Chopin : Innovator in Exile

 

Chapter One: In a Word, Poland
 
“All the contemporary assaults upon society date from the partition of Poland. The partition of Poland is a theorem of which all the present political crimes are corollaries.… When you examine the list of modern treasons, that appears first of all.”
 
VICTOR HUGO, Les Miserables
 
One morning in 2010, the official “Year of Chopin,” a young Polish entrepreneur woke up with an idea that was crazy but wonderful: Frédéric Chopin could return from the grave and save the world from itself. As a creator of video games he had all the tools to make it happen, and that day Zbigniew Debicki, known as Zibi to friends, put his team to work. Artists and animators worked with writers and programmers to develop a storyline and graphic landscape. Musicians selected, then remixed, a dozen compositions—polonaises, nocturnes, mazurkas, waltzes, études, songs—into mashups with contemporary formats: reggae, rap, country, rock, and chiptune, a form of synthesized electronic music. The game opens with an animation in black-and-white as Chopin, dressed in tailcoat and cravat, awakens in his grave at Père Lachaise. Moments later the graphics turn to color as the confused composer passes through the cemetery gates into noisy, twenty-first-century Paris, where he is greeted by three Muses. They present him with special artifacts, including his own grand piano (now pocket-size) and a magical horse-drawn carriage that will take him home to Poland. This is the game’s ultimate goal, for while Chopin’s body was buried in Paris, his heart was removed after he died in 1849 and smuggled by his sister across a heavily guarded border into Warsaw, where it was eventually interred in the pillar of a Catholic church.
 
The title of Zibi’s game is Frederic: The Resurrection of Music, and its premise is that the world has lost its collective soul, thanks to the greed and creative bankruptcy of modern content creators for whom music is just one bullet point in a marketing strategy designed to craft brand image and sell product. We are all surrounded by this soulless stuff, and only one man can save us. The gamer’s task is to escape the mind-numbing stereotypes of contemporary commercial music; Chopin’s is to finally return to his homeland. Along the way the two of you must engage in a series of musical duels against all manner of opponents, from a Jamaican Rasta man to a New York City gangbanger, until finally you come face-to-face with Mastermind X, the evil worldwide producer who owns every musician and cares only about money and power. The funeral march from Opus 35 appears in a country-western-techno remix when Chopin finds himself in a deserted cowboy town, forced to duel with the local sheriff at high noon.
 
The game’s interface is a piano keyboard, and during each battle musical notes fly fast and furious toward the gamer, whose job is to hit them with the cursor as they land on the keyboard, thereby gaining points. It’s clear that whoever designed this game was a pianist, because basic keyboard technique—skills I learned once I had mastered scales and arpeggios—serve the player well by netting higher points. The more musical you are, it turns out, the better you will perform against the bad guys. For example: if you hit a flying note in just the right spot on the key, which on a real piano would elicit a highly coveted rich, singing tone, you’ll get a 10 instead of a 7. Artfully sliding your finger from one key to another—a technique scholars cite as one of Chopin’s keyboard innovations—gains even more points. The Help section includes a tip that will resonate with any musician, reminding us that “the key to success is not faith in your eyes but your ears.” If I had a dotted quarter note for every time my teacher told me to make better use of my ears at the keyboard, I could write a symphony.…
 
 
The gamer’s keyboard in Frederic: The Resurrection of Music.
 
Frederic is one of a handful of Chopin video games available today on multiple platforms, from Nintendo to iPhone, but it’s the only one that puts music at the center of play. And it’s not just about melodies and techniques; it’s also ideas that animate the experience, beginning with Chopin’s painful self-exile from his homeland, a theme that’s introduced in the opening moments back in Père Lachaise. Thinking there were worse (or certainly more predictable) ways of exploring Chopin’s Polish roots, I emailed Zibi to see if he would speak with me. Most of all I wanted to know why, at the dawn of the twenty-first century, a young software developer would choose Frédéric Chopin, of all people, as an international superhero.
 
Frederic is hard to master if you’re over fifteen, but it’s strangely addictive, and because I wanted to find out what happens in the end, I was highly motivated to complete all the duels. Chopin does make it home to Poland, but there’s an interesting twist that Zibi explained to me via Skype from his home in Gdansk. “First,” he promised, “you will fail against Mastermind X in the final duel. Every player does, it’s built into the game.” Your loss creates a sense of doom and unhappiness; meanwhile, Mastermind X revels in triumph, brandishing his contracts. But then the Muses return and tell you that this time you must play the music that comes from your own heart. Finally, in one last duel, you and Frederic defeat Mastermind X. He gives back the contracts, frees the musicians, and disappears forever. The art of soulful music has been saved, and Chopin is home at last.
 
These themes of homelessness, yearning, and redemption through music are among the key threads in the story of Chopin, and since his death have formed the basis of his long, enduring cultural legacy. His music and his life, Zibi told me, “tell a very hard story about my country,” one that continues to resonate today in powerful ways. What’s unusual about Frederic the video game is the way the designers chose to represent Chopin: not as the weak, sickly, tragic figure that has become a common trope but as a clever superman with nimble strength, artistic independence, and vanquishing power. “It’s crazy, I know,” Zibi kept saying during our conversation, the idea that Chopin is a musical zombie and my iPad a magical piano. But what better way to bust up the musical and cultural stereotypes of our times than by reanimating old forms and creating unexpected surprises? After all, that’s what Chopin himself did.
 
The “very hard story” of Poland is often told through music, a tradition that predates Chopin by many centuries. You can experience it for yourself any day in Kraków’s main market square, where, if you hang around for at least an hour, you’ll hear a trumpet call sounding from the top of the fourteenth-century St. Mary’s Basilica. Actually, you’ll hear it four times: a plaintive melody that ends as abruptly as it begins, mid-note. Look up at the tower and you’ll see the bell of a trumpet emerging, first from a window facing west, toward Wawel Castle in honor of Poland’s kings and heroes, and then three more times as the trumpeter makes his way around the points of the compass. Down below, tourists flock with cell phones and wave to the tower. Usually the trumpeter—a member of Kraków’s fire brigade in dress uniform—waves back. The call is made every hour on the hour, seven days a week, 365 days a year.
 
The melody the bugler plays is known as the Hejnal Mariacki; it consists of just thirty-three notes, but it’s never played through to the end; the final cadence is always cut off in a sharp, unmelodious way. The reason for the broken note dates to a legend from the thirteenth century, when the cupola of St. Mary’s was a watchtower manned around the clock by a guardian with a bugle. Every morning he woke the residents of Kraków with his call; throughout the day he alerted them to the opening and closing of the city’s gates, signaling the arrival of an important visitor, and his job was also to warn the community of fire and foreign invasion. In 1241 an army of Mongol warriors known as “the scourge of God” rode from the steppes of Central Asia into modern-day Poland, where they razed village after village, killing all or most of the inhabitants. Before they reached the gates of Kraków, so the legend goes, the bugler atop St. Mary’s sounded the alert, blowing his horn until an enemy arrow pierced him through the throat and stopped his call mid-note. His warning allowed many of the town burghers to escape without harm, and in tribute to the fallen musician the survivors endowed a city fund to pay a trumpeter full-time. The first mention of an hourly bugle call comes from the mid-fifteenth century, and the playing of the Hejnal with the broken note has endured since sometime in the seventeenth. In 1927 Polish Radio began broadcasting the noon call and claims it to be “the longest running serial broadcast on Earth,” one that sounded through the years of Nazi occupation in World War II, the fall of Communism under the Solidarity movement in the 1980s, and the rise of a new right-wing party, Law and Justice, that assumed power in 2015. It is still, as historian Norman Davies observed, a reminder to millions of listeners “both of the ancient pedigree of Polish culture and of Poland’s exposed location… one of the few active mementoes of Genghis Khan, and the irruption of his horsemen into the heart of Europe.”
 
The story of Poland, poignantly and symbolically preserved in the lacerated tune of the Hejnal Mariacki, is animated by a paradox: the juxtaposition of enlightened ideals against violence, subjugation, and oppression. “This country,” Davies wrote in his two-volume national history, “seems to be inseparable from the catastrophes and crises on which, paradoxically, it thrives. Poland is permanently on the brink of collapse. But somehow, Poland has never failed to revive… and to flourish.” His observation frames a story of some seven centuries of invasion, occupation, and partition that begins in the thirteenth century when the Golden Horde descended from the east. In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries the Poles were repeatedly attacked by Crimean Tatars and Teutonic knights; the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries brought the subduing armies of Russia, Sweden, and the Ottoman Empire. But in the eighteenth century a fresh threat emerged that would prove far more devastating—and enduring—than any barbarian horde: its own neighbors. In 1772 a troika of new power in Europe set its sights on Poland and carved the country into three parts to be shared among them. Over the next two decades this coalition of Russia, Austria, and Prussia (roughly today’s Germany) executed two further partitions, varying the configuration of borders until finally, in 1795, Poland was literally erased from the map and its name banned from official use. This condition of statelessness lasted for the greater part of its modern history, until 1918, when the establishment of a “New Poland” became one of president Woodrow Wilson’s Fourteen Points in peace negotiations to end World War I. Then, with a stroke of a pen, the country finally resumed its place on the map of Europe. Davies observes that while other nations—he cites India, America, and Africa—during this period were attacked, occupied, pillaged, or stripped of territorial possessions by foreign entities, the Polish partitions were different and without precedent in modern history. Poland was “annihilated… in cold blood,” he writes, “the victim of political vivisection—by mutilation, amputation, and in the end total dismemberment.” In 1793 Irish statesman Edmund Burke reflected what many in the capitals of Britain, Europe, and America took to be Poland’s political reality when he said: “With respect to us, Poland might be… considered a country on the moon.”

