by Isidore Philipp, Eminent French Piano Virtuoso and Teacher
In the years 1809 and 1810 there came into the world three great artists whom a tragic fate removed all too early from their admiring contemporaries. They were Mendelssohn, Chopin and Schumann. After a century and more, their works still enchant those who love and feel music.
Of the three, Chopin alone chose to compose
for the piano only. “Why do you not
write on opera?” Asked Count Perthuis of
him one day. “Ah! Monsieur,” replied
Chopin, “Let me write music for the
piano; it is all that I know how to do.”
Chopin came to Paris in the fall of
1831, in the full flower of Romanticism.
He gave his first public concert early in 1832. On that occasion he played his “Concerto in F
minor” and his “La ci darem” Variations with Orchestra from the “Don Giovanni” of Mozart, before a large
audience. In 1833 he was heard again,
this time in a concert with Liszt and Hiller.
Each of these concerts attracted an illustrious assemblage. With Liszt, whose friend Chopin had become,
he shared the enthusiasm of a loyal public.
His life, his rare distinction of character, his Polish origin, also,
just at the time when Poland stirred all classes of romantic generosity—all
these elements made Paris glory in him.
Heinrich Heine, the most admirable of all the German poets, whose friend
Chopin was, called him the Raphael of the piano. “Poland gave him her feeling for chivalry and
her historic suffering; France, her elegance and grace; Nature, a countenance
of charm and refinement, a heart which is noble and filled with genius. He is neither Polish, nor French, nor
German. He comes from the land of Mozart
and Raphael. His true country is the
realm of music and poetry.” No heart
that was not warmed unto his art.
Enjoy Chopin’s Concerto in F minor, performed by
Arthur Rubinstein, piano, and the London Symphony Orchestra, Andre Previn
conducting (1975 ARTE Broadcast):
Contemporaries Acclaim
He associated himself with all the
great artists who were in Paris at that time—Heine, Liszt, Meyerbeer, Halevy,
Rossini, Delacroix, Berlioz, Thalberg, Stephen Heller; and from the moment of
his appearance anywhere he was greeted with murmurs of pleasure and feverish
anticipation. The great singer,
Artot-Padilla, wrote to him in 1841: “My
dear Chopin, do you know that you make me jealous? Wherever one goes all the women are talking
of Chopin: ‘Do you know Chopin” Have you heard Chopin” I would like to have Chopin here!’—Chopin
here. Chopin there—towering like a
pyramid. . . .”
Even his rivals loved him. “Caro Chopinette,” Liszt wrote to him, “I am
profiting by this occasion to repeat to you, even at the risk of seeming
monotonous, that my affection and admiration of you will ever remain the same.”
“It is not well to listen a whole
evening to our Chopin,” said Madame de Girardin. “Existence is far from pleasing the day after
these feasts when a superior being has led you into the world of fairies and of
dreams.”
Moscheles, in one of his letters, gave
an account of a soiree held in honor of Chopin and himself at the court. “Yesterday,” he writes, “was a day not to be
forgotten. At nine o-clock in the evening
Chopin and I were conducted to the Chateau St. Cloud. We walked through a number of rooms in the
palace till we came to the salon carre,
where the royal family were assembled.
It was only a small gathering.
Around a table were seated the Queen, the Duchesse d’Orleans, and the
maids of honor. Chopin, applauded and
admired as a favorite, played some Etudes
and Nocturnes. After I had performed
in my turn some Etudes, old and new,
meeting with like approval, we took places together at the piano. While we played a Sonata for Four Hands, the close attention of the little group was
not broken except by the words ‘delicious,’ ‘divine!’ At the end of the Andante the Queen said softly to her maids of honor, ‘Would it be
inconsiderate to ask for a repetition of that number?’ We began again, abandoning ourselves in the Finale, to the veritable delirium of
music. The passionate impetuosity of
Chopin seemed to electrify our audience, who praised us most
enthusiastically. Some days later the
King sent to Chopin a gilt cup and to me a traveling-case. Chopin always loved to joke, and he said to
me, “The King sent you a traveling-case so that he might the sooner be rid of
you.’”
