Life of Chopin — Chapter V Part I

CHAPTER V.

The Lives of Artists--Pure Fame of Chopin--Reserve--Classic and Romantic Art-Language of the Sclaves--Chopin's Love of Home Memories.

A natural curiosity is generally felt to know something of the lives of men who have consecrated their genius to embellish noble feelings through works of art, through which they shine like brilliant meteors in the eyes of the surprised and delighted crowd.

The admiration and sympathy awakened by the compositions of such men, attach immediately to their own names, which are at once elevated as symbols of nobility and greatness, because the world is loath to believe that those who can express high sentiments with force, can themselves feel ignobly.

The objects of this benevolent prejudice, this favorable presumption, are expected to justify such suppositions by the high course of life which they are required to lead.

When it is seen that the poet feels with such exquisite delicacy all that which it is so sweet to inspire; that he divines with such rapid intuition all that pride, timidity, or weariness struggles to hide; that he can paint love as youth dreams it, but as riper years despair to realize it; when such sublime situations seem to be ruled by his genius, which raises itself so calmly above the calamities of human destiny, always finding the leading threads by which the most complicated knots in the tangled skein of life may be proudly and victoriously unloosed; when the secret modulations of the most exquisite tenderness, the most heroic courage, the most sublime simplicity, are known to be subject to his command,--it is most natural that the inquiry should be made if this wondrous divination springs from a sincere faith in the reality of the noble feelings portrayed, or whether its source is to be found in an acute perception of the intellect, an abstract comprehension of the logical reason.

The question in what the life led by men so enamored of beauty differs from that of the common multitude, is then earnestly asked.

This high poetic disdain,--how did it comport itself when struggling with material interests?

These ineffable emotions of ethereal love,--how were they guarded from the bitterness of petty cares, from that rapidly growing and corroding mould which usually stifles or poisons them?

How many of such feelings were preserved from that subtle evaporation which robs them of their perfume, that gradually increasing inconstancy which lulls us until we forget to call the dying emotions to account?

Those who felt such holy indignation,--were they indeed always just?

Those who exalted integrity,--were they always equitable?

Those who sung of honor,--did they never stoop?

Those who so admired fortitude,--have they never compromised with their own weakness?

A deep interest is also felt in ascertaining how those to whom the task of sustaining our faith in the nobler sentiments through art has been intrusted, have conducted themselves in external affairs, where pecuniary gain is only to be acquired at the expense of delicacy, loyalty, or honor.

Many assert that the nobler feelings exist only in the works of art.

When some unfortunate occurrence seems to give a deplorable foundation to the words of such mockers, with what avidity they name the most exquisite conceptions of the poet, "vain phantoms!"

How they plume themselves upon their own wisdom in having advocated the politic doctrine of an astute, yet honeyed hypocrisy; how they delight to speak of the perpetual contradiction between words and deeds!...

With what cruel joy they detail such occurrences, and cite such examples in the presence of those unsteady restless souls, who are incited by their youthful aspirations and by the depression and utter loss of happy confidence which such a conviction would entail upon them, to struggle against a distrust so blighting!

When such wavering spirits are engaged in the bitter combat with the harsh alternatives of life, or tempted at every turn by its insinuating seductions, what a profound discouragement seizes upon them when they are induced to believe that the hearts devoted to the most sublime thoughts, the most deeply initiated in the most delicate susceptibilities, the most charmed by the beauty of innocence, have denied, by their acts, the sincerity of their worship for the noble themes which they have sung as poets!

With what agonizing doubts are they not filled by such flagrant contradictions!

How much is their anguish increased by the jeering mockery of those who repeat: "Poetry is only that which might have been"--and who delight in blaspheming it by their guilty negations!

Whatever may be the human short-comings of the gifted, believe the truths they sing!

Poetry is more than the gigantic shadow of our own imagination, immeasurably increased, and projected upon the flying plane of the Impossible.

POETRY

and REALITY are not two incompatible elements, destined to move on together without commingling.

Goethe himself confesses this.

In speaking of a contemporary writer he says: "that having lived to create poems, he had also made his life a Poem."

