Part 11

Again it is evening and Chopin is alone, but this time it is in his own familiar, cozy room, where the perfect appointments and tasteful arrangement tell of loving feminine hands, glad to minister to every fancy of his delicately fastidious nature. The scent of flowers floats in through the open window, and mingled with it the low voices of friends in the garden below. He watches the play of lights and shadows among the swaying branches of a tall, graceful willow tree just outside his casement, the vaguely outlined, fleecy, floating gray clouds, ghosts of dead storms, silently passing on into the infinite unknown spaces of the sky. He listens to the night wind sighing among the tree-tops, to the good-nights of sleepy birds, to the vesper bell of a distant village, and embodies his dreamy impressions in the first movement of this nocturne, with its wavering, undulating murmurous effects, and its faint, intermittent melodic suggestions, like the half-remembered music of a dream.

The second movement, twice alternating with the first, though in different keys, is distinctly a slumber song in rhythm and mood, a restful, gentle, soothing lullaby to the composer’s own weary heart, to his momentarily slumbering griefs, and forebodings; peaceful, tender, pensively sad at times, but entirely free from that ultra-bitterness and gloom which color most of his later works. His Polish biographer calls this the most beautiful melody Chopin ever wrote, and it reminds us strongly of Tennyson’s lines in the same mood:

“There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentler on the spirit lies Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.”

An extremely light but fluent legato touch, and an ethereal delicacy and grace of conception are demanded for the first movement, and the ever-present curve of beauty should be indicated in each little passage of three measures. Let the player imagine a brightly tinted feather ball, tossed lightly into the air and fluttering softly and slowly to earth again.

For the second movement, a singing lyric tone, a subdued warmth of color, and a steady, reposeful, rocking rhythm are a necessity, and the lullaby mood should be kept in mind.

LISZT 1811 1886

Chopin’s Polish Songs, Transcribed for Piano by Liszt

Six of these songs, transcribed for piano, with all Liszt’s wonted skill, render this charming vein of Chopin’s work available to the pianist. I cite two as illustrations:

These Polish songs by Chopin are, comparatively speaking, unknown, even among musicians, overshadowed and hidden as they have always been by the number and magnitude of his pianoforte works, like wood-violets lost in the depths of a forest. Yet, though small and unpretentious as the violets, they are among his most genial and poetic creations. Seventeen of them have been published, as genuine bits of vocal melody as ever were penned or sung; and there are many more which have never been printed, scarcely even written out in full; hasty pastime sketches, the fair daughters of a momentary inspiration, wedded to stray verses of Polish poetry which caught Chopin’s fancy, from the pen of Mickiewicz and other national bards.

The Maiden’s Wish

“The Maiden’s Wish,” the first of the two songs presented, is one of the earliest and most popular, so far as known; a dainty, capricious little mazurka song, half playful, half tender. The words embody the fond wish of a merry, winsome maiden, whose life is touched to seriousness by the shadow of first love upon her pathway, the wish that she were a sunbeam to leave the high vault of Heaven and desert the flowers and streams of earth to shine through her lover’s window and gladden him alone; or that she were a bird to leave the fields and forests and fly on swift pinions to his window at early dawn and wake him with a song of love.

The music accurately and closely reproduces the spirit of the words, in all their warmth, archness, and grace. The short but continually recurring trill, “ever on the self-same note,” in prelude and interlude, suggests the thrill which the maiden feels at heart as she flits singing about the house and garden, unconsciously keeping step to the rhythm of the mazurka, the native dance of her province.

The Ring

The second song selected resembles in form the ordinary folk-song, with its single, reiterated musical strophe, and also in its simplicity, its fresh, unaffected sincerity of mood. But it shows far more perfect workmanship, and is of a much more refined and poetic quality. It is plaintively sad, tenderly pathetic in every phrase, a pale, delicate blossom of sentiment, dropped upon the grave of youth and first love. It describes the early betrothal of a youth, full of faith, hope, and happiness, to his playmate and child-love. On departing into strange lands, the youth gives the maiden a ring and she gives him in exchange a promise to become his bride on his return. After years of weary wandering, during which his heart has been ever faithful to his early love, he returns to find she has forgotten ring and promise and lover. But in spite of her perfidy and the hopelessness of his attachment, his constant thoughts cling ever to the little ring he gave and the little playmate with her childish grace and garb. A very old story and a very simple one, but none the less sad for that.

