Either from a profound love of the art or from an excess of conscience personelle, Chopin could not bear any one to touch the text of his works. The slightest modification seemed to him a grave fault which he did not even forgive his intimate friends, his fervent admirers, Liszt not excepted. I have many a time, as well as my master, Zimmermann, caused Chopin's sonatas, concertos, ballades, and allegros to be played as examination pieces; but restricted as I was to a fragment of the work, I was pained by the thought of hurting the composer, who considered these alterations a veritable sacrilege.

This, however, is a digression. Little need be added to what has already been said in another chapter of the third composer of the group we were speaking of. Chopin, the reader will remember, told Moscheles that he loved his music, and Moscheles admitted that he who thus complimented him was intimately acquainted with it. From Mikuli we learn that Moscheles' studies were very sympathetic to his master. As to Moscheles' duets, they were played by Chopin probably more frequently than the works of any other composer, excepting of course his own works. We hear of his playing them not only with his pupils, but with Osborne, with Moscheles himself, and with Liszt, who told me that Chopin was fond of playing with him the duets of Moscheles and Hummel.

Speaking of playing duets reminds me of Schubert, who, Gutmann informed me, was a favourite of Chopin's. The Viennese master's "Divertissement hongrois" he admired without reserve. Also the marches and polonaises a quatre mains he played with his pupils. But his teaching repertoire seems to have contained, with the exception of the waltzes, none of the works a deux mains, neither the sonatas, nor the impromptus, nor the "Moments musicals." This shows that if Schubert was a favourite of Chopin's, he was so only to a certain extent. Indeed, Chopin even found fault with the master where he is universally regarded as facile princeps. Liszt remarks:—

In spite of the charm which he recognised in some of Schubert's melodies, he did not care to hear those whose contours were too sharp for his ear, where feeling is as it were denuded, where one feels, so to speak, the flesh palpitate and the bones crack under the grasp of anguish. A propos of Schubert, Chopin is reported to have said: "The sublime is dimmed when it is followed by the common or the trivial."

I shall now mention some of those composers with whom Chopin was less in sympathy. In the case of Weber his approval, however, seems to have outweighed his censure. At least Mikuli relates that the E minor and A flat major Sonatas and the "Concertstuck" were among those works for which his master had a predilection, and Madame Dubois says that he made his pupils play the Sonatas in C and in A flat major with extreme care. Now let us hear Lenz:— He could not appreciate Weber; he spoke of "opera," "unsuitable for the piano" [unklaviermassig]! On the whole, Chopin was little in sympathy with the GERMAN spirit in music, although I heard him say: "There is only ONE SCHOOL, the German!"

Gutmann informed me that he brought the A flat major Sonata with him from Germany in 1836 or 1837, and that Chopin did not know it then. It is hard enough to believe that Liszt asked Lenz in 1828 if the composer of the "Freischutz" had also written for the piano, but Chopin's ignorance in 1836 is much more startling. Did fame and publications travel so slowly in the earlier part of the century? Had genius to wait so long for recognition? If the statement, for the correctness of which Gutmann alone is responsible, rests on fact and not on some delusion of memory, this most characteristic work of Weber and one of the most important items of the pianoforte literature did not reach Chopin, one of the foremost European pianists, till twenty years after its publication, which took place in December, 1816.

That Chopin had a high opinion of Beethoven may be gathered from a story which Lenz relates in an article written for the "Berliner Musikzeitung" (Vol. XXVI). Little Filtsch—the talented young Hungarian who made Liszt say: "I shall shut my shop when he begins to travel"—having played to a select company invited by his master the latter's Concerto in E minor, Chopin was so pleased with his pupil's performance that he went with him to Schlesinger's music-shop, asked for the score of "Fidelio," and presented it to him with the words:—"I am in your debt, you have given me great pleasure to-day, I wrote the concerto in a happy time, accept, my dear young friend, the great master work! read in it as long as you live and remember me also sometimes." But Chopin's high opinion of Beethoven was neither unlimited nor unqualified. His attitude as regards this master, which Franchomme briefly indicated by saying that his friend loved Beethoven, but had his dislikes in connection with him, is more fully explained by Liszt.

However great his admiration for the works of Beethoven might be, certain parts of them seemed to him too rudely fashioned. Their structure was too athletic to please him; their wraths seemed to him too violent [leurs courroux lui semblaient trop rugissants]. He held that in them passion too closely approaches cataclysm; the lion's marrow which is found in every member of his phrases was in his opinion a too substantial matter, and the seraphic accents, the Raphaelesque profiles, which appear in the midst of the powerful creations of this genius, became at times almost painful to him in so violent a contrast.

I am able to illustrate this most excellent general description by some examples. Chopin said that Beethoven raised him one moment up to the heavens and the next moment precipitated him to the earth, nay, into the very mire. Such a fall Chopin experienced always at the commencement of the last movement of the C minor Symphony. Gutmann, who informed me of this, added that pieces such as the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata (C sharp minor) were most highly appreciated by his master. One day when Mr. Halle played to Chopin one of the three Sonatas, Op. 31 (I am not sure which it was), the latter remarked that he had formerly thought the last movement VULGAR. From this Mr. Halle naturally concluded that Chopin could not have studied the works of Beethoven thoroughly. This conjecture is confirmed by what we learn from Lenz, who in 1842 saw a good deal of Chopin, and thanks to his Boswellian inquisitiveness, persistence, and forwardness, made himself acquainted with a number of interesting facts. Lenz and Chopin spoke a great deal about Beethoven after that visit to the Russian ladies mentioned in a foregoing part of this chapter. They had never spoken of the great master before. Lenz says of Chopin:—

He did not take a very serious interest in Beethoven; he knew only his principal compositions, the last works not at all. This was in the Paris air! People knew the symphonies, the quartets of the middle period but little, the last ones not at all.

Chopin, on being told by Lenz that Beethoven had in the F minor Quartet anticipated Mendelssohn, Schumann, and him; and that the scherzo prepared the way for his mazurka-fantasias, said: "Bring me this quartet, I do not know it." According to Mikuli Chopin was a regular frequenter of the concerts of the Societe des Concerts du Conservatoire and of the Alard, Franchomme, &c., quartet party. But one of the most distinguished musicians living in Paris, who knew Chopin's opinion of Beethoven, suspects that the music was for him not the greatest attraction of the Conservatoire concerts, that in fact, like most of those who went there, he considered them a fashionable resort. True or not, the suspicion is undeniably significant. "But Mendelssohn," the reader will say, "surely Chopin must have admired and felt in sympathy with this sweet-voiced, well-mannered musician?" Nothing, however, could be farther from the truth. Chopin hated Mendelssohn's D minor Trio, and told Halle that that composer had never written anything better than the first Song without Words. Franchomme, stating the case mildly, says that Chopin did not care much for Mendelssohn's music; Gutmann, however, declared stoutly that his master positively disliked it and thought it COMMON. This word and the mention of the Trio remind me of a passage in Hiller's "Mendelssohn: Letters and Recollections," in which the author relates how, when his friend played to him the D minor Trio after its completion, he was favourably impressed by the fire, spirit, and flow, in one word, the masterly character of the work, but had some misgivings about certain pianoforte passages, especially those based on broken chords, which, accustomed as he was by his constant intercourse with Liszt and Chopin during his stay of several years in Paris to the rich passage work of the new school, appeared to him old-fashioned. Mendelssohn, who in his letters repeatedly alludes to his sterility in the matter of new pianoforte passages, allowed himself to be persuaded by Hiller to rewrite the pianoforte part, and was pleased with the result. It is clear from the above that if Mendelssohn failed to give Chopin his due, Chopin did more than apply the jus talionis.

Schumann, however, found still less favour in the eyes of Chopin than Mendelssohn; for whilst among the works which, for instance, Madame Dubois, who was Chopin's pupil for five years, studied under her master, Mendelssohn was represented at least by the Songs without Words and the G minor Concerto, Schumann was conspicuous by his total absence. And let it be remarked that this was in the last years of Chopin's life, when Schumann had composed and published almost all his important works for pianoforte alone and many of his finest works for pianoforte with other instruments. M. Mathias, Chopin's pupil during the years 1839-1844, wrote to me: "I think I recollect that he had no great opinion of Schumann. I remember seeing the "Carnaval," Op. 9, on his table; he did not speak very highly of it." In 1838, when Stephen Heller was about to leave Augsburg for Paris, Schumann sent him a copy of his "Carnaval" (published in September, 1837), to be presented to Chopin. This copy had a title-page printed in various colours and was most tastefully bound; for Schumann knew Chopin's love of elegance, and wished to please him. Soon after his arrival in Paris, Heller called on the Polish musician and found him sitting for his portrait. On receiving the copy of the "Carnaval" Chopin said: "How beautifully they get up these things in Germany!" but uttered not a word about the music. However, we shall see presently what his opinion of it was. Some time, perhaps some years, after this first meeting with Chopin, Heller was asked by Schlesinger whether he would advise him to publish Schumann's "Carnaval." Heller answered that it would be a good speculation, for although the work would probably not sell well at first, it was sure to pay in the long run. Thereupon Schlesinger confided to Heller what Chopin had told him—namely, that the "Carnaval" was not music at all. The contemplation of this indifference and more than indifference of a great artist to the creations of one of his most distinguished contemporaries is saddening, especially if we remember how devoted Schumann was to Chopin, how he admired him, loved him, upheld him, and idolised him. Had it not been for Schumann's enthusiastic praise and valiant defence Chopin's fame would have risen and spread, more slowly in Germany.