The Artist
As a pianist, Chopin was unique. Moscheles, Mendelssohn, Meyebeer, Heller, all
pronounced him incomparable. Stephen
Heller and Mathias have often spoken to me of the power of his playing, of the bravura, of the extraordinary gradings
of tone. Sir Charles Halle said: “It was a marvel to hear that genius, to
watch his hands so supple, so aristocratic, moving over the keys. “Those who have heard Chopin,” so Mathias
declared, “can say that never since that time have they heard anything to
approach him. His playing was like his
music. And what virtuosity! What power!
But it lasted only a few moments.
Such exaltation, such inspiration!
The whole man vibrated with it.
The piano became intensely alive, so marvelously that one shivered. I repeat that the instrument which one heard
when he played never existed except under the fingers of Chopin.”
“Liszt is a demon,” said Balzac, “and
Chopin is an angel.”
At the close of his life Chopin’s
playing had become very weak in tone; but he managed his effects with so much
art, so much skill, that he always achieved the same success. For his last concert in Paris he played his Barcarolle, so Sir Charles Halle has
told me, pianissimo, but with such
contract in nuancing that his lack of power was not felt. “And how he understood the pedals! It was unique.”
Enjoy
Krystian Zimerman’s performance of Chopin’s “Barcarolle”:
The Social “Lion”
Chopin was adored by the world of
society. At the home of Baron Rothschild, or of Prince Radziwill, of Count Apponyi, or of the Marchioness de
Lanner, he was always surrounded by admirers.
The moment he arrived the eager audience would begin asking, “Is he
going to play for us?”
Chopin was very particular about his
appearance. Mathias used to say, “And
his polished half-boots? They were the
most shining I ever have seen. He had a
very small foot. And he always wore a
double-breasted coat, buttoned up to the highest button, and tailored in the
latest fashion. Every detail of his
dress was the most finished, the most elegant that could be imagined.”
Before me lies a letter from Eugene
Delacroix, the famous painter:
Dear good Chopin:
“The address of the shoemaker is 19
Roe Feydeen. Tell him exactly what shape
you wish the toe of your boot to be. He
is accustomed to making them round, like the English boots. Instruct him to make you some boots for
winter with very thick soles, but light weight.
I love you as much as I admire you.
Delacroix”
His life might have run smoothly,
perhaps, had it not been disturbed by the liaison with George Sand. By what anomaly was this being, so
aristocratic, refined, fragile, brought into association with that vehement
woman, always inclined towards the plebeian; why was his destiny mingled with
hers?
But to what purpose do we try to
explain the unexplainable?
Chopin the Teacher
Mathias has described Chopin at his
lessons: “I remember them so well. His, ‘Very well my angel,’ when things went
well; and his hands grasping his hair when they went badly. ‘Keep your elbow level with the keyboard,’ he
would say, ‘your hands straight, turning neither to right nor to left.’ And how he would make you feel and understand
the masters. His words were as eloquent as his music. And yet he was a simple person, not a literateur, nor a critic after the
manner of Liszt and Berlioz. He did not care
for Schumann, nor even for Mendelssohn; he detested the paintings of his friend
Delacroix, and he was not at all interested in the literary movements of his
period. . . .”
Mademoiselle Gavard, to whom Chopin
dedicated the Berceuse (and, by the
way, she played this badly) I myself have known. She, too, was astonished that Chopin did not
understand Schuman and Schubert. But
Bellini he adored!
Enjoy
Valentina Lisitsa’s performance of Chopin’s “Berceuse”:
So it will be seen that I have known
several persons who knew Chopin. Often,
at the home of Mathias, Prince Czartoryski was at luncheon with us, an
aristocrat of the most exquisite courtesy, and a friend of Chopin. When I suggested to Mathias that he ought to
give a concert to make us understand the magic of Chopin’s playing, the prince
also insisted. But Mathias replied: “No one plays like Chopin. I am but a man; while Chopin is of the
essence of the fairylike.” At his home I
met also Schulhoff, who was not very interesting. Madam Dubois O’Meara, very reserved. At the home of Saint-Saëns I
had the honor several times of meeting Madame Pauline Viardot, who in a few
words could conjure up the very spirit of Chopin; and it was a joy to hear Saint-Saëns and Viardot exchange
reminiscences. Marmontel, eminent
professor at the Paris Conservatoire, I know very well. Several times I saw Henri Herz, the
celebrated pianist, a delightful old man, whose mind was stored with vivid and
interesting recollections. Both of these
latter were friends of Chopin.