In addition to its intrinsic charm and artistic merit this little composition possesses a personal interest in its subtle reference to Chopin’s own experience. The great tone-poet knew a love other and earlier than that destructive passion for George Sand which blasted his life and broke his heart. But his beloved Constantia, to whom he was betrothed before leaving Poland, at twenty years of age, to seek his fortune in the great world, forgot her plighted vows and the little ring he gave as their visible token, and married another; and it is the composer’s own grieved and disappointed heart that speaks in this tenderly beautiful song, saddened by the first of the many swiftly gathering clouds which obscured the brightness of his sunny youth, and in a few short years rendered the name of Chopin synonymous to his friends with grief and suffering.

The Poetic and Religious Harmonies by Franz Liszt

Liszt’s reputation in this country as a pianoforte composer has hitherto rested, in the main, upon his brilliant and popular operatic fantasies, a few of his études, and his unique and world-famous Hungarian rhapsodies; all of which, though effective and by no means to be despised, are, after all, only the bright bubbles tossed off in playful mood from the surface of his genius, like the globules that rise from the sparkling champagne.

That there is a deeper, more serious, and far more important vein of strictly original work of his, which has as yet scarcely been discovered, still less exploited, few persons, even among the musicians themselves, seem to be aware. Of course, in the large cities, his orchestral works—that is to say, some of them—have been occasionally given and his concertos have become fairly well known; but elsewhere he is chiefly known as the leading manufacturer of musical pyrotechnics, the inventor of the best pianistic sky-rockets and the best articles in tonal thunder and lightning thus far put upon the world’s market. But the fact is that his future fame as a creative musician is destined to stand upon a much firmer and more lasting basis—namely, that of the original work referred to; and I believe in a much higher niche in the temple of art than it at present occupies.

Among these original works, and forming an important and distinct division of them, peculiar to itself both in form and subject matter, the “Poetic and Religious Harmonies” claim our attention. These were written under rather singular circumstances.

All through his life, from early boyhood, Liszt was subject to occasional moods of intense religious fervor,—devotional paroxysms, one might almost call them,—sweeping over him like a tidal wave, submerging, for the time, all other thoughts and impulses, and then receding, to leave him about where they found him. Their transitory and spasmodic nature has led many to believe that they were not real, but assumed, simulated hypocritically for effect, or for a purpose; as, for example, to escape the importunate claims of his several mistresses.

But those who knew him best are inclined to make allowance for his impulsive, erratic, unbalanced temperament, his undeveloped oriental nature, half barbaric in spite of its immense and manifold powers, and to concede that, while they lasted, they were very genuine and very profound. Under this impelling force he was several times on the point of giving up his worldly career and devoting himself to a monastic life, and was only restrained by the efforts of his many friends and admirers.

In 1856 came the last and most enduring of these impulses, and, in obedience to it, he abandoned his life as a concert artist, which, for phenomenal success, has never had a parallel before or since, retired into rigorous seclusion in the Vatican at Rome, where he was the guest and pupil of the Pope himself, and devoted nearly five consecutive years to religious study and contemplation, receiving the title of Abbé in the Catholic Church, which he retained till his death, and writing a considerable number of compositions, all of a distinctively religious character, all based upon religious themes, either incidents narrated in the Scriptures, or in the lives of the saints, or subjective experiences connected with his own spiritual life and development.

Among these, his great “Legend of St. Elizabeth” is preëminent, and this series of nine poetic and religious harmonies; each a complete composition, having no connection with the others except in its general character, bearing a special title indicating its nature and subject. Some of them are of very great musical worth and importance, and are among his best productions, notably, the No. 3, Book 2, entitled “The Benediction of God in the Solitude.” It is one of the subjective, emotional compositions referred to, giving us a glimpse into the heart life of the composer during this epoch of profound and intense religious experience.

It opens with a subdued but strongly emotional, ’cello-like theme in the left hand, expressing the first discontent and vague longings of a soul whose best aspirations and highest needs have found no real satisfaction in worldly things, yet which has no certain grasp, no safe reliance on any life beyond and above the present; a soul adrift on the dark ocean of doubt and skepticism, with no guiding star of hope, no beacon-light of promise, not even the compass of faith in things unseen by which to shape its course. This mood grows steadily in intensity, through the successive stages of unrest, agitation, distress, despair, to an overpowering climax. Then it is followed by a short, quiet movement in D major, literally imitating the tranquil strain of the organ and the distant sound of cathedral bells; thus symbolizing the promises and proffered consolations of the Church; then a period of grave pondering, of thoughtful examination and introspection, and then the first theme repeats, but with less vehement treatment, in a gentle though still agitated mood, like a recapitulation of his former state from a newly acquired standpoint, a softened memory of the old, stormy, desperate mood.

The work closes with a tranquil, flowing movement, a complete inundation of the spirit by a flood of that “peace which passeth understanding,” the benediction of God in the solitude. He has found, as he believes, safety, rest, and reconciliation with divine law and will. This closing strain, in its reposeful happiness, forms a fitting and most beautiful ending to this serious, ideally suggestive composition.

