historical Events
Chopins Life
Year
1849
72
Chopins Age
39
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Historical Events
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Chopins Life
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Glossary
accelerando
accidental
adagio
agitato
Alberti bass
allegretto
allegro
allemande
alto
andante
aria
arpeggio
articulation
74
getting faster
a flat, sharp or natural not present in the prevailing scale
slow
turbulent, agitated
a stylized accompaniment popular in the later eighteenth century, it is
based on the triad, spelled out in the order bottom-top-middle-top (as in
C-G-E-G etc.)
moderately fast, generally rather slower than allegro
fast, but not excessively
traditionally the first movement of a Baroque suite a dignified dance in
4/4 time, generally at a moderate tempo
the second highest voice in a choir
slowish, at a moderate walking pace
solo song (also called air), generally as part of an opera or oratorio
a chord spelled out, one note at a time, either from bottom to top or vice
versa (C-E-G-C ; F-A-C-F etc.)
the joining together or separation of notes, to form specific groups of
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augmentation
bar, measure
bass
beat
binary
cadence
cadenza
canon
cantabile
cantata
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notes; when notes are separated, that is to say when slivers of silence
appear between them, the effect is often of the intake of breath, and like
the intake of breath before speech it heightens anticipation of what is to
follow; when they are joined together, the effect is of words spoken in the
expenditure of a single breath; see also legato and staccato
the expansion of note-values, generally to twice their original length
the visual division of metre into successive units, marked off on the page
by vertical lines; thus in a triple metre (the grouping of music into units
of three, as in 3/4, 3/8 etc.), the three main beats will always be
accommodated in the space between two vertical lines
the lowest, deepest part of the musical texture
the unit of pulse (the underlying throb of the music)
a simple 2-part form (A:B), Part 1 generally moving from the tonic (home
key) to the dominant (secondary key), Part 2 moving from the dominant
back to the tonic
a coming to rest on a particular note or key, as in the standard Amen at
the end of a hymn
a relatively brief, often showy solo of improvisatory character in the
context of a concerto, operatic aria or other orchestral form. In concertos,
it usually heralds the orchestral close to a movement, generally the first
an imitative device like the common round (Frre Jacques, Three Blind
Mice, Londons Burning) in which the same tune comes in at staggered
intervals of time
song-like, singingly
a work in several movements for accompanied voice or voices (from the
Latin cantare, to sing)
75
chorale
chord
chromatic
clef
coda
codetta
concerto grosso
concerto
continuo
76
contrapuntal
counterpoint
counter-tenor
crescendo
cross-rhythms
decrescendo
diminuendo
development section
diatonic
diminution
dotted rhythm
double-stopping
duple rhythm
dynamics
exposition
fantasy, fantasia
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see counterpoint
the interweaving of separate horizontal melodic lines, as opposed to the
accompaniment of a top-line (horizontal) melody by a series of
vertical chords
a male alto, using a falsetto voice, which seldom bears any resemblance
to the singers speaking voice
getting louder
see polyrhythm
see diminuendo
getting softer
the middle section in a sonata form, normally characterized by movement
through several keys
using only the scale-steps of the prevailing key notes of the regular scale
the contraction of note-values, normally to half their original length
a jagged pattern of sharply distinguished longer and shorter notes, the
long, accented note being followed by a short, unaccented one, or the
other way around. Examples are the openings of the Marseillaise and The
Star-Spangled Banner; better still, The Battle Hymn of the Republic:
Mine eyes have seen the glo-ry of the coming of the Lord
the playing of two notes simultaneously on a stringed instrument
any rhythm based on units of two beats, or multiples thereof
the gradations of softness and loudness, and the terms which indicate
them (pianissimo, fortissimo etc.)
the first section in sonata form, in which the main themes and their
relationships are first presented
a free form, often of an improvisatory nature, following the composers
77
finale
flat
forte, fortissimo
glissando
Gregorian chant
ground bass
harmony, harmonic
harmonics
homophony
interval
78
fancy rather than any pre-ordained structures. But there are some
Fantasies, like Schuberts Wanderer Fantasy and Schumanns Fantasia in
C for the piano, which are tightly integrated works incorporating fullyfledged sonata forms, scherzos, fugues etc.
a generic term for last movement.
a note lowered by a semitone from its natural position, i.e. the nearest
lower neighbour of any note
loud, very loud
literally, gliding; a sliding between any two notes, producing something
of a siren effect
see plainchant
a short bass pattern repeated throughout a section or entire piece; a
famous example is Didos Lament from Purcells Dido and Aeneas
the simultaneous sounding of notes to make a chord; harmonies (chords)
often serve as expressive or atmospheric adjectives, describing or giving
added meaning to the notes of a melody, which, in turn, might be likened
to nouns and verbs
comparable to the falsetto voice of the male alto, or counter-tenor, the
term refers to the production on an instrument, generally a stringed
instrument, of pitches far above its natural compass. Thus the naturally
baritonal cello can play in the same register as a violin, though the
character of the sound is very different
when all parts move at once, giving the effect of a melody (the successive
top notes) accompanied by chords
the distance in pitch between two notes, heard either simultaneously or
successively; the sounding of the first two notes of a scale is therefore
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described as a major or minor second, the sounding of the first and third
notes a major or minor third, etc.
largo
slow, broad, serious
legato
smooth, connected, the sound of one note touching the sound of the
next; as though in one breath
major
see modes
measure
see bar
metre, metrical
the grouping together of beats in recurrent units of two, three, four, six,
etc.; metre is the pulse of music
minor
see modes
modes
the names given to the particular arrangement of notes within a scale;
every key in western classical music has two versions, the major and the
minor mode; the decisive factor is the size of the interval between the key
note (the tonic, the foundation on which scales are built) and the third
degree of the scale; if it is compounded of two whole tones (as in CE
[CD / DE]), the mode is major; if the third tone is made up of one and
a half tones (C to E flat), the mode is minor; in general, the minor mode
is darker, more serious, more moody, more obviously dramatic than the
major; the so-called Church modes prevalent in the Middle Ages are made
up of various combinations of major and minor and are less dynamically
directed in character; these appear only rarely in music since the
Baroque (c. 16001750) and have generally been used by composers to
create some kind of archaic effect
modulate, modulation the movement from one key to another, generally involving at least one
pivotal chord common to both keys.
motif, motive
a kind of musical acorn; a melodic/rhythmical figure too brief to
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natural
nocturne
octave
oratorio
ostinato
pedal point
pentatonic
phrase
phrasing
piano, pianissimo
pizzicato
80
constitute a proper theme, but one on which themes are built; a perfect
example is the beginning of Beethovens Fifth Symphony: ta-ta-ta dah;
ta-ta-ta dah
not a sharp or flat
invented by the Irish composer John Field and exalted by Chopin; a
simple ternary (A-B-A) form, its outer sections consist of a long-spun
melody of a generally dreamy sort, supported by a flowing, arpeggiobased accompaniment; the middle section, in some ways analogous to the
development in a sonata form,) is normally more turbulent and
harmonically unstable
the simultaneous sounding of any note with its nearest namesake, up or
down (C to C, F to F etc.); the effect is an enrichment, through increased
mass and variety of pitch, of either note as sounded by itself
an extended choral/orchestral setting of religious texts in a dramatic and
semi-operatic fashion; the most famous example is Handels Messiah
an obsessively repeated rhythm or other musical figure
the sustaining of a single note (normally the bass) while other parts move
above and around it
based on a five-note, whole-tone scale, as in the music of the Orient
(analogous to the black keys of the piano)
a smallish group of notes (generally accommodated by the exhalation of
a single breath) which form a unit of melody, as in God save our
Gracious Queen, and My Country, tis of thee
the apportionment of the above
soft, very soft
plucked strings
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plainchant, plainsong also known as Gregorian chant; a type of unaccompanied singing using
one of the Church modes and sung in a free rhythm dictated by the
natural rhythm of the words
polyphony
music with interweaving parts
polyrhythm
a combination comprising strikingly different rhythms, often of two or
more different metres
prelude
literally, a piece which precedes and introduces another piece (as in the
standard prelude and fugue); however, the name has been applied (most
famously by Bach, Chopin and Debussy) to describe free-standing short
pieces, often of a semi-improvisatory nature
presto
very fast
recapitulation
the third and final section in sonata form, where the ideas of the
exposition return, but in a different key
recitative
especially charactersitic of the Baroque era, in an oratorio or opera; it is a
short narrative section normally sung by a solo voice accompanied by
continuo chords, usually preceding an aria; the rhythm is in a free style,
by the words
resolution
when a suspension or dissonance comes to rest
rest
a measured silence (or to be more accurate, a suspension of sound) in an
instrumental or vocal part
rhapsody
the name given to a number of highly disparate works in the nineteenth
and twentieth centuries comprising a single movement of a generally
Romantic and mostly virtuosic character; the best-known examples are
Liszts Hungarian Rhapsodies and Gershwins Rhapsody in Blue
rhythm
that aspect of music concerned with duration and accent; notes may be of
many contrasting lengths and derive much of their character and
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81
ripieno (concerto)
ritardando, ritenuto
ritornello
scale
sharp
sotto voce
staccato
syncopation
tempo
tone colour, timbre
tremolo
triad
triplets
82
una corda
unison
vibrato
variation
vivace, vivacissimo
vocalise
whole-tone
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83
Discography
Music excerpts are taken from Chopins complete piano music, performed by Idil Biret,
released as a 15CD set on Naxos.
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86
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Spoken Text
10
1 I think its safe to say that Chopin was not only one of the most popular composers who ever
lived but one of the most original and the two very rarely go together. But with Chopin, thats
par for the course. He was the very embodiment of paradox. He wrote some of the most
romantic music ever written, but he hated Romanticism. The only two composers whose music
he really adored were Bach and Mozart. Probably the greatest single influence on his style was
opera, yet he never even tried writing an opera of his own. In fact he confined himself, from the
beginning of his career, to what, on the face of it, is the least vocal of all instruments a
basically percussive contraption in which every note starts at its loudest and then fades, willy
nilly. The fact is that the piano is really a box of tricks and no sorcerer ever drew more magical
illusions from it than Chopin. With Mozartian simplicity and economy, he became the first
composer to reveal whats often been called the soul of the piano a world of sound that
Mozart himself probably never even dreamt of. When Artur Rubinstein said that Chopin was the
first composer who made the piano sing he wasnt far wrong.
By the time he wrote that, Chopin had been living in France for very nearly half his life,
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89
and with music like that he breathed new life into the French keyboard tradition, which had
been in decline since the deaths of the two great Baroque pioneers Couperin and Rameau.
More than that, he paved the way for Debussy and Ravel in our own century. Without Chopin
they might have been very different composers (Debussy honoured Chopin above all masters).
In some ways Chopin really was more French than the French. And in terms of the piano, he
basically defined what French was. But his roots lay somewhere else altogether, and he never
for a moment forgot it. His name was French because his father was French, but he was born
in a little village 34 miles outside Warsaw in Poland. And it was in Poland and more
particularly as a Pole that he developed his very distinctive, his unique musical character.
At the time of Chopins birth in 1810, Poland had been under foreign domination for as long
as anyone could remember. When he was five Warsaw passed out of Prussian hands and became
no, returned to being a colonial outpost of the Russian Empire. Small wonder, then, that under
their apparent acquiescence, the Poles fairly seethed with resentment at their foreign overlords.
Nor had their dominion been only political. Much of what passed for Polish culture had likewise
been imported. So it was significant (prophetic as it turned out) that the first piece of Chopins to
be published he wrote it, by the way, at the august age of seven drew its form and style from
the most famous of Polands national dances, the Polonaise.
4
5 Within a year of starting lessons with Zywny, who introduced him to all of the musical
establishment in Warsaw, Fryderyk had already attained a degree of local celebrity and was
inevitably being talked of as a second Mozart. Before his eighth birthday he had composed a
Military March and two Polonaises. On the publication of his second Polonaise, in G minor, he
received his first printed notice, in the Warsaw Review of January 1818:
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The composer of this dance, only eight years of age, is a real musical genius ... He not only performs
the most difficult pieces on the piano with the greatest ease and extraordinary taste, but is also the
composer of several dances and variations that fill the experts with amazement, particularly in view of
the authors youth. If this boy had been born in Germany or France, his fame would probably by now
have spread to all nations. May the present notice remind the reader that geniuses are born in our
country also, and that they are not widely known only because of the lack of public notice.
A month later, on the 24th of February, Chopin made his formal and triumphant debut as a pianist
in a concerto by the Bohemian composer Adalbert Gyrowetz. Predictably, he caused a sensation.
When asked by his mother, whod been prevented by illness from attending, what the audience
had liked best, the little boy is said to have replied, My English collar, Mama. It has the ring of
truth about it, reflecting both his innate modesty and his lifelong obsession with dress. From this
concert dates his mutual (and again lifelong) love affair with the Polish aristocracy, who took him
to their hearts, who practically adopted him. And from there on their patronage was to have a
formative effect on the development of his character and outlook.
Far from being a frail, sheltered genius, hidden away from his less gifted contemporaries,
Chopin was always popular among his schoolmates. Predominantly cheerful and given to
laughter, he delighted in childish pranks and his ever-developing feats of mimicry and caricature
enchanted his friends and family alike. Indeed, as he grew older, a number of professional actors
protested that he was born for the theatre and that his talents were wasted on music.
In 1823, when he was 13, he reached the first major turning point in his career. Despite his
astonishing musical accomplishment and his celebrity, his parents insisted on him having a proper
general education. So, from the autumn of that year to the summer of 1826, music yielded by
parental decree to Latin, Greek, mathematics, literature and science.
However fully he may have applied himself to his general education, though, it was music that
remained the central focus of his life. Since 1822, hed been studying, informally at first, with
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Warsaws most distinguished musician, Joseph Elsner, the recent founder of the Warsaw
Conservatory. Among the earliest of Chopins works to be produced under Elsners guidance are
the so-called Swiss Boy Variations (his most sophisticated work to date), composed in 1824.
6
7 More important to Chopin than the composition of that work was his summer holiday in the
village of Szafarnia, north-west of Warsaw, where he immersed himself in almost every aspect
of country life. Everything either intrigued or amused him, but far and away the most significant
encounter was his first prolonged and intimate exposure to Polish folk music, in its purest and
most unadulterated form. From that summer onwards, the music of the Polish peasantry was the
shining beacon whose light enabled him to create a truly national art music. In the years ahead,
it would be Chopin, more than any other single figure, who put Polish culture on the
international musical map.