(Er lebte dichtend, und dichtete lebend.

) Goethe was himself too true a poet not to know that Poetry only is, because its eternal Reality throbs in the noble impulses of the human heart.

We have once before remarked that "genius imposes its own obligations."

[Footnote: Upon Paganini, after his death.

] If the examples of cold austerity and of rigid disinterestedness are sufficient to awaken the admiration of calm and reflective natures, whence shall more passionate and mobile organizations, to whom the dullness of mediocrity is insipid, who naturally seek honor or pleasure, and who are willing to purchase the object of their desires at any price--form their models?

Such temperaments easily free themselves from the authority of their seniors.

They do not admit their competency to decide.

They accuse them of wishing to use the world only for the profit of their own dead passions, of striving to turn all to their own advantage, of pronouncing upon the effects of causes which they do not understand, of desiring to promulgate laws in spheres to which nature has denied them entrance.

They will not receive answers from their lips, but turn to others to resolve their doubts; they question those who have drunk deeply from the boiling springs of grief, bursting from the riven clefts in the steep cliffs upon the top of which alone the soul seeks rest and light.

They pass in silence by the still cold gravity of those who practice the good, without enthusiasm for the beautiful.

What leisure has ardent youth to interpret their gravity, to resolve their chill problems?

The throbbings of its impetuous heart are too rapid to allow it to investigate the hidden sufferings, the mystic combats, the solitary struggles, which may be detected even in the calm eye of the man who practices only the good.

Souls in continual agitation seldom interpret aright the calm simplicity of the just, or the heroic smiles of the stoic.

For them enthusiasm and emotion are necessities.

A bold image persuades them, a metaphor leads them, tears convince them, they prefer the conclusions of impulse, of intuition, to the fatigue of logical argument.

Thus they turn with an eager curiosity to the poets and artists who have moved them by their images, allured them by their metaphors, excited them by their enthusiasm.

They demand from them the explanation, the purpose of this enthusiasm, the secret of this beauty!

When distracted by heart-rending events, when tortured by intense suffering, when feeling and enthusiasm seem to be but a heavy and cumbersome load which may upset the life-boat if not thrown overboard into the abyss of forgetfulness; who, when menaced with utter shipwreck after a long struggle with peril, has not evoked the glorious shades of those who have conquered, whose thoughts glow with noble ardor, to inquire from them how far their aspirations were sincere, how long they preserved their vitality and truth?

Who has not exerted an ingenious discernment to ascertain how much of the generous feeling depicted was only for mental amusement, a mere speculation; how much had really become incorporated with the habitual acts of life?

Detraction is never idle in such cases; it seizes eagerly upon the foibles, the neglect, the faults of those who have been degraded by any weakness: alas, it omits nothing!

It chases its prey, it accumulates facts only to distort them, it arrogates to itself the right of despising the inspiration to which it will grant no authority or aim but to furnish amusement, denying it any claim to guide our actions, our resolutions, our refusal, our consent!

Detraction knows well how to winnow history!

Casting aside all the good grain, it carefully gathers all the tares, to scatter the black seed over the brilliant pages in which the purest desires of the heart, the noblest dreams of the imagination are found; and with the irony of assumed victory, demands what the grain is worth which only germinates dearth and famine?

Of what value the vain words, which only nourish sterile feelings?

Of what use are excursions into realms in which no real fruit can ever be gathered?

of what possible importance are emotions and enthusiasm, which always end in calculations of interest, covering only with brilliant veil the covert struggles of egotism and venal self-interest?

With how much arrogant derision men given to such detraction, contrast the noble thoughts of the poet, with his unworthy acts!

The high compositions of the artist, with his guilty frivolity!

What a haughty superiority they assume over the laborious merit of the men of guileless honesty, whom they look upon as crustacea, sheltered from temptation by the immobility of weak organizations, as well as over the pride of those, who, believing themselves superior to such temptations, do not, they assert, succeed even as well as themselves in repudiating the pursuit of material well being, the gratification of vanity, or the pleasure of immediate enjoyment!