Other numbers of this set are almost equally interesting, but I have not space for more of them. This one will serve as a good example, and I may add that it was regarded by Liszt himself as the best of his piano compositions.

A little French poem from Liszt’s own pen, which stands as motto at the head of this music, sums up its significance. I append a nearly literal translation.

“Whence comes, O my God, this sweet peace that surrounds My glad heart? And this faith that within me abounds? To me who, uncertain, in anguish of mind, On an ocean of doubt tossed about by each wind, Was seeking for truth in the dreams of the sage, And for peace, among hearts that were chafing with rage. A sudden—there flashed on my soul from above A vision of glorified heavenly love; It seemed that an age and a world passed away And I rise, a new man, to enjoy a new day.”

Liszt’s Ballades

While speaking of Liszt’s original compositions, we must not omit his two ballades, which, though musically a little disappointing, are works of considerable magnitude and marked individuality, and possess no small degree of descriptive interest. They are in the same general form and vein as the Chopin ballades, and were evidently suggested by them, though they cannot be compared with them either for beauty or for strength.

First Ballade

The first, in B minor, is decidedly the more vigorous of the two, and the more difficult. It is based upon the pathetically tragic story of the Prisoner of Chillon, so ably told in Byron’s poem, which the player should read with care, so as to familiarize himself thoroughly with its incidents and moods. The poem tells of that nameless captive chained for life to a pillar in a rock-hewn dungeon beneath the castle of Chillon, on Lake Leman, below the surface of the lake, so that he listens day and night to the dull thunder or mournful murmur of the changeful waves above his head, as his only indication of the shifting moods of Nature in the living world, her passing smiles and storms, her slowly circling seasons as they come and go.

“A double dungeon, wall and wave Have made—and like a living grave. Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies, wherein we lay: We heard its ripple night and day, Sounding o’er our heads it knocked, And then the very rock hath rocked, And I have felt it shake unshocked: Because I could have smiled to see The death that would have set me free.”

Years drag themselves out to eternities. One by one his few companions die of cold and hunger, leaving him alone in that living tomb, with his endless, changeless, unutterable misery.

“I had no thought, no feeling—none. Among the stones I stood a stone. It was not night, it was not day, For all was blank and bleak and gray: A sea of stagnant idleness, Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless.”

His only gleam of comfort were the occasional visits of an azure-winged bird that came now and then and perched on the window ledge outside his dungeon bars, a fair and gentle companion symbolizing for him all the beauty and tenderness and sweetness in the life he has lost; and on which he comes to concentrate the love and interest of his famished heart.

“A lovely bird with azure wings, And song that said a thousand things, And seemed to say them all to me! I never saw the like before, I ne’er shall see its likeness more: It seemed, like me, to want a mate, But was not half so desolate; And it was come to love me, when None lived to love me so again.”

The opening movement of the ballade, representing the thunder of the waves reverberating through the gloom of that cavern-like cell, and the later lyric, which might be called the bird theme, suggesting his tender communing with his little friend, are the best movements in the work. The details of the story are not carried out, but its outlines, and especially its moods, are clearly given.

Second Ballade

The second ballade, in D flat major, is more melodious and attractive, but less strong. It is dedicated to Liszt’s life-long friend and powerful patron, the Duke of Weimar, and, out of compliment to him, treats of an episode in the Duke’s family history, back in the days of the second Crusade.

A young and gallant chief of the house of Weimar stands in the rosy light of early dawn, on the highest turret of his castle, with his newly wedded bride, taking a long farewell of her and of their fair domain, for at sunrise he leads his knights and men-at-arms to the crusade, and the return is years distant and uncertain. Their mood is full of sadness and yet of a strong, religious exultation and trust. His mission is a grand and glorious one. Heaven will surely guide and protect its faithful knights, and his lady bids him Godspeed, though with tearful eyes. From the castle court below, sounds of gathering troops and martial preparation rise to their ears, at first faintly, then with growing din and clamor, till a burst of trumpets greets the rising sun; the gates are flung open and, hastily descending, he takes his place at the head of his forces and they march away to the strains of inspiriting military music. The lady still stands alone on her turret, waving her greetings—stands there, as he sees her last, flooded with the glory of the morning, an embodiment of love and hope and promise—a vision to haunt his waking dreams in far-away Palestine, to cheer his lonely camp-fire vigils and lead him to victory on the field of action.

As she still stands dreamily watching the last gleam of the spear-points, the last flutter of the receding banners, the sanguine fancy of youth leaps the intervening years, and she thinks she hears the strains of the martial music at the head of the returning army coming in triumph back from a successful campaign.