There was also Alkan, the great but
now forgotten artist, whom I had the honor of seeing and hearing often. He adored Chopin, and I regret deeply that I
did not write down all that he told me of the great genius. A letter from Alkan to Chopin, dated 1836,
runs thus: “I am going to trouble you,
dear Chopin, for I am about to make a request which will cost you something to
grant and will also cost you something to refuse. Nevertheless I cannot resist speaking of
it. It is, would you be willing to play
with me, with two pianos, at Erar’s? If
you do not consent, please do not even write to excuse yourself. Always the same, Alkan.” There were no excuses made; and the concert
took place on the first day of March, 1836.
And the Pianist
Chopin’s attitude at the piano was a
marvel of calmness and nobility, a contrast to that of Liszt, which was
extraordinary. He lifted his head as if
inspired, raised his eyes toward heaven as if seeking for the stars in
space. At other times he would lean over
toward the keys, or again, seem about to depart, like a spirit, from his seat
at the piano.
Chopin’s contemporaries felt and
showed toward him the greatest of deference.
Meyerbeer once wrote to him:
“Dear
and illustrious Master,
I regret extremely that you did not
find me at home, when you did me the honor of wishing to see me. Today I am writing to pray you to grant me a
favor. There is a young Italian girl,
eight years old, Mademoiselle Merli, who is blind, and a pianist. But in my opinion she is a real prodigy of
talent and genius. Can you, will you hear
her? I thank you.
Believe me, with all my affection,
your devoted,
Meyerbeer.”
Among all the many works of Chopin
there is not one which, during a century, has grown old. From his very first works one sees in him the
genius emerging, developing, expanding.
Here is a personality which is stronger than methods and rules. Shedding
light around, it breaks through the limits of conventions and of worn-out
technical theories, and, rising above them, leads us a step higher into
absolute beauty.
We can apply to Chopin what Balzac
said of music: “It is a language a
thousand times more rich than words. The
other arts impose on the mind creations which are definite; music is infinite
in hers. Each soul can interpret music
in terms of its own grief or joy, its own hope or despair.”
Again the Teacher
To return to Chopin as a professor;
Chopin insisted on training the hand in stretching, but without fatigue. He laid much stress on passing under the
thumb, in scales and arpeggios. These
were to be practiced at first very slowly, and then gradually accelerated. He taught first the scales with the black
keys, and last of all the scale of C, the most difficult. He desired absolute suppleness of the arm
combined with firmness of the fingers. He
advised the use of the “Preludes” and “Exercises” of Clementi, the “Etudes” of
Cramer, the “Gradus ad Parnassum” of Clementi, “The Well Tempered Clavichord”
of Bach, and finally some “Etudes” of Moscheles. Occasionally, for the study of sonority, he
added the “Nocturnes” of Field, and his own.
Fingering, he considered highly important. He did not hesitate to place the thumb on the
black keys. He broke rules of fingering,
authorized all sorts of liberties, and developed the technic of the piano to a
perfection equaling that of Liszt, if not surpassing it. He required strict rhythm; he detested all
mannerism and exaggerated rubato. What is the rubato of Chopin? It is a
nuance of movement: there is in it
anticipation and holding back, restlessness and repose, agitation and
calm. But this rubato must be used with the utmost moderation, else it becomes
unendurable, as if one looked into a concave or a convex mirror which gives
back an image deformed, grimacing.
A Musical Form Glorified
The Nocturne was originally a short, slow piece, delicate in style,
elegiac or sentimental. It is to John Field that the musical art owes this form.
But Mozart already had written his Eine Kleine Nachtmusik and Mendelssohn the Nocturne to “Midsummer Night’s Dream.” The Nachtstucke
of Schumann and Des Abends of the
“Fantasiastucke, Op. 12”, are also nocturnes transposed into German! But it was Chopin who was to ennoble this
title. There is nothing more perfect in
the works of this unequalled genius.
These pages contain hitherto unheard of musical riches: here are tenderness and charm; grief, even to
sobbing; caresses, heroism—in fact the whole gamut of feeling. Chopin has all strings to his lyre, and he
has made them all sing with an intensity of emotion which is matchless.