Among the first fruits of his Szafarnian experience when he returned to Warsaw in the autumn
were two Mazurkas, whose authentically rustic roots bewildered the citys connoisseurs and
earned him his first critical rebuke, for violating all the rules of musical grammar.
8
9 While he certainly enjoyed his local celebrity (and who wouldnt?), Chopin, at fifteen, was
well aware that he still had much to learn. From now on, his musical development was entirely
supervised by Elsner, whom he acknowledged as his principal mentor for the rest of his formal
education. He now embarked for the first time on the systematic study of counterpoint, and his
music soon began to reflect the influence of his teacher. At the same time, he was quickly
discovering his own true voice as a composer. Two works in particular from this period
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demonstrate the significant contrast between Chopin the industrious pupil and Chopin the
burgeoning creator.
The Sonata in C minor, Op. 4, dedicated to Elsner, marks his first attempt at writing a major
work: a large-scale, four-movement structure of self-conscious drama and unnatural gravity.
10
11 Well, that was Chopin the gifted more to the point, Chopin the well-behaved student. But
students of genius are generally more interesting when theyre not well-behaved. And Chopin
was a perfect case in point. The C minor Sonata could have been composed by any very gifted
pupil. The Rondo la mazur, on the other hand, from the same period, could only have been
composed by Chopin. Here he forgets about academic orthodoxy and follows his instincts, and
with intriguing results. For the first time in his output he gives us a work in which his own
personality emerges in a strikingly individual and original way. As in those earlier, controversial
mazurkas, he draws on his own, direct experience of the folk tradition, but whats most
remarkable here isnt so much the raw material itself, with its catchy rhythms and unusual
harmonies, its the elegance and restraint in his use of it. Unlike almost any other composer of
his time, he refuses to use the folk element as a springboard for virtuoso display. He seems to
invite us, instead, to soak in the substance and character of the music itself. And this is
important, because Chopin regarded the authentic Polish mazurka with an almost religious
respect. There was no form which he used so often, and no period in his life when he neglected
it. In fact, his mazurkas are as near as he came to writing a musical autobiography. The Rondo
la mazur itself may not be a masterpiece, but both in its timing and in its peculiar character, it
stands, especially after that C minor Sonata, as a kind of declaration of independence at the very
beginning of Chopins formal apprenticeship.
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13 As both pianist and composer he rapidly evolved a style which was both unique and
unmistakable. And there seems to have been an almost mystical connection between his musical
imagination and his physical contact with the keyboard. More, perhaps, than any other great
composer, he was effectively dependent on the presence of a piano for his musical ideas to take
shape and flourish.
Now, so much has been made of the melancholy, the wistful, even tragic strain in his music
that its easy to overlook the sense of fun thats also there especially in these earlier works. The
brooding, introverted, tormented soul represented in many popular biographies and films isnt
entirely mistaken, by any means, but theres little sign of it in the music and correspondence of
his teens. On the whole, the music of this period is predominantly lightweight, even frivolous.
From his earliest boyhood, Chopin had been surrounded by conviviality, both in and out of the
home. And much of his music followed suit. Far from being monk-like or inward-looking, its
music to be heard, to be enjoyed and, most emphatically, to be applauded.
14
You can almost hear the delight and support of Chopins friends as they gathered round the
keyboard.
15 By the time he wrote that music, Chopins delicate health was an accepted fact of life, though
others were readier to accept it than he was, and in letters he was apt to make fun of it and he
must have wondered at times whether his afflictions werent preferable to the cure as he wrote to
a friend in 1826.
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My head is tied up in a nightcap because it has been aching, I don't know why, for the last four days.
They have put leeches on my throat because the glands have swelled and the doctor says it is a catarrhal
infection. Its true that from Saturday to Thursday I was out every evening until two in the morning but
I am sure its not that.
and later:
I go to bed each night at nine. All teas, soires and balls are forbidden me; I drink an emetic water on
doctors orders and feed myself only on oatmeal like a horse; and the air here is not so good for me as
at Reinetz. They say I may have to go there next year. Personally I think Paris would be better for me.
But he wasnt the only patient in the house. His mothers health, too, was giving grave cause for
concern, and in March of 1827 he reported to a friend,
My sister Emilia has been in bed for the last month. She started to cough and spit blood, and Mamma
became frightened. The doctor ordered blood-letting. She was bled once twice; then countless
leeches, blisters, synapisms, herbal remedies, all sorts of nonsense. During the whole time she ate
nothing, and she got so thin that you wouldnt have known her. Only now is she beginning to recover.
But the improvement was short-lived. In a little over a year, on 27th April 1827, Chopins
youngest and in many ways closest sister (three years his junior) died after a long battle with
tuberculosis. It was during this period, unsurprisingly, that he wrote his darkest work to date, the
brooding, intense and precociously self-disciplined Nocturne in E minor.
16
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17 As time wore on, Chopin began increasingly to feel the frustrations of the big fish in a little
pond. But though the outside world, with its great cosmopolitan centres, remained largely
beyond his reach, he had tantalising glimpses of what he was missing when one or another of its
greatest figures passed through Warsaw. Of these, the most illustrious was Johann Nepomuk
Hummel, lionised throughout Europe as both composer and pianist, and himself a former pupil
of Mozart, Clementi and Haydn. Despite the three decades which separated them in age, he and
Chopin took to each other at once and Hummels encouragement had a decisive effect on
Chopins immediate ambitions.
Still unknown outside Poland, Chopin, now nineteen, sent off two of his best-received works to
publishers in Vienna and Leipzig. One was the derivative, academic C minor Sonata, the other, also
written when he was seventeen, was the most brilliant, and the most strikingly individual thing hed
yet achieved: a set of variations for piano and orchestra on the duet La ci darem la mano from Act
One of Mozarts Don Giovanni. It was his first orchestral work, and as such it was negligible:
Chopin himself frequently played it himself as an unaccompanied solo. Its musical ideas, on the
other hand, and the sheer brilliance and originality of the piano writing, prompted Robert
Schumanns celebrated critical headline, Hats off, gentleman: a genius!
18
19 As it happens, it was this work more than any other which served as Chopins passport to
European fame, thanks largely to Schumanns ecstatic review of it. But the man who in many
ways was to have the most fundamental effect on Chopin, both as a composer and as a pianist,
was no pianist himself, but a violinist very probably the greatest in history.
Niccol Paganini, the so-called demon fiddler, had achieved feats of virtuosity on the violin
which were beyond anything even imagined by earlier players. Liszt heard him in Paris in 1832,
Schumann heard him in 1830 and Chopin had heard him in Warsaw three years earlier. Each of
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them, in their very different ways, became almost obsessed by the challenge of doing for the
piano what Paganini had done for the violin. But, significantly, Chopins only overt tribute to
Paganini is a subtle and delicate set of variations on The Carnival of Venice a popular tune
which Paganini used as the basis for some dazzling variations of his own. Like Schubert in
Vienna, Chopin was obviously as much impressed by the poetry and lyricism of Paganinis
playing as by his diabolical virtuosity.
20
21 No-one seriously questions the connection between Paganinis visit to Warsaw and Chopins
increasing preoccupation with piano technique, yet Chopin himself left no written testimony
whatever as to the quality and effect of Paganinis performance, and theres no evidence that the
two men ever met. But it was at exactly this time that the 19-year-old Chopin began work on his
epoch-making Etudes the first keyboard studies since Bach to combine a practical purpose
with the highest level of art. In their particular blend of method and inspiration they remain
unsurpassed, and in the opinion of many unequalled, certainly in the piano repertoire.
22
23 It was rapidly becoming clear that Warsaw, whatever its charms, was no place for a young
genius on the threshold of official manhood. If Chopin was to make his mark on the world, he
must go out into it. He accepted this himself, but characteristically, he dithered. As ever, when
there were major decisions to be made, it was his father who dealt with the practicalities. Writing
to the imposingly entitled Minister for Public Instruction, he appealed for government
assistance:
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I have a son whose innate musical gifts call out for him to be educated in this art. His late Imperial
Majesty Tsar Alexander, of blessed memory, graciously deigned to present him with a precious ring as
a mark of his satisfaction when my son had the honour to be heard by the Monarch, His Imperial
Majesty. His Imperial Highness the Grand Duke, Supreme Commander of the Army, has often been
most graciously pleased to allow him to give proofs of his growing talent in His Most Serene presence.
And lastly, many of the highest personages and musical connoisseurs can support the view that my son
could be a credit to his country in his chosen profession if he were given the opportunity to pursue the
necessary studies to their conclusion. He has completed his preliminary studies; all that he now needs
is to visit foreign countries, especially Germany, Italy and France, so as to form himself upon the best
models. For the purposes of such a journey, which might last for three years, funds are required which
my modest resources, based solely upon my earnings as a teacher, are insufficient to provide.
But the Treasury, despite the sympathetic intercession of the Minister, was unmoved.
Public funds cannot be wasted for the support of this class of artists.
So, it would have to come from private funds. And it did. After much soul-searching and
painstaking calculation, Chopin set out with friends one warm summer evening, arriving in
Vienna on the last day of July 1829.
It was typical of Chopins future way of life that one of his first priorities in Vienna was to find
a hairdresser who would attend him on a daily basis. It was here, too, that he first made a point
of the white gloves which were soon to become his unofficial trademark.
It didnt take long for word to get around that a young pianist of astonishing accomplishment
and a unique originality was in town. Within a week of his arrival Chopin was already in danger
of becoming a legend. He gave in to public pressure and on the 11th of August he appeared for
the first time before a public who had heard every great pianist of the age, including Beethoven.
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Some could even remember hearing Mozart. The next day, he dispatched a report to his family:
Yesterday, Tuesday, at seven oclock in the evening, I made my bow on the stage of the Royal and
Imperial Opera House! As soon as I appeared on the stage the audience began clapping; and the
applause was so great after each variation that I couldnt hear the orchestra. At the end they applauded
so loudly that I had to come back twice and bow. The journalists, too, have taken me to their hearts.
Celinski will tell you how little was said against me. Hube heard the worst: Its a pity the young man
looks so unimpressive, declared one of the ladies. Well, if thats the only fault they could find with me
then Ive nothing to worry about.
Much to Chopins irritation, the Viennese were surprised that such a refined and accomplished
musician should have emanated from such a provincial and primitive a place as Warsaw. As
always he demonstrated the utmost loyalty to Elsner and his other teachers, claiming that the
rankest dunce couldnt fail to benefit from such methodical and enlightened instruction. The
Viennese, for their part, were as enchanted with the Chopins modesty as they were impressed by
his genius. When he left them, on the morning after his second concert, he had every reason to
believe that his future career, in Austria at least, was all but guaranteed.
When he returned to Warsaw, half-expecting a heros welcome, he was surprised, puzzled and
angry to discover that the local newspapers had either mistranslated or deliberately distorted the
rapturous reviews hed received in Vienna. Indeed, one had exactly reversed the verdict: Here is
a young man, it now read, whose desire to please the public comes before the endeavour to make
good music. Now there are few musicians of whom this is less true. And it wasnt just his piano
playing that had so excited the Viennese. After his departure there had been detailed discussion
and praise of his compositions in two of the most important journals in Austria. For a youth of
nineteen this wasnt bad going.
In the absence of appropriate celebration at home, Chopins thoughts kept returning to Vienna
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and to the still greater musical world beyond. With every passing day, he found Warsaws
provincialism increasingly frustrating. As he wrote to his closest friend, Titus, now living elsewhere:
You wouldnt believe how depressing this place is for me just now. If it werent for my familys devotion
I couldnt put up with it. How awful it is to have no-one to go to in the mornings, no-one with whom to share
ones joys and sorrows I now tell my piano things which I once used to tell you.
24
25 While Chopin constantly complained of being mired in Warsaw, he did nothing to escape it.
And the reasons are not hard to find. Constantia Gladkowska was a young singer, still a student
at the Warsaw Conservatory and surrounded by a living halo of male admirers, and of all ages.
She had the dark good looks and melancholy air which personified Romantic notions of
feminine beauty: sensitive, sensuous, vulnerable, she had a lovely voice and a gracefulness
which went straight to Chopins heart. It was his first intense experience of sexual infatuation,
and on the evidence it seems safe to assume that he was as much in love with love itself as with
the girl. But the evidence, it has to be said, is slim. As far as Constantia herself is concerned, we
know surprisingly little. She seems to have enjoyed considerable celebrity in Warsaw, but theres
nothing to suggest that she ever set foot outside Poland. As for their relationship, such as it was,
all we have to go on is what we find in Chopins letters but not, interestingly, his letters to
Constantia. There arent any. Fully half a year after confessing his obsession to Titus, he still
remained tongue-tied in the presence of the girl herself. Nor could he bring himself to write to
her. The letters he did write were actually addressed to Titus, and it began to be a little unclear
just who was in love with whom.
Oh my dear beloved Titus! There is nothing in life I desire more at this moment than to see you. You
said that you would like to have my portrait: if I could steal one from Princess Eliza I would send it to
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you she sketched me twice, and they say that its a good likeness As long as I live I shall never give
you up.
And later:
Never, ever, have I felt your absence so much as at this moment! A single glance from you after each
of my concerts would have been more to me than all the praises from journalists or people like Elsner,
Kurpinski, Soliva and so on I will send you my portrait, as soon as I possibly can; you want and
shall have it, but nobody else shall. Well, I might give it to one other person, but not before you, who
are ever dearest to me. Now, as always, I carry your letters around with me (I keep them like a lovers
ribbon). In May, when I go for a walk outside the town, thinking of my approaching journey, what a
joy it will be to take out your letters and learn again, beyond doubt, that you love me; or at least I can
look at the hand and writing of one to whom I am absolutely and utterly devoted.
Chopins letters to Titus are unique in his correspondence for the sheer abandon of their
vocabulary. Many people have seen this as evidence of his homosexuality, though nobody
suggests that it ever became physical. Others have protested that the extravagance of Chopins
language here was simply the common change of nineteenth-century Polish manners. But theres
nothing like it in letters to his other friends, nor is there any evidence of Titus writing in the same
vein. Only to Titus does Chopin write I keep your letters like a lovers ribbon, or I love you to
madness, or My dearest life, my soul, give me your lips. Only to Titus does he write like this:
I must go now and wash. So dont embrace me now, as I havent yet washed myself. You? If I anointed
myself with fragrant oils of the East, you wouldnt embrace me, unless I forced you to by magnetic
means. But there are forces in Nature, and tonight you will dream that you are embracing me. I have
to pay you back for the dreams that you caused me last night!