"Of virtuoso music of any kind I never saw anything on his desk, nor do I think anybody else ever did," says Mikuli.. This, although true in the main, is somewhat too strongly stated. Kalkbrenner, whose "noisy virtuosities [virtuosites tapageuses] and decorative expressivities [expressivites decoratives]" Chopin regarded with antipathy, and Thalberg, whose shallow elegancies and brilliancies he despised, were no doubt altogether banished from his desk; this, however, seems not to have been the case with Liszt, who occasionally made his appearance there. Thus Madame Dubois studied under Chopin Liszt's transcription of Rossini's "Tarantella" and of the Septet from Donizetti's "Lucia di Lammermoor." But the compositions of Liszt that had Chopin's approval were very limited in number. Chopin, who viewed making concessions to bad taste at the cost of true art and for the sake of success with the greatest indignation, found his former friend often guilty of this sin. In 1840 Liszt's transcription of Beethoven's "Adelaide" was published in a supplement to the Gazette musicale. M. Mathias happened to come to Chopin on the day when the latter had received the number of the journal which contained the piece in question, and found his master furious, outre, on account of certain cadenzas which he considered out of place and out of keeping.

We have seen in one of the earlier chapters how little Chopin approved of Berlioz's matter and manner; some of the ultra-romanticist's antipodes did not fare much better. As for Halevy, Chopin had no great opinion of him; Meyerbeer's music he heartily disliked; and, although not insensible to Auber's French esprit and liveliness, he did not prize this master's works very highly. Indeed, at the Italian opera-house he found more that was to his taste than at the French opera-houses. Bellini's music had a particular charm for Chopin, and he was also an admirer of Rossini.

The above notes exemplify and show the truth of Liszt's remark:—

In the great models and the master-works of art Chopin sought only what corresponded with his nature. What resembled it pleased him; what differed from it hardly received justice from him.



CHAPTER XXVI.



1843-1847.



CHOPIN'S PECUNIARY CIRCUMSTANCES, AND BUSINESS EXPERIENCES WITH PUBLISHERS.—LETTERS TO FRANCHOMME.—PUBLICATIONS FROM 1842-7.—SOJOURNS AT NOHANT.—LISZT, MATTHEW ARNOLD, GEORGE SAND, CHARLES ROLLINAT, AND EUGENE DELACROIX ON NOHANT AND LIFE AT NOHANT.—CHOPIN'S MODE OF COMPOSITION.—CHOPIN AND GEORGE SAND TAKE UP THEIR PARIS QUARTERS IN THE CITE D'ORLEANS.—THEIR WAY OF LIFE THERE, PARTICULARLY CHOPIN'S, AS DESCRIBED BY HIS PUPILS LINDSAY SLOPER, MATHIAS, AND MADAME DUBOIS, AND MORE ESPECIALLY BY LENZ, MADAME SAND HERSELF, AND PROFESSOR ALEXANDER CHODZKO (DOMESTIC RELATIONS, APARTMENTS, MANNERS, SYMPATHIES, HIS TALENT FOR MIMICRY, GEORGE SAND'S FRIENDS, AND HER ESTIMATE OF CHOPIN'S CHARACTER).



Chopin's life from 1843 to 1847 was too little eventful to lend itself to a chronologically progressive narrative. I shall, therefore, begin this chapter with a number of letters written by the composer during this period to his friend Franchomme, and then endeavour to describe Chopin's mode of life, friends, character, &c.

The following fascicle of letters, although containing less about the writer's thoughts, feelings, and doings than we could wish, affords nevertheless matter of interest. At any rate, much additional light is thrown on Chopin's pecuniary circumstances and his dealings with his publishers.

Impecuniosity seems to have been a chronic state with the artist and sometimes to have pressed hard upon him. On one occasion it even made him write to the father of one of his pupils, and ask for the payment of the fees for five lessons (100 francs). M. Mathias tells me that the letter is still in his possession. One would hardly have expected such a proceeding from a grand seigneur like Chopin, and many will, no doubt, ask, how it was that a teacher so much sought after, who got 20 francs a lesson, and besides had an income from his compositions, was reduced to such straits. The riddle is easily solved. Chopin was open-handed and not much of an economist: he spent a good deal on pretty trifles, assisted liberally his needy countrymen, made handsome presents to his friends, and is said to have had occasionally to pay bills of his likewise often impecunious lady-love. Moreover, his total income was not so large as may be supposed, for although he could have as many pupils as he wished, he never taught more than five hours a day, and lived every year for several months in the country. And then there is one other point to be taken into consideration: he often gave his lessons gratis. From Madame Rubio I learned that on one occasion when she had placed the money for a series of lessons on the mantel-piece, the master declined to take any of it, with the exception of a 20-franc piece, for which sum he put her name down on a subscription list for poor Poles. Lindsay Sloper, too, told me that Chopin declined payment for the lessons he gave him.

Chopin's business experiences were not, for the most part, of a pleasant nature; this is shown as much by the facts he mentions in his letters as by the distrust with which he speaks of the publishers. Here are some more particulars on the same subject. Gutmann says that Chopin on his return from Majorca asked Schlesinger for better terms. But the publisher, whilst professing the highest opinion of the composer's merit, regretted that the sale of the compositions was not such as to allow him to pay more than he had hitherto done. [FOOTNOTE: Chopin's letters show that Gutmann's statement is correct. Troupenas was Chopin's publisher for some time after his return from Majorca.] Stephen Heller remembered hearing that Breitkopf and Hartel, of Leipzig, wrote to their Paris agent informing him that they would go on publishing Chopin's compositions, although, considering their by no means large sale, the terms at which they got them were too high. Ed. Wolff related to me that one day he drove with his countryman to the publisher Troupenas, to whom Chopin wished to sell his Sonata (probably the one in B flat minor). When after his negotiations with the publisher Chopin was seated again in the carriage, he said in Polish: "The pig, he offered me 200 francs for my Sonata!" Chopin's relations with England were even less satisfactory. At a concert at which Filtsch played, Chopin introduced Stephen Heller to Wessel or to a representative ofthat firm, but afterwards remarked: "You won't find them pleasant to deal with." Chopin at any rate did not find them pleasant to deal with. Hearing that Gutmann was going to London he asked his pupil to call at Wessel's and try to renew the contract which had expired. The publisher on being applied to answered that not only would he not renew the contract, but that he would not even print Chopin's compositions if he got them for nothing. Among the pieces offered was the Berceuse. With regard to this story of Gutmann's it has, however, to be stated that, though it may have some foundation of fact, it is not true as he told it; for Wessel certainly had published the Berceuse by June 26, 1845, and also published in the course of time the five following works. Then, however, the connection was broken off by Wessel. Chopin's grumblings at his English publisher brings before us only one side of the question. The other side comes in view in the following piece of information with which Wessel's successor, Mr. Edwin Ashdown, favoured me:—"In 1847 Mr. Wessel got tired of buying Chopin's works, which at that time had scarcely any sale, and discontinued the agreement, his last assignment from Chopin (of Op. 60, 61, and 62) being dated July 17, 1847." Wessel advertised these works on September 26, 1846.

Although in the first of the following letters the day, month, and year when it was written are not mentioned, and the second and third inform us only of the day and month, but not of the year, internal evidence shows that the first four letters form one group and belong to the year 1844. Chopin places the date sometimes at the head, sometimes at the foot, and sometimes in the middle of his letters; to give it prominence I shall place it always at the head, but indicate where he places it in the middle.

Chateau de Nohant, near La Chatre, Indre [August 1, 1844].

Dearest [Cherissime],—I send you [FOOTNOTE: In addressing Franchomme Chopin makes use of the pronoun of the second person singular.] the letter from Schlesinger and another for him. Read them. He wishes to delay the publication, and I cannot do so. If he says NO, give my manuscripts to Maho [FOOTNOTE: See next letter.] so that he may get M. Meissonnier [FOOTNOTE: A Paris music-publisher. He brought out in the following year (1845) Chopin's Op. 57, Berceuse, and Op. 58, Sonate (B minor). The compositions spoken of in this and the next two letters are Op. 55, Deux Nocturnes, and Op. 56, Trois Mazurkas.] to take them for the same price, 600 francs, I believe that he (Schlesinger) will engrave them. They must be published on the 20th. But you know it is only necessary to register the title on that day. I ask your pardon for troubling you with all these things. I love you, and apply to you as I would to my brother. Embrace your children. My regards to Madame Franchomme.—Your devoted friend,

F. Chopin.

A thousand compliments from Madame Sand.

Chateau de Nohant, Indre, August 2 [1844].