What an easy triumph they win over the hesitation, the doubt, the repugnance of those who would fain cling to a belief in the possibility of the union of vivid feelings, passionate impressions, intellectual gifts, imaginative temperaments, with high integrity, pure lives, and courses of conduct in perfect harmony with poetic ideals!

It is therefore impossible not to feel the deepest sadness when we meet with any fact which shows us the poet disobedient to the inspiration of the Muses, those guardian angels of the man of genius, who would willingly teach him to make of his own life the most beautiful of poems.

What disastrous doubts in the minds of others, what profound discouragements, what melancholy apostasies are induced by the faltering steps of the man of genius!

And yet it would be profanity to confound his errors in the same anathema, hurled against the base vices of meanness, the shameless effrontery of low crime!

It would be sacrilege!

If the acts of the poet have sometimes denied the spirit of his song, have not his songs still more powerfully denied his acts?

May not the limited influence of his private actions have been far more than counterbalanced by the germs of creative virtues, scattered profusely through his eloquent writings?

Evil is contagious, but good is truly fruitful!

The poet, even while forcing his inner convictions to give way to his personal interest, still acknowledges and ennobles the sentiments which condemn himself; such sentiments attain a far wider influence through his works than can be exerted by his individual acts.

Are not the number of spirits which have been calmed, consoled, edified, through these works, far greater than the number of those who have been injured by the errors of his private life?

Art is far more powerful than the artist.

His creations have a life independent of his vacillating will;

for they are revelations of the "immutable beauty!"

More durable than himself, they pass on from generation to generation; let us hope that they may, through the blessings of their widely spread influence, contain a virtual power of redemption for the frequent errors of their gifted authors.

If it be indeed true that many of those who have immortalized their sensibility and their aspirations, by robing them in the garb of surpassing eloquence, have, nevertheless, stifled these high aspirations, abused these quick sensibilities,--how many have they not confirmed, strengthened and encouraged to pursue a noble course, through the works created by their genius!

A generous indulgence towards them would be but justice!

It is hard to be forced to claim simple justice for them; unpleasant to be constrained to defend those whom we wish to be admired, to excuse those whom we wish to see venerated!

With what exultant feelings of just pride may the friend and artist remember a career in which there are no jarring dissonances; no contradictions, for which he is forced to claim indulgence; no errors, whose source must be found in palliation of their existence; no extreme, to be accounted for as the consequence of "excess of cause."

How sweet it is to be able to name one who has fully proved that it is not only apathetic beings whom no fascination can attract, no illusion betray, who are able to limit themselves within the strict routine of honored and honorable laws, who may justly claim that elevation of soul, which no reverse subdues, and which is never found in contradiction with its better self!

Doubly dear and doubly honored must the memory of Chopin, in this respect, ever remain!

Dear to the friends and artists who have known him in his lifetime, dear to the unknown friends who shall learn to love him through his poetic song, as well as to the artists who, in succeeding him, shall find their glory in being worthy of him!

The character of Chopin, in none of its numerous folds, concealed a single movement, a single impulse, which was not dictated by the nicest sense of honor, the most delicate appreciation of affection.

Yet no nature was ever more formed to justify eccentricity, whims, and abrupt caprices.

His imagination was ardent, his feelings almost violent, his physical organization weak, irritable and sickly.

Who can measure the amount of suffering arising from such contrasts?

It must have been bitter, but he never allowed it to be seen!

He kept the secret of his torments, he veiled them from all eyes under the impenetrable serenity of a haughty resignation.

The delicacy of his heart and constitution imposed upon him the woman's torture, that of enduring agonies never to be confessed, thus giving to his fate some of the darker hues of feminine destiny.

Excluded, by the infirm state of his health, from the exciting arena of ordinary activity, without any taste for the useless buzzing, in which a few bees, joined with many wasps, expend their superfluous strength, he built apart from all noisy and frequented routes a secluded cell for himself.

Neither adventures, embarrassments, nor episodes, mark his life, which he succeeded in simplifying, although surrounded by circumstances which rendered such a result difficult of attainment.