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It would seem that any homosexual yearnings on Chopins part were not reciprocated, yet he
clearly felt no risk in being so uncharacteristically unbuttoned. Whatever the truth, it seemed to
have an alarming effect on Chopins creative life, and his already chronic indecisiveness now
threatened to swamp him altogether.
His father became seriously concerned about his sons mental stability. In the hope that a
change of scene might help to focus his mind, especially if it held the promise of aristocratic
patronage, he arranged for Chopin to spend a week at the country home of the influential Prince
Antoni Radziwill. As a career move, the visit was a failure, but Chopin hardly noticed. His
attentions were almost entirely focused on the Princes two charming daughters, who seem to
have put all thought of Constantia out of his head.
As a token of his gratitude and friendship, Chopin marked the visit with a polonaise for the
cello-playing composer-prince to perform with his daughter Vanda, who was a fluent technician,
if nothing else. Chopin was supposed to be giving her lessons, but found himself preoccupied
with extra-musical matters. And why not?
She was young (only seventeen), pretty, and oh what a joy it was to place her little fingers on the keys.
26
Chopin was quite prepared to stay on at the Radziwills indefinitely, but whatever he may have
preferred, there was business to attend to in Warsaw.
27 As the autumn wore on, Chopin stagnated. He stopped composing, he barely touched the
piano, he learned no new repertoire, he wrote none of the letters which he could profitably have
written to the musical movers and shakers of Europe. Effectively he withdrew from the musical
life of Warsaw, complaining of a desire to escape but doing nothing. He wandered the streets and
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became a familiar if silent figure in the citys many coffee houses. There he would sit for hours
with friends and acquaintances, enjoying the pleasure of their company but adding nothing to
their conversations, which bristled with careless with dangerous talk of revolution. Finally
more as a means of distraction than anything else, he began work on a piano concerto, far and
away the biggest and most demanding thing hed yet attempted. Whether he wanted it or not, he
soon received public encouragement.
Whatever the misrepresentations of the Polish press, news of his successes in Vienna had
spread by word of mouth and there was mounting pressure on him to declare himself openly not
merely as an artist, but as a specifically Polish artist. The underlying chauvinism was neatly
summed up by an article in the Warsaw Courier that December:
Does Mr Chopins talent not belong to his own country? Does he believe that Poland is incapable of
appreciating him? Mr Chopins works unquestionably bear the stamp of genius; among them is said to
be a Concerto in F minor, and we hope that he will delay no longer in confirming our conviction that
Poland, too, can produce distinguished talent.
But delay he did. It was a part of his creative process to suffer severe pangs of self-doubt, and
though hed basically finished his Concerto by the end of January, it wasnt until mid-March that
he felt ready to try it out in public. On the evening of Wednesday the 17th, before an audience of
900, he made his way to the piano on the stage of Warsaws National Theatre. Nervous as always,
but looking the very picture of authoritative composure, he finally made his long deferred Polish
debut as a fully-fledged concert virtuoso.
28
29
Well, the popular and critical acclaim was all he could have hoped for. As he reported to
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Titus:
It seems that everyone was quite entranced. Mlle de Moriolles sent me a laurel wreath and somebody
else has sent me a poem. Orlowski has written mazurkas and waltzes on themes from my Concerto,
and Sennewald has asked for my portrait [to have it engraved and sold], but I could not allow that it
would be going too far: I have no wish to see myself used for wrapping up butter, which is what
happened to Lelewels portrait. They want me to give another concert but I have no desire to do so.
You cannot imagine what a torture the three days before a public appearance are to me.
Nevertheless, he relented, and whatever torments he experienced in giving them, his two concerts
had galvanised Chopin back into action.
They had all turned Chopin from a local into a national celebrity, and therefore a sitting duck
for national gossip not something he relished. As he wrote to Titus:
I dont want to read anything more that people write about me, or to hear anything they have to say.
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A strange protest, considering his earlier unburdenings; and he ambiguously returns to the subject
later in the same letter:
Let us consider that moment when I shall see you abroad; perhaps I shant be able to control myself
and I shall blurt out what I never cease to dream of, what is constantly before my eyes, what rings at
every moment in my ears and gives me the greatest joy in the world, and at the same time the greatest
misery. But dont go and think I am in love that is something which I am reserving for later on.
Now that really is an extraordinary confession. Did he seriously believe that falling in love is a
matter of rational decision, that it can be kept on a shelf and then taken, like medicine, at the
appropriate moment? In any case, it looks at times as though he was already past that point.
In the aftermath of his two triumphonat concerts, Chopin suffered the inevitable anti-climax
and sank back into a period of intermittent listlessness and some confusion.
When I reflect, I feel so sorry for myself that I often become completely distracted. When I am
preoccupied in this way, I might be run over by horses, and I would not know it. The other day I almost
suffered such an accident in the street. On Sunday, struck by an unexpected glance from someone in
church it happened to come at some moment of pleasant numbness I ran out at once; for a quarter
of an hour I did not know what was happening to me, and, running into Dr Parys, I did not know how
to explain my confusion to him. I finally pretended that a dog had run up against my feet and that I had
stepped on it. Sometimes I act so like a madman that it frightens me.
30 But when it did, pressure of work provided a welcome antidote. Following his return to
active musical life, he now began work on a second concerto. By mid-May, he had completed
the first movement and was close to finishing the Adagio which very untypically he described in
programmatic terms.
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This was not designed to create a powerful effect. It is rather a romance, calm and melancholy giving
the impression of someone looking at a spot which caused a thousand happy memories. Its a kind of
reverie in the moonlight on a beautiful spring evening the accompaniment is muted that is, the
violins are stifled by a sort of a comb which fits over the strings and gives them a nasal and silvery
tone. Perhaps it is not a good idea but why be ashamed of writing badly, against ones better knowledge
since only the result, in actual performance, will reveal the mistake. In all this, you will recognise my
inclination to do things wrongly, in spite of myself. Yes, it is so in spite of myself, some idea comes
into my head and I take pleasure in indulging it.
Chopin was now determined to leave Poland and seek his fortune in the world beyond. Before
leaving, he completed the concerto but in the days leading up to its unveiling, his thoughts had
already overtaken it.
31 Not later than a week after my concert, Warsaw will have seen the last of me! My trunk is bought,
my outfit is ready, my scores corrected, my handkerchiefs stitched and my trousers tailored. It only
remains to say good-bye the worst of all.
There were many good-byes, and many mixed feelings. And Chopin hadnt made his departure
any easier by finally declaring his love to Constantia at the last possible moment, or near enough.
For her part, she was flattered, of course, surprised, certainly, and probably deeply puzzled. As a
lover, Chopins timing was as clumsy as his music was graceful. We dont know precisely what
passed between them, but we do know that they exchanged rings, and promises to keep in touch
by letter. Promises which probably remained just that. Theres no evidence that they corresponded
at all.
On the night before his final leave-taking, there was a great party, with much dancing and
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singing, and probably not a lot of sleep afterwards. The next day, his family and friends gathered
at the coaching station, tearful farewells were exchanged, Chopin stepped up into the carriage,
and was gone. Whether he suspected it or not, the Polish chapter of his life was now closed.
32
The Poland Chopin left behind him was simmering on the brink of revolution. But as he
knew all too well, this was nothing unique. Politically speaking, the entire continent was to some
degree in a state of profound turbulence. France was still recovering from the July Revolution of
1830; Belgium had just emerged from its war of independence with the Netherlands; Germany,
Italy, Spain and Portugal were all shaken, or about to be, by some kind of revolutionary
disturbances and on top of all this came the ravages of cholera. From its origins in India, the
epidemic had now spread through Russia and Poland into Austria. And hard on the heels of
Chopins departure for Munich at the end of July, it swept through Vienna itself, leaving untold
casualties in its wake and sending a wave of some 60,000 terrified refugees ahead of it.
Businesses tumbled like ninepins, the houses of the afflicted were burnt to the ground, and the
air was thick with smoke and the stench of decomposing bodies. In the panic many sufferers
were buried alive.
In neighbouring Bavaria, not yet affected by the virus, Chopin now found himself marooned
by lack of funds. The money he was expecting from his father hadnt yet arrived, so he had to stay
on in Munich till it did. Fortunately, it arrived before the cholera, and Chopin continued on his
way to Stuttgart, in good health and, to all outward appearances, in high spirits. Once there, alone
and without any clear sense of purpose, he fell very suddenly and unexpectedly into one of those
troughs of depression which were to become a regular feature of his adult life. It has to be said
that a certain morbid streak was common to many artists of the Romantic era and on this occasion
the 20-year-old Chopin offered his resistance:
Stuttgart. How strange! This bed on which I shall lie has been slept on by more than one dying man,
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but today it does not repel me! Who knows what corpses have lain on it and for how long? But is a
corpse any worse than I? A corpse too knows nothing of its father, mother or sisters or Titus. Nor has
a corpse a sweetheart. A corpse, too, is pale, like me. A corpse is cold, just as I am cold and indifferent
to everything. A corpse has ceased to live, and I too have had enough of life. Enough? Why do we
live on through this wretched life which only devours us and serves to turn us into corpses? The clocks
in the Stuttgart belfries strike the midnight hour. Oh how many people have become corpses at this
moment! Mothers have been torn from their children, children from their mothers how many plans
have come to nothing, how much sorrow has sprung from these depths, and how much relief! Virtue
and vice have come in the end to the same thing! It seems that to die is mans finest action and what
might be his worst? To be born, since that is the exact opposite of his best deed. It is therefore right of
me to be angry that I was ever born into this world! Why was I not prevented from remaining in a world
where I am utterly useless? What good can my existence bring to anyone? But wait, wait! Whats
this? Tears? How long it is since they flowed! How is this, seeing that an arid melancholy has held me
for so long in its grip? How good it feels and sorrowful. Sad but kindly tears! What a strange
emotion! Sad but blessed. It is not good for one to be sad, and yet how pleasant it is a strange state
Alone! Alone! All alone! Oh my misery is indescribable! My heart can scarcely bear it!
But there was worse to come. Shortly afterwards, he happened on a piece of news which all but
unhinged him. After months of increasingly bitter resistance Warsaw had fallen to the Russian
army. Chopin knew nothing of the details, only that Poland, the cradle of his youth and the
object of his pride, had yet again been crushed. It was an outcome not less terrible for being
predictable and it can fairly be said to have changed his life, and his music, forever. The next
entry in his diary, though, is a strange combination of genuine and spontaneous grief and fear
and anger, with a curiously stilted literary style which suggests a certain calculation, as though
hes quite consciously writing for posterity:
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Stuttgart. I wrote the above lines not knowing that the enemy has reached my home! The suburbs are
stormed burnt down! Johnny! Where are you? Wilhelm has surely perished on the ramparts. I see
Marcel a prisoner! Sowinski, good lad, is in the hands of those scoundrels! Oh, God, art Thou? Thou
art, but Thou avengest not! Hast Thou not seen enough of the Muscovite crimes or or or art Thou
thyself a Muscovite? My poor, kind father! Perhaps you are hungry and cannot buy bread for mother.
My sisters! Have they fallen victims to the unleashed fury of the Muscovite scum?! ... Oh why could
I not have slain even a single Muscovite! Oh Titus! Titus! ... Oh, God! God! Make the earth to tremble
and let this generation be engulfed! May the most frightful torments seize the French for not coming
to our aid!
Never again, not even in his diary, would Chopin so completely give in to unreasoning emotion.
From that moment, so frightening in its loss of the control which he prized so highly, was born a
reserve that never left him. Never again would he unburden himself as he used to do with Titus.
In his future relations with women, as with his male friends, he would keep his cards close to his
chest. And though he chose to live abroad, he was never so comfortable as in the company of
Poles. From that night in Stuttgart, too, dates a fundamental change in his relationship to music
both his own and other peoples. There is no proof that the terrifying outpourings of the so-called
Revolutionary Etude were born on that night, but there is equally no reason to doubt it. The mood
of the music matches the mood of the journal, and there is no comparably sustained outburst in
any of his later music, not even in the most passionate of the Preludes. Only, perhaps, in the B
minor Scherzo, begun in the immediate aftermath of the Stuttgart crisis, do we find so open, so
almost savage an expression of inner turmoil.
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34
From that point onwards, the most violent emotions were tempered by the controlling hand
of the master craftsman. It wasnt just for their music that Bach and Mozart were Chopins
favourite composers. They were, and remain, the ultimate craftsmen, who abhorred excess in
any form. This could hardly be said of the Romantics least of all, the German Romantics, in
whose country, in whose culture, Chopin now found himself effectively stranded, and facing
some tough decisions. For a start, where was he now to go? He could hardly go back to Warsaw.
Apart from anything else, he was a known, albeit passive, associate of student revolutionaries.
To go back would also be to strangle his career at birth. Another factor, of course, was the
cholera.
In the end, the choice was almost inevitable, even for one of Chopins indecisive nature. Paris
was not only the capital city of his fathers homeland but by general consent the cultural capital
of Europe. In the aftermath of the French Revolution, painters, writers, poets, playwrights, many
of the worlds most famous and brilliant musicians had converged on the city, some of them, like
Chopin, impelled by political disturbances in their own countries. Yet despite this imported
galaxy of talent, music in France, certainly homegrown music, was at a low ebb. Apart from a few
revolutionary contributions from Berlioz, there was no symphonic work of any substance being
composed, no significant chamber music, very few vocal works, and where native-born
Frenchmen were concerned no important instrumental music either. The taste was for trifles.
Where the piano was concerned, Parisian salons resounded to the confectioneries of men like
Herz, Kalkbrenner, Hnten and Pixis not exactly giants (not exactly French either). Liszt was
there too, but he was very young and his best music still lay years ahead of him. Anyway, into
this relative void came a young, hauntingly elegant Pole who demonstrated in short order that you
could write light music and still reach the highest levels of art. Well, he could anyway.
