CHAPTER XIX.

Chopin as a Composer 334.

Appendix 350.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XI.

_FURTHER SOJOURN IN VIENNA. THE JOURNEY TO MUNICH._

FREDERIC CHOPIN TO ELSNER.

_Vienna, January 16th, 1831._

DEAR MONSIEUR ELSNER,

I much regret that your kindness, of which I have had so many

proofs during my journey, has once more made me feel ashamed of

myself, and that you have anticipated me with a letter.

I should have felt it my duty to write to you immediately on my

arrival, but I put off doing so from day to day, feeling almost

certain that my parents would not delay sending you all the news

about me, as I am vain enough to think this would interest you.

I wanted also to wait till I could tell you something definite

about myself; but since the day on which I heard of the terrible

events in the fatherland, I have had but one thought—anxiety and

yearning about my country and my dear ones.

Herr Malfatti has been vainly endeavouring to persuade me that an

artist is, or ought to be, a cosmopolitan. Supposing this to be

so, although I was an artist in the cradle, I am, as a man, a Pole,

and liable to serve as a soldier, so I hope that you will not blame

me for not having thought seriously as yet about arranging for a

concert.

Obstacles surround me on all sides; not only has a succession of

the most miserable concerts quite ruined good music, and rendered

the public distrustful, but the recent affairs in Poland have a

prejudicial effect on my position.

I think, however—and Würfel fully approves my intention—of giving

my first concert during the Carnival. The worthy Würfel is a

constant sufferer. I often see him, and find that he has a pleasant

recollection of you.

I should feel little satisfied with my stay here but for the

interesting acquaintances I have made among the first talent in the

place, such names as Slawick, Merk, Bocklet, &c. The opera is good,

and the Viennese are enchanted with Wildt and Fräulein Heinefetter;

but it is a pity that Duport brings out so few new operas, and is

more careful of his pocket than of art.

Abbé Stadler[1] is loud in his complaints, and says that Vienna is

not what it used to be. He is publishing his Psalms at Mechettiʼs;

I saw the work in manuscript and admired it.

As to your quartet, Joseph Czerny promised faithfully that it

should be ready on St. Josephʼs day. He assured me that up till

now it had been impossible for him to put it in hand, as he is

just bringing out Schubertʼs works, many of which are still in the

press. So I am afraid that yours will be delayed.

As I observed, Czerny is not one of the wealthiest publishers in

this city, and cannot so easily take the risk of printing a work

that is not performed either at “Sperlʼs” or at the “Römische

Kaiser.”

[Sidenote: DEGENERATION OF PUBLIC TASTE.]

Waltzes are here called “works” and Lanner and Strauss, who play

first violin at the performances of these dances, “capellmeister”

(bandmasters.)

I do not mean to say that this is the universal way of speaking,

for there are many who ridicule it; however, scarcely anything

but Waltzes are printed. It seems to me that Mechetti is of an

enterprising turn of mind, and that he will be more likely to take

your Masses, for he intends to publish the scores of the famous

church composers. I spoke about those glorious Masses of yours to

Mechettiʼs book-keeper—an impressible and enlightened Saxon—he

seemed to think something of them, and, according to what I hear,

he does quite as he likes in the business. I am invited out to

dinner to-day to meet Mechetti. I shall talk the matter over

seriously with him, and will write to you about it soon. Haslinger

is now publishing Hummelʼs last Mass, for he lives only for and by

Hummel; but it is said that these latest compositions do not sell

well; and Haslinger, who gave him a large honorarium for them, puts

aside all manuscripts now, and only prints Straussʼs compositions.

Yesterday I was with Nidecki, at Steinkellerʼs, who has written a

libretto for Nidecki. He hopes for great things from this opera, in

which the famous comedian, Schuster, is to appear. In this case,

Nidecki may make a name for himself. I hope that this news will

please you.

You ask, dear Mons. Elsner, why Nidecki studied my second concerto?

He did so solely by his own wish. Knowing that he would have to

play in public before his departure from Vienna, and having nothing

suitable of his own, except the beautiful variations, he asked for

my manuscripts. Meanwhile things have greatly changed; he no longer

appears as a pianoforte _virtuoso_, but as an orchestral composer.

He will be sure to tell you of it himself. I shall take care that

his overture is performed at my concert. You will be proud of us

yet; at any rate you shall not be ashamed of us. The pianist, Aloys

Schmitt, has been cut up by the critics, although he is past forty,

and has been composing for eighteen years.

Kindest remembrances to all the collegians, and to your own circle.

For yourself, I beg you to receive the assurance of the unbounded

respect with which I always remain,

Your grateful and faithful pupil,

FREDERIC CHOPIN.

* * * * *

_Vienna, May 14th, 1831._

MY BELOVED PARENTS AND SISTERS,

I have to go on short commons this week, as regards letters, but I

console myself with the thought that I shall hear from you again

next week, and wait patiently, trusting that you are as well in

the country as you were in town. As to myself, I am in excellent

spirits, and feel that good health is the best comforter in

misfortune.

[Sidenote: MALFATTI.]

Perhaps it is Malfattiʼs soups which have given me such strength

that I really feel better than ever. If so it is a two-fold regret

to me that Malfatti and his family are gone into the country. You

cannot imagine what a beautiful villa he lives in; I was there a

week ago with Hummel. Having taken us over his house, he showed us

his garden, and when we were at the top of the hill we had such a

splendid view that we did not want to come down again. Malfatti has

the honour of a visit from the court every year, and I should not

wonder if the Duchess of Anhalt-Cöthen, who is a neighbour of his,

envies him his garden.

On one side you see Vienna lying at your feet, and looking as

if Schönbrunn were joined to it; on the other, high hills

picturesquely dotted with convents and villages. This romantic

panorama makes you quite oblivious of the nearness of the noisy,

bustling Kaiserstadt.

Yesterday I was at the Imperial library with Handler.[2] Do you

know this is my first inspection of what is, perhaps, the richest

collection of musical manuscripts in the world? I can scarcely

imagine that the library in Bologna can be larger and more

systematically arranged than this one.

Now, my dearest ones, picture to yourselves my astonishment at

beholding among the new manuscripts a book entitled “Chopin.”