His own feelings, his own impressions, were his events; more important in his eyes than the chances and changes of external life.

He constantly gave lessons with regularity and assiduity; domestic and daily tasks, they were given conscientiously and satisfactorily.

As the devout in prayer, so he poured out his soul in his compositions, expressing in them those passions of the heart, those unexpressed sorrows, to which the pious give vent in their communion with their Maker.

What they never say except upon their knees, he said in his palpitating compositions;

uttering in the language of the tones those mysteries of passion and of grief which man has been permitted to understand without words, because there are no words adequate for their expression.

The care taken by Chopin to avoid the zig-zags of life, to eliminate from it all that was useless, to prevent its crumbling into masses without form, has deprived his own course of incident.

The vague lines and indications surrounding his figure like misty clouds, disappear under the touch which would strive to follow or trace their outlines.

He takes part in no actions, no drama, no entanglements, no denouements.

He exercised a decisive influence upon no human being.

His will never encroached upon the desires of another, he never constrained any other spirit, or crashed it under the domination of his own, He never tyrannized over another heart, he never placed a conquering hand upon the destiny of another being.

He sought nothing; he would have scorned to have made any demands.

Like Tasso, he might say: Brama assai, poco spera, e nulla chiede.

In compensation, he escaped from all ties; from the affections which might have influenced him, or led him into more tumultuous spheres.

Ready to yield all, he never gave himself.

Perhaps he knew what exclusive devotion, what love without limit he was worthy of inspiring, of understanding, of sharing!

Like other ardent and ambitions natures, he may have thought if love and friendship are not all--they are nothing!

Perhaps it would have been more painful for him to have accepted a part, any thing less than all, than to have relinquished all, and thus to have remained at least faithful to his impossible Ideal!

If these things have been so or not, none ever knew, for he rarely spoke of love or friendship.

He was not exacting, like those whose high claims and just demands exceed all that we possess to offer them.

The most intimate of his acquaintances never penetrated to that secluded fortress in which the soul, absent from his common life, dwelt; a fortress which he so well succeeded in concealing, that its very existence was scarcely suspected.

In his relations and intercourse with others, he always seemed occupied in what interested them; he was cautions not to lead them from the circle of their own personality, lest they should intrude into his.

If he gave up but little of his time to others, at least of that which he did relinquish, he reserved none for himself.

No one ever asked him to give an account of his dreams, his wishes, or his hopes.

No one seemed to wish to know what he sighed for, what he might have conquered, if his white and tapering fingers could have linked the brazen chords of life to the golden ones of his enchanted lyre!

No one had leisure to think of this in his presence.

His conversation was rarely upon subjects of any deep interest.

He glided lightly over all, and as he gave but little of his time, it was easily filled with the details of the day.

He was careful never to allow himself to wander into digressions of which he himself might become the subject.

His individuality rarely excited the investigations of curiosity, or awakened vivid scrutiny.

He pleased too much to excite much reflection.

The ensemble of his person was harmonious, and called for no especial commentary.

His blue eye was more spiritual than dreamy, his bland smile never writhed into bitterness.

The transparent delicacy of his complexion pleased the eye, his fair hair was soft and silky, his nose slightly aquiline, his bearing so distinguished, and his manners stamped with so much high breeding, that involuntarily he was always treated EN PRINCE.

His gestures were many and graceful; the tone of his voice was veiled, often stifled; his stature was low, and his limbs slight.

He constantly reminded us of a convolvulus balancing its heaven-colored cup upon an incredibly slight stem, the tissue of which is so like vapor that the slightest contact wounds and tears the misty corolla.

His manners in society possessed that serenity of mood which distinguishes those whom no ennui annoys, because they expect no interest.

He was generally gay, his caustic spirit caught the ridiculous rapidly and far below the surface at which it usually strikes the eye.

He displayed a rich vein of drollery in pantomime.

He often amused himself by reproducing the musical formulas and peculiar tricks of certain virtuosi, in the most burlesque and comic improvisations, in imitating their gestures, their movements, in counterfeiting their faces with a talent which instantaneously depicted their whole personality.