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35
36
Chopins first impressions of the French capital were overwhelmingly joyful. And they were
by no means confined to the citys cultural life. Paris, he wrote to Titus, is whatever you care
to make of it.
You can enjoy yourself, get bored, laugh, cry, do anything you like, and no-one takes any notice
because thousands here are doing exactly the same You find here the greatest splendour, the greatest
filthiness, the greatest virtue, the greatest vice They really are a queer lot here! As soon as it gets
dark all you hear is street vendors shouting out the titles of the latest pamphlets, and you can often buy
three or four sheets of printed rubbish for a few sous, with titles such as How to Get and Keep a
Lover, or Priests in Love, or Romance of the Archbishop of Paris and the Duchesse de Berry, and
a thousand similar obscenities, often very wittily put together. Honestly, one cant be surprised at the
way of making a few pennies that they think up. I must tell you that there is terrible poverty here and
little money about. You meet with crowds of beggars with menacing looks on their faces, and you often
hear threatening remarks about that imbecile Louis-Philippe The lower classes are completely
exasperated and ready at any time to break out of their poverty-stricken situation, but unfortunately for
them the government is extremely severe on such movements and the slightest gathering in the streets
is dispersed by mounted police.
When it came to private enterprise, on the other hand, they were inclined to look the other way:
robberies and murders in the streets were commonplace, most thieves were armed, and
pedestrians who ventured out alone at night were frequently putting their lives at risk. Or at least
their health:
At every step you see posters advertising cures for venereal disease and what numbers of tender-
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hearted young ladies there are! But Chopin, to his evident sorrow, was temporarily out of the
running.
I regret that the memory of Teresa (notwithstanding the efforts of Benedict who considers my
misfortune a mere trifle) has not allowed me to taste the forbidden fruit. I have got to know quite a few
lady vocalists and such ladies here would very willingly join in duets.
Who Benedict was, or Teresa, for that matter, we have no idea, but the implication seems to be
that Chopin himself had contracted some venereal infection.
On the whole, Parisian life, like the beauty of the city itself, acted on him like a kind of drug.
For the first time in his adult life, he felt completely at ease with the society around him, both high
and low, and the idea of staying on there enchanted him. For the most part he was able to forget
the political turbulence which lay behind the glitter and the charm, but there was one clash
between anti-government protesters and the police which brought him, for the first time, face to
face with the reality of revolutionary politics in action.
A huge crowd, not only of young people but of townsfolk, which assembled in front of the Panthon,
made a rush for the right bank of the Seine. They came on like an avalanche, increasing their numbers
with each street they passed through, until they reached the Pont Neuf where the mounted police began
to break them up. Many were arrested, but all the same a huge body of people collected on the
boulevards under my window, intending to join up with those advancing from the other side of the
town. The police could do nothing against the tightly packed throng; a company of infantry was
brought up, hussars and mounted gendarmes rode along the pavements, the national guard showed
equal zeal in dispersing the inquisitive and murmuring populace. They seize and arrest free citizens,
panic reigns, shops are closed, crowds gather at every corner of the boulevards, whistles are blown,
reinforcements are rushed up You cannot conceive what impression the menacing voices of the
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What was that again? Was Liszt just possibly hedging his bets a little there? Maybe so, but in any
case he seems to be describing Chopin the composer rather than Chopin the pianist. The truth is
that for critics and audiences alike, Chopin as a performer had one big drawback, and he was
already getting tired of hearing about it. As hed written home to his family after his first concert
in Vienna:
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The general opinion is that I play too quietly, or rather too delicately there always has to be some
kind of but of course, and Id prefer it to be that rather than have it said that I play too loudly. Anyway,
its the way I play which once again the ladies found most attractive.
Now its been put about by many people that Chopin didnt play louder because he couldnt play
louder. OK, he was small and slight five foot two inches and roughly a hundred pounds at his
healthiest but the fact is that there are plenty of children, smaller and lighter than that, who can
produce masses of volume on a modern concert grand, which is a lot heavier than the pianos
Chopin played on. The significant truth is that Chopin didnt play louder because he didnt want
to play louder. His ideal sound world was one in which stridency and sheer steely-fingered power
had no part. What mattered was the relative not the absolute loudness and softness of this note or
that. And this was probably one of the reasons why Chopin hated giving concerts (he only gave
about 30 of them in his life). His playing, and so far as he was concerned his music too, was
simply out of place in a big hall. In the fashionable salons of the Parisian aristocracy, on the other
hand, it fitted like a glove.
Music: Impromptu in A flat, Op. 29
37
38
Almost from the day he arrived in Paris, Chopin indulged his passion for opera to the hilt.
Within a few weeks he met Cherubini and Rossini and became a regular visitor to all the
Parisian opera houses, large and small. Compared to Warsaw, or even Vienna, Paris seemed to
him like a corner of heaven.
The crowd of people concerned with all branches of the art of music is quite amazing. There are three
orchestras: those of the Acadmie, the Italian opera, and the opera in the Rue Feydeau are excellent.
Rossini is the director of his own opera, which has the finest stage production in Europe. And Lablache,
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Rubini, Pasta, Malibran, Devrient-Schrder, Santini etc. enchant their fashionable audiences three
times a week. Nourrit, Levasseur, Drivis, Mme Cinti-Damoreau and Mlle Dorus are the stars of the
Grand Opra. Cholet, Mlle Casimir and Prvost are the stars of the Opra-Comique: briefly, it is only
here that one can fully understand what singing really is.
And it was in the quality and nature of the human voice, especially as used in the great bel canto
tradition of Italian opera, that Chopin found the principal model for his own unique style of
melody. But this pre-dated his arrival in Paris. Well before he left Warsaw, hed realised that if
melodies on the piano were to have the flexibility and expressivity of vocal lines theyd have to
breathe according to similar principles. In putting this perception into practice, aided by the
pedals and an extremely individual use of harmony, he created an entirely new kind of melody
based on vocal styles, but uniquely pianistic. Ironically, not one of Chopins greatest melodies,
some of the most songful ever written, gains anything when entrusted to the voice, or to any other
sustaining instrument. On the contrary.
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40
One of the most surprising aspects of Chopins early years in Paris was his friendship, or
more to the point, his abiding admiration for Friedrich Kalkbrenner (a former prodigy whod
made his formal debut at five and graduated from the Paris Conservatoire at thirteen). He could
obviously play the piano and very well too but he was regarded by many of his colleagues as
little more than a charlatan, and a man of insufferable vanity and conceit. Yet Chopin described
him as the leading pianist of all Europe the only one whose shoelaces I am not fit to untie.
And he went even further than that:
I simply long to play like Kalkbrenner. If Paganini is perfection itself, Kalkbrenner is his equal. In
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Whether Kalkbrenner agreed we dont know but it seems likely. Whats well documented,
though, is his astonishing offer to take the young Chopin in hand and in a three-year course
of lessons make a real artist of him (Kalkbrenners own words). Almost more astounding
was Chopins initial enthusiasm for the idea, and his apparently total lack of pride:
Kalkbrenner has convinced me that I can play splendidly when I am inspired but abominably when I
am not something that never happens to him. When he had observed me closely he declared that I
had no school, that I am going along fine but might take the wrong turning. He added that after his
death, or when he completely gives up playing, there will be no representative of the great school of
piano-playing left. He says I couldnt create a new school, even if I wanted to, since I havent yet
mastered the old one, and sums me up thus: I have not a perfect mechanism, and the free expression of
my ideas is thereby cramped.
On all the evidence available, and theres no reason to doubt it, Chopin, who had by that time
composed most if not all of his trail-blazing Op.10 Etudes, was already one of the greatest and
most original pianists who ever lived.
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42
One thing Paris wasnt then, and isnt now, is cheap particularly to someone, like Chopin,
with a naturally spendthrift nature. He was still living on his fathers money and wouldnt have
dreamed of sponging off his aristocratic friends. His much-deferred concert had cost him a lot to
set up, but nothing had come from it in the way of securing a livelihood. Two weeks later,
having harvested nothing but compliments, he was feeling seriously worried about his prospects.
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In March he swallowed his pride and addressed a letter to the Concert Socit of the Paris
Conservatory, demonstrating in the process that the politics of grovel were still alive and well:
Gentlemen of the Committee,
I am exceedingly desirous of the favour of being allowed to appear at one of your admirable
concerts and beg to submit an application for the same. Though I may have no special claim to put
forward, I have confidence in your generous disposition towards artists and I venture to hope that my
request will be favourably received.
I am, Gentlemen, Your humble and obedient servant, F. Chopin.
The letter was eventually returned to him, with an unsigned note scrawled in the margin,
presumably by the secretary:
Request too late. Answered.
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cholera is causing rich people to flee to the provinces. The worst of all is that none of the musicians,
although they are as numerous as dogs, look like dying. If half of them would, the others might do
better. Well, theres still time for it to happen.
There was, and it did. The wonder is that Chopin, with his frail constitution, wasnt one of the
victims. Within the first three days of the epidemic, Parisians were dying at the rate of a hundred
a day. But this was just the beginning. Before long, the sick and the dying outnumbered hospital
beds by three to one, and the daily death toll grew so fast that the newspapers gave up reporting
it. By mid-April it had reached two thousand a day in Paris alone. The coffin-makers had more
work than they could cope with, and as George Sand reported:
The great movers conveyances, now become the hearses of the poor, followed each other without letup. Elsewhere, bodies were stuffed into old sacks and stacked pell-mell like so many lifeless bundles on
carts, furniture vans, or any vehicle that could serve as a makeshift hearse. What was most frightening,
however, was not the corpses but the absence of any kin behind these tumbrels; it was the drivers
whipping up the horses, and quickening the pace with a curse; it was the passers-by, rushing frightened
from the hideous cortege, and the despondent or apathetic expressions that stupefied all faces.
The worst casualties, unsurprisingly, were in the working-class districts, but the cholera was no
respecter of class. The most fashionable streets were blanketed with the contaminated clothes,
linens and personal effects of the dead and the dying. And the disaster soon had serious political
repercussions. The cholera had claimed 20,000 lives, and devastated the economy, leaving much
of the country in a state of poverty bordering on famine. In the following summer, riots flared up
all over Paris. As the writer Jules Sandeau recalled:
All Paris smelled of gunpowder, as though in the immediate aftermath of battle. The air was alive
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with a feeling of revolt, and a spirit of insurrection haunted streets, books and theatres Everything
was called into question: social as well as religious institutions, husbands as well as gods and kings.
All one heard was blasphemies against the laws, the savage ridiculing of marriage, and wild
aspirations for a better future. Public places teemed with twenty-year-old legislators who found
Christ somewhat aged and who wanted to supplant him in the task of guiding mankind. The response
of the authorities to this new threat of sedition was swift and merciless. The National Guard was
called out, leaving in its wake a trail of bloodied corpses, hacked to death by bayonet and sabre or
cut down in a hail of bullets.
Strange to say, and for reasons which nobody really understands, it was at about this time that
Chopins own fortunes took a dramatic upwards swing. There are conflicting stories as to how
this came about, but according to one, a chance meeting with an emigr Polish prince led to a
dinner at the home of the immensely wealthy and equally influential Baron James de Rothschild.
After dinner, Chopin played for the assembled company and quite overwhelmed them
especially the Barons wife, who begged him there and then to accept herself and her daughters
as pupils. After that, the story goes, no well-born young lady could afford not to have lessons with
Chopin. From that point onwards, he derived most of his income not from performing, nor from
the publication of his music, but from teaching. And his many lady pupils were very decidedly
worthy of the name. No-one was more surprised by this than Chopin himself.
I have found my way into the very best society; I have my place among ambassadors, princes, ministers
I dont know by what miracle it has come about, for I have done nothing to push myself forward. But
today, all that sort of thing is indispensable.
Indispensable and expensive. As Chopin quickly discovered, a place in the highest society came
with a price.
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I have five lessons to give today. You will probably imagine that I am making a fortune but my coach
and white gloves cost more than that, and without them I should not be in good taste.
But here, as in practically every other aspect of his life, he found himself pulled in two directions
at once. He didnt want to lose his place amongst friends for whom good taste, in the coach-andwhite-gloves sense, was a symbol of oppression and exploitation. To these, he presented a very
different face.
I am all for the Carlists, I hate the Louis-Philippe crowd; Im a revolutionary myself so I care nothing
for money, only for friendship.
He was indeed a revolutionary but only when the white kid gloves were off.
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44
For a man who claimed to care nothing for money, Chopin spent an awful lot of it on social
window-dressing. Not only his gloves and coach, but his clothes, his private coach and its
requisite coachman, his manservant, his hairdresser (who attended him daily), the decoration of
his apartment, to say nothing of its location all this cost him a small fortune.
But his cultivation by the aristocracy and his cultivation of them didnt isolate him from
his professional colleagues. Yet to a certain extent he was isolated, not specifically by anyone, but
within himself as a result of his own outlook and perspectives. He enjoyed the admiration and
friendship of such major figures as Mendelssohn, Liszt, Berlioz and Schumann, yet he was never
really able to reciprocate it. He could enjoy their company, but not their music or their aspirations:
the elevation of feeling over form, the glorification of literary, autobiographical or programmatic
references, the pursuit of sensuality and the picturesque most of this he found repugnant, and it
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couldnt help but drive a wedge between himself and the musical standard-bearers of his time. As
a gregarious expatriate Pole, living in Paris but speaking only halting French amidst a crowd of
worshipful admirers, he felt himself, at some level, to be three times isolated: geographically,
socially and artistically.
At the same time, his avid cultivation by the aristocracy was a threefold blessing. In addition
to its obvious social benefits, it provided him with a guaranteed and appreciative audience for his
music which saved him the torment of giving public concerts. Most importantly, though, it
guaranteed a steady stream of well-heeled pupils whose fees enabled him to live in style. But he
was very much more than merely a society teacher. As with every other aspect of music, Chopin
took his teaching very seriously indeed. One of his most important pupils, and a fellow Pole,
Karol Mikuli, leaves no doubt on that score:
Chopin daily devoted his entire energies to teaching for several hours and with genuine delight. Was
not the severity, not so easy to satisfy, the feverish vehemence with which he sought to raise his pupils
to his own standpoint, the ceaseless repetition of a passage till it was understood, a guarantee that he
had the progress of the pupil at heart? A holy artistic zeal burnt in him then, every word from his lips
was stimulating and inspiring.