It was a pretty large volume, elegantly bound; I thought to myself,

I have never heard of any other musician named Chopin, but there

was a certain Champin, and perhaps there has been a mistake in the

spelling. I took out the manuscript and saw my own handwriting.

Haslinger had sent the original of my variations to the library.

This is an absurdity worth remembering.

[Sidenote: FIREWORKS AND RAIN.]

Last Sunday there was to have been a grand display of fireworks,

but the rain spoilt it. It is a remarkable fact that it almost

always rains here when they are going to have fireworks. This

reminds me of the following story: “A gentleman had a handsome

bronze-coloured coat, but whenever he wore it, it rained; so he

went to his tailor to ask him the reason. The tailor was very much

astonished, shook his head, and asked the gentleman to leave the

coat with him for a day or two, as, possibly, the hat, waistcoat

or boots might be the cause of the misfortune. However, it was not

so, for when the tailor went out for a walk in the coat the rain

suddenly poured down, and the poor man was obliged to take a cab,

for he had forgotten his umbrella. Some people thought his wife had

taken it to a coffee-party; but, however that may have been, the

coat was wringing wet. After thinking over this strange occurrence

for a long time it occurred to the tailor that perhaps there was

something strange hidden in the coat. He took out the sleeves,

but found nothing; he undid the tails, then the front, when, lo

and behold! under the lining was a piece of a hand-bill about

some fireworks. This explained all; he took out the paper, and

the coat never brought down any more rain.” Forgive me for again

having nothing new to tell you about myself; I shall hope to have

some more interesting news bye and bye. I most sincerely desire to

fulfil your wishes; hitherto, however, I have found it impossible

to give a concert. What do you think of General Dwernickiʼs victory

at Stoczek?

May God continue to fight for us!

Your FREDERIC.

* * * * *

_Vienna, May 28th 1831._

I have just returned from the post, but once more there is no

letter for me! I received one on Wednesday from Madame Jarocka,

with a postscript from dear Papa, which though very short was very

precious to me. It told me, at least, that you were all well. As to

Marcel and Johann, I beg that they will not write to me at all, if

they are so stingy, that in spite of my request they can only send

a word or two. I am so angry that I feel as if I could send back

their letters without opening them. Of course they will make the

old excuse of want of time! I am the only one who has time to write

so fully every week. But how quickly this precious time passes. It

is already the end of May, and I am still in Vienna, and probably

shall be through June, for Kumelski[3] has been ill and must lay by

again.

I can see already that this letter will be a very wearisome

one, but you have no reason to fear that this is a sign of

indisposition. On the contrary, I am quite well and amusing myself

capitally. To-day I was playing from early in the morning till

two in the afternoon, when I went out to dine and met the worthy

Kandler, who kindly offered to give me letters to Cherubini and

Paër.

I shall visit my invalid in the evening and go to the theatre,

where there is to be a concert at which the violinist Herz is

to perform. He is an Israelite, and made his _débût_ at Fräulein

Henriette Sonntagʼs concert in Warsaw, when he was almost hissed

off the stage. The pianist, Döhler, is also to play some of

Czernyʼs compositions, and in conclusion Herz will give his own

variations on Polish airs. Poor Polish motives, you little think

how they will over-lard you with “Majufes” (Jewish melodies),

giving you the title of “Polish music” to attract the public.

[Sidenote: POLISH MUSIC AND ITS IMITATIONS.]

If you are honest enough to distinguish between real Polish music

and these imitations of it, and to assign a higher position to the

former, you are thought crazy, more especially as Czerny, who is

the oracle of Vienna, has not, as yet, in the manufacture of his

musical tit-bits, included any variations on a Polish theme.

Yesterday afternoon I went with Thalberg to the Evangelical church,

where Hesse, a young organist from Breslau, was to perform before

the most select of Viennese audiences. The _élite_ of the musical

world were present: Stadler, Kiesewetter, Mosel, Seyfried, and

Gyrowitz. Hesse has talent, and understands the management of the

organ; he left an album with me, but I donʼt feel as if I had

originality enough to write anything in it.

On Wednesday I was at Beperʼs with Slawick till 2 oʼclock in the

morning. He is one of the artists here with whom I am really on

friendly and confidential terms. He plays like a second Paganini,

whom, in time, he gives promise of surpassing. I should not think

so, had I not already heard him several times. I am very sorry that

Titus has not made Slawickʼs acquaintance, for he bewitches his

hearers, and moves them to tears; he even made Tiger weep; Prince

G. and Jskr. were much affected by his playing.

How are things going on with you? I am always dreaming of you. Has

not the bloodshed ceased yet? I know what your answer will be:

“Patience.” I constantly console myself with the same thought.

On Thursday there was a _soirée_ at Fuchsʼs, when Limmer, one of

the best artists here, introduced some of his own compositions

for four violoncellos. Merk, as usual, made them more beautiful

than they really were by his playing, which is so full of soul.

We stayed there till 12 oʼclock, for Merk enjoyed playing his

Variations with me. He told me so himself, and it is always a great

pleasure for me to play with him. I think we suit each other very

well.[4] He is the only violoncellist I really respect.

I am curious to know how I shall like Norblin;[5] please do not

forget the letter to him.

[Sidenote: PASSPORT DIFFICULTIES.]

_Vienna, June 25th, 1831._

I am quite well, and that is all that I have to be happy about, for

my departure seems as far off as ever. I have never been in such

a state before. You know how undecided I am, and then obstacles

meet me at every step. I am promised a passport every day, and I

run from Herod to Pontius Pilate simply to get back what I gave

the police to take care of. I received a delightful piece of news

to-day, that my passport had been mislaid somewhere and could

not be found, so I must try to procure a new one. It is strange

that every possible misfortune happens just now to us poor Poles.

Although I am quite ready to start, I cannot.

I have followed Herr Beyerʼs advice and had my passport _viséd_ for

England, although I am only going to Paris. Malfatti will give me

a letter of introduction to his friend, Paër; Kandler has already

mentioned me in the “_Leipziger Musikzeitung_.”

I was not home until midnight yesterday, for it was St. Johnʼs

Day, and Malfattiʼs birth-day. Mechetti wished to give him a

surprise, and had engaged Mlles. Emmering and Lutzer, and Messrs.