Dearest,—I was in great haste yesterday when I wrote to you to apply at Meissonnier's through Maho IF SCHLESINGER REFUSES my compositions. I forgot that Henri Lemoine [FOOTNOTE: A Paris music-publisher.] paid Schlesinger a very high price for my studies, and that I had rather have Lemoine engrave my manuscripts than Meissonnier. I give you much trouble, dear friend, but here is a letter for H. Lemoine, which I send to you. Read it, and arrange with him. He must either publish the compositions or register the titles on the 20th of this month (August); ask from him only 300 francs for each, which makes 600 francs for the two. Tell him he need not pay me till my return to Paris if he likes. Give him even the two for 500 francs if you think it necessary. I had rather do that than give them to Meissonnier for 600 francs, as I wrote to you yesterday without reflecting. If you have in the meantime already arranged something with M., it is a different matter. If not, do not let them go for less than 1,000 francs. For Maho, who is the correspondent of Haertel (who pays me well) might, knowing that I sell my compositions for so little in Paris, make me lower my price in Germany. I torment you much with my affairs. It is only in case Schlesinger persists in his intention not to publish this month. If you think Lemoine would give 800 francs for the two works, ask them. I do not mention THE PRICE to him so as to leave you complete freedom. I have no time to lose before the departure of the mail. I embrace you, dear brother—write me a line.—Yours devotedly,

Chopin.

My regards to Madame. A thousand kisses to your children.



Nohant, Monday, August 4 [1844].

Dearest,—I relied indeed on your friendship—therefore the celerity with which you have arranged the Schlesinger affair for me does not surprise me at all. I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and await the moment when I shall be able to do as much for you. I imagine all is well in your home— that Madame Franchomme and your dear children are well—and that you love me as I love you.—Yours devotedly,

F. CH.

Madame Sand embraces your dear big darling [fanfan], and sends you a hearty grasp of the hand.

Chateau de Nohant, September 20, 1844.

Dearest,—If I did not write you before, it was because I thought I should see you again this week in Paris. My departure being postponed, I send you a line for Schlesinger so that he may remit to you the price of my last manuscripts, that is to say, 600 francs (100 of which you will keep for me). I hope he will do it without making any difficulty about it—if not, ask him at once for a line in reply (without getting angry), send it to me, and I shall write immediately to M. Leo to have the 500 francs you had the kindness to lend me remitted to you before the end of the month.

What shall I say? I often think of our last evening spent with my dear sister. [FOOTNOTE: His sister Louise, who had been on a visit to him.] How glad she was to hear you! She wrote to me about it since from Strasburg, and asked me to remember her to you and Madame Franchomme. I hope you are all well, and that I shall find you so. Write to me, and love me as I love you. Your old

[A scrawl.]

A thousand compliments to Madame. I embrace your dear children. A thousand compliments from Madame Sand.

[Date.]

I send you also a receipt for Schlesinger which you will give up to him for the money only. Once more, do not be vexed if he makes any difficulties. I embrace you.

C.

August 30, 1845.

Very dear friend,—Here are three manuscripts for Brandus, [FOOTNOTE: Brandus, whose name here appears for the first time in Chopin's letters, was the successor of Schlesinger.] and three for Maho, who will remit to you Haertel's price for them (1,500 francs). Give the manuscripts only at the moment of payment. Send a note for 500 francs in your next letter, and keep the rest for me. I give you much trouble, I should like to spare you it—but—but——.

Ask Maho not to change the manuscripts destined for Haertel, because, as I shall not correct the Leipzig proofs, it is important that my copy should be clear. Also ask Brandus to send me two proofs, one of which I may keep.

Now, how are you? and Madame Franchomme and her dear children? I know you are in the country—(if St. Germain may be called country)—that ought to do you all infinite good in the fine weather which we continue to have. Look at my erasures! I should not end if I were to launch out into a chat with you, and I have not time to resume my letter, for Eug. Delacroix, who wishes much to take charge of my message for you, leaves immediately. He is the most admirable artist possible—I have spent delightful times with him. He adores Mozart—knows all his operas by heart.

Decidedly I am only making blots to-day—pardon me for them. Au revoir, dear friend, I love you always, and I think of you every day.

Give my kind regards to Madame Franchomme, and embrace the dear children.

September 22, 1845.

Very dear friend,—I thank you with all my heart for all your journeys after Maho, and your letter which I have just received with the money. The day of the publication seems to me good, and I have only to ask you again not to let Brandus fall asleep on my account or over my accounts.

Nohant, July 8, 1846.

Very dear friend,—It was not because I did not think of it that I have not written to you sooner, but because I wished to send you at the same time my poor manuscripts, which are not yet finished. In the meantime here is a letter for M. Brandus. When you deliver it to him, be so kind as to ask him for a line in reply, which you will have the goodness to send to me; because if any unforeseen event occurs, I shall have to apply to Meissonnier, their offers being equal.

My good friend,—I am doing my utmost to work, but I do not get on; and if this state of things continues, my new productions will no longer remind people either of the WARBLING OF LINNETS [gazouillement des fauvettes] [FOOTNOTE: This is an allusion to a remark which somebody made on his compositions.] or even of BROKEN CHINA [porcelaine cassee]. I must resign myself.

Write to me. I love you as much as ever.

A thousand kind regards to Madame Franchomme, and many compliments from my sister Louise. I embrace your dear children.

[Date.]

Madame Sand begs to be remembered to you and Madame Franchomme.

Chateau de Nohant, near La Chatre, September 17, 1846.

Very dear friend,—I am very sorry that Brandus is away, and that Maho is not yet in a position to receive the manuscripts that he has so often asked me for this winter. One must therefore wait; meanwhile I beg you will be so kind as to go back AS SOON as you judge it possible, for I should not now like this to be a long business, having sent my copy to London at the same time as to you. Do not tell them this—if they are CLEVER tradesmen [marchands habiles] they may cheat me like honest people [en honnetes gens]. As this is all my present fortune I should prefer the affair to turn out differently. Also have the kindness not to consign my manuscripts to them without receiving the money agreed upon, and send me immediately a note for 500 francs in your letter. You will keep the rest for me till my arrival in Paris, which will take place probably in the end of October. I thank you a thousand times, dear friend, for your good heart and friendly offers. Keep your millions for me till another time—is it not already too much to dispose of your time as I do?

[Here follow compliments to and friendly enquiries after Franchomme's family.]

Madame Sand sends you a thousand compliments and desires to be remembered to Madame Franchomme.

[Date.]

I shall answer Madame Rubio. [FOOTNOTE: Nee Vera de Kologriwof, a pupil of Chopin's and teacher of music in Paris; she married Signor Rubio, an artist, and died in the summer of 1880 at Florence.] If Mdlle. Stirling [FOOTNOTE: A Scotch lady and pupil of Chopin's; I shall have to say more about her by- and-by. Madame Erskine was her elder sister.] is at St. Germain, do not forget to remember me to her, also to Madame Erskine.

This will be the proper place to mention the compositions of the years 1842-47, about the publication of many of which we have read so much in the above letters. There is no new publication to be recorded in 1842. The publications of 1843 were: in February—Op. 51, Allegro vivace, Troisieme Impromptu (G flat major), dedicated to Madame la Comtesse Esterhazy; in December—Op. 52, Quatrieme Ballade (F minor), dedicated to Madame la Baronne C. de Rothschild; Op. 53, Huitieme Polonaise (A flat major), dedicated to Mr. A. Leo; and Op. 54, Scherzo, No. 4 (E major), dedicated to Mdlle. J. de Caraman. Those of 1844 were: in August—Op. 55, Deux Nocturnes (F minor and E flat major), dedicated to Mdlle. J. H. Stirling; and Op. 56, Trois Mazurkas (A minor, A flat major, and F sharp minor), dedicated to Mdlle. C. Maberly. Those of 1845: in May—Op. 57, Berceuse (D flat major), dedicated to Mdlle. Elise Gavard; and in June—Op. 58, Sonate (B minor), dedicated to Madame la Comtesse E. de Perthuis. Those of 1846: in April—Op. 59, Trois Mazurkas (A minor, A flat major, and F sharp minor); and in September—Op. 60, Barcarole (F sharp major), dedicated to Madame la Baronne de Stockhausen; Op. 61, Polonaise-Fantaisie (A flat major), dedicated to Madame A. Veyret; and Op. 62, Deux Nocturnes (B major and E major), dedicated to Mdlle. R. de Konneritz. Those of 1847: in September—Op. 63, Trois Mazurkas (B major, F minor, and C sharp minor), dedicated to Madame la Comtesse L. Czosnowska, and Op. 64, Trois Valses (D flat major, C sharp minor, and A flat major), respectively dedicated to Madame la Comtesse Delphine Potocka, Madame la Baronne Nathaniel de Rothschild, and Madame la Baronne Bronicka; and lastly, in October—Op. 65, Sonate (G minor), pour piano et violoncelle, dedicated to Mr. A. Franchomme.

From 1838 to 1846 Chopin passed regularly every year, with the exception of 1840, three or four months at Nohant. The musical papers announced Chopin's return to town sometimes at the beginning of October, sometimes at the beginning of November. In 1844 he must either have made a longer stay at Nohant than usual or paid it a visit during the winter, for in the "Gazette musicale" of January 5, 1845, we read: "Chopin has returned to Paris and brought with him a new grand Sonata and variantes. These two important works will soon be published."

[FOOTNOTE: The new Sonata here mentioned is the one in B minor, Op. 58, which was published in June, 1845. As to the other item mentioned, I am somewhat puzzled. Has the word to be taken in its literal sense of "various readings," i.e., new readings of works already known (the context, however, does not favour this supposition), or does it refer to the ever-varying evolutions of the Berceuse, Op. 57. published in May, 1845, or, lastly, is it simply a misprint?]

George Sand generally prolonged her stay at Nohant till pretty far into the winter, much to the sorrow of her malade ordinaire (thus Chopin used to style himself), who yearned for her return to Paris.

