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Life of Chopin

Franz Lizst

Section 13 of 19 - Table of Contents
In retiring from the turmoil of society, Chopin concentrated his
cares and affections upon the circle of his own family and his
early acquaintances. Without any interruption he preserved close
relations with them; never ceasing to keep them up with the
greatest care. His sister Louise was especially dear to him, a
resemblance in the character of their minds, the bent of their
feelings, bound them closely to each other. Louise frequently
came from Warsaw to Paris to see him. She spent the last three
months of his life with the brother she loved, watching over him
with undying affection. Chopin kept up a regular correspondence
with the members of his own family, but only with them. It was
one of his peculiarities to write letters to no others; it might
almost have been thought that he had made a vow to write to no
strangers. It was curious enough to see him resort to all kinds
of expedients to escape the necessity of tracing the most
insignificant note. Many times he has traversed Paris from one
end to the other, to decline an invitation to dinner, or to give
some trivial information, rather than write a few lines which
would have spared him all this trouble and loss of time. His
handwriting was quite unknown to the greatest number of his
friends. It is said he sometimes departed from this custom in
favor of his beautiful countrywomen, some of whom possess several
of his notes written in Polish. This infraction of what seemed to
be a law with him, may be attributed to the pleasure he took in
the use of this language. He always used it with the people of
his own country, and loved to translate its most expressive
phrases. He was a good French scholar, as the Sclaves generally
are. In consequence of his French origin, the language had been
taught him with peculiar care. But he did not like it, he did not
think it sufficiently sonorous, and he deemed its genius cold.
This opinion is very prevalent among the Poles, who, although
speaking it with great facility, often better than their native
tongue, and frequently using it in their intercourse with each
other, yet complain to those who do not speak Polish of the
impossibility of rendering the thousand ethereal and shifting
modes of thought in any other idiom. In their opinion it is
sometimes dignity, sometimes grace, sometimes passion, which is
wanting in the French language. If they are asked the meaning of
a word or a phrase which they may have cited in Polish, the reply
invariably is: "Oh, that cannot be translated!" Then follow
explanations, serving as comments to the exclamation, of all the
subtleties, all the shades of meaning, all the delicacies
contained in THE NOT TO BE TRANSLATED words. We have cited some
examples which, joined to others, induce us to believe that this
language has the advantage of making images of abstract nouns,
and that in the course of its development, through the poetic
genius of the nation, it has been enabled to establish striking
and just relations between ideas by etymologies, derivations, and
synonymes. Colored reflections of light and shade are thus thrown
upon all expressions, so that they necessarily call into
vibration through the mind the correspondent tone of a third,
which modulates the thought into a major or minor mode. The
richness of the language always permits the choice of the mode,
but this very richness may become a difficulty. It is not
impossible that the general use of foreign tongues in Poland may
be attributed to indolence of mind or want of application; may be
traced to a desire to escape the necessary labor of acquiring
that mastery of diction indispensable in a language so full of
sudden depths, of laconic energy, that it is very difficult, if
not quite impossible, to support in it the commonplace. The vague
agreements of badly defined ideas cannot be compressed in the
nervous strength of its grammatical forms; the thought, if it be
really low, cannot be elevated from its debasement or poverty; if
it really soar above the commonplace, it requires a rare
precision of terms not to appear uncouth or fantastic. In
consequence of this, in proportion to the works published, the
Polish literature should be able to show a greater number of
chefs-d'oeuvre than can be done in any other language. He who
ventures to use this tongue, must feel himself already master.