Wildt, Cicimara, and your Frederic to give a musical performance

in his honour. This almost deserved to be described as perfect

(“parfait.”) I never heard the Quartet from “Moses” given better;

although Fräulein Gladkowska sang “Oh quante lacrime” with far more

feeling at my farewell concert at Warsaw. Wildt was in excellent

voice, and I acted as _quasi_ conductor.[6]

A considerable crowd was on the terrace of our house, listening

to the concert. The moon shone marvellously, the fountains rose

like columns of pearls, the air was filled with the perfume of

the orange grove; in short, it was an enchanting night, the

surroundings glorious!

I will now describe the room in which we performed. Windows,

reaching from the ceiling to the floor, open on to the terrace,

from whence there is a magnificent view over the whole of Vienna.

Large mirrors hung on the walls; but the room was dimly lighted

which heightened the effect of the moonlight streaming through the

windows; and the roominess of the “cabinet” adjoining the _salon_

on the left gave to the whole dwelling an air of grandeur. The

open-heartedness and politeness of the host, the gay and elegant

company, the sparkling wit, and the excellent supper, made it late

before we separated. I live as frugally as possible, and look at

every penny as I did at the ring[7] when I was in Warsaw. You may

as well sell it, for I have cost you enough already.

The day before yesterday we were on the Kahlen and Leopoldsberg

with Kumelski; and Czapek, who visits me every day and gives me

most substantial proofs of his friendship; he offered to lend me

money for travelling, if I wanted it. It was a magnificent day,

and I never took a more beautiful walk. From the Leopoldsberg

you see the whole of Vienna, Agram, Aspern, Pressburg, and even

Kloster-Neuburg, the castle in which Richard Cœur de Lion was for

some time imprisoned. We had a view also of all the upper part

of the Danube. After breakfast we went to the Kahlenberg, where

King John Sobieski pitched his camp and sent up the rockets which

were to announce to Count Starhemberg, Commandant of Vienna, the

approach of the Polish army. There, too, is the monastery of the

Kamedules, where, before the attack of the Turks, the King knighted

his son Jacob, and himself officiated in the Mass. I have gathered

a leaf for Isabella from the spot which is now covered with

vegetation.

[Sidenote: AN “EASTER-KING.”]

From thence we went, in the evening, to the beautiful valley of

Krappenwald, where we saw a ridiculous boyish frolic, a number of

urchins had covered themselves, from head to foot, with leaves,

and, looking like walking-bushes, crawled from inn to inn. A boy,

covered with leaves, his head adorned with branches, is called

“Easter-king.” This is a customary jest at Easter-tide.

A few days ago I was at a _soirée_ at Aloys Fuchsʼs.[8] He showed

me his rich collection of autograph works (circa 400.) My Rondo[9]

for two pianos was among them. Some of the company present were

desirous of becoming personally acquainted with me. Fuchs gave me a

specimen of Beethovenʼs handwriting.

Your last letter gave me great pleasure, for I saw the handwriting

of all my nearest and dearest ones on one piece of paper. Let me

kiss your hands and feet, which are more charming than any to be

found in Vienna.

* * * * *

_Vienna, Saturday, July 1831._

I saw from your last letter, my dearests, that you have already

learnt to bear misfortune with fortitude. You may be assured that

neither am I so readily cast down. Hope, oh, sweet perennial hope!

[Sidenote: THE CHOLERA.]

I have got my passport at last, but have given up the idea of

starting on Monday. We shall go to Salzburg on Monday and from

there to Münich. I asked for my passport to be _viséd_ for London;

and the police did it at once; but it was kept two days at the

Russian Embassy, and was sent back with permission to travel to

Münich, not to London. It is all the same to me, if Herr Maison the

French Ambassador will sign it. To these troubles another has now

been added. A certificate of health is necessary for crossing the

Bavarian frontier, on account of the cholera. We ran about for half

a day with Kumelski, but got the pass in the afternoon.

We had the pleasure of being at least in good company during our

peregrinations, for Count Alexander Fredro,[10] whom we recognized

from his Polish appearance, his refined manner of speaking, and his

passport, was with us seeking a similar pass for his servant.

The news to-day is that the town of Wilna is taken. It is to be

hoped this is not true.

Everyone is terribly afraid of the cholera, and the precautions

taken are quite ridiculous. Printed prayers are sold, supplicating

God and all the saints to stop the cholera. Nobody ventures to eat

fruit, and most people quit the city.

I leave a Polonaise for the Violoncello with Mechetti.

Louise writes that Herr Elsner is very pleased with the review;

I am anxious to hear what he will say about the others, as he

was my teacher of composition. I want nothing but more life and

spirit. I often feel low-spirited, but sometimes as cheerful as

at home. When I feel melancholy I go to Madame Schaschekʼs, where

I generally meet several amiable young Polish ladies who always

cheer me up with their kind and hopeful words, so that I begin

to mimic the generals here. This is my last new trick; those who

have seen it are ready to die with laughter. But there are days,

alas! when people do not get two words out of me; then I generally

spend thirty kreuzers in going to Hitzing, or somewhere else in

the neighbourhood of Vienna (for recreation) to divert my mind.

Zacharkiewicz, of Warsaw, was with me, and when his wife saw me at

Schaschekʼs their astonishment knew no bounds at my looking such a

proper fellow. I have only left my whiskers on the right cheek, and

they grow very well; there is no occasion to have them on the left,

as you always sit with your right to the public.

[Sidenote: SLEDGING.]

The good Würfel was with me the day before yesterday; Czapek,

Kumelski, and several others also came, and we went together to

St. Veit, a pretty place, which is more than I can say of Tivoli,

where there is a kind of Caroussel, or rather a rail with sledges,

called a “Rutsch.” It is a childish amusement, but a crowd of

grown persons let themselves roll down the hill in these sledges

without the least object in going. At first I did not at all care

about trying; but as we were eight of us and all good friends, we

began to dare each other to go down first. It was very foolish,

but we all laughed heartily. I went heart and soul into the fun

till it occurred to me that strong healthy men might find some

better employment at a time like the present when there is such a

universal need for protection and defence. Confound our frivolity.