There is, however, another side to the story of victimhood that came to be known as “captive Poland,” one that tapped into a larger narrative that had taken hold in the early nineteenth century. Even as it was under constant attack by foreign enemies, as far back as the sixteenth century Poland practiced a kind of liberal humanism that even today seems fragile around the world. The idea of a parliament, an assembly of members drawn from the community, took root there in 1454; a century later, religious freedom was engraved into the Confederation of Warsaw. “We swear to each other,” the document reads, “that we who differ in matters of religion will keep the peace among ourselves, and neither shed blood on account of differences of Faith, or kinds of church, nor punish one another by confiscation of goods, deprivation of honor, imprisonment, exile.” The nobility elected its kings in an elaborate ceremony that took place on horseback in a meadow. They retained for themselves the right to control military finances and declarations of war and taxation, and all it took was one member’s vote to overrule any decision made by the king. Baked into the political consciousness of Poland’s “Noble Democracy” was the right of citizens—noble ones, that is—to resist. It was in Poland in May 1791 that the first constitution in Europe was written and adopted; this is astonishing because at the time its people lived in a fractured country carved up by a “Satanic Trinity” of foreign autocrats. Even then, stateless and oppressed, the Poles produced a document that poet Czeslaw Milosz called a “landmark [on] the road to a new type of democracy.” It guaranteed freedom of the press, religious tolerance, personal liberty, and, perhaps most important of all, the right of peasants to acquire land. What Milosz describes as Poland’s “abnormal” history gave rise to an idealistic notion of citizenship and individual freedom—values that put many Poles in sympathy with the French in the years following their revolution. It was precisely those values that posed an unacceptable threat to the Habsburgs, Hohenzollerns, and Romanovs who had claimed Poland’s lands for their collective empires. It was only four years after Poland adopted its unprecedented, progressive, enlightened constitution that the final partition of 1795 wiped the country off the map of Europe. No longer a nation, Davies writes, “Poland was now an Idea.”

 For the generation that followed, which included Chopin and his equally famous compatriot, the poet Adam Mickiewicz, the Romantic ideal of the homeland developed from all this violence and loss. It’s so ingrained in the Polish character that the country’s own national anthem, composed two years after the final partition, begins with the lines “Poland has not yet perished, as long as we live.” This strange, oddly disheartening amalgam of verb tenses suggests that patriotism is a perpetual fight to a death that never quite arrives. For Mickiewicz, these words signify that “people who have in them what indeed constitutes nationality are able to extend the existence of their nation regardless of the political circumstances of that existence, and may even pursue its re-creation.” What he meant is that even if their country was controlled by foreign invaders, as so often was the case, the idea of Poland constituted the nation itself in the hearts of its own people, and that idea could live on, no matter what. When a friend of Chopin’s wrote that “through his music he imparted Poland; he composed Poland,” this is what, I believe, he was expressing: that Chopin’s music manifested the juxtaposition of tragedy and hope that both define and animate the history and spirit of the Polish people. What’s extraordinary is how enduring this legacy turned out to be.

 The decisive moment in Chopin’s story, and that of Poland during the first half of the nineteenth century, came in 1830, when he was twenty years old and a spark of independence flew in Warsaw. The year before, Nicholas I of Russia had crowned himself King of Poland, disregarding the national constitution and parliament. The czar’s brother and factotum, Grand Duke Constantine, unleashed his secret police, abolished press freedoms, imposed taxes, closed Vilnius University, and deported Mickiewicz, the country’s most famous poet. The final insult was a Russian scheme to use Poland’s army against the people of France to suppress their July Revolution, which deposed the last Bourbon monarch and put Louis Philippe—the “citizen king”—on the throne. On November 29, 1830, a cadet at the Warsaw officers’ school led a group of co-conspirators in an attack on Constantine’s palace. The grand duke managed to escape (according to one historian he scurried off in women’s clothing), but the failed rebellion launched six months of unrest and turmoil.

 Chopin had left Warsaw three weeks before the November Uprising for a European sojourn of music and adventure, traveling through Dresden, Vienna, Salzburg, and Munich, going to the opera and immersing himself in the local musical life. It being his first long-term trip abroad, a group of friends sent him off with a silver cup filled with earth they had collected in Zelazowa Wola, the small town where Chopin was born, thus allowing him to carry a bit of the beloved homeland away with him on his travels. When the uprising began, Chopin’s friends rushed home to join the fight, but insisted he remain in exile and use his music to give voice to Poland’s struggle. Traveling the Continent, keeping in touch with friends and family through a regular stream of letters, he went to parties, dinners, plays, and operas. Then, as he wrote to a friend, he would return home around midnight, sit down, “play the piano, have a good cry, read, look at things, have a laugh, get into bed, blow out my candle and always dream about you all.”

 The November Uprising lasted less than a year, and in September 1831 the Russians brought the hammer down in Warsaw. From Stuttgart Chopin learned there was hand-to-hand fighting in the streets, including in the cemetery where his younger sister Emilia had been buried after suffering a massive tubercular hemorrhage at age fourteen. Being separated from his family was, for Chopin, a type of death. Only a month after he left home, he described himself as “a corpse” and began using the metaphor of the crypt to convey his melancholia. “Graves behind me and beneath me, everywhere,” he wrote to a friend; “a gloomy harmony arose within me.” In Stuttgart, his separation anxiety developed into a morbid, fantastical obsession with death. He imagined his family butchered, the woman he loved in the hands of the Muscovites… “seizing her, strangling her, murdering, killing.” In his notebook Chopin wondered: “is a corpse any worse than I? A corpse… knows nothing of father, mother or sisters… it cannot speak its own language to those around it.” He was voiceless, homeless, and alone, “beyond ten frontiers” from friends and family, and to make matters worse his passport had expired and there was no safe way back to Poland. Stuttgart was an abyss; “I pour out my grief on the piano,” he confided to his diary. It was during this time, as he faced his first Christmas alone, that he likely began composing the harrowing B-minor Scherzo op. 20, a work that begins with a piercing cry at the top of the keyboard followed by an anguished growl at the bottom. It then proceeds on a frenzied, anxious journey until suddenly, and surprisingly, the music devolves into a melody known and loved by all Poles, the Christmas carol “Lulajze Jezuniu” (“Hush Little Jesus”), only to be rudely interrupted again by the tonal lacerations that began the piece. The scherzo concludes with the repetition, nine times in a row, of a single dissonant chord, a piece of musical language that always elicits in me the same tragic pain I experience when King Lear exclaims, over and over, the word Howl! after discovering the hanged body of Cordelia.

 This early work contains Chopin’s musical signature: a collision of worlds fueled by the polar opposites of mood, tempo, melody, and emotional shadowing he would later deploy with such power in the funeral march of Opus 35. During this period he experimented in many genres, taking, for example, the mazurka, a lively, traditional Polish national dance, and reimagining it with startling rhythms and chromatically induced inner conflict. Leonard Bernstein loved these pieces, especially the op. 17, no. 4 Mazurka in A minor, because Chopin put him in “a bliss of ambiguities.” In études, short practice pieces traditionally designed to explore different aspects of performance technique, Chopin experimented with tones, harmonies, and syncopations that would, a century later, become standard features of modern jazz. He also took a salon genre, the nocturne, and repurposed it. An early example is the otherworldly op. 15, no. 3 in G minor, composed in the early years of the 1830s. It begins in one style, that of another Polish folk dance, the kujawiak, and then, after passing through a dark, sometimes jagged melody, he pauses, almost like a novelist reaching a chapter break, and changes the voice of the piece entirely, moving into a chorale, a form of plainchant one might hear in a church service. Then, before sending it off to his publisher, he slapped onto this strange-sounding work the label “Nocturne,” a brand-new genre pioneered by an English composer, John Field, which Chopin undertook to reinvent in his own voice and style.

 These were startling creations, works that threw listeners into an unfamiliar musical landscape. For scholar Jim Samson it was this sojourn, far from home and with news trickling in week by week of the worsening situation in Poland, that saw Chopin’s now unmistakable tone journey from a post-Classical to a Romantic idiom. Responding to the turmoil at home, he “renovated” the old forms, mixing styles and bending genres, using a new kind of musical language to disrupt a listener’s expectations and tell a different kind of story. Exiled from his homeland, wandering through Europe trying to decide where to settle, Chopin began developing the voice that would come to define his music deep into the future. He arrived in Paris in the autumn of 1831, just weeks after the uprising had been brutally put down, and virtually overnight became the poetic embodiment of “captive Poland.” It would be just a few years later when the story of the failed revolution and Chopin’s poignant separation from family and friends crept into his writing and, without his planning it, formed the basis of what would become his most famous composition. For not only is a love of homeland deeply embedded in the funeral march; it’s where it all started.

 The earliest clue in the composition story of Opus 35 turns up in an unlikely place: an auction house on Madison Avenue in New York City. It was a Tuesday in March 1969 when the Parke-Bernet Galleries held a sale of “Important Autographs and Manuscripts” that was noteworthy for its scope and variety: rare original documents spanning three centuries, authored by notable figures in politics, science, and the arts. Just a partial list includes Alexander Hamilton, Napoleon Bonaparte, Clarence Darrow, Henry David Thoreau, Queen Victoria, Washington Irving, Charles Dickens, John James Audubon, the abolitionist John Brown, items from twenty-three American presidents (including a letter from Thomas Jefferson stating “I am out of wine”), and a handwritten manuscript by John Steinbeck. Also included was a musical fragment in the hand of Frédéric Chopin, a manuscript consisting of just eight measures with no title except the notation Lento cantabile: an instruction to the performer to play slowly, in a singing style. (The word comes from the Italian verb cantare, to sing.) It’s the melody of the Trio, the major-key lullaby that breaks up the two statements of the minor-key march—the music that so startled me when I first heard it in the Polish Consulate. This is the sweet, nocturne-like tune that invites you to forget, at least for a moment, the heavy, violent dirge that precedes and follows it.

