IGNAZ PADEREWSKI

From a bust by Mr. Emil Fuchs, reproduced by the kind permission of the sculptor.

It will be remembered that Paderewski began his musical career with the aim of being a composer, and through all the stress of his life as a virtuoso he has never lost sight of that aim. Indeed, he has more than once expressed the intention of retiring gradually from the concert platform in order that he may devote all his time to composition. The work he has already done is not to be passed over lightly as a pianist's music. Paderewski has certainly more originality than Rubinstein, and as he is now only in his forty-seventh year there is every possibility that he will make a name for himself as composer. It has already been related that Paderewski was by way of being a prodigy composer. At the early age of seven he wrote a set of Polish dances, but none of his compositions was published until he was twenty-two years of age. These early works, numbering some forty pieces, include Mazardas, Polonaises, Krakowiaks, and other Polish dances, a Caprice, an Intermezzo, a Sarabande, an Elegy, and many MÉlodies, all of them surcharged with national spirit. It is facile criticism to trace the influence of Chopin in these pianoforte pieces of Paderewski's, and it is too often forgotten that many of the characteristics of the great composer's music were drawn from Polish music. Paderewski himself once remarked on this point: "The moment you try to be national, every one cries out that you are imitating Chopin, whereas the truth is that Chopin adopted all the most marked characteristics of our national music so completely that it is impossible not to resemble him in externals, though your methods and ideas may be absolutely your own."

Of the smaller compositions of Paderewski the most famous is, of course, the Minuet, which has nothing in it of Polish colour, but is a charming and skilful essay in the old style. A writer in a German periodical has told an amusing, if apocryphal story of this Minuet. "When Paderewski was a professor at the Warsaw Conservatoire, he was a frequent visitor at my house, and one evening I remarked that no living composer could be compared with Mozart. Paderewski's only reply was a shrug of the shoulders, but the next day he came back, and, sitting down at the piano, said, 'I should like to play you a little piece of Mozart's which you perhaps do not know.' He then played the Minuet. I was enchanted with it and cried, 'Now you will yourself acknowledge that nobody of our time could furnish us with a composition like that.' 'Well,' answered Paderewski, 'this Minuet is mine.'" The worthy German writer could have had but a superficial knowledge of Mozart's style of harmony. But the Minuet is certainly a charming little piece. Hardly less remarkable in its daintiness is the "Chant du Voyageur," number 3 of Opus 8, and the ThÈme VariÉ, Opus 11 is very skilful in its harmonic treatment of a naÏve, eighteenth century tune. The Variations and Fugue and Humoresques À l'antique enable one to understand how Paderewski can play Scarlatti, Couperin, and Rameau with such intimate sympathy. These works may be said to represent one side of his talent, perhaps not the most original. In direct contrast with them are his fiery Polish dances—his Cracovienne and Polonaises. In his later compositions he has given up his imitations of the antique and has been gradually finding his own utterance in the idiom of national music. In his early life, however, he composed a short sonata for violin and piano, which, as far as I know, has not been performed in England; but, of course, the pianoforte sonata in A minor, Op. 17, which was written when he was twenty-eight years of age, is the most important contribution in a more or less "classical" style which has come from his pen. It served to introduce Paderewski as a composer to an English audience on the occasion of his first recitals at St. James's Hall in 1890. "In point of form this Concerto," wrote Mr. C. A. Barry in his analytical notes, "which is far more a matter of evolution than a stringing together of tunes, closely follows the traditionally classical lines, and is strikingly free from irrelevant and episodical passages, except such as immediately grow out of the subject-matter. In spirit it is strongly pervaded by the characteristics of Polish national music, with its proud, chivalrous and dreamy accents." Much of the music is of a virtuoso character, but the Romanza, an Andante, is a little gem of inspiration, and the finale is full of vivacity and spirit. Paderewski himself makes a very effective composition of this Concerto.

A considerable period elapsed between the composition of the Concerto (in 1888) and that of the Polish Fantasia, which was first performed at the Norwich Festival of 1893. It was actually written in the summer in that year. In this work national feeling is very strongly marked. This betrays itself in the treatment, and in the themes, which although the composer's own, are distinctly Polish in character. The work is full of colour, picturesqueness and romance, and in general it has the air of a Rhapsody. In the slow movement there is a power of combining themes which Paderewski had not previously shown, and the orchestra is handled with much skill both in the matter of instrumentation and in its combination with the piano. The Fantasia, which was afterwards repeated at a Philharmonic concert, placed the composer on a higher plane than anything he had hitherto done.