A little while ago Rossiniʼs “Siege of Corinth” was exceedingly

well given, and I was very pleased to have another chance of

hearing the opera. Fräulein Heinefetter, Messrs. Wildt, Binder, and

Forti, in a word, all the best artists in Vienna, were present and

did their utmost. I went to the opera with Czapek, and when it was

over we went to the same restaurant where Beethoven used to take

his supper.

I must say, in case I forget, that I shall probably take rather

more money from Peter the banker than dear papa had arranged for. I

am very economical, but heaven knows I can only do as I am doing,

or I should set off with an empty purse. God keep me from illness;

but if anything did happen to me, you might, perhaps, reproach me

for not having taken more. Forgive me, and remember that I have

lived on this money during May, June, and July, and that I have

to pay more for my dinner now than in winter. I am doing this not

merely of my own accord, but on the good advice of others. I am

very sorry to be obliged to ask you. Papa has already spent more

than a penny on me, and I know how difficult money is to earn.

Believe me, my dearests, it is as hard for me to ask as it is for

you to give. God will help us _punctum_.

It will be a year in October since I received my passport; it will

need, of course, to be renewed; how shall I manage it? Write and

say if you can send me a fresh one. Perhaps that is impossible.

I often run out and visit Hans or Titus. Yesterday I could have

sworn I saw the latter in front of me, but I found it was only a

confounded Prussian!

It is to be hoped these expressions will not give you a bad

impression of the manners I have learnt in Vienna. There is nothing

particular about the style of talk here, except that they say

“Gehorsamer Diener” (your obedient servant) in taking leave, and

pronounce it “Korschamer Diener.” I have acquired no habit that is

truly Viennese; for instance, I cannot play any waltzes, and that

is proof enough.

God give you health. May no more of our friends fall. Poor Gustav!

I dine to-day with Schaschek; I shall wear the studs with the

Polish eagles, and use the pocket-handkerchief with the Kosynier.

I have written a Polonaise, which I must leave here with Würfel.

I received the portrait of our commander-in-chief, General

Skrzynecki, but frightfully spoilt, on account of the cholera. Your

letters have also been cut, and each bears a large sanitary stamp;

so great is the anxiety here.

[Sidenote: LAST OF CHOPINʼS LETTERS TO HIS FAMILY.]

In the last letter, or rather in a few lines, dated July 20th, 1831,

Frederic informs his parents that he is going to start the same day

with Kumelski, for Münich, through Linz and Salzburg. He writes that he

is well, and provided with money, but fears that it will not last out,

and asks for some more to be sent to Münich.

These are all that remain of the large collection of Chopinʼs letters

preserved by his parents. To the fate which befell the other letters I

will refer in the following chapter.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XII.

_DESTRUCTION OF CHOPINʼS LETTERS AND OTHER MEMENTOES IN

WARSAW. STAY IN MUNICH. DEPARTURE FOR PARIS._

After Chopinʼs death, his effects were sold by auction in Paris, and

the furniture of his two _salons_, with the souvenirs he had delighted

to have around him, were bought by Miss Stirling, a Scotch lady, one

of his pupils and enthusiastic admirers. She took them home with her,

and they formed a kind of Chopin Museum. This interesting collection

included a portrait of the gifted artist, painted by his friend, Ary

Schäffer; a grand piano, by Pleyel, on which Chopin had generally

played; a service of Sèvres porcelain, with the inscription, “Offert

par Louis Philippe à Frédéric Chopin, 1839;” a splendid and costly

casket, presented by Rothschild; and carpets, table-covers, and easy

chairs, worked by Chopinʼs pupils.

Miss Stirling directed, in her will, that when she died these relics

were to be sent to Chopinʼs mother, to whose house in Warsaw they

were accordingly conveyed in 1858. After the death of Madame Chopin,

in 1861, they passed into the hands of her daughter, Isabella

Barcinska. This lady occupied the second floor of one of two houses

standing exactly on the boundary between the “New World,” and the

“Cracow Suburbs,” and belonging to Count Andreas Zamoyski.

[Sidenote: UPROAR IN WARSAW.]

At the commencement of the political disturbances, which preceded the

insurrection of January, 1863, a band of excited young men, inflamed

by opinions which were far from being shared by the public, conspired

to murder all the deputies. Although the miserable schemes of these

fanatical patriots completely failed, they continued to contrive

fresh ones, till, at length, exasperated beyond endurance by the

bloody conflict which raged through the whole country, they laid a

plot to take the life of Count von Berg, who, on the recall of Prince

Constantine, had become supreme governor of Poland. Count Berg was

returning in his carriage, on the 19th September, 1863, at six in the

evening, with an escort of Circassians, from the Belvedère to the

Palace. When the carriage came to the spot where the “New World” and

“Cracow Suburb” adjoin, a shot, followed by some Orsini bomb-shells,

was fired from a window on the fourth floor of Count Zamoyskʼs house.

The street was immediately in an uproar, but no one was killed, and

only a horse or two belonging to the escort wounded. A detachment of

the military, who were at that time always kept in marching order on

the Saxon Square, came up in a few minutes. The soldiers surrounded

both houses, rudely dragged out the women, and left them in the road,

while the men were sent, under a military convoy, to the citadel.

As lava pouring forth from a volcano uproots and annihilates, with its

fiery heat, all objects in its pathway, so rushed the angry soldiery

from room to room, ruthlessly destroying all that was within their

reach. Furniture, pianos, books, manuscripts; in short, everything

in the house was flung out of the windows, while wardrobes and other

articles too heavy to move were first cut up with hatchets, and the

legs of pianos sawn off. These two houses were in the best quarter of

the town, and occupied only by well-to do people. An idea may be formed

of the quantity of furniture they contained from the fact, that there

were from fifteen to twenty pianos.

[Sidenote: DESTRUCTION OF CHOPINʼS LETTERS.]