Chopin was a born teacher; expression and conception, position of the hand, touch, pedalling, nothing
escaped the sharpness of his hearing and his vision; he gave every detail the keenest attention. Entirely
absorbed in his task, during the lesson he would be solely a teacher, and nothing but a teacher.
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Its wonderful to see how tactfully Chopin puts one at ones ease; how intuitively he identifies, I might
say, with the thoughts of the person to whom he is speaking or listening; with what delicate nuances
of behaviour he adapts his own being to that of another. To encourage me, he tells me among other
things, It seems to me that you dont dare to express yourself as you feel. Be bolder, let yourself go
more. Imagine that youre at the Conservatoire, listening to the most beautiful performance in the
world. Make yourself want to hear it, and then youll hear yourself playing it right here. Have full
confidence in yourself. Forget youre being listened to, and always listen to yourself. I see that timidity
and lack of self-confidence form a kind of armour around you, but through this armour I perceive
something else that you dont always dare to express, and so you deprive us all. When youre at the
piano I give you full authority to do whatever you want; follow freely the ideal youve set for yourself
and which you must feel within you; be bold and confident in your own powers and strength, and
whatever you say will always be good. It would give me so much pleasure to hear you play with
complete abandon that Id find the shameless confidence of the vulgaires unbearable by comparison.
Gretsch discovered that, too and in some of the most technically demanding pieces ever written:
Chopin showed me the best way of practising his Etudes and what a special joy it was to me to be
able to play easily what had previously seemed to involve the most perilous difficulties.
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46
Chopins revolutionary approach to playing, teaching and writing for the piano was to a
large extent determined by the accident of his particular physical characteristics. Souplesse
avant tout! he used to repeat, almost like a mantra. Suppleness before everything! Nor did his
requirements stop with the hand and arm. He advised his pupils to have the whole body supple,
right to the tips of the toes.
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Chopins own suppleness was legendary. According to his friend and pupil Adolf Gutmann
he could throw his legs over his shoulders, like a clown, while another observed that Chopin
appeared to be made entirely of rubber. Several pupils, quite independently, remarked that his
fingers seemed to be without any bones. And rather surprisingly, given his generally fastidious
and demanding nature, he could be as flexibile in his attitudes as in his joints. He was quite
capable of saying, as he did to the 14-year-old Karl Filtsch (admittedly his most brilliant pupil),
We each understand this music differently, but go your own way, do it as you feel it, it can also be
played like that.
It all depended, though, on what day you happened to catch him. As Wilhelm von Lenz
discovered:
Chopin could not bear anyone to interfere with the text of his works. The slightest modification was a
gross error for which he would not pardon even his closest friends, not even his fervent admirer Liszt.
Another feature of Chopins teaching as of his playing, and his writing was a quite new kind
of sound which depended not just on the hands and arms but on the careful use of the sustaining
pedal (often wrongly called the loud pedal). The effect sometimes suggested a pianist with four
hands, but virtuosity, as such, was never his main aim. What he was after was an increased range
of colour, of contour and a new sense of freedom. Not an arbitrary freedom, but the soaring
flexibility of the great bel canto singers. Again and again Chopin urged his pupils to study the
great opera stars and to emulate them. Indeed, he used to tell them point blank, You have to sing
if you wish to play.
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48 In 1835, Chopins professional life was interrupted by some very welcome and unexpected
news. His parents, he learned, would be leaving Warsaw that summer on a trip to Carlsbad in
Germany the first time either of them had travelled outside Poland. They arrived at the spa late
on the night of August 15th and found Chopin there to greet them. Three weeks later, after a
blissful holiday, Chopin accompanied them on the first leg of their homeward journey. They
parted at Tetschen, near the Polish border, never to see one another again though nobody
suspected that at the time.
The departure of Chopins parents was quickly succeeded by another reunion. On his way back
to Paris, he visited Dresden, where some old friends, the Wodzinski family from Poland, were
visiting a relative. Here he discovered with a body-wide blush that the daughter, Maria, whom hed
last seen when she was eleven, had matured into a powerfully attractive young woman. He wasnt
by any means the first to fall in love with her on sight, but fall in love he emphatically did, and it
wasnt long before she appeared to return the compliment. After a mere month in her company,
Chopin steeled himself to one of the biggest decisions of his life and asked her to marry him. And
she accepted. Her mother was delighted, but in those days it was the fathers consent that mattered
and that would hinge on his faith in Chopins health. To that end, Madame Wodzinska urged the
pair to keep their plans a secret while putting Chopin to a test which he couldnt afford to fail. Stay
well, she warned him for everything depends on that. If hed really been intent on marriage, he
might just have passed the test. As it was, he failed miserably. At Heidelberg, in October, he fell
seriously ill with bronchitis. In November he suffered a second and worse attack, this time
coughing up blood and suffering feverish hallucinations. Holed up in his apartment, he kept
himself so secluded that he was widely rumoured to have died. The fact is, he was not following
Wodzinskas orders, and wasnt ever likely to. His gregarious habits were too deeply ingrained.
Come winter, he once more paid the price and fell ill again.
From this point onwards, it becomes clear from the surviving correspondence and the lack
of it that Chopin the suitor had lost. But he might have lost anyway. From the moment of their
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parting, Maria seems to have communicated with Chopin almost exclusively through postscripts
to her mothers many, busybodying letters. It seems all but certain that Maria quickly came to
regard the whole thing as little more than a passing and diverting infatuation. The effect of all this
on Chopin may be gauged by the fact that he gathered up his letters from the Wodzinskis, tied
them together in a bundle labelled My Misery and kept it for the rest of his life. Mixed in with
the pain of dashed hopes was a newly heightened sense of his own Polishness, and of his selfelected exile. Marooned, as he felt, by fate, and with his marriage plans in tatters, he turned again
to the piano, and produced in the B major Nocturne, Op. 32, No. 1, a musical parable of love and
loss whose surprise tragic ending is as powerful, in its way, as anything he ever wrote.
49
An elegant, pale, sad young man, with brown eyes of an incomparably pure and gentle expression, and
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chestnut hair almost as long as Berliozs and falling on his forehead in the same way, Chopin could
best be defined as a trinit charmante. His personality, his playing and his compositions were in such
harmony that they could no more be separated than can the features of one face.
Anyone doubting the accuracy of this perception need only turn to the Nocturnes of 1835. If ever
one could see a composers face in his music, its here the haunting, dispossessed brooding of
the former matched by the sensual melancholy and delicacy of the latter. Both find Chopin in his
finest, most uncompromising vein in their subtle, luminous harmonies, their variety and
originality of texture, their masterly integration of contrasts, and above all, perhaps, the depth and
directness of their expression.
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52 Not long after composing that, Chopin made the acquaintance of the woman who was
dominate and to an important extent to inspire the most creatively fruitful period of his life.
George Sand (or Georges Sans, to pronounce it as she would have) neither sounded nor
looked nor behaved like a woman at least not in public, and not at this point. She was even then
a famous writer (far more famous than Chopin) who delighted in scandalising so-called polite
society and did it very well.
Born Amandine Aurore Lucie Dupin in 1804 (making her six years Chopins senior), she was
one of the most controversial and prolific novelists of the nineteenth-century, and with the sole
possible exception of his mother, she was far and away the most important woman in the whole
of Chopins life. She had every reason to regard scandal as her birthright, being the illegitimate
daughter of a then well-known public figure, one Martial de Saxe. At 18 shed married Casimir,
Baron Dudevant, thereby acquiring a title and a husband whom she left nine years later, taking
their two children with her to Paris, where she proposed to earn her living from literature. She
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derived her masculine pen name from the first of her many lovers, the writer Jules Sandeau, and
since 1831 shed set Parisian tongues wagging with a whole series of defiantly erotic novels. On
the face of it, she was the opposite of Chopin in almost every respect. Where he was reserved,
formal and a fastidious follower of fashion, she was flamboyant, volatile and rebellious; he was
polished, delicate (even dandyish) and impeccably cosmopolitan, she was ostentatious, rugged
and outdoorsy; he was of humble origins but consorted with royalty, she was of noble stock and
cultivated the company of peasants; where he clung to the badges of tradition and the aristocracy,
she championed feminism, socialism and egalitarianism. Dressed in mens clothing and
brandishing strong cigars, she courted controversy with an exhibitionistic stridency. Together they
were to become one of the oddest couples of the century. At their first meeting, though, Chopin
found her frankly repellent. When we went home, reported a friend, Chopin said to me: What
an unsympathetic woman! Is she really a woman? Almost, I doubt it.
Well, he was neither the first nor the last. According to the Countess dAgoult, Sands
transvestism was unnervingly convincing.
When dressed as a man she had a casual air, and even a youthful, virile grace. Neither the outline of
her breasts nor the prominence of her hips betrayed her feminine sex. Nothing be it the tight-fitting
black velvet riding coat, the high-heeled boots, the tie wrapped around her rather plump neck, or the
mans hat cocked cavalierly over her thick locks of short hair could detract in any way from her
uninhibited manner or the nonchalance of her bearing. She gave the impression of quiet strength.
Opinion amongst men was sharply divided. To Flaubert, she was simply that man who calls
herself George. To the poet and playwright Alfred de Musset (another of her lovers) she was
unambiguously the most womanly woman I have ever known. And he knew more than a few.
Balzac, for his part, wavered: at one moment she was a writing cow; but later, a nightingale in
her nest great-hearted, generous, devout, and chaste.
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She wasnt in any conventional sense beautiful, but she sparked the fascination and excited the
desires of men and women alike, of many different ages and from widely different pasts. The
German poet Heinrich Heine, one of the most penetrating observers of the Parisian scene, wrote
about her at some length:
Her forehead is not high, her delicious chestnut brown locks reach her shoulders. Her eyes are
somewhat languid, at least they are not brilliant, and their fire may have been dimmed by many tears,
or may have consumed itself in her works, which have lighted conflagrations in all the world, have
illumined many a dark prison cell, but also set on fire some temples of innocence A good-natured
smile usually plays around her lips, but it is by no means provocative. Only her somewhat protruding
lower lip suggests sexuality. Her shoulders are beautiful, no, magnificent. Ditto, arms and hands, small
like her feet. Her breasts I leave to others to describe, as I confess incompetence. Her body is a bit thick
and seems too short. Only the head bears witness to her idealism and reminds me of the finest examples
of Greek art. In this connection one of our friends likened her to the Venus de Milo in the lower hall
of the Louvre. Yes, George Sand is as beautiful as the Venus de Milo; she even excels her in some
respects for example, she is much younger. She speaks naturally and with great charm She
possesses nothing of the bubbling esprit of her compatriots, and nothing of their verbosity either. Her
silence, however, is not due to modesty or her absorption in somebody elses concern. She is
monosyllabic because of pride, not thinking it worthwhile to waste her intellect on you, or because of
self-centredness, taking in the best of your thoughts to incorporate them later in one of her books.
And her books, too, provoked extreme reactions. Many deplored her, yet Heine rated her above
Victor Hugo, and among her greatest fans were Dostoevsky, Thackeray, Henry James and Marcel
Proust. To Elizabeth Barrett Browning she was quite simply the finest female genius of any
country or any age. Baudelaire was less complimentary:
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She is stupid, she is ponderous, she is long-winded. Her moral ideas have the depth of judgment and
delicacy of feeling of those of concierges and kept women.
And that, more or less, has been the verdict of posterity though not perhaps a very just one.
George Sands entry into Chopins orbit coincided with the disintegration of his marital hopes
for Maria. He, then, was vulnerable, and Sand, who was beginning to get tired of her present
lover, was in predatory mood. In October 1837 she returned to Paris from her country estate at
Nohant, in the Berry district. Calling on Chopin, whod attracted her interest from the start, she
detected at once a change in his attitude to her. And with good reason. Following another,
undocumented meeting shortly afterwards, Chopin confided to his journal:
I was quite overcome; my heart was conquered She understood me She loves me.
At just what point he qualified for the title of lover we shall never know, but their relationship, by
Sands standards, developed only slowly, she taking the initiative, he characteristically holding back.
We do know, though, that by the end of the following summer her patience was richly rewarded.
At that point, their affair was known only to a select few. Chopin, ambivalent as ever, wasnt
ready to share the secret with most of his Parisian friends, many of whom found Sand both
personally and politically repellent. And even she favoured the idea of putting the gossips out of
reach. In view of Chopins fragile health and her son Maurices worsening rheumatism, they
decided to head south, and stay through to the following spring. On the recommendation of
friends whod never actually been there, they opted for the island of Majorca, off the Spanish
coast - a sun-drenched, unspoilt haven in which they could write, compose, explore, frolic and
make love to their hearts content. Having arranged that a piano would be sent for Chopins use,
they made elaborate plans to cover their traces. Unbeknownst to all but a handful of trustworthy
friends, Sand would slip discreetly out of Paris in mid-October, Chopin joining her two weeks
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later at Perpignan, on the Franco-Spanish border, from which they would embark together on the
holiday trip of a lifetime (the only snag, for honeymoon purposes, being the continual presence
of Sands two children). At Barcelona, on the evening of 7th November, they boarded the ship
that was to carry them to Palma. As they gazed upwards at the brilliant night sky and listened to
the lapping of a quiet sea against the bows, the obvious rightness of their decision crowded all
thoughts of Paris out of their heads. Chopin had brought very little with him, apart from several
volumes of Bach, his own uncompleted manuscripts, including many of the 24 Preludes, and a
sheaf of music paper. As he filled his lungs with the warm, scented air, he felt a pleasant mixture
of contentment and excitement. Seven days later, the mood persisted. In time to catch the one
postal collection of the week, he reported to his friend Fontana in Paris:
Here I am at Palma, among palms, cedars, cacti, olive trees, oranges, lemons, aloes, figs, pomegranates
etc. everything that is to be found in the hot-houses of the Jardins des Plantes. The sky is like
turquoise, the sea like lapis lazuli, the mountains like emerald and the air as in heaven. In the daytime,
sunshine; everyone goes about in summer clothes and its hot. At night, guitars and songs for hours on
end. Enormous balconies with overhanging vines: Moorish ramparts. Everything, including the town
has an African look. In a word, life here is marvellous Its settled that I shall live in a wonderful
monastery on the most fabulous site in the world: sea, mountains, palm trees, a cemetery, a crusaders
church, ruins of a mosque, olive trees a thousand years old. Oh, my dear friend, I am really beginning
to live. I am close to all that is most beautiful. I am a better man.