His own features would then become scarcely recognizable, he could force the strangest metamorphoses upon them, but while mimicking the ugly and grotesque, he never lost his own native grace.

Grimace was never carried far enough to disfigure him; his gayety was so much the more piquant because he always restrained it within the limits of perfect good taste, holding at a suspicious distance all that could wound the most fastidious delicacy.

He never made use of an inelegant word, even in the moments of the most entire familiarity; an improper merriment, a coarse jest would have been shocking to him.

Through a strict exclusion of all subjects relating to himself from conversation, through a constant reserve with regard to his own feelings, he always succeeded in leaving a happy impression behind him.

People in general like those who charm them without causing them to fear that they will be called upon to render aught in return for the amusement given, or that the pleasurable excitement of gayety will be followed by the sadness of melancholy confidences the sight of mournful faces, or the inevitable reactions which occur in susceptible natures of which we may say: Ubi mel, ibi fel.

People generally like to keep such "susceptible natures" at a distance; they dislike to be brought into contact with their melancholy moods, though they do not refuse a kind of respect to the mournful feelings caused by their subtle reactions;

indeed such changes possess for them the attraction of the unknown and they are as ready to take delight in the description of such changing caprices, as they are to avoid their reality.

The presence of Chopin was always feted.

He interested himself so vividly in all that was not himself, that his own personality remained intact, unapproached and unapproachable, under the polished and glassy surface upon which it was impossible to gain footing.

On some occasions, although very rarely, we have seen him deeply agitated.

We have seen him grow so pale and wan, that his appearance was actually corpse-like.

But even in moments of the most intense emotion, he remained concentrated within himself.

A single instant for self-recovery always enabled him to veil the secret of his first impression.

However full of spontaneity his bearing afterwards might seem to be, it was instantaneously the effect of reflection, of a will which governed the strange conflict of emotional and moral energy with conscious physical debility; a conflict whose strange contrasts were forever warring vividly within.

The dominion exercised over the natural violence of his character reminds us of the melancholy force of those beings who seek their strength in isolation and entire self-control, conscious of the uselessness of their vivid indignation and vexation, and too jealous of the mysteries of their passions to betray them gratuitously.

He could pardon in the most noble manner.

No rancor remained in his heart toward those who had wounded him, though such wounds penetrated deeply in his soul, and fermented there in vague pain and internal suffering, so that long after the exciting cause had been effaced from his memory, he still experienced the secret torture.

By dint of constant effort, in spite of his acute and tormenting sensibilities, he subjected his feelings to the rule rather of what ought to be, than of what is;

thus he was grateful for services proceeding rather from good intentions than from a knowledge of what would have been agreeable to him; from friendship which wounded him, because not aware of his acute but concealed susceptibility.

Nevertheless the wounds caused by such awkward miscomprehension are, of all others, the most difficult for nervous temperaments to bear.

Condemned to repress their vexation, such natures are excited by degrees to a state of constantly gnawing irritability, which they can never attribute to the true cause.

It would be a gross mistake to imagine that this irritation existed without provocation.

But as a dereliction from what appeared to him to be the most honorable course of conduct was a temptation which he was never called upon to resist, because in all probability it never presented itself to him;

so he never, in the presence of the more vigorous and therefore more brusque and positive individualities than his own, unveiled the shudder, if repulsion be too strong a term, caused by their contact or association.

The reserve which marked his intercourse with others, extended to all subjects to which the fanaticism of opinion can attach.

His own sentiments could only be estimated by that which he did not do in the narrow limits of his activity.

His patriotism was revealed in the course taken by his genius, in the choice of his friends, in the preferences given to his pupils, and in the frequent and great services which he rendered to his compatriots; but we cannot remember that he took any pleasure in the expression of this feeling.

If he sometimes entered upon the topic of politics, so vividly attacked, so warmly defended, so frequently discussed in Prance, it was rather to point out what he deemed dangerous or erroneous in the opinions advanced by others than to win attention for his own.

In constant connection with some of the most brilliant politicians of the day, he knew how to limit the relations between them to a personal attachment entirely independent of political interests.