That Paderewski did not mean to confine himself to compositions for the piano and orchestra was soon proved by rumours of an opera on which he was engaged. Nothing of importance came from his pen until "Manru" was produced at Dresden on May 29, 1901, but the pianoforte score had been finished as long ago as 1895. As Paderewski had not hitherto composed anything of moment for the voice—his four songs, Op. 7, and the late set of six which Mr. Edward Lloyd sang to the composer's accompaniment are fanciful but of no great importance—there was much anticipation as to the result of his new departure. It should be said that at one time the composer was in negotiation with the late Sir Augustus Harris for the production of the opera at Covent Garden, but he could not see his way to accept the suggested alterations which the impresario thought necessary. As a matter of fact most of these alterations were made when the work was performed at Dresden. It was generally admitted, and the criticism was upheld when "Manru" was mounted in New York in 1902, that the opera suffers from its libretto.

The plot was borrowed from a Polish Romance, Kraszewski's "The Cabin behind the Wood," by the librettist, Dr. Alfred Nossig and sets forth how Manru, a gypsy, has won the love of a Galician maiden, Ulana, and has married her in the gypsy fashion. On her return to her native place, seeking her mother's forgiveness and help, she is received with contumely and a mother's curse. Her kind friends prepare her for the inconstancy of Manru by citing instances of the general fickleness in love of all gypsies, and Ulana, in order to keep Manru's love, seeks the help of Urok, a dwarf and magician who has the reputation of being a sorcerer. By the aid of a magic draught she keeps Manru to her side for a time, but the gypsy blood will out and, fascinated by a girl of his own race, he rejoins his tribe. This is not to the liking of the gypsy chief, Oros, who is in love with the same woman, Asa, and Manru's rehabitation is opposed. Matters then become too complicated for opera, and that is the weakness of the libretto. Oros finding his authority has no weight with the tribe breaks his staff and Manru is proclaimed chief in his stead. Ulana, in despair at the loss of her husband, hurls herself over a precipice, and Oros coming secretly on Manru and his new love Asa suddenly attacks his rival and throws him into the abyss. A strain of symbolism runs though the story. Thus Manru is not merely fickle, but is torn this way and that by his love for Ulana and his racial passion for music. You may, if you choose, look on Ulana as the embodiment of human love and Asa as representing the spiritual love of the artist.

Dr. Schuch conducted the first performance at Dresden. Herr Anthes was the Manru; Herr Scheidmantel was the Urok; Fraulein Krull the Urana and Frau Kramma the Asa. The reception of the work was cordial but it does not seem to have been enthusiastic. Some of the critics were reminded of Bizet; others noted a strong likeness to Wagner; and through all the note of Polish music was detected. As the work has never been performed on the English stage it is not easy to say how it would shape as an opera. The vocal score has not been published. A concert performance of some of the chief scenes was given, however, at the Crystal Palace, on December 13, 1902, Signor Randegger conducted and Fraulein Krull came from Germany to sing the soprano music. Mr. John Coates sang the music of Manru. The excerpts consisted of a duet from Act II. with Ulana's cradle song; the prelude and incidental music from Act III. with Manru's long soliloquy "Luft, luft! Ich ersticke," and a gypsy march; the love duet of Manru and Ulana from Act II., and the ballet music from Act I. As the programme also contained the Concerto and the Polish Fantasia we were able to form some opinion of Paderewski as a serious composer.