 Little is known about the Parke-Bernet fragment, which immediately disappeared into private hands after being acquired at the auction for $1,500, but the best guess of scholars is that Chopin inscribed the music into someone’s autograph album. These were popular in the nineteenth century: large, blank books bound in leather that friends (and the occasional celebrity) would “autograph” with a poem, drawing, musical sketch, or personal greeting. Some of these albums apparently had pages with music staves that made it easy to dash off short compositions, and Chopin was known to have inscribed his music into the albums of friends and admirers. Once, for fellow composer Ignaz Moscheles, he wrote out eight measures from the celebrated refrain of the 17th Prelude from op. 28, popularly known as “Castle Clock” for the low A flat that is intoned eleven times in a row, like a tolling bell. There’s something touching in this gesture: one great musician copying a famous lick for another. In the case of the Lento cantabile fragment there’s an intriguing clue about Chopin’s intentions, and reason to believe he attached great sentimental value to that lovely, portentous melody. It’s right there in the date near his signature, November 27: the eve of the 1838 November Uprising in Warsaw six years earlier.

 Lento cantabile fragment.

 No one knows who the recipient of the Trio fragment was, but given the anniversary it seems likely it was a fellow Pole living in exile in Paris, part of “the Great Migration” from postrevolutionary Poland. What’s poignant about the discovery of the fragment is it suggests that the roots of Chopin’s funeral march—one of the saddest pieces of music ever written—were put down in the soil of patriotism and hope, not death and loss. He built the minor-key march around this beautiful, major-key melody; it was the seed from which the larger composition grew. Yet all this is lost in the austere ceremonies and pop culture vignettes where the march is so frequently evoked and riffed on, because when we hear those iconic bass chords tolling a new death—be it of Joseph Stalin, Winston Churchill, or Sylvester the Cat—we are hearing only the half of it, the part Russian pianist Anton Rubinstein famously described as “night winds sweeping over churchyard graves.” Outside of the concert hall where the entire work—both statements of the funeral march bracketing the Trio—is played as written, most of us never knew there was another, juxtaposing reality embedded in Chopin’s contemplation of death. Like so much about the story of the man himself, his most famous melody became a stereotype of sorrow, tragedy, illness, and death, abrogated in the public sphere so it could serve a heroic purpose that, as we’ll see, Chopin never intended for it.

 Love of country may have been inscribed into the original melody of the Trio, but there was another ache in Chopin’s heart at the time he composed these lines: rejection by his sweetheart, Maria Wodzinska. She was seventeen when he (then twenty-six) proposed marriage, after they had spent much of the summer of 1836 together. By this time Chopin was a famous musician, but rumors of his ill health had circulated widely. Maria’s mother, the Countess Teresa, seems to have been torn between these two realities. Frédéric’s celebrity was attractive to her for many reasons, not the least of which was his access to more celebrities. In 1835 she wrote to him: “Forgive me, dear Mr. Fryderyk, if I ask you to obtain for me a collection of the autographs of the famous people among whom (quite rightly!) you live: Poles, Frenchmen, Germans, etc.—it’s all the same to me—even a bearded Jew, such as we see at home, provided that he is worthy of it. I shall be immensely grateful.” Whether Chopin complied is unknown, but in the end Maria’s parents settled on a slow form of torture for the poor man. Nervous about their daughter’s future happiness, they sat on his marriage proposal and prevented Maria from replying. Chopin, trying to make the best of it, joked in a letter to a friend that Maria’s father, after all, considered him just “a street musician.” He returned to Paris to wait, but the silence was agonizing. The following summer, with still no reply to his proposal, he made a trip to London, hoping a change of scenery would ease his mind. In salons he kept a low profile, going around town under cover as “Mr. Fritz,” but the moment he sat down at a piano everyone knew who it was. Just before his return to Paris in July 1837 he had his answer: Maria declined. Chopin gathered together all her letters, placed them in an envelope, scrawled across it “My Sorrow,” and secreted the package in his apartment, where it was discovered after his death. It was just a few months after he received Maria’s breezy, final epistle (“Goodbye, remember us”) that Chopin, recovering from a broken heart and with the anniversary of Poland’s political upheaval in mind, copied out the melody for the Trio.

 The literature about Maria Wodzinska is thin, and it’s hard to get a real sense of her. She was not without talent, both as an amateur pianist and artist (she painted one of the surviving and most evocative portraits of Chopin), but history has not been kind to her. Her own niece described Maria as having had a “passive nature,” being without “energy and independence… and easy to influence.” Édouard Ganche, an early twentieth-century Chopin biographer, dismissed her pretty much altogether: “It is useless to incriminate [her] conduct,” he wrote. “She was a girl of seventeen years old, without will, without courage.” Maria is interesting in the story of these years not because she was Chopin’s last Polish love and callously broke his heart, but for the way she prepares us for what’s to come: another liaison that will have, in the end, a much greater consequence, with an artist who was, in the words of her prolific rival and friend Honoré de Balzac, anything but passive: she was a “lioness.” These very different women—the traditional Polish family friend and France’s notorious, cigar-smoking, cross-dressing, writer (Ivan Turgenev: “What a brave man she was!”)—represent two animating forces in Chopin’s life that intersected around the time he began working on Opus 35. The first would largely be forgotten; the second became the stuff of legend that still, hundreds of years later, captivates modern imaginations.

 Chopin met George Sand the year he proposed to Maria, but it was not an auspicious beginning. “What an unattractive person La Sand is,” he commented to a friend after their introduction in late 1836. “There is something about her which positively repels me.” (Maybe it was what Balzac also described as her “double chin, like a canon of the church.”) Then he asked the question that was on so many minds at the time: “Is she really a woman?” But when they met again two years later, it was love at second sight. The situation, however, was complicated, and in classic Sand style she treated the question of an affair with the exotic Polish exile as she would a new writing project, casting it in a sweeping, contemporary theme that was especially dear to both of their hearts: nationhood. It was a subject that came naturally to her. Sand’s autobiography, Story of My Life, was so huge it took a team of sixty-five translators five years to produce the entire thing in English; she becomes so immersed in the role her family played in the history of France that it takes twenty-one chapters to get to her own birth. Sand’s memoir has been read by scholars not just as the life of a singular woman but as the story of a century of French history and the birth of the modern nation.

So when Sand wrote a letter that was immense even by her own standards—more than five thousand words—to Chopin’s closest friend to solicit advice about what course their relationship should take, it was perfectly fitting she would cast the drama in terms of patriotism. In the aftermath of revolutions in America, France, Poland, Belgium, Italy, and Switzerland, the idea of citizenship, of national belonging, was the most powerful metaphor she could reach for when it came to articulating the project of human love. Someone once said of George Sand that “her work is an immense legal plea, advanced by an indefatigable lawyer,” and her June 1838 letter to Albert (Wojciech) Grzymala, a Polish statesman and banker variously described as a brother and father figure to Chopin, is worthy of the Cour de Cassation, France’s highest court. She begins with the reality on the ground: she is involved with another man (“as good as married”) and Chopin is still in love with “this childhood friend… this young lady.” After a peroration on chastity and her own honorable intentions she goes all-out Cleopatra, casting their love in a language for the ages. “I have no wish to steal anyone from anyone, unless it be prisoners from their jailers, victims from their executioners, Poland from Russia.” She commands Grzymala to “tell me whether it is some Russia whose memory haunts our boy,” in which case she would, like the avenging sorceress in a popular opera, muster her “allurements” and “save him from surrendering.” But: “if it is a Poland, let him go on,” because “Nothing is so precious as a fatherland, and a man who has one already must not make unto himself a new one.” If that were the case, she goes on, “I shall represent for him an Italy… a land that one dreams of, longs for or regrets… which one visits and enjoys on spring days but where one cannot remain permanently.”

 
Like almost everything Sand wrote, this masterful letter is about many things at once, including a worldview about love and marriage that was well ahead of its time and had been developing for many years. She had articulated her notion of true love in a letter to a girlhood friend ten years earlier, explaining it could only occur “when the heart, the mind, and the body understand and embrace each other.” It was rare, she admitted—“This happens once every thousand years”—but it became her lifelong project. She had begun working out these ideas in her first novel, Indiana (1832), a highly unconventional portrait of an unhappy woman trapped in a crippling marriage Sand describes as a form of slavery: “the chain beneath which my life has been shattered and my youth spoiled.” Now, instead of shackling herself and her companion to a traditional union defined by laws of the state—“a graveyard for this artist soul” she said to Gryzmala, no doubt speaking for them both—she puts forth a vision of ideal love that eschews “the bonds of everyday life” and favors a true friendship based on “chaste passion and gentle poetry.” Sand was famous for her gender-bending liberation—dressing like a man, earning money by the pen like a man—but at this moment in her life, when she met Chopin, she was focused on something more complex: a penetrating contemplation of what gender really meant—for women and for men. She would refine and develop this theme in Gabriel, the novel she commenced writing just after the love affair with Chopin began, but it’s here, in the “frightful letter” (her words) that she begins working out her ideas about friendship between the genders, exploring a radical notion that people should be able to love in “different ways.” She outwardly wrestles with “this question of possession” that defined relations between men and women and seeks a richer, more enlightened path, one that was unmoored from physical and sexual burdens. She herself, Sand confides to Chopin’s mentor, had known many varieties of love: that of an artist, a woman, sister, mother, nun (from her Catholic school days), and poet. She believed that the heart can—and ideally should—be large enough to contain two different but simultaneous loves: one “for the body of life while the other is the soul.” Sand is well known for innovating in her work as a writer; here, at this early stage in her relationship with Chopin, she was, it seems, ready to improvise on a whole new style of friendship. There’s no record of a reply from Albert Gryzmala, but within some number of days following Sand’s epic letter she and Chopin consummated their love.