When the brutal and insensate soldiery arrived at the second storey

of the house inhabited by Chopinʼs sister, the mementoes of the great

artist, which the whole family cherished with such pious care, were

doomed to destruction. The piano—one of Buchholtzʼs—on which he had

received his earliest instruction, and which had been the confidant

and interpreter of his first musical ideas, was flung into the street

by these Vandals.[11] At night the soldiers made a stack of the ruined

furniture in the square at the foot of the statue of Copernicus,

and filling their kettles with the wine, spirit, and sugar from the

ransacked shops, they made merry round the fire, mixing punch and

singing boisterous songs. Pictures, books, and papers—among the latter

Chopinʼs correspondence with his family during eighteen years—were

thrown in to feed the flames. Eye-witnesses relate that an officer,

having lighted upon a portrait of Chopin, painted by a friend, gazed at

it long and earnestly before committing his wanton deed. The reflection

which illumined the city announced to the terrified inhabitants that

the reign of military terror had begun.

But more to be deplored than the loss of any other relics, is the

destruction of the letters, in which Chopin had poured forth all his

affection for his family, his love for his country, his enthusiasm

for his art, and his admiration for all that is beautiful and noble.

The letters to his parents from Paris, written at a period when he

was daily gathering fresh laurels, and was in intimate relations with

the leading artists and the highest personages in the State, were

not only of extreme interest, but of historical value, as faithful

and vivid pictures of the times. For in these spirited and witty

writings, Chopin often gave, in a word or two, a more life-like

portrayal of his contemporaries than is to be found in many a long and

elaborate description. The brightest, happiest period of his life,

its real summer-time, was between the years 1832 and 1837; while his

sojourn in Vienna, with all its hopes and dreams, may be called the

spring-time of his existence. But the non-fulfilment of these hopes

depressed the readily despondent spirit of the artist. The delicacy

of his constitution, and the nervous excitability induced by constant

pianoforte playing, unfortunately deprived him of that energy, of which

no one is more in need than the musician who performs in public. Chopin

succumbed to instead of fighting against difficulties; he loved peace;

but life—and to the artist above all—is a battle.

Being a stranger in Vienna, he was obliged to depend on the advice of

others, and was alternately suspicious and mistrustful, or confiding

as a child. The disturbances in his country deprived him, as a Pole,

of the protection of the chief dignitaries of Vienna; while among

the artists he met with indifference, and sometimes envy. Thus,

irresolute, and dispirited, he beheld other pianists gaining profit

and approbation, and himself only took part in a single matinée given

on April 4th, in the large Redoubt Hall, by the vocalist, Madame

Garcia-Vestris. He gave but one concert,[12] and that not until the

beginning of June, when, according to their annual custom, and partly

also on account of the cholera epidemic, the wealthier inhabitants had

left the city; as might be expected the attendance was small, and the

expenses exceeded the receipts.

[Sidenote: LAST CONCERT IN GERMANY.]

Disappointed in his expectations, Chopin went to Münich, where he

was obliged to stay some weeks, awaiting money for his journey to

Paris. This gave him an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the

first artists: among others, Bärmann, Berg, Shunke, and Stunz, who,

delighted with his playing and his works, persuaded him to perform at

the Philharmonic Societyʼs concerts. At one of these Frederic played

his E minor Concerto, with orchestral accompaniments. Carried away

alike by the beauty of the composition, and the charm and poetry of the

execution, the audience overwhelmed the young _virtuoso_ with hearty

and genuine applause.

This was Chopinʼs swan-song on German soil, for, during the eighteen

years of his residence abroad, he never again publicly performed in

Germany. His last visit to Vienna seemed to check all his desires in

that direction.

Encouraged by his success in Münich, Chopin left that hospitable town

for Stuttgart, where a heavy trial awaited him: the news of the

capture of Warsaw by the Russians, September 8th, 1831. Grief, anxiety,

and despair as to the fate of his family and his beloved one filled up

the measure of his misery. Under the influence of these feelings he

wrote, while still at Stuttgart, the magnificent C Minor Study, (the

last in the first collection, dedicated to Liszt) frequently called the

“Revolutions-Etude.” Amid the wild storm of rushing passages in the

left hand the melody rises, now passionately, now in proud majesty,

bringing to the mind of the thrilled listener the image of Zeus hurling

his thunderbolts at the world.

In such a mood Chopin left for Paris at the end of September, 1831.

His passport bore the words, “passant par Paris à Londres;” and, years

after, when he had become domiciled and naturalised in France, he often

said, with a smile, “I am only passing through.”

With this concludes the information kindly afforded me by the Chopin

family. I must now have recourse to my own recollections to Chopinʼs

letters, and to the narrations of trustworthy witnesses who were

in communication with him either by letter or in person during his

residence in the French capital.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIII.

_STAY IN PARIS. CHOPIN PROPOSES TO RECEIVE INSTRUCTION FROM

KALKBRENNER. CORRESPONDENCE ABOUT THIS WITH ELSNER. LETTER

TO TITUS WOYCIECHOWSKI. CHOPINʼS DESIRE TO GO TO AMERICA

NOT REALIZED. HE RESOLVES TO RETURN TO WARSAW. SOIRÉE? AT

ROTHSCHILDʼS._

When Chopin came to Paris, it was stirred by a considerable amount of

political agitation; despite all the efforts of the Legitimists, as

the partisans of Charles X. and his descendants were called, Louis

Philippe, by favour of the barricades, reigned on the ruins of the

Bourbon dynasty. As we have said, things had not yet quieted down, and

every section of the populace was divided into parties. Although not

advantageous to art, the political situation was of little consequence

to Frederic, as he had gone to Paris, not for the sake of performing in

public, but solely for self-improvement.

Soon after the taking of Warsaw the Polish army retired into Prussia

and Austria, and many of its members found their way to Paris,

the fugitives receiving a hearty welcome as they passed through

Germany.[13] All who, whether in politics or in the field, had been

foremost in the revolution—the members of the diet, officers, poets,

and writers, who by patriotic songs or newspaper articles had incited

the people to insurrection—were in dread of the vengeance of Russia,

and took refuge in France, hoping that, sooner or later, her sympathy

with the wrongs suffered by Poland would move her to their redress.

Miserable delusion! terrible were its consequences! Thousands of

intelligent men left the country, carrying with them the light they

had shed on science and art, while their loss, as Russia saw with

satisfaction, was irreparable, for none were found worthy to take their

place. Years of sad experience were needed to convince the Poles that

their expectations were foolish, their efforts for freedom useless, and

their hopes for aid from France futile.

