CHOPIN
407
such disappearing chromatic glimmering, such a numbing jangle, such
a fading minor, could convey this intricate design of parting and separa–
tion.
Or in the Barcarolle (Op. 60), an impression similar to the "Song
of the Venetian Gondolier" of Mendelssohn (No.5, Op. 57) might have
been achieved with more modest means, and then we would have just
that poetic approximateness which is usually associated with such titles.
But no; the lights of the embankment widen and scatter like oil-stains
in the curving black water; waves, faces, voices and boats clash with
each other; and in order
to
fix the imprint of all this, the Barcarolle
itself, all of it, as it is, with its arpeggios, trills and grace-notes, had, like
the entire lagoon, to rise and to fall and to soar upwards and to tumble
down onto its pedal point, sonorously inundated by the major and minor
shudderings of its harmonic element.
Always before the eyes of the soul (and this is precisely what hear–
ing is) there is some kind of model which we must approach, listening
attentively to it, extending ourselves in it, and benefiting from it. And
so there is a sound of raindrops in the D Major Prelude (No.5, Op. 28),
and so a squadron of cavalry charges from the platform at the listener
in the A Major Polonaise (Op. 40), and so waterfalls rush along a moun–
tain road in the last part of the B Minor Sonata (Op. 58), and so a
window in a country house bursts unexpectedly open during a storm at
night in the middle of the quiet and serene
F
Major Nocturne (No. 1,
Op. 15).
III
Chopin traveled, gave concerts, lived half of his life in Paris.
Many people knew him. There are reminiscences about him by such
emiuent figures as Heinrich Heine, Schumann, George Sand, Delacroix,
Liszt and Berlioz. In these remarks there is much of value, but even
more talk of mermaids, aeolian harps and love-sick peris, which is in–
tended to give us a picture of the compositions of Chopin, of the style
of his playing, his appearance and character. How wrongfully and
absurdly at times mankind expresses its enthusiasms! The last things to
be found in this man were water-nymphs and salamanders; on the con–
trary, all about him in the salons of elegant society fluttered an intricate
swarm of romantic moths and elves; getting up from the piano, he would
pass through their receding ranks, phenomenonally distinct, genial,
politely ironical, and tired to death from nights spent composing and
days full of lessons with pupils. They say that often after such evenings,
to shake off the weariness that these improvisations caused in him,