 
In the end Sand did not have to become Italy in the contest of nations, but her famous letter anticipated the way future generations would come to associate Chopin with an enlightened ideal of patriotism, a phenomenon that becomes manifestly evident every hundred years as the world pauses to commemorate his birth. If the second centennial “Year of Chopin” in 2010 inspired young entrepreneurs to resurrect him as a superhero in high-tech video games, it was the first that paved the way by solidifying forever the idea that “Chopin composed Poland.” It was Ignacy Jan Paderewski, himself one of the world’s most famous pianists, who opened the Chopin Centenary Festival in the Polish town of Lemberg in October 1910. Like every Pole of his generation, Paderewski had grown up under authoritarian rule; even now, when he was fifty, the region was still under Austrian control. We have suffered “thunderbolt after thunderbolt,” he told the crowd, and the whole shattered nation “quivers, not with fear but with dismay.” Why then, he asked, “should the spirit of our country have expressed itself so clearly in Chopin, above all others?” For Paderewski, the answer was in the music, and to explain how his compositions personified the embattled nation he cited Chopin’s innovative use of rhythm, fixating on his signature technique of tempo rubato. Franz Liszt had dubbed this the “rule of irregularity”: a rhythm flexible enough to depart from the unforgiving metronome, but which always accelerates just a bit to make up for lost time. This strategy of “stolen time” (the term derives from the Italian verb rubare, to steal) accounts for the often improvisatory sound of Chopin’s works, because the performer has some discretion to liberate notes from the mathematics that govern a piece of music, which are set out in the little fraction known as a time signature at the beginning of each work. Rubato is permission to, at least temporarily, thwart time, to put your own signature on a phrase, and it was in this gesture that Paderewski located the historic fighting spirit of the Polish people. To his countrymen in Lemberg he said: “This music which eludes metrical discipline, rejects the fetters of rhythmic rule, and refuses submission to the metronome as if it were the yoke of some hated government: this music bids us hear, know, and realize that our nation, our land, the whole of Poland, lives, feels, and moves, in Tempo Rubato.” How do we endure through our tragic journey? Paderewski asked his fellow Poles. “Chopin best of all can tell us.”
 
Paderewski’s story took an improbable turn eight years later, in what I think of as an only in Poland phenomenon: in 1918 he abandoned the concert hall and became prime minister of his newly freed country. It’s hard to grasp how astonishing this is, but if you’re an American living in the twenty-first century, imagine Yo-Yo Ma giving a stirring speech about how George Gershwin “composed America” through his use of melodic chromaticism, unexpected rhythms, and wanderings into remote harmonic territories (and yes, using that highly technical language) and then, a decade later, becoming president of the country. The sensitive musician as supreme leader; it’s something unimaginable—unless, apparently, you are Polish.

After Paderewski’s speech there was much more suffering ahead, beginning with the German invasion of Poland in 1939, which led to a ban on Chopin’s music in his homeland. Paderewski died in New York in 1941; his body was taken to Washington, DC, and transported by a horse-drawn caisson and military honor guard to Arlington National Cemetery, where it was temporarily entombed in the vault of USS Maine Monument. “He may lie there until Poland is free,” Franklin Delano Roosevelt proclaimed. In 1992, after the fall of Communism, Paderewski’s body was finally returned to Warsaw. All but his heart, that is; it was the pianist-statesman’s wish that it remain in America forever, and to this day the organ is interred in a shrine at the Our Lady of Czestochowa Cemetery in Doylestown, Pennsylvania.

 The “very hard story” of Poland continues in the twenty-first century under the far-right Law and Justice Party, with its nationalist vision of “Poland first.” Since assuming power in 2015, the government has acted to seize control of the country’s public media; attempted to overhaul the judicial system and neutralize the highest court by imposing age restrictions on justices; curbed public gatherings; imposed restrictions on freedom of speech; and launched a nationwide initiative in schools committed to “patriotic education.” A leading Polish intellectual described the party’s philosophy in stark, if haunting, terms. Law and Justice, he said, “offered a meaning [and] their meaning was: ‘We’ll make Poland great again.’?” Even so, the ruling party could be counted on to use the language of music and Frédéric Chopin when, in 2018, it kicked off a year of events designed to commemorate a century of independence. In opening remarks before a concert in Warsaw on February 24—the day that, two hundred years earlier, an eight-year-old Chopin first performed in public with an orchestra—Law and Justice president Andrzej Duda said that without Chopin it was highly likely Poland would have remained under the yoke of its autocratic neighbors. Unlike Paderewski, he offered no concrete examples, musical or otherwise, but ended by stating that “it was thanks to his music that Poland re-emerged on the world map in 1918.”

 This is how Chopin became, over the course of two centuries, inextricably embedded in the patriotic imagination of his country, in both its historic struggles and contemporary culture wars. Most of the landscape he knew in Warsaw was destroyed by German bombs in World War II, and during those years of twentieth-century strife there were many attempts made to censure his music, remove his name from repertoires, musical publications, and radio programs. Even monuments erected to commemorate his work were destroyed, including the most famous, which depicts Chopin underneath a willow tree, a symbol of Polishness. It was restored in 1958 and placed in a Warsaw park, where every weekend during the summer a piano is set next to the statue and an artist performs Chopin’s music to a large, diverse crowd. In recent years city officials went even further in their effort to fill the air with Chopin by installing “musical benches” that, at the touch of a button, play a famous work. New smartphone apps hit the market regularly, enabling users to do everything from take a selfie with Chopin in places where he once hung out to providing geo-tagged locations with relevant background and history. But while technology, monuments, and media programming come and go, one thing never changes in this remarkable country, with its long, poignant, ever-present history. As a Polish journalist put it in 1995, as the entire country was fixated on the prestigious International Chopin Piano Competition being broadcast live on national television and radio: “Poles are born with Chopin in their souls. Chopin for us is everything that surrounds us, everything we would like to express, but for which there are no words.”

Excerpt from Chasing Chopin: A Musical Journey Across Three Centuries, Four Countries, and a Half-Dozen Revolutions. By Annik LaFarge. Simon & Schuster , 2020. 

The decisive moment in Frédéric Chopin’s story, and that of Poland during the first half of the 19th century, came in 1830, when he was 20 years old and a spark of independence flew in Warsaw. The year before, Nicholas I of Russia had crowned himself King of Poland, disregarding the national constitution and parliament. The czar’s brother and factotum, Grand Duke Constantine, unleashed his secret police, abolished press freedoms, imposed taxes, closed Vilnius University, and deported Mickiewicz, the country’s most famous poet.
 
The final insult was a Russian scheme to use Poland’s army against the people of France to suppress their July Revolution, which deposed the last Bourbon monarch and put Louis Philippe—the “citizen king”—on the throne. On November 29th, 1830, a cadet at the Warsaw officers’ school led a group of co-conspirators in an attack on Constantine’s palace. The grand duke managed to escape (according to one historian he scurried off in women’s clothing), but the failed rebellion launched six months of unrest and turmoil.
 
Chopin had left Warsaw three weeks before the November Uprising for a European sojourn of music and adventure, traveling through Dresden, Vienna, Salzburg, and Munich, going to the opera and immersing himself in the local musical life. It being his first long-term trip abroad, a group of friends sent him off with a silver cup filled with earth they had collected in Żelazowa Wola, the small town where Chopin was born, thus allowing him to carry a bit of the beloved homeland away with him on his travels.
 
When the uprising began, Chopin’s friends rushed home to join the fight, but insisted he remain in exile and use his music to give voice to Poland’s struggle. Traveling the Continent, keeping in touch with friends and family through a regular stream of letters, he went to parties, dinners, plays, and operas. Then, as he wrote to a friend, he would return home around midnight, sit down, “play the piano, have a good cry, read, look at things, have a laugh, get into bed, blow out my candle and always dream about you all.”
 
The November Uprising lasted less than a year, and in September 1831 the Russians brought the hammer down in Warsaw. From Stuttgart Chopin learned there was hand-to-hand fighting in the streets, including in the cemetery where his younger sister Emilia had been buried after suffering a massive tubercular hemorrhage at age 14. Being separated from his family was, for Chopin, a type of death. Only a month after he left home, he described himself as “a corpse” and began using the metaphor of the crypt to convey his melancholia. “Graves behind me and beneath me, everywhere,” he wrote to a friend; “a gloomy harmony arose within me.”
 
In Stuttgart, his separation anxiety developed into a morbid, fantastical obsession with death. He imagined his family butchered, the woman he loved in the hands of the Muscovites . . . “seizing her, strangling her, murdering, killing.” In his notebook Chopin wondered: “is a corpse any worse than I? A corpse . . . knows nothing of father, mother or sisters . . . it cannot speak its own language to those around it.”
 