According to Liszt, the country and the vie de chateau pleased Chopin so much that for the sake of enjoying them he put up with company that did not please him at all. George Sand has a different story to tell. She declares that the retired life and the solemnity of the country agreed neither with Chopin's physical nor with his moral health; that he loved the country only for a fortnight, after which he bore it only out of attachment to her; and that he never felt regret on leaving it. Whether Chopin loved country life or not, whether he liked George Sand's Berry friends and her guests from elsewhere or not, we may be sure that he missed Paris and his accustomed Paris society.

"Of all the troubles I had not to endure but to contend against, the sufferings of my malade ordinaire were not the least," says George Sand. "Chopin always wished for Nohant, and never could bear it." And, speaking of the later years, when the havoc made in Chopin's constitution by the inroads of his malady showed itself more and more, she remarks: "Nohant had become repugnant to him. His return in the spring still filled him with ecstatic joy for a short time. But as soon as he began to work everything round him assumed a gloomy aspect."

Before we peep into Chopin's room and watch him at work, let us see what the chateau of Nohant and life there were like. "The railway through the centre of France went in those days [August, 1846] no further than Vierzon," [FOOTNOTE: The opening of the extension of the line to Chateauroux was daily expected at that time.] writes Mr. Matthew Arnold in an account of a visit paid by him to George Sand:—

From Vierzon to Chateauroux one travelled by an ordinary diligence, from Chateauroux to La Chatre by a humbler diligence, from La Chatre to Broussac by the humblest diligence cf. all. At Broussac diligence ended, and PATACHE began. Between Chateauroux and La Chatre, a mile or two before reaching the latter place, the road passes by the village of Nohant. The chateau of Nohant, in which Madame Sand lived, is a plain house by the roadside, with a walled garden. Down in the meadows not far off flows the Indre, bordered by trees.

The Chateau of Nohant is indeed, as Mr. Matthew Arnold says, a plain house, only the roof with its irregularly distributed dormars and chimney-stacks of various size giving to it a touch of picturesqueness. On the other hand, the ground-floor, with its central door flanked on each side by three windows, and the seven windowed story above, impresses one with the sense of spaciousness.

Liszt, speaking of a three months' stay at Nohant made by himself and his friend the Comtesse d'Agoult in the summer of 1837—i.e., before the closer connection of George Sand and Chopin began—relates that the hostess and her guests spent the days in reading good books, receiving letters from absent friends, taking long walks on the banks of the Indre, and in other equally simple occupations and amusements. In the evenings they assembled on the terrace. There, where the light of the lamps cast fantastic shadows on the neighbouring trees, they sat listening to the murmuring of the river and the warbling of the nightingales, and breathing in the sweet perfume of the lime-trees and the stronger scent of the larches till the Countess would exclaim: "There you are again dreaming, you incorrigible artists! Do you not know that the hour for working has come?" And then George Sand would go and write at the book on which she was engaged, and Liszt would betake himself to the old scores which he was studying with a view to discover some of the great masters' secrets. [FOOTNOTE: Liszt. "Essays and Reisebriefe eines Baccalaureus der Tonkunst." Vol. II., pp. 146 and 147 of the collected works.]

Thus was Nohant in quiet days. But the days at Nohant were by no means always quiet. For George Sand was most hospitable, kept indeed literally open house for her friends, and did so regardless of credit and debit. The following passage from a letter written by her in 1840 from Paris to her half-brother Hippolyte Chatiron gives us a good idea of the state of matters:—

If you will guarantee my being able to pass the summer at Nohant for 4,000 francs, I will go. But I have never been there without spending 1,500 francs per month, and as I do not spend here the half of this, it is neither the love of work, nor that of spending, nor that of GLORY, which makes me stay. I do not know whether I have been pillaged; but I am at a loss how to avoid it with my nonchalance, in so vast a house, and so easy a kind of life as that of Nohant. Here I can see clearly; everything is done under my eyes as I understand and wish it. At Nohant—let this remain between us—you know that before I am up a dozen people have often made themselves at home in the house. What can I do? Were I to pose as a good manager [econome] they would accuse me of stinginess; were I to let things go on, I should not be able to provide for them. Try if you can find a remedy for this.

In George Sand's letters many glimpses may be caught of the life at Nohant. To some of them I have already drawn the reader's attention in preceding chapters; now I shall point out a few more.

George Sand to Madame Marliani; Nohant, August 13, 1841:—

I have had all my nights absorbed by work and fatigue. I have passed all my days with Pauline [Viardot] in walking, playing at billiards, and all this makes me so entirely go out of my indolent character and lazy habits that, at night, instead of working quickly, I fall stupidly asleep at every line....Viardot [Louis Viardot, the husband of Pauline] passes his days in poaching with my brother and Papet; for the shooting season has not yet begun, and they brave the laws, divine and human. Pauline reads with Chopin whole scores at the piano. She is always good-natured and charming, as you know her.

George Sand to Mdlle. Rozieres: Nohant, October 15, 1841:—

Papet is in the depths of the forests; in "Erymanthe" at least, hunting the wild boar. Chopin is in Paris, and he has relapsed, as he says, into his triples croches [demisemiquavers].

George Sand to Mdlle. Rozieres; Nohant, May 9, 1842:—

Quick to work! Your master, the great Chopin, has forgotten (that for which he nevertheless cares a great deal) to buy a beautiful present for Francoise, my faithful servant, whom he adores, and he is very right.

He begs of you therefore to send him, IMMEDIATELY, four yards of lace, two fingers broad at least, within the price of ten francs a yard; further, a shawl of whatever material you like, within the price of forty francs....This, then, is the superb present which your HONOURED MASTER asks you to get for him, with an eagerness worthy of the ardour which he carries into his gifts, and of the impatience which he puts into little things.

Charles Rollinat, a friend of George Sand's, the brother of one of George Sand's most intimate and valued friends, Francois Rollinat, published in "Le Temps" (September 1, 1874) a charming "Souvenir de Nohant," which shows us the the chateau astir with a more numerous company:—

The hospitality there [he writes] was comfortable, and the freedom absolute. There were guns and dogs for those who loved hunting, boats and nets for those who loved fishing, a splendid garden to walk in. Everyone did as he liked. Liszt and Chopin composed; Pauline Garcia studied her role of the "Prophete"; the mistress of the house wrote a romance or a drama; and it was the same with the others. At six o'clock they assembled again to dine, and did not part company till two or three o'clock in the morning. Chopin rarely played. He could only be prevailed upon to play when he was sure of perfection. Nothing in the world would have made him consent to play indifferently. Liszt, on the contrary, played always, well or badly.

[FOOTNOTE: Charles Rollinat, a younger brother of Francois, went afterwards to Russia, where, according to George Sand (see letter to Edmond Plauchut, April 8, 1874), he was for twenty-five years "professeur de musique et haut enseignement, avec une bonne place du gouvernement." He made a fortune and lost it, retaining only enough to live upon quietly in Italy. He tried then to supplement his scanty income by literary work (translations from the Russian). George Sand, recalling the days of long ago, says: "Il chantait comme on ne chante plus, excepte Pauline [Viardot-Garcia]!"]

Unfortunately, the greater portion of M. Rollinat's so-called Souvenir consists of "poetry WITHOUT truth." Nevertheless, we will not altogether ignore his pretty stories.

One evening when Liszt played a piece of Chopin's with embellishments of his own, the composer became impatient and at last, unable to restrain himself any longer, walked up to Liszt and said with his ENGLISH PHLEGM:—

"I beg of you, my dear friend, if you do me the honour to play a piece of mine, to play what is written, or to play something else. It is only Chopin who has the right to alter Chopin."

"Well! play yourself!" said Liszt, rising from his seat a little irritated,

"With pleasure," said Chopin.

At that moment a moth extinguished the lamp. Chopin would not have it relighted, and played in the dark. When he had finished his delighted auditors overwhelmed him with compliments, and Liszt said:

"Ah, my friend, you were right! The works of a genius like you are sacred; it is a profanation to meddle with them. You are a true poet, and I am only a mountebank."

Whereupon Chopin replied: "We have each our genre."

M. Rollinat then proceeds to tell his readers that Chopin, believing he had eclipsed Liszt that evening, boasted of it, and said: "How vexed he was!" It seems that the author felt that this part of the story put a dangerously severe strain on the credulity of his readers, for he thinks it necessary to assure them that these were the ipsissima verba of Chopin. Well, the words in question came to the ears of Liszt, and he resolved at once to have his revenge.

Five days afterwards the friends were again assembled in the same place and at the same time. Liszt asked Chopin to play, and had all the lights put out and all the curtains drawn; but when Chopin was going to the piano, Liszt whispered something in his ear and sat down in his stead. He played the same composition which Chopin had played on the previous occasion, and the audience was again enchanted. At the end of the piece Liszt struck a match and lighted the candles which stood on the piano. Of course general stupefaction ensued.

"What do you say to it?" said Liszt to his rival. "I say what everyone says; I too believed it was Chopin." "You see," said the virtuoso rising, "that Liszt can be Chopin when he likes; but could Chopin be Liszt?"

Instead of commenting on the improbability of a generous artist thus cruelly taunting his sensitive rival, I shall simply say that Liszt had not the slightest recollection of ever having imitated Chopin's playing in a darkened room. There may be some minute grains of truth mixed up with all this chaff of fancy—Chopin's displeasure at the liberties Liszt took with his compositions was no doubt one of them—but it is impossible to separate them.

