Take, for example, the most popular by far of the nocturnes, the E-flat, Op. 9, No. 2.
It is one of the simpler pieces, and its beginning might, indeed, be out of a Bellini
opera. But as the two alternating strains of melody make their successive returns,
each is dramatically deepened by a darkening of the harmony and an intensification
of the figuration. Even in this “easy” piece the subtlety of the changes of key, the
chromatic alterations, far exceeds the boundaries of the vocal style. What was
simple and straightforward at first sweeps to a huge emotional climax, resolved by a
cadenza that is no mere virtuosic display but rather an integral part of the drama.
Then look at the piece that is probably the most complex, and quite possibly the
greatest, of the series, the C-sharp minor, Op. 27, No. 1. Here we have a piece whose
relationship to the vocal manner, or to the style of the Field nocturnes, is as meager
as its resemblance to the familiar salon image. It is a powerful, virile outcry, one of
the most personal utterances in the entire realm of piano music. The very opening
measures, with the E-sharp in the right hand clashing against the C-sharp minor
accompaniment, set the tone. And the middle section, with its rumbling, menacing
bass line and the building-up to huge chordal sonorities above, brings the listener
face-to-face with passion at its most elemental. Romantic, moonlit vista? Hardly.
Each of these works, in fact, creates its own mood, and the variety within the 'entire
set is remarkable. Some (Op. 9, No. 1; Op. 15, No. 2; Op. 48, No. 2, and Op. 72,
No. 1) do resemble in general layout and mood the simpler, moonlit pieces of
Field. But others (Op. 15, No. 1; Op. 48, No. 1; Op. 62, No. 1) are full of clouds
and turbulence. Appearances here are often deceptive; a quiet, muted beginning
can lead the listener to expect calm reverie, whereupon the storm will burst forth
with utmost dramatic suddenness. Ls
Some are of a strangeness and mystery that defies any easy description. What, for ,
example, are we to make of the rhapsodic piece in G minor, Op. 15, No. 3? Here
is a muted, slow waltz in which the characteristic, rolling accompaniment figures
make no appearance at all. Then there comes an even sparer section marked religioso,
a chordal, hymnlike melody entirely unrelated to what has gone before, and the piece
ends thus. Something special is obviously on the composer's mind here, but we must
draw our own conclusions as to its nature.
During Chopin's lifetime his nocturnes were the most popular of his piano com-
positions. This makes all the more remarkable the fact that they are also by far the
tor reasons having to do with a chemistry not to be analyzed in any existing labora-
tory, their spirits blend in a perfect unity.
Giese nocturnes span practically his entire career as a mature musician. The
earliest of them, the E minor (Op. 72, No. 1, published after his death) , dates from
1827, three years before he left Warsaw for Paris; the last, the two of Op. 62, were
written in 1846, when Chopin was indeed the darling of the Paris salons, lionized and
musically respected.
Much has been made of the influence upon these works of the Irish composer John
Field, 30 years Chopin’s senior. Field was, like Chopin, a much sought-after piano
virtuoso and composer, and his experiments in seeking out a romantic, hazy sound
from the piano, achieved largely through a subtle and complex use of the pedals,
did point out the pathway for the young Pole. Field himself heard Chopin in Paris
in 1832, and found him “a sickroom talent.” Jealousy no doubt shaped that opinion;
Field, sick and drink-ridden, was understandably taken aback to see the young Pole
reaping the adulation that was once his.
Field's nocturnes are undeniably pretty, and some of them are somewhat more than
that. Actually, the motivating influertce for both his works and those of Chopin came
not from the piano at all but from the kind of romantic Italian opera that was
sweeping through European tastes in the first two decades of the 19th century. Look
at such an ardent love song as Almaviva’s “Ecco ridente” in the first act of Rossini’s
The Barber of Seville, or at the first part of Norma’s “Casta diva,” and you will find
the genesis of the piano nocturne in the long, sinuous, sighing melody with its gently
dissonant points of punctuation, supported on an undulating orchestral accompani-
ment. Both Field and Chopin had been exposed to a lot of this music, and they were
both clearly out to seek ways of making this kind of immediate, romantic outpouring
work on the piano.
The best of Field’s nocturnes are, indeed, extremely imaginative translations of the
bel canto style into pianoese. But Chopin was not content to stop there. He created
a new bel canto, conceived from its very beginning as a pianistic entity: a language
in itself translated from nothing else. The piano sings as no diva ever could, and
it takes upon itself a dramatic personality that needs no libretto to illuminate.
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