"The connection of the music of 'Manru' with these concertos," I wrote at the time in the Daily News, "must have struck the dullest ears.... So far the music has a style of its own. But it struck me that in the vocal selection from 'Manru' the folk-song element did not mix well with sundry Wagnerisms of which Paderewski has made use. Thus in the scene from Act II., Manru, who is watching Ulana nursing her child, hesitates between expressing himself in the mode of a Slavonic folk-song and in the style of Siegfried's forging outbursts. The orchestra has no hesitation at all, but plumps for Wagner. Paderewski is most interesting to me when he forgets all he knows of Wagner. The folk cradle-song of Ulana, for instance, is more genuine music than Manru's long monologue 'Luft! luft!' from Act III. which is full of Wagnerian mannerisms, culled from Hans Sachs' monologues and elsewhere. Again, the ambitious love duet from Act II. does not make its mark. Paderewski has not yet the strength of technique for a love duet conceived more or less on the lines of the 'Tristan' love duet. The vocal parts have not striking enough intervals. The writing for the voices and orchestra is too close, and, in general the part writing does not move with sufficient freedom. The concert room performance of selections from operas is a great test of their absolute musical qualities, a test which very few works can stand in part, and none altogether. For that reason one cannot come to any very definite opinion of the 'Manru' music. The rushing of the strings up and down the chromatic scale, the free use of muted horns, of gong and cymbals struck with a drumstick, sound theatrical in a concert room, but they might pass as effective in the opera-house. And I should think Paderewski has musically caught the atmosphere of the story. Certainly he has in the orchestral description of Manru's dream, in which the memories of his love jostle with his gypsy desire to wander free and untrammelled. The Gypsy March, with which the scene ends, is also striking. In fact, all the music which has a folk-song character is successful; and perhaps on the opera-stage the second-hand Wagnerisms would not be so noticeable."

The opera had previously been performed at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York, on February 15, 1902. It had not been adequately rehearsed although the principal singers—M. Bandrowsky (Manru), Mme. Sembrich (Ulana), Miss Fritzi Scheff (Asa), Mr. David Bispham (Urok) and Herr Muhlmann (Oros)—seem to have done their work well enough. Opinions as to the merits of the opera were divided. The libretto was blamed for its weaknesses, and Paderewski's Wagnerisms were duly impaled. After a third performance, Mr. H. T. Finck was of opinion that "Manru" gained by being heard repeatedly "While some of its melodies are so catchy that they can be remembered at once, the orchestra score grows more and more beautiful, and what is particularly odd is that the reminiscences of other composers become less noticeable." The composer himself had a good deal to say to an interviewer of the New York Herald on this question of reminiscences in his opera.

"In music absolute originality does not exist. It is the temperament of the composer that makes his work. In method one cannot help but follow those who have gone before. When a great genius like Wagner introduces a method that will give better expression to an idea it is not only not a sin to follow it, but it is a duty to follow it. In employing such a method it concerns not so much the idea as its treatment in a musical way. A piece of music must be built like a house or a church. You would not accuse an architect of being a copyist if he put windows in a house, would you? And yet he is merely doing what others have done. Likewise when you read the works of the great poets, you would not accuse Browning or Longfellow of plagiarism if they used the same style of verse as some one else? Their thoughts you would consider and not so much their method. Music, you see, is different from poetry. It appeals to the ears. A sound, or a combination of sounds in a work that only have to do with the method, may remind one of some other music, and the whole is set down as not original. Let us look at the prelude to the third Act in 'Manru.' That has been criticised. There is one run, a little run, that reminds one of 'Die WalkÜre.' I knew it. I tried to avoid it, but could not. Others heard it and they talk of the suggestion from 'Die WalkÜre.' Yet the first theme is not the same. The second theme is not the same, the orchestration is not the same. I defy any one to show that anything except this one little run is borrowed. Yet for this detail of method the prelude is condemned. If I were to make an analysis, I could show a likeness in method among the greatest of composers. For instance, look at Schumann's Concerto in A minor. The first theme is taken almost wholly in method from Mendelssohn. And Wagner, in his first period and even well into the second period, is not entirely original. One may easily find the influence of Weber and then of Meyerbeer. Beethoven was not free from the influence of other masters, for, in his works, we often find the suggestion of Mozart. And witness also the first concerto of Chopin. Is it not suggestive very strongly of Hummel? And 'Carmen.' Can we not find here an enormous influence exerted by Gounod? And it not only reminds you of Gounod, but some of the themes, as sung, are taken wholly from Spanish music. The 'Habanero' is not even Bizet's, but in all the scores that are published is shown to be taken from a composer who was alive when the opera was written."

The composer made out a good case, but he forgot that, as Weingartner once pointed out, the most subtle form of musical imitation is that of mood and style, and not necessarily of themes. However, "Manru" contains sufficient originality to make the musical world look forward with interest to the production of the new opera on which Paderewski has been engaged. I had hoped that it would have been possible to round off this estimate of the pianist as composer by a consideration of a symphony at which he has been working. It was to have been performed at one of the concerts of the London Symphony Orchestra this season, but it was not ready in time. This work together with the new opera, will enable the musical world to come to a definite conclusion as to the place Paderewski will occupy as a composer.