M. Rollinat relates also how in 184-, when Chopin, Liszt, the Comtesse d'Agoult, Pauline Garcia, Eugene Delacroix, the actor Bocage, and other celebrities were at Nohant, the piano was one moonlit night carried out to the terrace; how Liszt played the hunting chorus from Weber's Euryanthe, Chopin some bars from an impromptu he was then composing; how Pauline Garcia sang Nel cor piu non mi sento, and a niece of George Sand a popular air; how the echo answered the musicians; and how after the music the company, which included also a number of friends from the neighbouring town, had punch and remained together till dawn. But here again M. Rollinat's veracity is impugned on all sides. Madame Viardot-Garcia declares that she was never at Nohant when Liszt was there; and Liszt did not remember having played on the terrace of the chateau. Moreover, seeing that the first performance of the Prophete took place on April 16, 1849, is it likely that Madame Pauline Garcia was studying her part before or in 1846? And unless she did so she could not meet Chopin at Nohant when she was studying it.

M. Rollinat is more trustworthy when he tells us that there was a pretty theatre and quite an assortment of costumes at the chateau; that the dramas and comedies played there were improvised by the actors, only the subject and the division into scenes being given; and that on two pianos, concealed by curtains, one on the right and one on the left of the stage, Chopin and Liszt improvised the musical part of the entertainment. All this is, however, so much better and so much more fully told by George Sand (in Dernieres Pages: Le Theatre des Marionnettes de Nohant) that we will take our information from her. It was in the long nights of a winter that she conceived the plan of these private theatricals in imitation of the comedia dell' arte—namely, of "pieces the improvised dialogue of which followed a written sketch posted up behind the scenes."

They resembled the charades which are acted in society and which are more or less developed according to the ensemble and the talent of the performers. We had begun with these. By degrees the word of the charade disappeared and we played first mad saynetes, then comedies of intrigues and adventures, and finally dramas of incidents and emotions. The whole thing began by pantomime, and this was of Chopin's invention; he occupied the place at the piano and improvised, while the young people gesticulated scenes and danced comic ballets. I leave you to imagine whether these now wonderful, now charming improvisations quickened the brains and made supple the legs of our performers. He led them as he pleased and made them pass, according to his fancy, from the droll to the severe, from the burlesque to the solemn, from the graceful to the passionate. We improvised costumes in order to play successively several roles. As soon as the artist saw them appear, he adapted his theme and his accent in a marvellous manner to their respective characters. This went on for three evenings, and then the master, setting out for Paris, left us thoroughly stirred up, enthusiastic, and determined not to suffer the spark which had electrified us to be lost.

To get away from the quicksands of Souvenirs—for George Sand's pages, too, were written more than thirty years after the occurrences she describes, and not published till 1877—I shall make some extracts from the contemporaneous correspondence of George Sand's great friend, the celebrated painter Eugene Delacroix. [FOOTNOTE: Lettres de Eugene Delacroix (1815 a 1863) recucillies et publiees par M. Philippe Burty. Paris, 1878.] The reader cannot fail to feel at once the fresh breeze of reality that issues from these letters, which contain vivid sketches full of natural beauties and free from affectation and striving after effect:—

Nohant, June 7, 1842.

...The place is very pleasant, and the hosts do their utmost to please me. When we are not assembled to dine, breakfast, play at billiards, or walk, we are in our rooms, reading, or resting on our sofas. Now and then there come to you through the window opening on the garden, whiffs of the music of Chopin, who is working in his room; this mingles with the song of the nightingales and the odour of the roses. You see that so far I am not much to be pitied, and, nevertheless, work must come to give the grain of salt to all this. This life is too easy, I must purchase it with a little racking of my brains; and like the huntsman who eats with more appetite when he has got his skin torn by bushes, one must strive a little after ideas in order to feel the charm of doing nothing.

Nohant, June 14, 1842.

...Although I am in every respect most agreeably circumstanced, both as regards body and mind, for I am in much better health, I have not been able to prevent myself from thinking of work. How strange! this work is fatiguing, and yet the species of activity it gives to the mind is necessary to the body itself. In vain did I try to get up a passion for billiards, in which I receive a lesson every day, in vain have I good conversations on all the subjects that please me, music that I seize on the wing and by whiffs, I have felt the need of doing something. I have begun a Sainte-Anne for the parish, and I have already set it agoing.

Nohant, June 22, 1842.

...Pen and ink certainly become more and more repugnant to me. I have no more than you any event to record. I lead a monastic life, and as monotonous as it well can be. No event varies the course of it. We expected Balzac, who has not come, and I am not sorry. He is a babbler who would have destroyed this harmony of NONCHALANCE which I am enjoying thoroughly; at intervals a little painting, billiards, and walking, that is more than is necessary to fill up the days. There is not even the distraction of neighbours and friends from the environs; in this part of the country everyone remains at home and occupies him self with his oxen and his land. One would become a fossil here in a very short time.

I have interminable private interviews with Chopin, whom I love much, and who is a man of a rare distinction; he is the most true artist I have met. He is one of the few one can admire and esteem. Madame Sand suffers frequently from violent headaches and pains in her eyes, which she tries to master as much as possible and with much strength of will, so as not to weary us with what she suffers.

The greatest event of my stay has been a peasants' ball on the lawn of the chateau with the best bagpipers of the place. The people of this part of the country present a remarkable type of gentleness and good nature; ugliness is rare here, though beauty is not often seen, but there is not that kind of fever which is observable in the peasants of the environs of Paris. All the women have the appearance of those sweet faces one sees only in the pictures of the old masters. They are all Saint Annes.

Amidst the affectations, insincerities, and superficialities of Chopin's social intercourse, Delacroix's friendship—we have already seen that the musician reciprocated the painter's sentiments—stands out like a green oasis in a barren desert. When, on October 28, 1849, a few days after Chopin's death, Delacroix sent a friend a ticket for the funeral service of the deceased, he speaks of him as "my poor and dear Chopin." But the sincerity of Delacroix's esteem and the tenderness of his love for Chopin are most fully revealed in some lines of a letter which he wrote on January 7, 1861, to Count Czymala [Grzymala]:—

When I have finished [the labours that took up all his time], I shall let you know, and shall see you again, with the pleasure I have always had, and with the feelings your kind letter has reanimated in me. With whom shall I speak of the incomparable genius whom heaven has envied the earth, and of whom I dream often, being no longer able to see him in this world nor to hear his divine harmonies.

If you see sometimes the charming Princess Marcelline [Czartoryska], another object of my respect, place at her feet the homage of a poor man who has not ceased to be full of the memory of her kindnesses and of admiration for her talent, another bond of union with the seraph whom we have lost and who, at this hour, charms the celestial spheres.

The first three of the above extracts from Delacroix's letters enable us to form a clear idea of what the everyday life at Nohant was like, and after reading them we can easily imagine that its monotony must have had a depressing effect on the company-loving Chopin. But the drawback was counterbalanced by an advantage. At Paris most of Chopin's time was occupied with teaching and the pleasures of society, at Nohant he could devote himself undisturbed and undistracted to composition. And there is more than sufficient evidence to prove that in this respect Chopin utilised well the quiet and leisure of his rural retirement.

Few things excite the curiosity of those who have a taste for art and literature so much as an artist's or poet's mode of creation. With what interest, for instance, do we read Schindler's account of how Beethoven composed his Missa Solemnis—of the master's absolute detachment from the terrestrial world during the time he was engaged on this work; of his singing, shouting, and stamping, when he was in the act of giving birth to the fugue of the Credo! But as regards musicians, we know, generally speaking, very little on the subject; and had not George Sand left us her reminiscences, I should not have much to tell the reader about Chopin's mode of creation. From Gutmann I learned that his master worked long before he put a composition to paper, but when it was once in writing did not keep it long in his portfolio. The latter part of this statement is contradicted by a remark of the better-informed Fontana, who, in the preface to Chopin's posthumous works, says that the composer, whether from caprice or nonchalance, had the habit of keeping his manuscripts sometimes a very long time in his portfolio before giving them to the public. As George Sand observed the composer with an artist's eye and interest, and had, of course, better opportunities than anybody else to observe him, her remarks are particularly valuable. She writes:—

His creation was spontaneous and miraculous. He found it without seeking it, without foreseeing it. It came on his piano suddenly, complete, sublime, or it sang in his head during a walk, and he was impatient to play it to himself. But then began the most heart-rending labour I ever saw. It was a series of efforts, of irresolutions, and of frettings to seize again certain details of the theme he had heard; what he had conceived as a whole he analysed too much when wishing to write it, and his regret at not finding it again, in his opinion, clearly defined, threw him into a kind of despair. He shut himself up in his room for whole days, weeping, walking, breaking his pens, repeating and altering a bar a hundred times, writing and effacing it as many times, and recommencing the next day with a minute and desperate perseverance. He spent six weeks over a single page to write it at last as he had noted it down at the very first.

I had for a long time been able to make him consent to trust to this first inspiration. But when he was no longer disposed to believe me, he reproached me gently with having spoiled him and with not being severe enough for him. I tried to amuse him, to take him out for walks. Sometimes, taking away all my brood in a country char a bancs, I dragged him away in spite of himself from this agony. I took him to the banks of the Creuse, and after being for two or three days lost amid sunshine and rain in frightful roads, we arrived, cheerful and famished, at some magnificently-situated place where he seemed to revive. These fatigues knocked him up the first day, but he slept. The last day he was quite revived, quite rejuvenated in returning to Nohant, and he found the solution of his work without too much effort; but it was not always possible to prevail upon him to leave that piano which was much oftener his torment than his joy, and by degrees he showed temper when I disturbed him. I dared not insist. Chopin when angry was alarming, and as, with me, he always restrained himself, he seemed almost to choke and die.