Shortly afterwards he wrote to Pleyel, complaining that though he dreamt of music he couldnt
properly compose any for lack of a piano an interesting indication of the extent to which this
most pianistic of composers thought (and discovered) with his fingers.
All too soon, though, the euphoria of these first days in Majorca dissolved. Within a fortnight
of arriving, he wrote in some disgruntlement to a friend:
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This is the devils own country as far as the post, the population and comforts are concerned. The sky
is as lovely as your soul; the earth is as black as my heart.
Chopin has not been well. He suffers from the frequent changes of temperature. At last we are getting a
proper stove, and may Heaven grant us its protection, for there are neither doctors nor medicines here.
An odd place, under the circumstances, to have brought a consumptive. Nor, for the moment, did
it favour her own work. As she wrote in December:
We are still not settled, and have neither donkey, servant, water, fire nor any safe means of dispatching
manuscripts. In such circumstances I am cooking, not writing.
Chopins health had in fact collapsed within days of their arrival, as he duly reported to Fontana.
Ive been as sick as a dog for the past two weeks. I caught a cold in spite of the heat, the roses, the
oranges, palms and figs. The three most celebrated doctors on the island have been to see me. One
sniffed at what I spat, the second tapped where I spat from, and the third sounded me and listened as I
spat. The first said I was dead, the second that I am dying, and the third that Im going to die. It was
all I could do to stop them bleeding me or applying blisters and setons.
But he remained optimistic that a change of venue would bring about a change in his condition:
In a few days I shall be living in the most beautiful surroundings in the world: sea, mountains,
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everything. Indeed, its impossible to imagine anything more marvellous. I know I shall be alright
there.
Two weeks later the travellers were ensconced in their new quarters at Valldemosa. It was, as
Chopin described it:
A queer place, situated between the cliffs and the sea, where in a cell with doors larger than any
carriage-gateway in Paris you may imagine me with my hair unkempt, without white gloves, and as
pale as ever. The cell is shaped like a large coffin, the enormous vaulting covered in dust, the window
small. Close to my bed is an old, square, grubby box which I can scarcely use for writing on, with a
leaden candlestick (a great luxury in these parts) and a little candle.
It wasnt what hed imagined. He was not alright there. Nor did his work flourish.
All this is having an absolutely wretched effect on the Prludes God knows when I shall be able to
finish them Meanwhile my manuscripts sleep while I get no sleep at all. I can only go on coughing
and await the spring, or something else.
And the weather was hardly calculated to improve his mood. Three days after Christmas, Sand
reported to a friend:
The rains here are such as one cannot imagine, frightening deluges, with the air so wet and heavy one
cannot drag ones self about I am all rheumatism And our poor Chopin is quite feeble and
suffering. For his sake I await impatiently the return of the beneficent season.
Now coughing badly, and covered in poultices, Chopin, for his part, continued to await the
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delivery of his piano, which had allegedly reached Palma more than a week earlier. Nor was its
progress aided by Majorcan topography.
I have travelled here from Palma many times, always with the same coachman but each time by a
different route. This is a place where roads are made by torrents and repaired by landslides. You cant
drive through this way today because its ploughed up, tomorrow only mules can pass and what
vehicles they have!
Yet despite the frustrations, the poor state of his health and his generalized contempt for the local
populace, his sense of enchantment returned:
Tonight the moon is marvellous. Never have I seen it like this. Nature is kindly here, even if the people
are scoundrels and thieves You can have oranges for nothing, but they demand an enormous sum
for a trouser button. All that, however, is a mere grain of sand when compared with the poetry which
everything here exhales and the colouring of this most marvellous scenery, still unsullied by the eye of
man. Few have ever disturbed the eagles which daily soar over our heads.
The climate at Majorca was becoming more and more deadly to Chopin and I hastened to get away.
Just to show you what the inhabitants are like - I had three leagues of rough roads to cover between
my mountain retreat and Palma. We knew ten people who have carriages, horses, mules etc., but not
one was willing to lend them. We had to make this journey in a hired cart without springs, and of course
Chopin had a terrible attack of blood-spitting when we reached Palma. And the reason for this
unfriendliness? It was because Chopin coughs, and whosoever coughs in Spain is declared
consumptive; and he who is consumptive is held to be a plague carrier, a leper. They havent stones,
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sticks and policemen enough to drive him out, for according to their ideas consumption is catching and
the sufferer should therefore be slaughtered if possible, just as the insane were strangled two hundred
years ago. What I say is the literal truth. We were treated like outcasts at Majorca because of Chopins
cough and also because we didnt go to church. My children were stoned in the street I should have
to write ten volumes to give you an idea of the cowardice, deceit, selfishness, stupidity and spite of this
stupid, thieving and bigoted race.
It was a relief to put the island behind them, but Chopins condition was pitiful. By the time they
reached the mainland, he was haemorrhaging badly and bringing up blood, as Sand vividly put it,
by the bowlful. On their arrival, he was examined by a doctor who stopped the bleeding and
gave Chopin a sedative before pronouncing, to everyones surprise, that Chopin was not in fact
suffering from consumption, or from any other disease. His lungs were apparently sound, though
the doctor diagnosed a weak chest, and the only prescription was rest. Sands mood lifted at
once, but as she indicated in a letter to a friend, the curse of Majorca followed them to the very
shoreline of the mainland.
Here we are at last in Barcelona, which seems a paradise by comparison. We came by steamer,
however, in the company of a hundred pigs whose stench didnt exactly help to cure Chopin. But the
poor boy would have died of melancholy at Majorca and I had to get him away at all costs. Heavens,
if you knew him as I do now, you would be still fonder of him. He is an angel of gentleness, patience
and kindness.
Chopin reciprocated, almost to the letter: writing to a friend some time later he remarks:
If you could know her as I do today, you would love her still more.
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And to another:
My health is steadily improving the blisters, diets, pills and baths and also the tireless nursing of my
angel are putting me on my feet again rather shaky feet I have gone awfully thin and I look wretched,
but I am now eating to gain strength. In addition to my eternal coughing you can imagine all the rage
which those Spaniards put me into, as well as the other similarly pleasant experiences. I had to look on
while she, continually harassed, nursed me (the less said about those doctors the better), made my bed,
tidied my room, prepared hot drinks. She deprived herself of everything for me, while all the time she
was receiving no letters and the children needed her constant attention in these unusual circumstances.
Add to this the fact that she was writing her books and we have evidence of an iron will and a
love beyond passion.
Chopins physical frailty and the distressing symptoms of his disease seem not to have affected
Sands pleasure in his company. They do seem, however (and not surprisingly), to have shifted
the emphasis from the romantic and sexual to the maternal and vocational. Given Chopins state
of health and the constant proximity of Sands children in relatively confined quarters, the
circumstances were hardly conducive to the passionate sexuality which seems to have
characterised their first month together. That Sands love for him only grew during their hapless
Majorcan winter seems clear in a letter written to a friend at the end of April:
This Chopin is an angel; his kindness, tenderness and patience sometimes worry me, for I have the
feeling that his whole being is too delicate, too exquisite and too perfect to exist long in our coarse and
heavy earthly life. In Majorca, when sick unto death, he composed music full of the scent of Paradise;
but I am so used to seeing him away in the skies that it doesnt seem to signify whether he is alive or
dead. He doesnt really know on what planet he is living and has no precise notion of life as we others
conceive and live it.
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Perhaps not. But if Sand perceived the scent of Paradise in the music he composed that winter,
then one can only conclude that her understanding of Chopins music was deficient from the start.
53
54 For all his love and appreciation of Sand, Chopins letters during this period give vent,
though not for the first time, to a misanthropic streak strikingly at variance with his impeccable
conduct in public, let alone Sands characterisation of him as an angel. Bloody Germans!,
rogues, swine, sharks, animals these are only a few of the bouquets strewn about his
correspondence. In a single (and not long) letter of 12th March 1839 he refers to various of his
friends, acquaintances and publishers as cheats, tricksters, swindlers, fools, imbeciles,
Huns and Jews the last being his most common term of abuse.
I didnt expect such Jewish behaviour from Pleyel And dont let Schlesinger take you in, like Pleyel
... This Pleyel, my God, who supposedly adores me! What scoundrels! If we have to deal with Jews,
let it at least be with orthodox ones Schlesinger has swindled me all along, but its best to go
carefully with him, for this Jew would like to cut a figure in the world. If Pleyel makes the slightest
difficulty, go to Schlesinger and tell him he can have the Ballade for France and Germany at a price of
800 Jews will be Jews and Huns will be Huns - thats the truth of it, but what can one do? Im forced
to deal with them The Prludes are already sold to Pleyel, so he can wipe the other end of his
stomach with them if he pleases, but since theyre all such a band of Jews, stop everything else till I
get back.
To put such deeply unattractive behaviour in context, it must be said that, however repellent, the
thoughtless, casual antisemitism evident in his correspondence was in no way peculiar to Chopin.
It was common change amongst Poles of almost every class and political stripe. More revealing
of Chopins own character, and in some ways more disturbing, is his readiness to address the
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unsuspecting recipients of his abuse in terms of the sincerest friendship. Written at the same time
as that was a letter to Pleyel himself.
I am vexed, my dear friend, that Fontana has been troubling you with my affairs I am writing him
this very day to tell him not to bother you any more with this business. I wrote to you twice from
Majorca and was grieved at receiving no reply. I learn from Fontana that you are still unwell, and that
grieves me more than your silence I expect to return to Paris when the fine weather comes
Au revoir, then, my dearest friend.
Yours devotedly,
F. Chopin
Chopin and Sand moved on from Barcelona to Marseilles, where they stayed, partly on medical
advice, for the next three months. The wonder is that they could afford it. The ravages of their
Majorcan winter had seriously hampered their creative activities, and their continued absence
from Paris deprived Chopin of his principal income.
Theres no doubting that their return to France marked the beginning of a new and important
(in many ways the most important) chapter in Chopins creative life. To the next few years would
belong the majority of his finest works including the Sonatas, the F minor Fantasy, the late
Nocturnes and numerous Mazurkas of prophetic originality.
55
Music: Mazurkas
56 The relative seclusion of Nohant, from the point of view of a gregarious Parisian, was a twoedged sword. And in their very different ways, Chopin and Sand were both gregarious, if often
as a means of escape from themselves. As a friend remarked at the time:
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Chopin disliked being without company a circumstance which he rarely allowed to arise. In the
morning he liked to spend an hour by himself at his grand piano; but even when he practised or how
should I describe it? when he stayed at home to play in the evenings, he needed to have at least one
of his friends close at hand.
I would rather play dominoes in a caf than spend an hour of the afternoon alone. Alone! What horror!
Few writers, however, create in company, and Sand was no exception. While she reserved the
afternoons for society and the mornings for sleep, she spent her nights in labour, writing for six
or seven hours at a stretch and averaging a daily output of some 20 pages. Her use of ink and
paper was as prodigious as her energy and concentration, and led to the production of 60 novels,
several plays, numerous essays, and sundry other published works, numbering 104 in all. In
addition, she wrote almost 20,000 letters, some exceeding 40 pages.
Chopin adopted a very different mode of life at Nohant. He would rise early, sometimes before
Sand had gone to bed, work sporadically throughout the day, socialise in the evening when there
were often guests, and retire early. As Sand put it at the time:
We lead the same monotonous, quiet, gentle life. We dine out in the open, friends wander over, first
one, then another, we smoke and talk, and in the evening, when they have gone, Chopin plays to me
in the twilight, after which he goes to bed like a child, at the same time as Maurice and Solange.
Anyone doubting the congeniality of place and circumstance where Chopins music was
concerned need only look at the works which flowed from his pen during this first, idyllic
summer: the B flat minor Sonata (except for the Funeral March which had been written two years
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before), the three Mazurkas, Op. 41, the G major Nocturne, Op. 37, and the Impromptu in
F sharp major.
57
58
Sand has left us with a revealing picture of Chopin the creator at work:
His music was spontaneous, miraculous. He found it without seeking it, without previous intimation of
it. It came upon his piano sudden, complete, sublime, or it sang in his head during a walk, and he was
impatient to hear it himself with the help of the instrument. But then began the most desperate labour
that I have ever witnessed. It was a succession of efforts, hesitations, and moments of impatience to
recapture certain details of the theme he could hear; what he had conceived as one piece, he analyzed
too much in trying to write it down, and his dismay at his inability to rediscover it in what he thought
was its original purity threw him into a kind of despair. He would lock himself up in his room for whole
days, weeping, pacing back and forth, breaking his pens, repeating or changing one bar a hundred
times, writing and erasing it as many times. He sometimes spent six weeks on one page, only in the
end to write it exactly as he had sketched at the first draft.
With the fiasco of Majorca behind him, Chopins health seemed to improve with every passing
day. No fewer than three doctors had examined him and pronounced him free of consumption; his
creature comforts were provided with unflagging devotion by a woman who loved him and
understood the throes of artistic creation as well as anyone; surrounded by beautiful countryside
under a cloudless sky, he composed and played without restrictions.
The pattern of Nohant summers was much the same from year to year. Guests would come and
go, with no evident disruption of the creative routine already established. Among them, from the
summer of 1842, was the great painter Delacroix, who savoured the experience.
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This is a delightful place and my hosts do everything in their power to make life agreeable. When we
are not together for dinner, lunch, billiards or walks, one can read in ones rooms or sprawl on ones
sofa. Every now and then there blows in through your window, opening onto the garden, a breath of
the music of Chopin who is at work in his room, and it mingles with the song of the nightingales and
the scent of the roses I have endless conversations with Chopin, of whom Im very fond and who
is a man of rare distinction. I believe he is the truest artist I have ever met. I asked him one day what
logic in music consisted of. He made me realise what harmony and counterpoint are, and how fugue
is, as it were, pure logic in music. I thought how glad I would have been to learn all that. The fact is
that true science is not what people ordinarily understand by that word; that is to say, something quite
different from art, in the realm of knowledge. No; science thus envisaged and demonstrated by a man
like Chopin is art himself. And on the other hand, art is not what the common herd imagine it to be
a sort of inspiration coming from I-know-not-where, something proceeding from chance and
portraying merely the picturesque exterior of things. It is reason itself, adorned by genius but following
a course determined and restrained by superior laws. Chopin told me that pupils usually learn about
chords before they understand counterpoint, that is, the succession of notes which lead to chords.