He was voiceless, homeless, and alone, “beyond ten frontiers” from friends and family, and to make matters worse his passport had expired and there was no safe way back to Poland. Stuttgart was an abyss; “I pour out my grief on the piano,” he confided to his diary. It was during this time, as he faced his first Christmas alone, that he likely began composing the harrowing B-minor Scherzo op. 20, a work that begins with a piercing cry at the top of the keyboard followed by an anguished growl at the bottom.
 
It then proceeds on a frenzied, anxious journey until suddenly, and surprisingly, the music devolves into a melody known and loved by all Poles, the Christmas carol “Lulajże Jezuniu” (“Hush Little Jesus”), only to be rudely interrupted again by the tonal lacerations that began the piece. The scherzo concludes with the repetition, nine times in a row, of a single dissonant chord, a piece of musical language that always elicits in me the same tragic pain I experience when King Lear exclaims, over and over, the word Howl! after discovering the hanged body of Cordelia.
 
This early work contains Chopin’s musical signature: a collision of worlds fueled by the polar opposites of mood, tempo, melody, and emotional shadowing he would later deploy with such power in the funeral march of Opus 35. During this period he experimented in many genres, taking, for example, the mazurka, a lively, traditional Polish national dance, and reimagining it with startling rhythms and chromatically induced inner conflict. Leonard Bernstein loved these pieces, especially the op. 17, no. 4 Mazurka in A minor, because Chopin put him in “a bliss of ambiguities.”
 
In études, short practice pieces traditionally designed to explore different aspects of performance technique, Chopin experimented with tones, harmonies, and syncopations that would, a century later, become standard features of modern jazz. He also took a salon genre, the nocturne, and repurposed it.
 
An early example is the otherworldly op. 15, no. 3 in G minor, composed in the early years of the 1830s. It begins in one style, that of another Polish folk dance, the kujawiak, and then, after passing through a dark, sometimes jagged melody, he pauses, almost like a novelist reaching a chapter break, and changes the voice of the piece entirely, moving into a chorale, a form of plain chant one might hear in a church service. Then, before sending it off to his publisher, he slapped onto this strange-sounding work the label “Nocturne,” a brand-new genre pioneered by an English composer, John Field, which Chopin undertook to reinvent in his own voice and style.
 
These were startling creations, works that threw listeners into an unfamiliar musical landscape. For scholar Jim Samson it was this sojourn, far from home and with news trickling in week by week of the worsening situation in Poland, that saw Chopin’s now unmistakable tone journey from a post-Classical to a Romantic idiom. Responding to the turmoil at home, he “renovated” the old forms, mixing styles and bending genres, using a new kind of musical language to disrupt a listener’s expectations and tell a different kind of story.
 
Exiled from his homeland, wandering through Europe trying to decide where to settle, Chopin began developing the voice that would come to define his music deep into the future. He arrived in Paris in the autumn of 1831, just weeks after the uprising had been brutally put down, and virtually overnight became the poetic embodiment of “captive Poland.”
 
It would be just a few years later when the story of the failed revolution and Chopin’s poignant separation from family and friends crept into his writing and, without his planning it, formed the basis of what would become his most famous composition. For not only is a love of homeland deeply embedded in the funeral march; it’s where it all started.
 
The earliest clue in the composition story of Opus 35 turns up in an unlikely place: an auction house on Madison Avenue in New York City. It was a Tuesday in March 1969 when the Parke-Bernet Galleries held a sale of “Important Autographs and Manuscripts” that was noteworthy for its scope and variety: rare original documents spanning three centuries, authored by notable figures in politics, science, and the arts.
 
Just a partial list includes Alexander Hamilton, Napoleon Bonaparte, Clarence Darrow, Henry David Thoreau, Queen Victoria, Washington Irving, Charles Dickens, John James Audubon, the abolitionist John Brown, items from 23 American presidents (including a letter from Thomas Jefferson stating “I am out of wine”), and a handwritten manuscript by John Steinbeck. Also included was a musical fragment in the hand of Frédéric Chopin, a manuscript consisting of just eight measures with no title except the notation Lento cantabile: an instruction to the performer to play slowly, in a singing style. (The word comes from the Italian verb cantare, to sing.)
 
It’s the melody of the Trio, the major-key lullaby that breaks up the two statements of the minor-key march—the music that so startled me when I first heard it in the Polish Consulate. This is the sweet, nocturne-like tune that invites you to forget, at least for a moment, the heavy, violent dirge that precedes and follows it.
 
Little is known about the Parke-Bernet fragment, which immediately disappeared into private hands after being acquired at the auction for $1,500, but the best guess of scholars is that Chopin inscribed the music into someone’s autograph album. These were popular in the 19th century: large, blank books bound in leather that friends (and the occasional celebrity) would “autograph” with a poem, drawing, musical sketch, or personal greeting. Some of these albums apparently had pages with music staves that made it easy to dash off short compositions, and Chopin was known to have inscribed his music into the albums of friends and admirers.
 
Once, for fellow composer Ignaz Moscheles, he wrote out eight measures from the celebrated refrain of the 17th Prelude from op. 28, popularly known as “Castle Clock” for the low A flat that is intoned 11 times in a row, like a tolling bell. The e’s something touching in this gesture: one great musician copying a famous lick for another. In the case of the Lento cantabile fragment there’s an intriguing clue about Chopin’s intentions, and reason to believe he attached great sentimental value to that lovely, portentous melody. It’s right there in the date near his signature, November 27th: the eve of the 1838 November Uprising in Warsaw six years earlier.
 
Excerpt from Chasing Chopin: A Musical Journey Across Three Centuries, Four Countries, and a Half-Dozen Revolutions.
 
Frédéric Chopin in Exile: The Making of a Romantic. By Annik LaFarge. LitHub  , August  11, 2020
 

Chasing Chopin, website Annik LaFarge

The book has its own  companion music website

Joshua Weilerstein talks with with Annik Lafarge, author of “Chasing Chopin,” a book being released Tomorrow, August 11th, wherever books are sold. This is really a wonderful book and you’ll hear in this interview all of Annik’s abiding enthusiasm about Chopin which comes through so beautifully in the book. We talk about Chopin’s pianos, Chopin as a symbol of Poland, the famous Funeral March, Georges Sand, and traveling to places that Chopin lived and worked. In essence, this is an immersion into Chopin and his music, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy this fascinating interview.

 

Sticky Notes , August 10, 2020.

In the fourth episode of our new season on Just the Right Book with Roxanne Coady, Annika LaFarge joins Roxanne to discuss her book, Chasing Chopin.

 

Roxanne Coady: Even someone who doesn’t know that much about Chopin knows that he had an almost ten-year affair with George Sand. When I think about resurrecting, Chopin had a shortcut reputation as being sort of a snob and a dandy. And George Sand had a reputation as being cigar-smoking, scandalous, promiscuous. And yet I came away from reading the book thinking about each of them in quite a different way. Did you set out to do that? Was that just a byproduct of your research?

 Annik LaFarge: No, I didn’t set out to do it. It was really another of the surprises to me, that the cliché I had grown up with about both of them was really—I mean, all of those things that you said about Chopin are in the literature, that he was a dandy, that he didn’t read, that he was short tempered, that he wrote sentimental music. All of those things are there. But what I was really, to talk about one aspect, I already mentioned that he resisted this intense pressure on him to write in these larger forms. And he went against everybody that was urging him to do that and wrote from his heart what he felt he needed to say.

 But he was also, as a teacher he was an extraordinarily, I think, generous man. He was exacting, and it was really important to him that his students would understand precisely the technique to play his works as they were intended to be played. He always had a metronome on the piano. He was very exacting. But he also told them that they should play it the way—he said to one student, “Play it like no one’s ever played it before or ever will again.” He said to another student, “I give you complete license when you’re sitting here at the keyboard to be yourself.” He was really preoccupied with enabling his students. He wrote for amateurs. That’s another thing that’s really important to remember about Chopin, was that he was he was very concerned with the amateur pianist. This was a time when pianos were popping up in everybody’s living room.

 And George Sand too, in their relationship what I kept hearing as I traveled around to Spain, where they spent a very consequential several months together, and then in central France, where she had a house, I kept hearing this conversation between two artists that I found really fascinating. They were really, really different. They could not have been more different. But Sand had a very, very difficult, complicated childhood, and lots of heartbreak and anxiety. She became a really independent person who saw a kind of duty in friendship. Her métier was to enable other artists to be able to achieve their own great work. So she structured her household in a way that would enable everyone who came into her orbit to do good work. I found that really, really inspiring. So along with the clichés about Sand, she also wrote very innovative—I write about this book that she wrote called Gabriel, which is about what today we might call a transgender person. She was way ahead of her time and and really a very innovative and also an intellectually generous person.

 

LitHub, October 1 , 2020. 

Like many people, I learned about Chopin’s “Funeral March” at an early age, on the family couch, watching Saturday morning cartoons. Cartoons, like fairy tales, often require death as a plot device, but they want it slightly defanged. Chopin’s march was a convenient, campy shorthand — foreboding but comic, no more serious than the words “game over” at the end of a video game. It is therefore almost impossible for me to imagine a world in which the piece is both fresh and tragic, where its death is real.