A critic remarks in reference to this account that Chopin's mode of creation does not show genius, but only passion. From which we may conclude that he would not, like Carlyle, have defined genius as the power of taking infinite pains. To be sure, the great Scotchman's definition is inadequate, but nothing is more false than the popular notion that the great authors throw off their works with the pleasantest ease, that creation is an act of pure enjoyment. Beethoven's sketch-books tell a different story; so do also Balzac's proof-sheets and the manuscripts of Pope's version of the Iliad and Odyssey in the British Museum. Dr. Johnson speaking of Milton's MSS. observed truly: "Such reliques show how excellence is acquired." Goethe in writing to Schiller asks him to return certain books of "Wilhelm Meister" that he may go over them A FEW TIMES before sending them to the press. And on re-reading one of these books he cut out one third of its contents. Moreover, if an author writes with ease, this is not necessarily a proof that he labours little, for he may finish the work before bringing it to paper. Mozart is a striking instance. He has himself described his mode of composing—which was a process of accumulation, agglutination, and crystallisation—in a letter to a friend. The constitution of the mind determines the mode of working. Some qualities favour, others obstruct the realisation of a first conception. Among the former are acuteness and quickness of vision, the power of grasping complex subjects, and a good memory. But however varied the mode of creation may be, an almost unvarying characteristic of the production of really precious and lasting artwork is ungrudging painstaking, such as we find described in William Hunt's "Talks about Art":—"If you could see me dig and groan, rub it out and start again, hate myself and feel dreadfully! The people who do things easily, their things you look at easily, and give away easily." Lastly and briefly, it is not the mode of working, but the result of this working which demonstrates genius.

As Chopin disliked the pavilion in the Rue Pigalle, George Sand moved with her household in 1842 to the quiet, aristocratic-looking Cite (Court or Square) d'Orleans, where their friend Madame Marliani arranged for them a vie de famille. To get to the Cite d'Orleans one has to pass through two gateways—the first leads from the Rue Taitbout (close to the Rue St. Lazare), into a small out-court with the lodge of the principal concierge; the second, into the court itself. In the centre is a grass plot with four flower-beds and a fountain; and between this grass plot and the footpath which runs along the houses extends a carriage drive. As to the houses which form the square, they are well and handsomely built, the block opposite the entrance making even some architectural pretensions. Madame Sand's, Madame Marliani's, and Chopin's houses, which bore respectively the numbers 5, 4, and 3, were situated on the right side, the last-mentioned being just in the first right-hand corner on entering from the out-court. On account of the predilection shown for it by artists and literary men as a place of abode, the Court d'Orldans has not inaptly been called a little Athens. Alexander Dumas was one of the many celebrities who lived there at one time or other; and Chopin had for neighbours the famous singer Pauline Viardot-Garcia, the distinguished pianoforte-professor Zimmermann, and the sculptor Dantan, from whose famous gallery of caricatures, or rather charges, the composer's portrait was not absent. Madame Marliani, the friend of George Sand and Chopin, who has already repeatedly been mentioned in this book, was the wife of Manuel Marliani, Spanish Consul in Paris, author, [FOOTNOTE: Especially notable among his political and historical publications in Spanish and French is: "Histoire politique de l'Espagne moderne suivie d'un apercu sur les finances." 2 vols. in 8vo (Paris, 1840).] politician, and subsequently senator. Lenz says that Madame Marliani was a Spanish countess and a fine lady; and George Sand describes her as good-natured and active, endowed with a passionate head and maternal heart, but destined to be unhappy because she wished to make the reality of life yield to the ideal of her imagination and the exigences of her sensibility.

Some excerpts from a letter written by George Sand on November 12, 1842, to her friend Charles Duvernet, and a passage from Ma Vie will bring scene and actors vividly before us:—

We also cultivate billiards; I have a pretty little table, which I hire for twenty francs a month, in my salon, and thanks to kind friendships we approach Nohant life as much as is possible in this melancholy Paris. What makes things country-like also is that I live in the same square as the family Marliani, Chopin in the next pavilion, so that without leaving this large well-lighted and sanded Court d'Orleans, we run in the evening from one to another like good provincial neighbours. We have even contrived to have only one pot [marmite], and eat all together at Madame Marliani's, which is more economical and by far more lively than taking one's meals at home. It is a kind of phalanstery which amuses us, and where mutual liberty is much better guaranteed than in that of the Fourierists...

Solange is at a boarding-school, and comes out every Saturday to Monday morning. Maurice has resumed the studio con furia, and I, I have resumed Consuelo like a dog that is being whipped; for I have idled on account of my removal and the fitting up of my apartments...

Kind regards and shakes of the hand from Viardot, Chopin, and my children.

The passge [sic: passage] from Ma Vie, which contains some repetitions along with a few additional touches, runs as follows:— She [Madame Marliani] had fine apartments between the two we [George Sand and Chopin] occupied. We had only a large planted and sanded and always clean court to cross in order to meet, sometimes, in her rooms, sometimes in mine, sometimes in Chopin's when he was inclined to give us some music. We dined with her at common expense. It was a very good association, economical like all associations, and enabled one to see society at Madame Marliani's, my friends more privately in my apartments, and to take up my work at the hour when it suited me to withdraw. Chopin rejoiced also at having a fine, isolated salon where he could go to compose or to dream. But he loved society, and made little use of his sanctuary except to give lessons in it.

Although George Sand speaks only of a salon, Chopin's official residence, as we may call it, consisted of several rooms. They were elegantly furnished and always adorned with flowers—for he loved le luxe and had the coquetterie des appartements.

[FOOTNOTE: When I visited in 1880 M. Kwiatkowski in Paris, he showed me some Chopin relics: 1, a pastel drawing by Jules Coignet (representing Les Pyramides d'Egypte), which hung always above the composer's piano; 2, a little causeuse which Chopin bought with his first Parisian savings; 3, an embroidered easy-chair worked and presented to him by the Princess Czartoiyska; and 4, an embroidered cushion worked and presented to him by Madame de Rothschild. If we keep in mind Chopin's remarks about his furniture and the papering of his rooms, and add to the above-mentioned articles those which Karasowski mentions as having been bought by Miss Stirling after the composer's death, left by her to his mother, and destroyed by the Russians along with his letters in 1861 when in possession of his sister Isabella Barcinska—his portrait by Ary Scheffer, some Sevres porcelain with the inscription "Offert par Louis Philippe a Frederic Chopin," a fine inlaid box, a present from one of the Rothschild family, carpets, table-cloths, easy-chairs, &c., worked by his pupils—we can form some sort of idea of the internal arrangements of the pianist-composer's rooms.]

Nevertheless, they exhibited none of the splendour which was to be found in the houses of many of the celebrities then living in Paris. "He observed," remarks Liszt, "on this point as well as in the then so fashionable elegancies of walking-sticks, pins, studs, and jewels, the instinctive line of the comme il faut between the too much and the too little." But Chopin's letters written from Nohant in 1839 to Fontana have afforded the reader sufficient opportunities to make himself acquainted with the master's fastidiousness and good taste in matters of furniture and room decoration, above all, his horror of vulgar gaudiness.

Let us try to get some glimpses of Chopin in his new home. Lindsay Sloper, who—owing, no doubt, to a great extent at least, to the letter of recommendation from Moscheles which he brought with him—had got permission from Chopin to come for a lesson as often as he liked at eight o'clock in the morning, found the master at that hour not in deshabille, but dressed with the greatest care. Another early pupil, M. Mathias, always fell in with the daily-attending barber. M. Mathias told me also of Chopin's habit of leaning with his back against the mantel-piece while he was chatting at the end of the lesson. It must have been a pretty sight to see the master in this favourite attitude of his, his coat buttoned up to the chin (this was his usual style), the most elegant shoes on his small feet, faultless exquisiteness characterising the whole of his attire, and his small eyes sparkling with esprit and sometimes with malice.

Of all who came in contact with Chopin, however, no one made so much of his opportunities as Lenz: some of his observations on the pianist have already been quoted, those on the man and his surroundings deserve likewise attention. [FOOTNOTE: W. von Lenz: "Die Grossen Pianoforte-Virtuosen unserer Zeit."] Lenz came to Paris in the summer or autumn of the year 1842; and as he wished to study Chopin's mazurkas with the master himself, he awaited impatiently his return from Nohant. At last, late in October, Lenz heard from Liszt that Chopin had arrived in town; but Liszt told him also that it was by no means an easy thing to get lessons from Chopin, that indeed many had journeyed to Paris for the purpose and failed even to get sight of him. To guard Lenz against such a mishap, Liszt gave him a card with the words "Laissez passer, Franz Liszt" on it, and advised him to call on Chopin at two o'clock. The enthusiastic amateur was not slow in availing himself of his artist friend's card and advice. But on reaching his destination he was met in the anteroom by a male servant—"an article of luxury in Paris, a rarissima avis in the house of an artist," observes Lenz—who informed him that Chopin was not in town. The visitor, however, was not to be put off in this way, and insisted that the card should be taken in to Chopin. Fortune favours the brave. A moment after the servant had left the room the great artist made his appearance holding the card in his hand: "a young man of middle height, slim, thin, with a careworn, speaking face and the finest Parisian tournure." Lenz does not hesitate to declare that he hardly ever met a person so naturally elegant and winning. But here is what took place at this interview.