Chopin, of course, soon became the centre of the Polish emigrants

in Paris. Assured about the safety of his relatives in Warsaw, his

spirits improved, and he would often ask himself, “What shall my future

be?” The plans of his tour, which he had formed at home, having been

utterly thwarted, he was obliged to start afresh. To give a concert

in Paris did not seem practicable, for who would be likely to take any

interest in a young, unknown pianist, because he had the effrontery to

perform in public? The few words of praise in the Vienna and Leipsic

papers made no impression in Paris, where the public were busy with

politics and amusements of all kinds. Besides, the musical world there

set little or no store on _critiques_ in foreign newspapers. Paris,

they thought, was the oracle for the whole civilized world, and only

on the banks of the Seine was a European reputation to be made or

marred. Frederic was anxious not to let slip the precious opportunity.

He considered himself far from being a perfect artist, and, therefore,

resolved once more to seek instruction from Kalkbrenner.

[Sidenote: VISIT TO KALKBRENNER.]

Frederic Kalkbrenner, then at the height of his fame as a _virtuoso_,

was regarded as the first pianist in Europe. Chopin, therefore, paid

him a visit, and expressed his desire of becoming his pupil. Directly

the young Pole began to play, Kalkbrenner perceived his genius, and

that he had nothing more to learn. Chopin, with his modesty and zeal

after the highest attainments in art, little imagined what was passing

in Kalkbrennerʼs mind. To the latterʼs fame as a pianist nothing could

add, but he might also attain the reputation of a first-rate teacher,

were he to obtain a pupil of such rare gifts as Chopin. He, therefore,

thought it wise not to refuse to take him. Kalkbrenner, whose judgment

was authoritative, and who either thought his own opinions infallible

or knew how to proclaim them as such, fancied he could pick holes in

Chopinʼs playing; he declared that his fingering was quite opposed to

the classic method; that his execution was not that of the best school;

that he was indeed a gifted _virtuoso_ and composer, but that, although

on the right road, he might easily go astray.

Chopin listened in silence, while M. Kalkbrenner announced that he was

ready to give him lessons, that he might cure him of those faults which

would always be a hindrance to his progress, but only on condition that

Chopin promised to remain with him for at least three years. The young

artist was much surprised at such a stipulation, but, not yet fully

conscious of his own worth, he determined to pause before deciding on a

matter of such supreme importance to him. He, therefore, wrote to his

father, and to Elsner, to ascertain their wishes and opinions. Elsner

was not a little astonished at Kalkbrennerʼs request, and inquired

why such a long discipline was required for a pianist like Chopin;

did Kalkbrenner desire to undo what was already done, and to destroy

Chopinʼs originality? Elsner knew better than anyone else what a deep

spring of originality lay hid in the mind of Chopin, and to what degree

his technical powers were developed. Accordingly he was in favour of

cultivating Chopinʼs “virtuosity,” with a view to his career as a

composer, rather than of hindering the free development of his

creative power by a one-sided musical training. He expressed these

opinions in the following letter to his beloved pupil:—

[Sidenote: LETTER FROM ELSNER.]

“_Warsaw, November 27th, 1831._

DEAR FREDERIC,

“I was pleased to see, by your letter, that Kalkbrenner, the first

of pianists, as you call him, gave you such a friendly reception.

I knew his father, in Paris, in 1805; and the son, who was then

very young, had already distinguished himself as a first-rate

_virtuoso_. I am very glad that he has agreed to initiate you into

the mysteries of art, but it astonishes me to hear that he requires

three years to do so. Did he think the first time he saw and heard

you, that you needed all that time to accustom yourself to his

method? or that you wished to devote your musical talents to the

piano alone, and to confine your compositions to that instrument?

If he, with his artistic experience, desires to render service

to our art in general, and to you in particular, and if he shows

himself your sincere friend, then be to him a grateful pupil.

“In the study of composition, a teacher ought not to be too

narrow-minded and particular, especially with pupils of decided

talent, and who display a certain independence of invention. They

should rather be allowed to go their own way, and to make new

discoveries. The pupil must not only stand on the same artistic

platform as his master, but, when possessing pre-eminent talent,

must rise beyond it, and so cultivate his abilities as to shine by

his own light.

“The playing of any instrument—be it ever so perfect, like that

of Paganini on the violin, or Kalkbrenner on the piano—is, with

all its charm, only the means, not the end of the tone-art. The

achievements of Mozart and Beethoven as pianists have long been

forgotten, and their pianoforte compositions, although undoubtedly

classic works, must give way to the diversified, artistic treatment

of that instrument by the modern school. But their other works,

not written for one particular instrument, the operas, symphonies,

quartets, &c., will not only continue to live, but will, perhaps,

remain unequalled by anything in the present day. ‘Sapienti pauca.’

“A pupil should not be kept too long to the study of one method,

or of the taste of one nation. What is truly beautiful must not be

imitated, but _felt_, and assimilated with the individual genius.

The only perfect nature is the Divine, and art must not take one

man, or one nation as a model, for these only afford examples more

or less imperfect. In a word, that quality in an artist, (who

continually learns from what is around him) which excites the

wonder of his contemporaries, can only arrive at perfection by

and through itself. The cause of his fame, whether in the present

or the future, is none other than his own gifted individuality

manifested in his works.

“More bye and bye. Please remember me kindly to Count Plater,

Grzymala, Hofmann, Lesueur, Päer, Kalkbrenner, and Norblin. Embrace

Orlowski for me.

JOSEPH ELSNER.”

To these weighty observations Frederic sent the following reply:—

[Sidenote: LETTER TO ELSNER.]

_Paris, December 14th, 1831._

DEAR MONSIEUR ELSNER,

Your letter gave me a fresh proof of your fatherly care and sincere

interest in me, your grateful pupil. At the beginning of last year,

although fully conscious of my deficiencies, and of how far I was

from attaining to the model which I had set before myself in you, I

ventured to think that I could follow in your footsteps, and that I

might produce, if not a Lokietek, perhaps a Laskonogi.[14] But now

all those hopes have vanished; I have to think how I can best make

my way as a pianist, and so must, for a time, leave in the back

ground the loftier artistic aims of which you spoke.