The successive moments in the story above sketched are given with realistic distinctness in the music, and can be followed without difficulty.

Transcriptions for the Piano by Franz Liszt

The peculiar aptitude required for successfully rewriting a song or orchestral composition for the piano, so that it shall become, not a mere bald, literal reproduction of the melodies and harmonies, as in most of the piano-scores of the opera, interesting only to students, but a complete and effective art-work for this instrument, may be a lower order of genius than the original creative faculty, but is certainly more rare and almost as valuable to the musical world. It demands, first, a clear, discriminating perception of the essential musical and dramatic elements of the original work, in their relative proportions and degrees of importance, distinct from the merely idiomatic details of their setting; second, a supreme knowledge of the resources and limitations of the new medium of expression, so as at once to preserve unimpaired the peculiar character and primal force of the original composition, and to make it sound as if expressly written for the piano. It is one thing to write out the notes of an orchestral score so that they are, in the main, playable by a single performer on the piano; but it is quite another thing to readjust all the effects to pianistic possibilities, so as to produce in full measure the intended artistic impression. There is practically the same difference as in poetic translation between the rough, verbal rendering of a Latin exercise by a school-boy, and the finished, artistic English version of a poem from some foreign tongue, by a gifted and scholarly writer like Longfellow.

Whatever may be thought or said of Liszt as an original composer, in his piano transcriptions he has never had an equal, scarcely even a would-be competitor. His work in this line is of inestimable importance to the pianist, both as student and public performer, and forms a rich and extensive department of piano literature. Think what a gap would be left in any artist’s repertoire if Liszt’s transcriptions, including the rhapsodies, were struck out of it; for the rhapsodies are only transcriptions of gipsy music. Practically all of Wagner’s music that is available for the pianist he owes to Liszt’s able intermediation. True, Brassin has done some commendable work in his settings of fragments from the Nibelungen operas, but of these the “Magic Fire” music is the only really usable number; and this, though playable and attractive from its own intrinsic merits, is hardly satisfactory, either as a genuinely pianistic setting or as a reproduction of the artistic effects of the original. One feels that it is an interesting attempt, not a complete success; and the “Ride of the Walkyrie,” which ought to be the most effective of all the Wagner numbers for piano, is wholly unusable for concert purposes. One is practically restricted to Liszt in this direction, but finds in him a mine of highly finished, admirably set gems, accessible, though technically not easy to appropriate.

Wagner-Liszt: Spinning Song, from the “Flying Dutchman”

Take, for example, the familiar and ever-enjoyable “Spinning Song” from the “Flying Dutchman,” definite and symmetrical in form, perfect in every detail as a piano composition, eminently playable and pianistic, yet preserving the original dramatic intention with absolute completeness and integrity. Those who are familiar with the opera will need no explanation of its contents; but for the many piano students who are not, I give a brief synopsis of the scene of which this music is at once an accompaniment and a picture; for Wagner’s music is all intended to intensify, by reduplicating in tone, scenes and moods represented on the stage.

A little company of village maidens, in a seaport town in Holland, is assembled of a winter evening to spin. It is to be a semi-social, semi-useful gathering, much like the old quilting parties of our grandmothers’ time, and they are all in the best of spirits. They start the wheels, but something is wrong apparently; the thread breaks or tangles, and two or three times they are obliged to stop, wait a moment, and recommence, till finally the buzz and hum of the swift-rolling wheels become continuous. This orchestral imitation of the spinning-wheel is a piece of very graphic realism, and in the piano arrangement is given almost equally well in the left-hand accompaniment, while the right hand carries in chords the chorus of the spinning maidens, as they sing at their work, a bright, joyous, rhythmical song, full of gaiety and wit, as shown by an occasional interruption by a burst of merry laughter.

In the very midst of their jollity they are startled into an abrupt silence by the ominous sound of a single horn close by, and they suspend their work to listen. The horn rings out, clear and strong, a peculiar impressive signal, which they know and dread as that of the “Flying Dutchman,” the terror of those shores, the fated commander of a phantom ship, manned by a specter crew, who sails the northern seas eternally, in winter storm and summer fog, condemned forever to this ghastly isolation from his living fellow-men, and striking terror to the hearts of all the simple fisher-folk, whenever the dim outlines of his ship are seen in the misty offing; and especially when his signal horn is heard; for it is known that he does sometimes land. His only possible chance of escape from the awful curse upon him is that once in a hundred years he is permitted to spend a few brief days on shore and mingle with his kind, and if, during that short period, he can win the love of any true maiden so completely that she will voluntarily give her life for him, then the curse is ended and both may rise to the realms of the blessed together. It is a grand opportunity for generous self-sacrifice on the part of some noble girl; but naturally all shrink from it, and are panic-stricken at his approach.