Chopin did not press me to sit down [says Lenz], I stood as before a reigning sovereign. "What do you wish? a pupil of Liszt's, an artist?" "A friend of Liszt's. I wish to have the happiness of making, under your guidance, acquaintance with your mazurkas, which I regard as a literature. Some of them I have already studied with Liszt." I felt I had been imprudent, but it was too late. "Indeed!" replied Chopin, with a drawl, but in the politest tone, "what do you want me for then? Please play to me what you have played with Liszt, I have still a few minutes at my disposal"—he drew from his fob an elegant, small watch—"I was on the point of going out, I had told my servant to admit nobody, pardon me!"

Lenz sat down at the piano, tried the gue of it—an expression at which Chopin, who was leaning languidly on the piano and looking with his intelligent eyes straight in his visitor's face, smiled—and then struck up the Mazurka in B flat major. When he came to a passage in which Liszt had taught him to introduce a volata through two octaves, Chopin whispered blandly:—

"This TRAIT is not your own; am I right? HE has shown it you— he must meddle with everything; well! he may do it, he plays before THOUSANDS, I rarely before ONE. Well, this will do, I will give you lessons, but only twice a week, I never give more, it is difficult for me to find three-quarters of an hour." He again looked at his watch. "What do you read then? With what do you occupy yourself generally?" This was a question for which I was well prepared. "George Sand and Jean Jacques I prefer to all other writers," said I quickly. He smiled, he was most beautiful at that moment. "Liszt has told you this. I see, you are initiated, so much the better. Only be punctual, with me things go by the clock, my house is a pigeon-house (pigeonnier). I see already we shall become more intimate, a recommendation from Liszt is worth something, you are the first pupil whom he has recommended to me; we are friends, we were comrades."

Lenz had, of course, too imaginative a turn of mind to leave facts in their native nakedness, but this tendency of his is too apparent to need pointing out. What betrays him is the wonderful family likeness of his portraits, a kind of vapid esprit, not distantly related to silliness, with which the limner endows his unfortunate sitters, Chopin as well as Liszt and Tausig. Indeed, the portraits compared with the originals are like Dresden china figures compared with Greek statuary. It seems to me also very improbable that so perfect a gentleman as Chopin was should subject a stranger to an examination as to his reading and general occupation. These questions have very much the appearance of having been invented by the narrator for the sake of the answers. However, notwithstanding the many unmistakable embellishments, Lenz's account was worth quoting, for after all it is not without a basis of fact and truth. The following reminiscences of the lively Russian councillor, although not wanting in exaggerations, are less open to objections:—

I always made my appearance long before my hour and waited. One lady after another came out, one more beautiful than the other, on one occasion Mdlle. Laure Duperre, the daughter of the admiral, whom Chopin accompanied to the staircase, she was the most beautiful of all, and as straight as a palm; to her Chopin has dedicated two of his most important Nocturnes (in C minor and F sharp minor, Op. 48); she was at that time his favourite pupil. In the anteroom I often met little Filtsch, who, unfortunately, died too young, at the age of thirteen, a Hungarian and a genius. He knew how to play Chopin! Of Filtsch Liszt said in my presence at a soiree of the Comtesse d'Agoult: "When the little one begins to travel, I shall shut up my shop" (Quand le petit voyagera, je fermerai boutique). I was jealous of Filtsch, Chopin had eyes only for him.

How high an opinion the master had of this talented pupil appears from his assertion that the boy played the E minor Concerto better than he himself. Lenz mentions Filtsch and his playing of the E minor Concerto only in passing in "Die grossen Pianoforte-Virtuosen unserer Zeit," but devotes to them more of his leisure in an article which appeared in the Berliner Musikzeitung (Vol. XXVI.), the amusing gossip of which deserves notice here on account of the light thrown by some of its details on Chopin's ways and the company he received in his salon. On one occasion when Filtsch had given his master particular satisfaction by a tasteful rendering of the second solo of the first movement of the E minor Concerto, Chopin said: "You have played this well, my boy (mon garcon), I must try it myself." Lenz relates that what now followed was indescribable: the little one (der Kleine) burst into tears, and Chopin, who indeed had been telling them the story of his artist life, said, as if speaking to himself, "I have loved it! I have already once played it!" Then, turning to Filtsch, he spoke these words: "Yours is a beautiful artist nature (une belle nature d'artiste), you will become a great artist." Whilst the youthful pianist was studying the Concerto with Chopin, he was never allowed to play more than one solo at a time, the work affecting too much the feelings of the composer, who, moreover, thought that the whole was contained in every one of the solos; and when he at last got leave to perform the whole, an event for which he prepared himself by fasting and prayers of the Roman Catholic Church, and by such reading as was pointed out by his master, practising being forbidden for the time, Chopin said to him: "As you have now mastered the movement so well, we will bring it to a hearing."

The reader must understand that I do not vouch for the strict correctness of Lenz's somewhat melodramatic narrative; and having given this warning I shall, to keep myself free from all responsibility, simply translate the rest of what is yet to be told:—

Chopin invited a party of ladies, George Sand was one of them, and was as quiet as a mouse; moreover, she knew nothing of music. The favoured pupils from the highest aristocracy appeared with modest demeanour and full of the most profound devotion, they glided silently, like gold-fishes in a vase, one after another into the salon, and sat down as far as possible from the piano, as Chopin liked people to do. Nobody spoke, Chopin only nodded, and shook hands with one here and there, not with all of them. The square pianoforte, which stood in his cabinet, he had placed beside the Pleyel concert grand in the salon, not without the most painful embarras to him. The most insignificant trifle affected him; he was a noli me tangere. He had said once, or rather had thought aloud: "If I saw a crack more in the ceiling, I should not be able to bring out a note." Chopin poured the whole dreamy, vaporous instrumentation of the work into his incomparable accompaniment. He played without book. I have never heard anything that could be compared to the first tutti, which he played alone on the piano. The little one did wonders. The whole was an impression for all the rest of one's life. After Chopin had briefly dismissed the ladies (he loved praise neither for himself nor for others, and only George Sand was permitted to embrace Filtsch), he said to the latter, his brother, who always accompanied the little one, and me: "We have yet to take a walk." It was a command which we received with the most respectful bow.

The destination of this walk was Schlesinger's music-shop, where Chopin presented his promising young pupil with the score of Beethoven's "Fidelio":—

"I am in your debt, you have given me much pleasure to-day. I wrote the Concerto in happier days. Receive, my dear little friend, this great master-work; read therein as long as you live, and remember me also sometimes." The little one was as if stunned, and kissed Chopin's hand. We were all deeply moved, Chopin himself was so. He disappeared immediately through the glass door on a level with the Rue Richelieu, into which it leads.

A scene of a very different nature which occurred some years later was described to me by Madame Dubois. This lady, then still Mdlle. O'Meara and a pupil of Chopin's, had in 1847 played, accompanied on a second piano by her master, the latter's Concerto in E minor at a party of Madame de Courbonne's. Madame Girardin, who was among the guests, afterwards wrote most charmingly and eulogistically about the young girl's beauty and talent in one of her Lettres parisiennes, which appeared in La Presse and were subsequently published in a collected form under the title of "Le Vicomte de Launay." Made curious by Madame Girardin's account, and probably also by remarks of Chopin and others, George Sand wished to see the heroine of that much-talked-of letter. Thus it came to pass that one day when Miss O'Meara was having her lesson, George Sand crossed the Square d'Orleans and paid Chopin a visit in his apartments. The master received her with all the grace and amiability he was capable of. Noticing that her pardessus was bespattered with mud, he seemed to be much vexed, and the exquisitely-elegant gentleman (l'homme de toutes les elegances ) began to rub off with his small, white hands the stains which on any other person would have caused him disgust. And Mdlle. O'Meara, child as she still was, watched what was going on from the corner of her eye and thought: "Comme il aime cette femme!" [FOOTNOTE: Madame A. Audley gives an altogether incorrect account of this incident in her FREDERIC CHOPIN. Madame Girardin was not one of the actors, and Mdlle. O'Meara did not think the thoughts attributed to her.]

Whenever Chopin's connection with George Sand is mentioned, one hears a great deal of the misery and nothing or little of the happiness which accrued to him out of it. The years of tenderness and devotion are slurred over and her infidelities, growing indifference, and final desertion are dwelt upon with undue emphasis. Whatever those of Chopin's friends who were not also George Sand's friends may say, we may be sure that his joys outweighed his sorrows. Her resoluteness must have been an invaluable support to so vacillating a character as Chopin's was; and, although their natures were in many respects discordant, the poetic element of hers cannot but have found sympathetic chords in his. Every character has many aspects, but the world is little disposed to see more than one side of George Sand's—namely, that which is most conspicuous by its defiance of law and custom, and finds expression in loud declamation and denunciation. To observe her in one of her more lovable attitudes of mind, we will transport ourselves from Chopin's to her salon.