To be a great composer, it is not only needful to possess creative

power, but experience and the capacity for self-examination, which,

as you have taught me, is not acquired by the mere hearing of

other peopleʼs works, but by a careful criticism of oneʼs own.

Many young and very talented pupils of the Parisian Conservatoire

are waiting with their hands in their pockets for the performance

of their operas, symphonies, and cantatas, which hitherto only

Lesueur and Cherubini have seen on paper. I am not speaking of the

smaller theatres, although these are difficult enough of approach.

And when, like Thos. Nidecki, at the Leopoldstädter Theatre in

Vienna, a composer is fortunate enough to obtain a performance, he

reaps but little benefit from it, even when, as in this case, the

work is a good one. Meyerbeer, too, after he had been famous in the

musical world for ten years, stayed three years in Paris waiting,

working, and spending money, before he succeeded in bringing out

his “Robert le Diable,” which has now made such a _furore_. Auber,

with his very popular works, had forestalled Meyerbeer, and was not

very ready to make room at the Grand Opera for the foreigner.

In my opinion, the composer who can perform his works himself is

best off.

I have been recognised as a pianist at two or three cities in

Germany; several of the musical papers gave me commendatory

notices, and expressed a hope that I should soon take a prominent

position among the first pianoforte _virtuosi_. Now that I have

an opportunity of fulfilling my self-made promise, should I not

embrace it? I did not care to study pianoforte playing in Germany,

for no one could tell me exactly what I was deficient in. Neither

did I see the beam in my own eye. Three years of study is a great

deal too much, as Kalkbrenner himself perceived when he had heard

me two or three times. From this you can see, dear Mons. Elsner,

that the true _virtuoso_ does not know what envy is. I could make

up my mind to study three years, if I felt certain that would

secure the end I have in view. One thing is quite clear to my mind;

I will never be a copy of Kalkbrenner; he shall not destroy my

bold, it may be, but [Sidenote: RESOLVES TO CREATE A NEW ERA IN

ART.] noble resolution of creating a new era in art. If I take any

more lessons now it will only be that I may become independent in

the future. Ries, when he had gained a name as a pianist, found

it easy to win laurels in Berlin, Frankfort-on-the-Maine and

Dresden as the composer of “Die Räuberbraut;” and what a number of

years Spohr had been a famous violinist before he wrote “Faust,”

“Jessonda,” &c.! I trust you will not withhold your sanction when

you see with what aims and on what principles I am acting.

No doubt my parents have told you that my concert is fixed for the

twenty-fifth of this month. The preparations have given me a great

deal of trouble, and had not Päer, Kalkbrenner, and especially

Norblin, (who sends kindest regards to you), taken the matter in

hand, I should have been helpless. Just imagine, it takes at least

two months to get up a concert in Paris. Baillot is exceedingly

kind; he offered to play a Quintet of Beethovenʼs with me, and

Kalkbrenner a duet with an accompaniment of four pianos. Mons.

Reicha I only know by sight, and you can guess how curious I am to

become personally acquainted with him. Those of his pupils whom

I have seen gave me no very favourable account of him. He does

not like music, and will not talk about it; he never goes to the

Conservatoire concerts, and when he gives lessons he looks at the

clock all the time. Cherubini acts in a similar fashion, and talks

of nothing but cholera and revolution. These masters are like

mummies, to be respectfully regarded at a distance, while one draws

instruction from their works.

Fétis, whose acquaintance I have made, and from whom much may be

learned, only comes to Paris to give lessons. It is said that he

does so from necessity, as his debts exceed the profits of the

_Revue Musicale_. He is in danger sometimes of seeing the inside of

the debtorʼs prison. But, as in Paris, a debtor can only be legally

arrested in his own house, Fétis has left the city for the suburbs;

Heaven knows where!

There are a host of interesting people here belonging to the

various professions. Three of the orchestras can be called

first-rate: that of the Academy, the Italian Opera, and the Theâtre

Feydeau.

[Sidenote: OPERA IN PARIS.]

Rossini is director of the Italian Opera, which is undoubtedly

now the best in Europe. Lablache, Rubini, Santini, Pasta,

Malibran, and Schröder-Devrient perform three times a week for

the delectation of the _élite_. Nourrit, Levasseur, Derivis, Mͫͤ.

Damoreau-Cinti, and Mˡˡͤ. Dorus are the stars of the Grand Opera.

Chollet and Mˡˡͤ. Casimir Prévost are much admired at the Comic

Opera; in a word, only in Paris can one learn what singing really

is. I believe that Malibran-Garcia, not Pasta, is now the greatest

songstress in Europe. Prince Valentin Radziwill is quite captivated

by her, and we often wish you were here, for you would be charmed

with her singing.

Lesueur thanks you for your kind remembrances, and commissions

me to return them a thousand-fold. He always speaks of you in a

friendly way, and asks every time I see him: “et que fait notre

bon Mons. Elsner? Racontez-moi de ses nouvelles;” and then speaks

of the Requiem you sent him. Everybody here, from your god-son the

young Anton Orlowski to myself, loves and esteems you. I fear our

dear friend will have to wait some time for the performance of his

opera. The subject is nothing particular and the theatre is closed

till the new year.

The King is not very free with his money, the artists need a great

deal, and the English are the only people who pay well. I could go

on writing till to-morrow, but will not put your patience to such a

test. Believe me, with all respect and gratitude,

Ever your faithful pupil,

FREDERIC.

Not only Elsnerʼs letter, and the advice of friends, but his own sound

understanding made Chopin feel how superfluous and even ignominious

such a course of lessons would be. He justly perceived that he must

either become a servile copy of Kalkbrenner, or soon cease to be

his pupil; and that as he had been able to maintain his artistic

independence beside Field and Hummel, he could not do better than give

up Kalkbrennerʼs instruction and take his own way. To preserve his

friendly relations with Kalkbrenner, and from a genuine feeling of

esteem, he dedicated to him his E minor Concerto. Chopin writes to his

friend Titus Woyciechowski[15] at this time:—

_Paris, December 6th, 1831._

MY DEAR TITUS,

Your letter gave me new life. I receive such contrary reports, some

of which make me very anxious, for I often put a wrong construction

on what my family write. K. expressed himself so strangely, that I

was frightened at my own thoughts when I read his words. I trust we

may see each other again in this life. I have been greatly pained

by all that has happened. Who could have foreseen it?[16] Have

you forgotten our deliberations the night before your departure

from Vienna? Fate has sent me hither where I can breathe

freely.... But this is a cause of trouble.