[Footnote: It cannot be reproached with a want of harmony or
musical charm. The harshness of a language does not always and
absolutely depend upon the number of consonants, but rather upon
the manner of their association. We might even assert, that in
consequence of the absence of well-determined and strongly marked
sounds, some languages have a dull and cold coloring. It is the
frequent repetition of certain consonants which gives shadow,
rhythm, and vigor to a tongue; the vowels imparting only a kind
of light clear hue, which requires to be brought out by deeper
shades. It is the sharp, uncouth, or unharmonious clashing of
heterogeneous consonants which strikes the ear painfully. It is
true the Sclavic languages make use of many consonants, but their
connection is generally sonorous, sometimes pleasant to the ear,
and scarcely ever entirely discordant, even when the combinations
are more striking than agreeable. The quality of the sounds is
rich, full, and varied. They are not straitened and contracted as
if produced in a narrow medium, but extending through a
considerable register, range through a variety of intonations.
The letter L, almost impossible for those to pronounce, who have
not acquired the pronunciation in their infancy, has nothing
harsh in its sound. The ear receives from it an impression
similar to that which is made upon the fingers by the touch of a
thick woolen velvet, rough, but at the same time, yielding. The
union of jarring consonants being rare, and the assonances easily
multiplied, the same comparison might be employed to the ensemble
of the effect produced by these idioms upon foreigners. Many
words occur in Polish which imitate the sound of the thing
designated by them. The frequent repetition of CH, (h aspirated,)
of SZ, (CH in French,) of RZ, of CZ, so frightful to a profane
eye, have however nothing barbaric in their sounds, being
pronounced nearly like GEAI, and TCHE, and greatly facilitate
imitations of the sense by the sound. The word DZWIEK, (read
DZWIINQUE,) meaning sound, offers a characteristic example of
this; it would be difficult to find a word which would reproduce
more accurately the sensation which a diapason makes upon the
ear. Among the consonants accumulated in groups, producing very
different sounds, sometimes metallic, sometimes buzzing, hissing
or rumbling, many diphthongs and vowels are mingled, which
sometimes become slightly nasal, the A and E being sounded as ON
and IN, (in French,) when they are accompanied by a cedilla. In
juxtaposition with the E, (TSE,) which is pronounced with great
softness, sometimes C, (TSIE,) the accented S is almost warbled.
The Z has three sounds: the Z, (JAIS,) the Z, (ZED,) and the Z,
(ZIED). The Y forms a vowel of a muffled tone, which, as the L,
cannot be represented by any equivalent sound in French, and
which like it gives a variety of ineffable shades to the
language. These fine and light elements enable the Polish women
to assume a lingering and singing accent, which they usually
transport into other tongues. When the subjects are serious or
melancholy, after such recitatives or improvised lamentations,
they have a sort of lisping infantile manner of speaking, which
they vary by light silvery laughs, little interjectional cries,
short musical pauses upon the higher notes, from which they
descend by one knows not what chromatic scale of demi and quarter
tones to rest upon some low note; and again pursue the varied,
brusque and original modulations which astonish the ear not
accustomed to such lovely warblings, to which they sometimes give
that air of caressing irony, of cunning mockery, peculiar to the
song of some birds. They love to ZINZILYLER, and charming
changes, piquant intervals, unexpected cadences naturally find
place in this fondling prattle, making the language far more
sweet and caressing when spoken by the women, than it is in the
mouths of the men. The men indeed pride themselves upon speaking
it with elegance, impressing upon it a masculine sonorousness,
which is peculiarly adapted to the energetic movements of manly
eloquence, formerly so much cultivated in Poland. Poetry commands
such a diversity of prosodies, of rhymes, of rhythms, such an
abundance of assonances from these rich and varied materials,
that it is almost possible to follow MUSICALLY the feelings and
scenes which it depicts, not only in mere expressions in which
the sound repeats the sense, but also in long declamations. The
analogy between the Polish and Russian, has been compared to that
which obtains between the Latin and Italian. The Russian language
is indeed more mellifluous, more lingering, more caressing,
fuller of sighs than the Polish. Its cadencing is peculiarly
fitted for song. The finer poems, such as those of Zukowski and
Pouchkin, seem to contain a melody already designated in the
metre of the verses; for example, it would appear quite possible
to detach an ARIOSO or a sweet CANTIABLE from some of the stanzas
of LE CHALE NOIR, or the TALISMAN. The ancient Sclavonic, which
is the language of the Eastern Church, possesses great majesty.
More guttural than the idioms which have arisen from it, it is
severe and monotonous yet of great dignity, like the Byzantine
paintings preserved in the worship to which it is consecrated. It
has throughout the characteristics of a sacred language which has
only been used for the expression of one feeling and has never
been modulated or fashioned by profane wants.]

Chopin mingled a charming grace with all the intercourse which he
held with his relatives. Not satisfied with limiting his whole
correspondence to them alone, he profited by his stay in Paris to
procure for them the thousand agreeable surprises given by the
novelties, the bagatelles, the little gifts which charm through
their beauty, or attract as being the first seen of their kind.
He sought for all that he had reason to believe would please his
friends in Warsaw, adding constant presents to his many letters.
It was his wish that his gifts should be preserved, that through
the memories linked with them he might be often remembered by
those to whom they were sent. He attached the greatest
importance, on his side, to all the evidences of their affection
for him. To receive news or some mark of their remembrance, was
always a festival for him. He never shared this pleasure with any
one, but it was plainly visible in his conduct. He took the
greatest care of every thing that came from his distant friends,
the least of their gifts was precious to him, he never allowed
others to make use of them, indeed he was visibly uneasy if they
touched them.

Material elegance was as natural to him as mental; this was
evinced in the objects with which he surrounded himself, as well
as in the aristocratic grace of his manners. He was passionately
fond of flowers. Without aiming at the brilliant luxury with
which, at that epoch, some of the celebrities in Paris decorated
their apartments, he knew how to keep upon this point, as well as
in his style of dress, the instinctive line of perfect propriety.

Not wishing the course of his life, his thoughts, his time, to be
associated or shackled in any way by the pursuits of others, he
preferred the society of ladies, as less apt to force him into
subsequent relations. He willingly spent whole evenings in
playing blind man's buff with the young people, telling them
little stories to make them break into the silvery laughs of
youth, sweeter than the song of the nightingale. He was fond of a
life in the country, or the life of the chateau. He was ingenious
in varying its amusements, in multiplying its enjoyments. He also
loved to compose there. Many of his best works written in such
moments, perhaps embalm and hallow the memories of his happiest
days.
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