Louis Enault relates how one evening George Sand, who sometimes thought aloud when with Chopin—this being her way of chatting—spoke of the peacefulness of the country and unfolded a picture of the rural harmonies that had all the charming and negligent grace of a village idyl, bringing, in fact, her beloved Berry to the fireside of the room in the Square d'Orleans.

"How well you have spoken!" said Chopin naively.

"You think so?" she replied. "Well, then, set me to music!" Hereupon Chopin improvised a veritable pastoral symphony, and George Sand placing herself beside him and laying her hand gently on his shoulder said: "Go on, velvet fingers [courage, doigts de velour]!"

Here is another anecdote of quiet home-life. George Sand had a little dog which was in the habit of turning round and round in the endeavour to catch its tail. One evening when it was thus engaged, she said to Chopin: "If I had your talent, I would compose a pianoforte piece for this dog." Chopin at once sat down at the piano, and improvised the charming Waltz in D flat (Op. 64), which hence has obtained the name of Valse du petit chien. This story is well known among the pupils and friends of the master, but not always told in exactly the same way. According to another version, Chopin improvised the waltz when the little dog was playing with a ball of wool. This variation, however, does not affect the pith of the story.

The following two extracts tell us more about the intimate home-life at Nohant and in the Court d'Orleans than anything we have as yet met with.

Madame Sand to her son; October 17, 1843:—

Tell me if Chopin is ill; his letters are short and sad. Take care of him if he is ailing. Take a little my place. He would take my place with so much zeal if you were ill.

Madame Sand to her son; November 16, 1843:—

If you care for the letter which I have written you about her [Solange], ask Chopin for it. It was for both of you, and it has not given him much pleasure. He has taken it amiss, and yet I did not wish to annoy him, God forbid! We shall all see each other soon again, and hearty embraces [de bonnes bigeades] [FOOTNOTE: Biger is in the Berry dialect "to kiss."] all round shall efface all my sermons.

In another of George Sand's letters to her son—it is dated November 28, 1843—we read about Chopin's already often-mentioned valet. Speaking of the foundation of a provincial journal, "L'Eclaireur de l'Indre," by herself and a number of her friends, and of their being on the look-out for an editor who would be content with the modest salary of 2,000 francs, she says:—

This is hardly more than the wages of Chopin's domestic, and to imagine that for this it is possible to find a man of talent! First measure of the Committee of Public Safety: we shall outlaw Chopin if he allows himself to have lackeys salaried like publicists.

Chopin treated George Sand with the greatest respect and devotion; he was always aux petits soins with her. It is characteristic of the man and exemplifies strikingly the delicacy of his taste and feeling that his demeanour in her house showed in no way the intimate relation in which he stood to the mistress of it: he seemed to be a guest like any other occasional visitor. Lenz wishes to make us believe that George Sand's treatment of Chopin was unworthy of the great artist, but his statements are emphatically contradicted by Gutmann, who says that her behaviour towards him was always respectful. If the lively Russian councillor in the passages I am going to translate describes correctly what he heard and saw, he must have witnessed an exceptional occurrence; it is, however, more likely that the bad reception he received from the lady prejudiced him against her.

Lenz relates that one day Chopin took him to the salon of Madame Marliani, where there was in the evening always a gathering of friends.

George Sand [thus runs his account of his first meeting with the great novelist] did not say a word when Chopin introduced me. This was rude. Just for that reason I seated myself beside her. Chopin fluttered about like a little frightened bird in its cage, he saw something was going to happen. What had he not always feared on this terrain? At the first pause in the conversation, which was led by Madame Sand's friend, Madame Viardot, the great singer whose acquaintance I was later to make in St. Petersburg, Chopin put his arm through mine and led me to the piano. Reader! if you play the piano you will imagine how I felt! It was an upright or cottage piano [Steh- oder Stutzflugel] of Pleyel's, which people in Paris regard as a pianoforte. I played the Invitation in a fragmentary fashion, Chopin gave me his hand in the most friendly manner, George Sand did not say a word. I seated myself once more beside her. I had obviously a purpose. Chopin looked anxiously at us across the table, on which was burning the inevitable carcel.

"Are you not coming sometime to St. Petersburg," said I to George Sand in the most polite tone, "where you are so much read, so highly admired?"

"I shall never lower myself by visiting a country of slaves!" answered George Sand shortly.

This was indecorous [unanstandig] after she had been uncivil.

"After all, you are right NOT to come," I replied in the same tone; "you might find the door closed! I was thinking of the Emperor Nicholas."

George Sand looked at me in astonishment, I plunged boldly into her large, beautiful, brown, cow-like eyes. Chopin did not seem displeased, I knew the movements of his head.

Instead of giving any answer George Sand rose in a theatrical fashion, and strode in the most manly way through the salon to the blazing fire. I followed her closely, and seated myself for the third time beside her, ready for another attack.

She would be obliged at last to say something.

George Sand drew an enormously thick Trabucco cigar out of her apron pocket, and called out "Frederic! un fidibus!"

This offended me for him, that perfect gentleman, my master; I understood Liszt's words: "Pauvre Frederic!" in all their significance.

Chopin immediately came up with a fidibus.

As she was sending forth the first terrible cloud of smoke, George Sand honoured me with a word:

"In St. Petersburg," she began, "I could not even smoke a cigar in a drawing-room?"

"In NO drawing-room have I ever seen anyone smoke a cigar, Madame," I answered, not without emphasis, with a bow!

George Sand fixed her eyes sharply upon me—the thrust had gone home! I looked calmly around me at the good pictures in the salon, each of which was lighted up by a separate lamp. Chopin had probably heard nothing; he had returned to the hostess at the table.

Pauvre Frederic! How sorry I was for him, the great artist! The next day the Suisse [hall-porter] in the hotel, Mr. Armand, said to me: "A gentleman and a lady have been here, I said you were not at home, you had not said you would receive visitors; the gentleman left his name, he had no card with him." I read: Chopin et Madame Sand. After this I quarrelled for two months with Mr. Armand.

George Sand was probably out of humour on the evening in question; that it was not her usual manner of receiving visitors may be gathered from what Chopin said soon after to Lenz when the latter came to him for a lesson. "George Sand," he said, "called with me on you. What a pity you were not at home! I regretted it very much. George Sand thought she had been uncivil to you. You would have seen how amiable she can be. You have pleased her."

Alexander Chodzko, the learned professor of Slavonic literature at the College de France, told me that he was half-a-dozen times at George Sand's house. Her apartments were furnished in a style in favour with young men. First you came into a vestibule where hats, coats, and sticks were left, then into a large salon with a billiard-table. On the mantel-piece were to be found the materials requisite for smoking. George Sand set her guests an example by lighting a cigar. M. Chodzko met there among others the historian and statesman Guizot, the litterateur Francois, and Madame Marliani. If Chopin was not present, George Sand would often ask the servant what he was doing, whether he was working or sleeping, whether he was in good or bad humour. And when he came in all eyes were directed towards him. If he happened to be in good humour George Sand would lead him to the piano, which stood in one of the two smaller apartments adjoining the salon. These smaller apartments were provided with couches for those who wished to talk. Chopin began generally to prelude apathetically and only gradually grew warm, but then his playing was really grand. If, however, he was not in a playing mood, he was often asked to give some of his wonderful mimetic imitations. On such occasions Chopin retired to one of the side-rooms, and when he returned he was irrecognisable. Professor Chodzko remembers seeing him as Frederick the Great.

Chopin's talent for mimicry, which even such distinguished actors as Bocage and Madame Dorval regarded with admiration, is alluded to by Balzac in his novel "Un Homme d'affaires," where he says of one of the characters that "he is endowed with the same talent for imitating people which Chopin, the pianist, possesses in so high a degree; he represents a personage instantly and with astounding truth." Liszt remarks that Chopin displayed in pantomime an inexhaustible verve drolatique, and often amused himself with reproducing in comical improvisations the musical formulas and peculiar ways of certain virtuosos, whose faces and gestures he at the same time imitated in the most striking manner. These statements are corroborated by the accounts of innumerable eye and ear-witnesses of such performances. One of the most illustrative of these accounts is the following very amusing anecdote. When the Polish musician Nowakowski [FOOTNOTE: He visited Paris in 1838, 1841, and 1846, partly for the purpose of making arrangements for the publication of his compositions, among which are Etudes dedicated to Chopin.] visited Paris, he begged his countryman to bring him in contact with Kalkbrenner, Liszt, and Pixis. Chopin, replying that he need not put himself to the trouble of going in search of these artists if he wished to make their acquaintance, forthwith sat down at the piano and assumed the attitude, imitated the style of playing, and mimicked the mien and gestures, first of Liszt and then of Pixis. Next evening Chopin and Nowakowski went together to the theatre. The former having left the box during one of the intervals, the latter looked round after awhile and saw Pixis sitting beside him. Nowakowski, thinking Chopin was at his favourite game, clapped Pixis familiarly on the shoulder and said: "Leave off, don't imitate now!" The surprise of Pixis and the subsequent confusion of Nowakowski may be easily imagined. When Chopin, who at this moment returned, had been made to understand what had taken place, he laughed heartily, and with the grace peculiar to him knew how to make his friend's and his own excuses. One thing in connection with Chopin's mimicry has to be particularly noted—it is very characteristic of the man. Chopin, we learn from Liszt, while subjecting his features to all kinds of metamorphoses and imitating even the ugly and grotesque, never lost his native grace, "la grimace ne parvenait meme pas a l'enlaidir."