In its outer aspect this summer was among the happiest of Chopins adult life. His music, on the
other hand, often seemed to tell a different story. None more so, perhaps, than the great Sonata
which grew up, as it were, around the famous funeral march hed written some years earlier. The
work in general is a kind of apotheosis of turbulence, and it ends with a brief, fleeting finale which
is quite unlike anything ever written, before or since. Indeed, these three pages (thats all there
are) may well constitute the most enigmatic movement in the entire history of sonata form. As a
self-contained Prlude, less than 90 seconds long, it would be astonishing enough; as the
conclusion of a major virtuoso work of more than twenty minutes duration, it simply takes the
breath away. Its weirdness is timeless, its restlessness eternal. And with its famous, funereal
companion it inadvertently heralded the last and darkest phase of Chopins life.
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59
60 In the summer of 1839, there were pressing reasons to return to Paris. Beneficial though the
country air and leisurely pace at Nohant may have been to his health, Chopins financial position
was doomed to worsen the longer he stayed away. Sand too, whod shouldered the heaviest part of
their financial burden, was increasingly hard-pressed, and there was still the education of her
children to be settled. In Paris, Chopin quickly discovered not only that his liaison with Sand was
well known but that its acknowledgement had done nothing to tarnish his own reputation, social or
professional. Nor could he conceal his joy at returning to the hub of Parisian society. Throughout
the early months of 1840, he and Sand worked tirelessly to regain the financial security ravaged by
their Majorcan adventure. By the beginning of summer, their incomes had reached their former
level and in June the pair decamped to Nohant, after an absence of some eighteen months. Their
Parisian summer of the previous year was the only break in a pattern which characterised their
lives for the next six years: the late autumn, winter and spring spent in Paris, the summer and early
autumn at Nohant. In Paris, Chopin concentrated mainly on teaching, and very occasionally
performing; at Nohant he gave his fullest attention to composition. It was there, in the next few
years, that he composed many of his greatest works, none greater than the unique F minor Ballade
which many people regard as the very pinnacle of his achievement. Well, it wasnt always so. Its
one of the very few pieces of Chopin which were distinctly unpopular to begin with.
One thing that often baffled people was Chopins approach to form. And you still hear it said
that he couldnt handle large-scale forms, that he was basically a miniaturist. The point about
Chopins form is that it tends to be self-generating. Its the result rather than the cause of musical
events. On the face of it, the F minor Ballade shouldnt work. It starts off sounding like a set of
variations on a theme set out near the beginning, and then goes off and reaches a tremendous
climax with entirely different thematic material. But fortunately we dont have to settle for the
face of it. All we need is the music itself.
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62 On 21st February 1842, Chopin relented to widespread pressure and gave a public concert at
the Salle Pleyel in Paris. It was another triumph, followed by what was to become the usual
result of his public appearances: two weeks in bed, during which time he complained endlessly
of exhaustion and sundry other maladies. And if Sand is to be believed, (and why not?), looking
after him was no picnic.
Gentle, cheerful and charming, Chopin could bring his intimates to despair when he was ill. There was
no nobler, more delicate nor disinterested soul, there was no man more loyal and faithful in daily
relationships. No one could surpass him in wit and gaiety; no-one had a fuller or deeper understanding
of his art. But unfortunately no one ever had a temperament so uneven, an imagination more deranged
and gloomy, a sensitivity so easily wounded, and emotional demands so impossible to satisfy. Nothing
of this was his fault. It was all the fault of his illness.
But Sand herself was curiously ambivalent about the nature of his illness, sometimes
acknowledging it as all too real, sometimes convincing herself that it was all in his head. Well, he
was ill medical hindsight leaves no doubt on that score but that doesnt mean he wasnt also
something of a hypochondriac. Theres no question that he was becoming increasingly difficult,
but this may well have had more to do with Sand herself, and in particular her increasing
maternalism, than with any physical ailments on his part. Its often been suggested that Sands
caretaking instincts psychologically unmanned Chopin, but his music tells a different story. The
epic B minor Sonata, the A flat Polonaise, the Barcarolle and the Polonaise-Fantasy are hardly the
products of an emotional eunuch. And whatever else may be said or thought of her, the fact is that
it was Sand more than anyone else who created, and for a long time maintained, the environment
in which his genius could flourish. The lighter Chopin wed have had anyway, of course, and not
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only that. He was a great composer before he ever met George Sand. But it was she, almost singlehandedly, who made possible a journey of discovery which might never have happened if hed
become a prisoner of fashion. And that was a very real danger. She gave him not only devoted
companionship but a sense of family which he thought hed lost. In that context he could afford
the courage to fail, or at least the courage to risk failure. But theres no denying that the cost was
high and their relationship itself was hardly a model of health. Quite early on, she began referring
to him, quite openly, as the little one, the boy, little Chip-Chip and so on. As the years wore
on he became the poor child, and later, even my son. Tell that to the psychiatrist.
Whatever the explanation, the apparent removal of sex from their relations had some
disconcerting repercussions. From his early thirties onwards, Chopins previously immaculate
behaviour gave way to startling eruptions of temper and impatience, and Sand wasnt by any
means the only victim. Increasingly, his students too were affected. One of these was a young
Polish girl, Zofia Rozengardt, whod travelled from Warsaw to Paris expressly to study with him.
You cannot imagine a person who can be colder and more indifferent to everything around him. There
is a strange mixture in his character: vain and proud, loving luxury and yet uninterested and incapable
of sacrificing the smallest part of his own will or caprice for all the luxury in the world. He is polite to
excess, and yet there is so much irony, so much spite hidden inside it. Woe betide the person who
allows himself to be taken in. He has an extraordinarily keen eye, and he will catch the smallest
absurdity and mock it wonderfully. He is heavily endowed with wit and common sense, but then he
often has wild, unpleasant moments when he is evil and angry, when he breaks chairs and stamps his
feet. He can be as petulant as a spoiled child, bullying his pupils and being very cold with his friends.
Those are usually days of suffering, physical exhaustion or quarrels with Madame Sand .
And these were becoming both more frequent and more public. Yet even here there was a
curious element of self-control and calculation. The fact is that the well-born ladies of Parisian
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society the main source of his income, remember never saw this side of him at all. But it
would be wrong to exaggerate any of this. These were still exceptional lapses, and in many
respects these years were amongst the happiest Chopin knew. And they bore some magnificent
artistic fruits. Its perfectly true that circumstance and music dont always add up, but it seems
safe to assume that the great B minor Sonata of 1844 gives a broadly accurate picture of Chopins
state of mind at the time. In its tremendous self-assurance and its wealth of melodic invention, it
gives us Chopin not only at his most masterful but at his most spiritually healthy. Never was he
less deserving of John Fields contemptuous quip that he was a sickroom talent. The fact is that
no other composer of the time was writing music of more natural and unprotesting virility.
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64 In many ways, the B minor Sonata marked the high point of Chopins spiritual health. But his
physical health now began to decline dramatically, and this inevitably affected his state of mind.
In the whole of the following year he managed to produce a mere three Mazurkas, and that was
all. The summer brought no relief. Nohant seemed to have lost its charm for him, and he was
engulfed by an enervating sense of boredom from which he did nothing to escape. Sand, for her
part, increasingly avoided him, staying in her room and writing for longer and longer periods.
Relations between them deteriorated almost by the day, and memories of past happiness were
often eclipsed.
I have never had, and shall never have, any peace with him The day before yesterday he spent the
entire day without speaking a word to a soul. Was he ill? Has someone annoyed him? Have I said
anything to upset him? I shall never know, no more than a million other similar things which he doesnt
know himself But I must not let him think he is the master here he would be all the more touchy
in the future.
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Far from feeling masterful, Chopin was suspended in a kind of limbo, and it was clear to everyone
except Sand that he was growing progressively weaker. Sand herself stubbornly refused to
acknowledge that he really was seriously ill.
By the end of June it was clear that the heat of the summer would not be confined to the
weather. For some time thered been increasing tension between Chopin and Sands son Maurice.
It now erupted into open warfare. Sand, for her part, sided with Maurice. Her patience with
Chopin was fast running out.
I quite lost my temper, which finally gave me the courage to tell him a few home truths, and to threaten
to get sick of him. Since then he has been sensible, and you know how sweet, excellent and admirable
he is when he is not mad.
Less than a week before this outburst, Sand had begun the serial publication of her latest novel,
Lucrezia Floriani. The story is quite obviously based on her relationship with Chopin.
Unsurprisingly, Sand casts herself as the heroine invariably noble, tender and self-sacrificing.
Chopin (thinly disguised as a Polish prince) emerges as helpless, jealous, self-pitying, demanding
and in the end the cause of the heroines undoing.
Needless to say, the book was a gossips dream come true. Those who knew the couple well
were in no doubt about its nature. Yet in that summer of 1846, Chopin sat demure and attentive
while Sand read the book aloud to the assembled company, and showed not the slightest sign of
recognition or discomfort. Delacroix was appalled:
I was frankly in agony during the reading The victim and the executioner amazed me equally.
Madame Sand seemed completely at ease, and Chopin did not stop making admiring comments about
the story.
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Since it seems inconceivable that neither of them recognised what the outside world could see at
a glance, its possible that Chopin, whose talents as an actor had been praised by actors, was
defending his corner by deliberately spiking her guns demonstrating in company that her
attempt at character assassination had missed its target. But obviously thats something well
never know.
In quantity, Chopins music had now slowed to a trickle, but its quality only grew richer. The
next year saw of one of the crowning glories of his entire creative life. In character, nature and
quality, the F sharp major Barcarolle stands apart from most of Chopins other work. Even in its
title, it seems to invite a programmatic interpretation something he was normally at pains to
avoid. A barcarolle is a boating song, associated with Venetian gondoliers, and Chopin draws here
on actual gondoliers songs again, a very un-Chopinesque thing to do. And in the works very
opening gesture one can easily imagine the push of the gondoliers pole and the swish of the water
against the bows as the boat moves off.
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The F sharp major Barcarolle, which many musicians regard as Chopins most perfect work.
66 The circumstances of his life, by contrast, were anything but perfect. That summer at Nohant,
unlike the previous one, he persisted in trying to compose, but he now tired very quickly and
found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. And the weather didnt help. No-one could
remember a hotter or more humid summer. It sapped Chopins energy still more, but he could no
longer count on Sand for sympathy and support. Unlike the caretaking angel of that terrible
winter in Majorca, she now openly mocked him.
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Chopin is amazed to find himself sweating. Hes really upset by it and complains that however much
he washes, he still stinks! We laugh to the point of tears to see this ethereal creature refusing to sweat
like everyone else but dont ever mention it or hell become quite furious. If the world were to know
that he sweats, he could scarcely go on living. He only reeks of Eau de Cologne, but we go on telling
him that he stinks like Bonnin the carpenter, and he goes scurrying back to his room, as though pursued
by his own smell!
That autumn, for the first time, Chopin returned to Paris alone, leaving behind him a simmering
cauldron of family tensions which was soon to gather all the force of a Greek tragedy, and the
complexity of a Shakespearean one. Precipitated by the marriage of Sands daughter Solange to
the dissolute sculptor Auguste Clsinger, and fuelled by long-pent-up emotions, it led to a lethal
souffl of jealousies, malicious intrigues, lies and physical violence. As Sand reported to a friend
in Paris:
There has nearly been murder here. My son-in-law took a hammer and would perhaps have killed
Maurice if I hadnt thrown myself between them, punching the former in the face and reciving from
him a blow in the chest. If the cur who was there, and some friends and a servant hadnt intervened
by main force, Maurice, armed with a pistol, would have shot him there and then. And there stood
Solange, stirring the flames with icy ferocity, after having caused these dreadful outrages by her tales,
lies and incredibly filthy stories This pair of devils left yesterday. I never want to see them again,
and they will never set foot in this house I had to give Chopin a partial account of all this; I was
afraid he might arrive in the midst of a catastrophe and die of grief and shock. Dont tell him the worst
of what happened; we must hide it from him if at all possible. The Clsingers will probably, in their
crazy and impudent way, force me to defend Maurice, Augustine and myself against the atrocious
slanders they are spreading.
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Which indeed they did. Chopin, who heard the story only from Solange, sided with her and wrote
a letter to Sand, the effect of which was catastrophic. Her reply hasnt survived, but a deeply
distressed Chopin showed it to Delacroix, who shared his reaction.
One has to admit that it is horrible. Cruel passions and long pent-up impatience erupt in it, and by a
contrast which would be amusing if it did not touch on so tragic a subject, the author often takes over
from the woman, and launches into tirades which look as though they were taken straight from a novel
or a philosophical homily.
But Chopin had more immediate problems to attend to. As he reported to his family:
My friends came in one morning recently and said that I must give a concert; and that I should have
nothing to worry about, merely sit down and play. For a week now all the tickets have been sold even
though they cost 20 francs. The public are putting their names down for a second concert which I have
no intention of giving. The Court has ordered 40 tickets and the papers had merely to mention that I
might give a concert for people to start writing to my publisher from Brest and Nantes to reserve seats.
This eager rush surprises me and I must begin practising for it today, if only for consciences sake, for
I really feel that I now play worse than ever.
It was now six years since his last concert, and absence hadnt made the heart grow fonder. It
had only increased his fear and hatred of public performance but in the circumstances, he had
little choice. His ever more precarious health was having a disastrous effect on his teaching
practice and he was in serious need of money. The concert, as ever, was a triumph and as usual,
there were immediate requests for another, but this time it was politics, not exhaustion, that
determined the answer.
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In the winter of 1848, the streets of Paris resounded once again to the sound of revolution.
Chopin didnt see the uprising himself he was still bedridden in the aftermath of his concert
but he heard the news, and without even looking out of the window he could tell that the scene
had changed. As he reported to his family back in Poland:
Paris is quiet now, with the quiet of fear. Everyone has rallied to the cause of order. Everyone has joined
the National Guard. The shops are open but there are no customers. Foreigners, passports in hand,
are waiting for the damage to the railways to be repaired. Clubs are beginning to be formed. But I
should never stop if I tried to tell you whats going on here.