 Annik LaFarge’s charming and loving new book, “Chasing Chopin,” attempts to recover this world. A combination of biography, cultural commentary and personal reflection, it radiates out from the “Funeral March,” the third movement of Chopin’s Piano Sonata No. 2, in many directions. Looking back in time, LaFarge describes the composer’s loves and pianos (often the same); she explores his handwriting, his fingerings, his Polish identity. But she also turns to the present day, consulting aspiring pianists, authorities in historical performance and Zibi, the creator of the video game “Frederic: The Resurrection of Music.” For a book about death, it’s bursting with life and lively research. LaFarge writes passionately about Bach’s influence on Chopin, and the virtues of listening to period pianos to know what Chopin heard and imagined.

 “Chasing Chopin” is only a partial biography, with much of its focus falling on the odd celebrity couple of Chopin and George Sand: tubercular composer, gender-bending author. Their relationship was a constantly revised arrangement, forged against norms — a precursor of pods and friends with benefits. LaFarge links this modern lifestyle to the revolutionary quality of their work. She charts the couple’s tumultuous beginnings, including an epic letter in which Sand outlines “a vision of ideal love that eschews ‘the bonds of everyday life’ and favors a true friendship based on ‘chaste passion and gentle poetry.’” A week later Sand seemingly changes her mind — the relationship is consummated. After a year or so, she changes her mind again, and they become platonic lover-friends. Sand’s interactions with Chopin acquire aspects of mothering, enabling and nursing — not uncommon when you date an artist (ask any of my exes!). Eventually, they have a falling-out, and LaFarge makes you feel the decline of this ideally modern relationship, maybe even more than Chopin’s looming physical decline.

 Toward the beginning, LaFarge, the author of a book about the High Line as well as an amateur pianist, confesses that the motivation for “Chasing Chopin” was a performance of the “Funeral March,” and in particular one striking contrast: between the march’s somber main theme and a ravishing major key section that comes later. She describes this middle section as a “rampant joy … smuggled into the heart of a death march.” She continues: “It seemed daring but also fundamentally true, that our experience of death should be animated, not haunted, by a force of beauty. Of life.”

 It’s hard to argue with such a personal interpretation, and I love the word “smuggled,” but there are other ways to read this contrast. It’s not so much what Chopin does, as what he doesn’t do. Chopin was an incomparable crafter of transitions, and he loved asymmetry, but his “Funeral March” has almost no transitions, and heaves back and forth in symmetrical twos and fours. The form is static and ritualized. The minor march and its major antidote stare at each other across section breaks, socially distanced, unable to interlace.

 This book took me into many unexpected corners — often I wished LaFarge had taken more time to explore the nooks she uncovered. I especially wish she had spent more time on the march’s sequel, the last section of the grand sonata, an epilogue to a funeral. This movement is a middle finger lifted to every convention. It has no tunes, little variation, no clear drama: a minute of hushed, running unison between the hands, darkly forming and re-forming. People have long struggled to describe its perverse genius. Anton Rubinstein’s “night winds sweeping over churchyard graves” is the most famous image, but seems a little too lush and evocative — too Halloween. LaFarge cites Chopin’s description: The two hands “gossip in unison.” That touch of bitterness and contempt feels closer to the mark. You could imagine proud Chopin, facing disease and death every day, refusing to give people or even himself the triumph they crave, or an easy answer, or any answer at all. When you hear the piece in concert, and that last minute comes to a close, it always seems wrong to applaud. You sense that Chopin wants your discomfort. The audience hesitates, as if asking the questions we’re asking ourselves, day after quarantined day: Is it over? And, What now?

 From Concerts to Cartoons: Chopin’s Most Famous Composition. By Jeremy Denk. The New York Times, August. 11, 2020

In Annik LaFarge's new book, Chasing Chopin: A Musical Journey Across Three Centuries, Four Countries, and a Half-Dozen Revolutions, Chopin isn't the melancholic, tragic figure portrayed in literature and film. He is an innovator and outlier who forged "a truly modernist vision", and an artist of enduring relevance. On the book's cover, he's pictured in what looks like an Adidas track suit (but the stripes down the sleeves are the lines of a musical staff) festooned with a pin that reads "I love Warsaw". This makes sense, since Chopin not only renovated classical forms, but also, while in self-exile from Poland, developed a musical signature that made use of wild juxtapositions.

 Chopin was ahead of his times, a modernizer who mixed styles and bent genres. LaFarge discovered his "special genius" while listening to the Funeral March (from the Opus 35 Sonata) being performed in two different settings, one formal (the Polish consulate in 1998) and one intimate (a jazz club in Chicago in 2017). At the performance in the Polish consulate, LaFarge heard all of Opus 35 played for the first time in her life. She experienced "a sense of awe" when she heard the Trio in D-flat major being "smuggled into" the third movement (the March in B-flat minor that we all know).

 The Trio, she writes, is "hopeful, sweet, beckoning; a grown-up lullaby," animating the death march with "a force of beauty. Of life." She reflects, "What struck me…was hearing a piece of music that was so familiar but also so new. And so unorthodox: a funeral march that speaks the language of life as well as death."

 Nearly 20 years later, the performance in the jazz club surprised LaFarge because the famous March—dum dum da dum—began in the middle of "a swinging tune", as a bit of improvisation. LaFarge was astonished by how "the language of the march was still there, but it's been rhythmically transformed into a new vernacular." Why, she wondered, did Chopin's music still resonate so powerfully?

 Inspired by the performances at the Polish consulate and Chicago jazz club, LaFarge set out to investigate the Opus 35 Sonata. Chasing Chopin is the outcome, and it's more than an exploration of a famous piece of music. It's a wonderfully smart, fascinating look at Chopin's life and times. LaFarge focuses on the three years during which Chopin composed Opus 35 (1837 to 1840), but her investigation inevitably leads her back to the Poland of Chopin's youth, to Paris as Chopin found it when he arrived in 1831, and to the French and Spanish countryside where Chopin did much of his composing while romantically involved with the feminist writer George Sand.

 There are, of course, already several biographies of Chopin out in the world. LaFarge's slim book—only 160 pages—stands out because it's a hybrid work—biography and journalism—with utterly lovely, vivid descriptions of Chopin's music. It's all the more compelling because LaFarge looks carefully at the circumstances that made the composition of Opus 35 possible. She considers the changing technology of the piano, for instance, that allowed Chopin to "capture a new universe of emotional color."

 She also probes the complicated Chopin-Sand love affair, which lasted nine years and perhaps enabled Chopin to produce works of genius, including Opus 35, as his health was failing. Sand made sure that Chopin always had "the best conditions to create." She also famously nursed Chopin back to health numerous times. She was so nurturing that Chopin referred to her as "my angel" in letters home.

 The 19th century history in this book is seamlessly interwoven with the journalism exploring Chopin's sound and message. LaFarge moves between the past and present seemingly without effort. She veers, for example, from the story of how Chopin learned to play the piano (he was largely self-taught, though he had two influential teachers) to her excursion to New York City's Morgan Library, where she views Chopin's never-published book on piano method.

 In another chapter, she writes about the Chopin-Sand relationship before chronicling her own trip to Majorca, Spain, where she discovers the landscape that may have influenced Chopin's work in general. She suggests the Spanish landscape provides context for "the exquisite juxtaposition of tenderness and violence, hope and despair, darkness and light" in many of Chopin's pieces.

 Although this unusual book takes many detours, Opus 35 is LaFarge's primary focus. She reports on what makes Opus 35 so powerful, groundbreaking, and contemporary. I can't sum up her revelations here, but I can point to a few highlights. In an early chapter, she writes about how the great sonata imparts Poland under Russian occupation. Most people who love Chopin know that he grieved his homeland and famously said "I pour out my grief on the piano," but few know how he inscribed his love of Poland on Opus 35 in particular.

 In another chapter, she writes about how Opus 35 was influenced by Beethoven's Opus 25 Piano Sonata in A-flat major, a work that completely abandons the sonata form. Later in this chapter, she writes about how, before Chopin gave Opus 35 to his publisher, he crossed out the word funèbre, leaving just the word marche at the top of the third movement. This has left scholars to wonder whether the most famous funeral march in the world is a funeral march at all.

 LaFarge is well aware that Chopin has been viewed as "a snob, a dandy obsessed with fine clothes and aristocratic ways, a man who didn't read books or show much interest in other artists, melancholy, short-tempered, and (perhaps) anti-Semitic." In her book, she doesn't attempt to rescue Chopin from this reputation, but her precise description and thoughtful analysis of Opus 35 somehow do that job.

 Chopin emerges in these pages a fiercely independent artist, a virtuoso with a "playful, roguish sense of humor", an ingenious musical trailblazer who "coaxed large meanings from the smallest forms" as he created a new musical language. If only all the great composers could be reintroduced to us in this fashion.

 'Chasing Chopin' from the Concert Hall to the Jazz Club. By Adrienne Davich. PopMatters,  May 20, 2020.

Gustav Mahler and His World in 1910

During the Mahler anniversaries of 2010-11, Norman Lebrecht published a book called Why Mahler? Now, as then, even the most fervent Mahlerian might well ask of any book on this subject, “Why Another Book About Mahler?” Musicologist, author and lapsed cellist, Stephen Johnson, has given us a compelling answer in the form of his latest volume, The Eighth: Mahler and his World in 1910.