To gain some idea of the variety of
his genius, it is enough to glance through his series of nocturnes. In them vibrate all the ardor of his
passionate being, all the joys and all the sorrows of this heart exalted or
cast down. It is his exceptional power
to express emotion which makes the music of Chopin so human that it seems to
each individual the song of his own heart.
The touching beauty of his works arises from their absolute sincerity
and spontaneity.
“Chopin,” said Liszt, “had a
temperament of extreme nervousness; yet one could not help loving him. He knew how to restrain himself, but without
being able to control himself completely; and he drilled himself every morning
in conquering his passions, his hatreds, his anger, his love, his grief, his
impetuosity. Did he know Young’s “Night Thoughts”? Had he been inspired by
them? One could almost believe it, in
reading some of his nocturnes.”
A Master Work Dissected
The Nocturne, Op. 32, No. 2, in
A-flat major, should be played with simplicity, with expression, without any exaggeration, and with the nuances
carefully observed.
At first the left hand must be
practiced alone. But to play it as
written is not enough, if one would master it.
I would advise the following analysis of it:
with
the exception of Measure 7 and similar measures:
In the middle section, measures 27 and
50, the two hands should first be practiced separately and slowly, portamento, and then very legato, but never forte. Measures 37, and 38,
49 and 50, may be studied thus:
The pedal must be used with great
care. A pianist must always play
clearly, and the pedal, used incorrectly or too often, blots out all outlines
and all accents.
With regard to style, measures 1 and 2
should be played slowly and softly like an improvisation. The true theme does not begin till the third
measure. The group of notes in Measure 5
must be simple and without emphasis, and likewise the group of seven notes in
the sixth measure, which should be divided thus:
The trill in Measure 8 must not seem
hurried. Measure 9 demands special work
for tonal effects: the five notes at the
beginning must be played expressively and mf; the last C of this group and the first C of
the next beat must be played elastically and as if they were two notes of a
triplet group, as:
The
close of the measure must be played diminuendo,
and with sensitiveness, but with no exaggeration of feeling.
In measures 11, 12 and 13 the bass
should be sustained without the help of the pedal, except where the pedal is
marked. The passages in small notes,
from Measure 14 up to the section in twelve-eight rhythm, must be done without
hurrying. The agitato, which follows, is to be expressive yet with care in the
nuances which are marked. But, I would
repeat, one must guard against committing the great fault which is so common
with interpreters of Chopin: Do not,
then, exaggerate the feeling; do not change the movement; for these alterations
will add nothing to expression which is true and sincere. The marks for the nuances must be followed
precisely; the basses must be sustained with care; there must be a light,
expressive accent on certain notes of the left hand, as in Measure 30:
These
five notes—E flat, F, E-flat, D-natural, D-flat—must be brought out, with a
velvety quality of tone.
From Measure 36 to Measure 39 the
expression is increasingly dramatic, and the crescendo in these three measures leads to a forte in 39, and from there to a fortissimo in 43. Here the
pace becomes faster. The passionate
feeling reaches its climax at the reprise
of the expressive theme of the Nocturne;
and this, instead of being interpreted like the intimate dolce of its original statement, must be appassionata e forte.
Gradually the excitement subsides at Measure 56, and we return to the
melancholy of the beginning.
In the finale—Measure 63 to the end—the first five notes of the right hand
must be delicately marked, with an exquisite combination of rhythm and abandon;
the trill of Measure 64 must be executed without haste; and the whole must
close poetically, as it breathes away mysteriously.
One more word of advice to
performers. The first duty of a virtuoso
is to impart confidence to the audience.
An accident does not matter, if it is merely an accident. But if, through nervousness, one becomes
insecure, or shows fear of an accident, the audience also becomes uneasy and
does not listen attentively. If the tone
becomes uneven; if the lines of the melody are not clear and distinct; if the
listener does not follow the text as calmly as if he were reading it, he will
no longer listen.
Remember the thought of Leonardo da
Vinci: “Study without enthusiasm ruins
the memory; for the latter does not then retain what it takes in.”
Enjoy Philippe Giusiano's performance of Chopin’s Nocturne
in A-flat major, Op. 32, No. 2:
THE ETUDE MUSIC MAGAZINE – January 1940
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