In fact, similar things were going on all over Europe. In France, they resulted in the overthrow of
the king and tumbling in his wake went that glittering and fashionable Paris which almost 20
years earlier had welcomed Chopin into its midst and celebrated him as one of the brightest jewels
in its crown. Many of the streets were torn up and barricaded, communications and supplies were
badly disrupted and the cost of living went through the roof. Many of the capitals wealthier
citizens, including most of Chopins pupils, had either taken refuge in the country or had left
France altogether.
One consequence which he may not have anticipated was the immediate return to Paris of
George Sand, eager as ever to support the socialist cause. For the first time since their break-up,
the possibility arose that they might accidentally meet. It happened remarkably quickly. On
Sunday 5th March he reported to Solange, who had now given birth:
I went to see Mme Marliani yesterday, and as I was coming out I ran into your mother at the vestibule
door. I said good-day to her and my next words were to ask whether she had heard from you lately. A
week ago, she replied. No news yesterday or the day before? No Then allow me to inform you
that you are a grandmother. Solange has a little girl, and I am very glad to to be the first to give you
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the news. She asked how I was. I said I was well, and then I called for the concierge to open the door.
I raised my hat, turned away from her and walked back home.
As he considered his circumstances, the time seemed right to accept a long-proffered invitation
from one of his pupils to visit Britain.
Jane Stirling was a well-to-do Scottish girl who idolised her teacher and was almost certainly
in love with him. With her sister Mrs Erskine, she proposed to Chopin that he should now travel
with them to London, where he could have all the students he wanted, a guaranteed welcome into
the ranks of English high society, and potentially limitless opportunities to give and to attend
concerts. Already there were Berlioz, Liszt, Kalkbrenner, Thalberg and the famous Swedish
soprano Jenny Lind. There, too, he could meet such non-musical luminaries as Dickens, Carlyle
and Emerson, and play before the young Queen Victoria, reputedly an avid music lover. Even if
hed wanted to, Chopin was in no position to refuse. He arrived in London on the evening of April
20th and was deeply touched by the arrangements that had been made for him.
My good Mrs Erskine and her sister have thought of everything, even of my special drinking chocolate,
and not merely of rooms. I shall be changing these, however, for better ones which have just become
available in their street. Ive only just noticed that this paper Im writing on has my monogram, and
Ive met with many similar delicate attentions.
After a single nights sleep, he was then cast into the maelstrom of English high society with an
enthusiasm and disregard for his health that left him more exhausted than ever. All in all, he was
not enjoying himself. Days later, he lamented:
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I am wasting my time. I cannot get up before eight. My Italian valet, who thinks only of himself, wastes
the first part of the morning for me, and after ten begin all sorts of tribulations which dont bring in
any money Its only the day after tomorrow that the Duchess of Sutherland is to present me to the
Queen. If the Queen and Prince Albert are pleased with me they already know about me all will be
well: I shall be starting from the top!
The occasion came and went. That evening the Queen wrote in her diary:
There was some pretty music, good Lablache, Mario and Tamburini singing, and some pianists playing.
So much for starting at the top. And well down the social ladder, Utopia still looked a long way
off:
At last I have good lodgings; but no sooner have I settled in than my landlord now wants to make me pay
twice as much, or else accept another room (Im already paying 26 guineas a month). Its true that I have
a large and splendid drawing-room and can give my lessons there, but so far I have only five pupils. I
dont know what I shall do. In truth, my nerves are all to pieces: I am depressed by a stupid feeling of
melancholy, and with all my resignation I am deeply worried and dont know what to do with myself.
And London didnt offer much in the way of compensation. Although a good many of Chopins
works had been both published and performed in England, they hadnt achieved anything like the
popularity they enjoyed in France and Germany. The leading critic of Londons The Musical
World spoke for all too many when he declared that
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The entire works of Chopin present a motley surface of ranting hyperbole and excruciating cacophony!
No amount of success hardens an artist against remarks like that. But if the critics were out with
their crossbows, the streets at least were reasonably safe. The same could hardly be said, at that
point anyway, of the streets in Paris. On balance, Chopin was better off where he was.
On 23rd June, under mounting financial pressure, he gave his first English concert, at the home
of a Mrs Sartoris, the wife of a leading industrialist. The occasion was very much a high society
do, whose ticket holders included William Makepeace Thackeray, Jenny Lind and the highly
esteemed Mrs Jane Carlyle, whose admiration for Chopin knew no bounds.
I prefer Chopins music to that of all others, for it is not a specimen of art offered to the general
admiration, which is the effect that most music has upon me. It is rather the reflection of part of his
soul, and a fragment of his life lavished on those who have ears to hear and a heart to understand. I
think that each of his compositions must have taken away from the number of days allotted to him.
67
68 With the end of the social season in July, the fashionable of London dispersed variously into
the countryside, many of them headed for Scotland. Among them were the sisters Stirling and
Erskine, who insisted on taking Chopin with them. On August 6th he was installed at Calder
House, near Edinburgh, and despite his mood, he was impressed.
It is an old manor house surrounded by a vast park with hundred-year-old trees. One sees nothing but lawns,
trees, mountains and sky. The walls are eight feet thick; galleries everywhere and dark corridors with
countless portraits of ancestors, of all different colours and with various costumes some in kilts, some in
armour, everything to feed the imagination. The room I occupy has the most splendid view imaginable.
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In Scotland, the hospitality and dedication of his dear Scottish ladies, as he called them, reached
new heights.
I no sooner have time to wish for something than it is ready to hand - they even bring me the Paris
newspapers every day. I have quiet, peace and comfort My room is well away from the others, so
that I can play and do as I please. I am completely free; for the chief consideration with these people
is that a guest should not be restricted in any way. In my room I found a Broadwood, and in the
drawing-room there is a Pleyel which Miss Stirling brought with her. Country house life here is most
pleasant. The houses are elegantly fitted up: libraries, horses, carriages to order, plenty of servants etc.
Although everyone in high society, especially the ladies, speak French, the general conversation is in
English, and then I regret that I cant follow it; but I have neither the time nor the desire to learn the
language. Anyhow, I understand everyday conversation. I dont allow myself to be cheated [did anyone
try?] and I shouldnt starve to death, but that is not enough.
The fact is that Chopin was now largely beyond the reach of those who were most eager to help him.
Its horrible. I am unwell and depressed, and my hosts simply weary me with their excessive attentions.
I can neither breathe nor work. Although I am surrounded by people, I feel alone, alone, alone. All
those with whom I was in most intimate harmony have died or left me. All that remains to me is a long
nose and a fourth finger out of practice. I can feel neither grief nor joy my emotions are completely
exhausted I am just vegetating and waiting for it all to end quickly. I havent a decent musical idea
in my head I am out of my rut like a donkey at a fancy-dress ball a violin E string on a doublebass amazed, bewildered, as drowsy as if I were listening to Baudiot playing. I am vegetating,
patiently waiting for the winter, dreaming now of home, now of Rome. I can scarcely breathe. I am just
about ready to give up the ghost.
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On a visit to Edinburgh, in September, he escaped briefly from his Scottish hosts and visited
a Polish family, whod recently settled nearby. The opportunity to speak and hear his own
language again filled him with a kind of bitter-sweet joy, but it was short-lived. As soon as he left
his new-found Polish friends, his spirits sank lower than ever.
Nowadays I am not fit for anything during the whole morning, until two oclock (lunch) and after
that, when I have dressed, everything irritates me and I go on gasping until dinner-time. Dinner over,
I have to remain at the table with the menfolk, watching them talk and listening to them drinking.
Bored to death (thinking of quite different things from them, in spite of all their politeness and
explanatory remarks in French around the table), I must call up all my strength of mind, for they are
by that time curious to hear me. Afterwards my good Daniel carries me upstairs to my bedroom, helps
me to undress, puts me to bed, leaves a candle, and then I am free to gasp and dream until morning,
when it starts all over again In truth, I feel the world slipping from me, I forget things. I have no
strength. Sometimes I seem to recover a little, but then I sink back lower still.
By now the summer was over. The London rich had returned to the capital, Paris was in a state
of semi-chaos, while Chopin remained in Scotland, counting the minutes between periods of
sleep, dreading the onset of winter, and unable to make any but the most immediately practical
decisions. Beyond the aimless social engagements in his diary, his life had lost any sign of
structure or purpose.
On the last day of October, Chopin finally returned to London, and for three weeks he never
left his room. Despite the increasingly critical state of his health, though, he did struggle out once,
to play at a charity ball for Polish refugees. But he soon wished he hadnt.
As soon as I had finished I came home, but could not sleep all night. I had an awful headache, in
addition to my cough and choking spasms. I had already been ill for two and a half weeks I really
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have no heart for anything. Everything is now unbearable for me. Why doesnt God just finish me off
straight away, instead of killing me by inches with this fever of indecision?
By the third week in November Chopin had decided to return to Paris before the winter
imprisoned him in London. He left England early in the afternoon of 23rd November 1848,
though he had to be helped onto the train and into his seat, and together they reached Paris, as
planned, at noon the next day
But it was a Paris much changed. Many aristocratic families who, like him, had fled the
uprisings of the spring, were unready to return. Among them, of course, were many of his pupils
the principal source of his income. He was too weak to compose, let alone to contemplate
performing, so he was more than ever dependent on teaching if he himself was to escape the
poverty which he now saw all around him. His prospects had never looked so bleak.
Though he put a brave face on it, his situation grew more critical by the day. His teaching soon
dwindled to practically nothing, and the will to compose seems to have left him altogether. He
now faced living entirely on the charity of his many well-to-do friends, and for a man of his pride
this was a bitter pill to swallow. That summer some influential Polish friends arranged with the
Russian authorities for his sister Ludwika and her family to obtain passports for Paris. No-one by
this time was in any doubt as to the urgency of the mission. On the 8th of August, Ludwika,
accompanied by her husband and daughter, arrived to nurse her brother through his final decline.
Rumours of Chopins imminent death spread rapidly, and a long sequence of friends prepared to
take their leave of him. Among them was the Polish poet Cyprian Norwid.
I found him dressed, but reclining on his bed, with swollen legs; this could be perceived at once,
although he wore stockings and shoes. The artists sister was sitting next to him, strangely resembling
him in profile He was in the shadow of the deep bed with curtains, leaning on his pillows and
wrapped in a shawl, and he was very beautiful, and as always there was something perfect, something
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classical, in his most casual gestures In a voice broken by his coughing and choking, he began to
reproach me for not having come to him for such a long time. After that he spoke jokingly and wanted
to tease me about my mystical tendencies, and since it gave him pleasure, I let him do it. He had fits
of coughing, and then the moment came when he had to be alone. I said farewell to him, and he,
pressing my hand, threw his hair back from his forehead, and said I am going , and then began to
cough. Upon hearing this I kissed him on the arm and, knowing that he was pleased when sharply
contradicted, I said, in a tone that one uses with a strong and courageous person, You have been going,
in this way, every year, and yet, thank God, we still find you alive!
By the end of September, his condition had rapidly declined. On the evening of 12th October his
doctor, fearing that Chopin wouldnt last the night, summoned a priest to administer the final
sacraments. But Chopin didnt die as expected. The next day he was often in agony and was
slipping in and out of consciousness. For four more days he hung on, suffering bouts of extreme
pain with a strength and courage both moving and terrible to those who witnessed it. As one friend
wrote, I have never in my life seen such a tenacious vitality.
The whole evening of the 16th was spent reciting litanies; we gave the responses, but Chopin remained
silent. Only by his strained breathing could one tell that he was still alive. That evening two doctors
examined him. One of them took a candle, and holding it before Chopins face, which had become
quite dark with suffocation, remarked to us that his senses had ceased to function. But when he asked
Chopin whether he was still in pain, we quite distinctly heard the answer: No more. These were the
last words heard from his lips.
At around two oclock in the morning on the 17th October 1849, Chopin died He was 39 years
old. At his own request, his heart was cut out and sent in an urn to Warsaw, where it rests to this
day in the church of the Holy Cross.
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When the funeral took place three days later, more than 3,000 people crowded into the church
while many hundreds more gathered silently in the streets outside. One year later, to the day, a
Chopin monument, carved by Clsinger, was unveiled at the burial place, and a handful of Polish
earth, brought to Paris expressly for the purpose, was sprinkled on Chopins grave. It made a
fitting end to the public mourning for Polands greatest composer, but it left unanswered a
question which can never be conclusively resolved. Beyond any doubt, Chopins Polishness
played a central role in his life and music. Of all his works, at least half are deliberately Polish in
orientation (polonaises, mazurkas, krakowiaks and so on) and many of the rest are fairly riddled
with Polish characteristics. Rhythms, certain turns of melody certain types of harmony, whose
roots lie deep in the Polish folk tradition. Apart from its intrinsic, its purely musical quality, his
work takes on an added poignancy if you consider that much of it is the music of an exile. But is
it? The fact is that Chopin could long since have gone back to Poland, without any danger of
political reprisals (hed never been political in the first place), but he chose not to. He never even
visited, nor, as far as we know, did he ever even plan to visit it. The term self-imposed exile is
really a contradiction in terms. The fact is that Chopin was a citizen of the world, and his music
retains its popularity not because its Polish, but because its universal. The most famous of all his
specifically Polish works the great A flat major Polonaise is not about Polish nationalism but
about nationalism itself, more to the point, about community, in its widest sense about identity.
Its not about Polish heroism, its about heroism. Chopins music is all but universally popular
because it resonates with experience thats universally understood. Its not just about him, its
about us. When all is said and done, its about life. About life and the courage of living it.
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A N D
W O R K S
Frdric
CHOPIN
(1810-1849)
Frdric Chopin is the pianist-composer par excellence. Regarded one of the
most mesmeric performers of his day, he lives on in his music his waltzes,
mazurkas, tudes, preludes, nocturnes, three piano sonatas, two piano
concertos and much more. Here, his life, from his birth in Poland, his famous
affair with the French writer George Sand, and his death at the age of 49 in
Paris, is told with his music featuring prominently.
COMPANION BOOKLET
with
DETAILED HISTORICAL BACKGROUND
CD ISBN:
978-1-84379-092-1
www.naxosaudiobooks.com
L I F E
This series presents the life and work of the major composers. The recording is illustrated
with quotations from the composer and his contemporaries, enhanced by extended extracts
from representative works. In the companion booklet are essays and notes on the composer
and his times.
Total time
4:57:28