I am sure I am not alone among musicians and Mahler aficionados in having an entire large section in my library given over to books about Mahler. Almost all of them fall into one of a handful of utilitarian archetypes of varying scope, ambition and quality. There are, of course, the biographies, ranging from Henry-Louis de La Grange’s magisterial four-volume masterpiece to svelte introductory handbooks. There are overviews of Mahler’s music, whether covering only the symphonies or everything, that range from common touch collections of program notes to the exhaustive, and occasionally exhausting, analyses of Donald Mitchell. There are first hand accounts from people who knew Mahler, including Bruno Walter, Ernst Krenek, Alma Mahler and Natalie Bauer-Lechner, and collections of essays of varying levels of quality and cohesion. There are even some very fine book-length studies of individual works, notably Stephen Hefling’s outstanding book about Das Lied von der Erde, and Peter Franklin’s about the Third Symphony. In spite of its title, Johnson’s book is not simply another of these. It is something richer and more wide-ranging. It marks a new and different kind of book about Mahler. Now we know “why.”

But why a book about the Eighth? Mahler was himself a composer of contradiction and paradox. Johnson ends his book with a quotation from Beethoven which appears throughout The Eighth like a Leitmotif, “sometimes the opposite is also true.” The Eighth Symphony may well be Mahler’s most-loved work – it’s semi-annual appearances at the BBC Proms are invariably sold out months in advance.  And yet, among many Mahler listeners and interpreters, it remains one of the perennial black sheep of his output alongside the hugely misunderstood and under-valued Seventh. Many leading Mahler conductors have either completely or largely avoided conducting it, including Bernard Haitink (who put the work away after a 1988 performance at the Concertgebouw), Iván Fischer and many others. It’s been called a backwards step in Mahler’s development, an incoherent mishmash of different languages that don’t work together, an unstructured non-symphony, and the musical analogue of a Barnum and Bailey Circus. Most often by Mahler’s otherwise  most devoted listeners.

Johnson would have done us all a service to write a worthy explanation of, and apologia for, Mahler’s last choral masterpiece, but he’s done much more. This is a book ‘about’ the Eighth, rather than ‘on’ the Eighth, with this work as the focal point, rather than the subject, of this fascinating book. The piece and its premiere serve a center of gravity for an exceptionally engaging and wide-ranging exploration of Mahler’s late music, his fraught relationship with his wife, his engagement with philosophy, his place in one of the richest moments in cultural history, the emergence of psychoanalysis and much more. There are insights to be found here into not only the life and work of Mahler, but those of Alexander von Zemlinsky, Hans Gál, Stefan Zweig, Arnold Schoenberg, Nietzsche, Freud, Jung, Klimt and others. Johnson writes perceptively about everything from national identity, to Viennese Heurigen wine bars, to sex.

For those readers already well acquainted with Mahler’s life story, there are many episodes described in the book with which they will already be familiar, such as the extraordinary circumstances of the Eighth’s sensational premiere, Mahler’s encounter with Freud, and the funeral procession of a New York fireman which inspired the harrowing opening of the last movement of the Tenth Symphony. And yet, I would think that for even more the most fanatical Mahlerian, Johnson offers some new insight or some fresh interpretation of even the most well-known events in every chapter.

There are extended descriptions and discussions of not only the Eighth Symphony, but of Das Lied von der Erde, the Ninth and the Tenth (discussed mostly through the prism of Derryck Cooke’s Performing version). Narrating musical events in prose is, at best, an unsatisfying necessity. Without such descriptions of a work’s unfolding, it’s more or less impossible to highlight the ideas in the music the author wants to discuss, but if words could adequately describe music, we wouldn’t need music. Johnson handles this inherent problem very well – he moves from descriptions of musical events to exploration of musical meaning about as elegantly and efficiently as one can. Mahler fans tend to be incredibly possessive of his music and hugely opinionated about its meaning. Johnson has a disarmingly easygoing way of suggesting new readings of Mahler’s works that I think most will find refreshing rather than confrontational.

Will Johnson’s book on the Eighth serve as an eye opener for those Mahlerian listeners and performers who have always found the work to be a blind spot? Well, as the saying goes, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him or her drink. But one hopes the doubters will, if nothing else, follow Johnson’s own example. He most endearingly describes his somewhat negative previous verdict on the Eighth Symphony, as presented in the book Companion to the Symphony (1992) “monumentally wrong.” Sometimes, the opposite is also true.

Book Review: The Eighth: Mahler and his World in 1910 by Stephen Johnson. B y Kenneth Woods.

Kenneth Woods , April 23, 2020. 

Stephen Johnson ends this thrilling study of Gustav Mahler’s Symphony No 8, and much else besides, with a quotation attributed to Beethoven, of which Oscar Wilde would have approved: “Sometimes the opposite is also true.” The legends attaching to Mahler’s life, especially in the final years, are treasured by lovers of Mahler the Titan, and woe betide anyone daring to question them. But Johnson, one of the finest contemporary musicologists, is also a demythologiser of the gentler sort, and all the more persuasive for it.

Mahler wrote the Eighth in 1906, in an astonishing eight weeks. The new symphony “was to be his religious rite, his High Mass, but conceived and expressed in terms that were both mystical and humanist”. He chose to set the words of the ninth-century Christian hymn “Veni Creator Spiritus”, along with passages from the close of the second part of Goethe’s Faust, and fashioned music meant to match the grandeur of both texts. The result is either one of the triumphs of 20th-century musical composition, or an overwrought mess. Of course, it may well be both – sometimes the opposite is also true.

The symphony was premiered in Munich in 1910, at the new Musik-Festhalle. For Mahler, the four years that had elapsed since the completion of the Eighth had been fraught with trials and tragedies – and worse was to follow. In 1907, he was forced from his position as director of the Vienna Court Opera; he discovered, by accident, that his heart was defective; and his doted-on four-year-old daughter Maria died of scarlet fever. Years afterwards, Alma Mahler wrote that these were the “three hammer-blows” that marked the beginning of the end for the composer, who was to die in 1911, at the age of 50. It makes for a good story, in the true Viennese tradition that combines tragedy and kitsch and then adds an Alp-size dollop of Schlagobers (whipped cream).

How much truth is there in Alma’s version of Mahler’s final years, and how much of it may be put down to her predilection for melodrama and self-promotion? Here, it does well to tread carefully. Alma is a much-maligned woman, and rightly so, in many instances. She was egotistical and self-aggrandising, certainly, but she had much to battle against. Before they were married, Mahler sent her a long “pre-nup” letter, informing her that henceforth she would have to forgo her own musical ambitions – she was a passable composer, and might have been more than that, given time and freedom – and devote herself to the all-consuming task of making him happy.

In 1910, she was to have her revenge on him, in part unwittingly, for his smothering of her talent. The young architect Walter Gropius, with whom Alma was conducting an affair, wrote a love letter to her at Toblach in the South Tyrol, where she and Gustav were staying. Either calculatedly or by a Freudian slip, the hotly impatient lover addressed the envelope not to “Frau Direktor Mahler”, but to “Herr Direktor Mahler”. The composer innocently opened the letter, and the hammer fell. Johnson throws doubt on two of Alma’s “hammer blows” – Mahler’s ousting from the Vienna Opera turned out to be a blessing, and his faulty heart did not prevent him from composing at least three more major works – but there is no doubting the weight of this fourth blow.

These amatory matters are entirely pertinent to the story of the Eighth Symphony and the compositions that followed it, including the symphonic song cycle Das Lied von der Erde – which many consider Mahler’s masterpiece – the Ninth Symphony, and the unfinished Tenth. Johnson sees the essence of the Eighth not in Christian iconography, but in its celebration of artistic and sexual creativity.

The creative spirit the symphony invokes, according to Johnson, is not the Holy Ghost, nor the Blessed Virgin as she is figured in the Hollywood ending Goethe tacked on to Faust, and the salvation it offers is not only spiritual but carnal. The creator spiritus Mahler calls on is no other than Eros, the true “creator of the world”. Johnson writes: “In the words of the ancient Latin hymn Mahler had read the message that had evidently struck Goethe too: fired by love, real erotic love rather than some disembodied ideal, we … can scale the Heavens.”

Yes, but the niggling question remains: is the Eighth as good as Mahler thought it was, and as many continue to insist it is? This symphony is unique among the 10 that he composed but uniqueness does not ensure greatness. To some ears, the Eighth suffers from the bombast and pomposity that infects so much of German music of the Romantic era. Compared to, say, the Second, that truly revolutionary work, the Eighth can sound not so much dramatic as panic-stricken, even hysterical. Johnson makes a strong case for its quality, musically and philosophically, in this magnificent, strongly argued and yet wonderfully subtle study. Whatever our final judgment may be on the Eighth, having read Johnson, we shall never listen to it in the same way again.

The Eighth by Stephen Johnson review – Mahler and sexual creativity. By John Banville. The Guardian, May 16, 2020.

Mahler’s Eighth Symphony is an extraordinary creature, vast in its ambitions and almost megalomaniacal in its demands. Eight top-rank vocal soloists; two large mixed choirs and a boys’ choir; 22 woodwinds; 17 brass; an offstage brass band of seven; nine percussion; celeste; piano; harmonium and organ; two harps; mandolin; and full strings to match.

Mahler even suggested that some of the parts might be doubled. No wonder it has become known as the Symphony of a Thousand, a title invented by the impresario Emil Gutmann, whom Mahler had engaged to make the 1910 premiere of his visionary work a saleable proposition.

Sold it had to be, in order to finance its excesses and to fill Munich’s spanking new Musik-Festhalle. But Mahler was also worried and embarrassed — worried that this was turning into a circus, “a catastrophic Barnum and Bailey show”, and embarrassed to see the streets of Munich littered with images of himself as great composer/conductor. A new biography was in the bookshops, and copies of the score were casually left on café tables to lure punters. Our own sense of the tension between PR and lofty spirituality was alive and kicking a century ago. “There have been better symphonies that had less advertising,” wrote one critic; another declared Mahler to be “our contemporary Christ”.

It was as a conductor, rather than a composer, that Mahler was best known in 1910. His career path, from provincial Bohemia to the Hofoper (the court opera in Vienna) and the New York Philharmonic, was dazzling. Along the way, he invented many of the customs and practices of today’s classical music and operatic world, not least the tremendous figure of the conductor as magus. Yet as a composer, he was less feted, somewhat in the shadow of his friend Richard Strauss.

In 1906, Mahler attended the legendary Austrian premiere in Graz of Strauss’s supremely provocative opera Salome and, on the train home, wondered if popular success could be at one with artistic integrity. The Eighth, which he started sketching in that same year, was perhaps the answer.

 To become music director of the Hofoper, Mahler, who as a child had excelled in Mosaic religious studies and attended synagogue, had to be baptised a Christian. His Eighth Symphony is a synthesis of Christian spirituality and voguish pantheism. Falling into two parts, it sets the famous ninth-century hymn of ecstasy “Veni creator spiritus” as a vast and ravishing vocal composition, introduced by a huge ecclesiastical summons on the organ; and part two of Goethe’s Faust, a more typically Mahlerian display of passionate yearning and instrumental colour.

“All my previous symphonies,” Mahler wrote, “are merely the preludes to this one. In the other works everything still was subjective tragedy, but this one is a source of great joy.” It was a huge success, crowds surging towards the platform after it had finished.

 In The Eighth, Stephen Johnson leads us through all the complexities of the work with skill and sensitivity. It’s clearly a piece that he reveres. In its embrace of joy and spiritual uplift, it has been the most controversial of Mahler’s symphonies in our own day, lacking that juxtaposition of sublimity and the banal that makes the composer such a postmodern pin-up.

Johnson’s defence involves not only a journey through the piece itself, underlining the subtlety and complexity that defy the overkill; but also a look at the world from which it sprang and the extraordinary and tangled personal story which somehow, despite all that objective joy, it still embodies. As a celebration of Goethe’s Ewig-Weibliche — eternal feminine — it was a sonic pedestal for Alma, Mahler’s wife, who was both drawn to his genius and suffocated by his demands.

As a singer, I come at Mahler from the intimate, supremely human and often painful subjectivity of his extraordinary body of songs. In the midst of all the Eighth’s high-mindedness and vast horizons, it’s somehow a relief to return to the little details of Alma’s contemporaneous affair with the young architect Walter Gropius — her escape from the Mahler machine — or to picture her high romantic disappointment with Mahler as he arrived at their wedding wearing galoshes.

The Eighth: Mahler and the World in 1910, by Stephen Johnson, Faber, RRP£14.99, 314 pages

The Eighth: Mahler and the World in 1910. By Ian Bostridge. The Financial Times, April 17, 2020.

A kind of gigantism took hold of the European mind in the years before the first world war. It shaped everything, from empires to poetry. In the confidence of new technology and new ideas, things could be attempted on a larger scale than ever before. The mental power of the age could be measured in the sheer size of the things it produced. This might be ‘Jacky’ Fisher’s Dreadnought in 1906, which set off a European arms race in huge battleships, or a great construction — the Victoria memorial in front of Buckingham Palace is nothing to the one built in Kolkata.

Even plays were being conceived on a scale beyond the capacity of any human audience (to culminate in Karl Kraus’s Die Letzte Tage der Menschheit), and novels many times the length of War and Peace, such as Proust’s. Not everything was realised — Otto Wagner’s colossal projects for Vienna ran into the sand of the imperial family’s implacable dislike of the architect — but an astonishing amount was achieved, and still stands as an example of what confidence can do. We might admire it; we might want to react against an overblown and bombastic tendency; but there’s no escaping it.

One of the areas where the appeal of size proved most seductive was music. Upscaling could take two forms; in length of invention and size of ensemble. Composers had often felt the appeal of masses of performers, and the challenge of sustaining a single musical structure beyond the scale of, say, Beethoven’s Eroica had been long appreciated.

After Wagner’s massive extension of both orchestra and timespan in the seven music dramas from Das Rheingold to Parsifal, a sort of arms race among composers began. In theory there was nothing to prevent a composer from exploring an expansion in only one aspect, and writing a short piece for a huge orchestra, or a very long one for a chamber ensemble. In practice the two tended to go together; Webern’s exquisite miniatures for a huge orchestra, the Six Pieces of 1909, were a rarity and, for economic reasons, remain rarely performed.

Mostly, what we can see is a tendency for music to become longer and more opulent in its demands. Piano concertos, which had stretched in Brahms’s hands from three movements to a symphonic four, now went to five movements and a choral finale (Busoni). It is thought that the largest musical forces pressed into action were in Schoenberg’s Gurrelieder, premiered in 1913 — just as other large-scale forces outside the concert hall were about to be called on, or called up.

Much of the appeal to composers of these ensembles was in the possibility of exploring myriad small combinations within a huge range of sounds; the appeal to audiences, undoubtedly, was the overwhelming thrill of a huge ensemble at full stretch. That appeal, whether in a Richard Strauss tone poem, The Rite of Spring, or the splendid sound of a nine-member trumpet section in Janacek’s later Sinfonietta, has never gone away.

Neither has the association with other, more aggressive expansions. Gustav Mahler’s eighth symphony, the subject of Stephen Johnson’s book, contains the pointed words ‘Drive the enemy far from us/And grant us lasting peace’, and was described by its composer as a Geschenk der ganzen Nation — a ‘gift to the whole nation’. Some unlikely people gave into these fantasies. Arnold Schoenberg, on creating the 12-tone method in the early 1920s, told Josef Rufer that he had ‘made a discovery which will ensure the supremacy of German music for the next 100 years’ — a very poignant thing for an Austrian Jewish composer to say innocently in 1923.

Mahler was one of the foremost architects of the colossal in music. Though his fame was principally as a conductor and director of the Vienna opera house, he was producing a series of symphonic works that had been stretching the boundaries of the form in all directions — the six movements of the third symphony, the inclusion of unheard-of symphonic instruments such as mandolins, guitars, sledgehammers, retuned solo violins, and very large orchestral forces.

Even so, the eighth symphony stands apart. It calls for eight vocal soloists and multiple choirs, and an orchestra reinforced to the last degree, containing such extravagant additions to the usual as piano, celesta, organ, harmonium, two mandolins and four harps. It goes on for a very long time — and includes a full setting of the last scene of Goethe’s Faust Part II.

It was Mahler’s greatest triumph in his lifetime as a composer when it was premiered in 1910, though interestingly, in a very pro-Mahler age, it is now his least performed symphony. That is partly due to the expense and difficulty of putting together all those forces (demanding two mandolin players is just asking for trouble). But it may also reflect the general view that the eighth is too deliberate a bid for greatness, riding on the coat-tails of the greatest classic in German literature; too voulu.

It has much elaborate sounding counterpoint —the highest claim to seriousness of German music — but it is largely an illusion. The first movement is full of moments that appear to be on the verge of launching a double fugue, one of the greatest traditional challenges to a composer’s skill, but they almost never come to anything. (The most ingenious fugue of the period is the outrageous and very funny palindromic double fugue in Schoenberg’s Pierrot Lunaire.) This is not really what Mahler was good at, which you can see in the fourth, sixth and ninth symphonies, and the miraculous shadowplay of fantasy in the middle movements of the seventh. The eighth is a bit of a press release.

The symphony was written at great speed in 1906, in his summer retreat on the Worthersee in Carinthia. Its premiere, in 1910, handled by the impresario Emil Gutmann, was held in Munich, in a newly built concert hall seating 3,200 people. Ticket prices were high, and Gutmann, without consultation, advertised the piece under the screamingly vulgar slogan ‘Symphony of a Thousand’. Mahler disapproved, but the epithet stuck. (Gutmann was being literal, too; the first performance is believed to have called on 1,028 performers.)

The audience was an omnium gatherum of cultural might: Thomas Mann, Hofmannsthal, Richard Strauss, Arthur Schnitzler, Schoenberg, Webern, the young Korngold, Stefan Zweig, Dukas and Saint-Saens were all bowled over by it (apart from Saint-Saens). Mann was so overwhelmed he wrote a fan letter — and the following year gave the hero of his novella Death in Venice Mahler’s face, exactly described.

There was a less public drama attached to the symphony. Mahler’s wife Alma was, unusually, the dedicatee of the work. The summer of the premiere was also the year of her enthusiastic affair with the young architect Walter Gropius. It was the experience of the eighth symphony in those Munich performances that persuaded Gropius that the affair must be broken off: this was a genius whose life should not be troubled.

Johnson has written an engaging and enthusiastic account of the eighth, but it is very much a chronology of events. And it doesn’t quite live up to the suggestion of its subtitle, as much more could have been said about the place of this symphony in the general culture of its time. Symphonic music was central then; any literary intellectual could follow a symphonic argument in detail, and — as Mann’s Doktor Faustus was to show — keep up with the most advanced developments.

Johnson puts the symphony squarely in the context of Mahler’s musical career, and is happy to share his passionate keenness for the music — which is all very well. But I finished the book intrigued by the practicalities of the project, and wondering about what the symphony inadvertently reveals, as well as what it so energetically insists on saying.

Review of the book : The Eighth: Mahler and the World in 1910 by Stephen Johnson

Gustav Mahler’s bid for greatness: the ‘Symphony of a Thousand’.  By Philip Hensher. The Spectator, March 18, 2020.

Stephen Johnson 

The 50 greatest Mahler recordings.   Gramophone,  March 10  , 2020

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