In Paris you find everything. You can amuse yourself, weary

yourself, laugh, weep, and above all, do what you like, without

a soul taking any notice of you, because thousands are doing

likewise. Everybody goes his own way. I believe there are more

pianists, more _virtuosi_, and more donkeys in Paris than

anywhere. I came here, as perhaps you have heard, with very few

introductions. Malfatti had given me a letter to Päer, I received

two or three from the Viennese publishers: and that was all.

When the news of the capture of Warsaw reached me at Stuttgart,

I determined to go to Paris. Through the bandmaster Päer, I have

become acquainted with Rossini, Cherubini, Baillot, and Kalkbrenner.

[Sidenote: PLAYS BEFORE KALKBRENNER.]

You can imagine how eager I was to hear Herz and Hiller play; but

they are nothing to Kalkbrenner. To tell the truth, I can play

as well as Herz; I wish I could say as well as Kalkbrenner, who

is perfection in quite another style to Paganini. Kalkbrennerʼs

fascinating touch, the quietness and equality of his playing,

are indescribable; every note proclaims the master. He is truly

a giant, who dwarfs all other artists. When I presented myself

to Kalkbrenner he asked me to play something. What could I do?

However, having heard Herz, I plucked up my courage, and played my

E minor Concerto, which took so immensely in the Bavarian capital.

Kalkbrenner was astonished, and asked if I were a pupil of Field.

He remarked that I had Cramerʼs style, but Fieldʼs touch. I was

very much amused by Kalkbrenner, who, in playing to me, made a

mistake which brought him to a stand-still; but the way in which

he recovered himself was marvellous. Since this meeting we have

seen each other every day; either he comes to me, or I go to him.

He offered to take me as a pupil for three years, and to make a

great artist of me. I replied that I knew very well what were my

deficiencies; but I did not wish to imitate him, and that three

years were too much for me. He has persuaded me that I only play

well when I feel inspired. The same cannot be said of him, for

he plays one time just like another. After watching me for some

time, he said that I belonged to no school, that although I was

undoubtedly progressing very well, I might easily go astray, and

that when he left off playing there would be no representative of

the great pianoforte school. Further, that however much I might

have the will, I could never create a new school, for I was not

acquainted with the old ones. But I am certain that there is an

individuality about my compositions, and I shall always strive to

go forward.

If you were here I know you would say: “learn, young man, as

long as you are told to.” But many friends advise me not to take

lessons; they think that I play as well as Kalkbrenner, and that he

only wants to have me as a pupil out of vanity. That is absurd.

Anybody who understands music must appreciate Kalkbrennerʼs

talents, although he is personally unpopular, as he will not

associate with everybody. But I can assure you there is something

superior about him, as about all the _virtuosi_ whom I have

hitherto heard. I told my parents so, and they quite understood it,

but Elsner did not; he considered that Kalkbrenner found fault with

my playing out of jealousy. Nevertheless, I have already made a

name among the artists here.

[Sidenote: FIRST CONCERT IN PARIS.]

I am going to give a concert on the 25th of December, with the

assistance of Baillot, Paganiniʼs rival, and Brod, the celebrated

hautbois player. I am going to play my F minor Concerto, and the

variations in B major. Of the latter, I received from Cassel, a

few days ago, a review, ten pages long, by an enthusiastic German,

who, after an exhaustive preface, analyzed every bar. He does not

consider them variations according to the orthodox style, but

a picture of the imagination. He says of the second variation

that Don Juan and Leporello are running; of the third that he is

fondling Zerline to the disgust of Masetto. In the D flat major

in the fifth bar of the Adagio he can perceive Don Juan kissing

Zerline. A comical conceit of the reviewerʼs, who is very anxious

that the composition should be printed in the _Revue Musicale_ (a

paper belonging to his son-in-law Fétis.)

The good Hiller, a very talented young man, and a pupil of Hummel,

gave a concert the day before yesterday, which produced a great

effect. One of his own symphonies was received with loud applause.

He has made Beethoven his model, and his work is full of poetry

and enthusiasm. He was sufficiently interested in me to tell

Fétisʼs father-in-law that he would do me more harm than good by

that notice of his. But to return to my concert: I am not only to

play the F minor Concerto and the variations, but perform, with

Kalkbrenner, his duet, “Marche suivie dʼune Polonaise,” for two

pianos, with accompaniments for four pianos. Is not that a wild

idea? One of the pianos is very large and is for Kalkbrenner,

another very small one (a so-called monochord) is intended for me.

On the other large ones, which make as much noise as an orchestra,

Hiller, Osborne, Stamaty, and Sowinski are to play. Norblin,

Vidal, and the famous viola player, Urhan, will also assist. The

most difficult matter of all was to find a vocalist. Rossini would

willingly have helped me to obtain one if he had been allowed to,

but Robert, the second director of the Italian Opera, objected.

He declared that if it were known he had obliged me he should be

besieged by hundreds of similar applications.

[Sidenote: OPERATIC SINGERS IN PARIS.]

As to the opera, I must say I never heard such a fine performance

as last week, when the “Barbiere” was given, with Lablache, Rubini,

and Malibran-Garcia. There was, too, an excellent rendering of

“Otello,” with Rubini, Lablache, and Pasta; also the “Italiana

Algeri.” Paris has, in this respect, never offered so many

attractions as now. You can have no idea of Lablache. They say

that Pastaʼs voice has rather gone off, but I never in my life

heard such heavenly singing as hers. Malibranʼs wonderful voice

has a compass of three octaves, and she is in her style unique and

fascinating. Rubini, a capital tenor, makes no end of _roulades_,

and often too many _coloratures_, but by his incessant recourse to

the trill and _tremolo_, he wins enormous applause. His mezza-voce

is incomparable. A certain Schröder-Devrient has just come out,

but she does not make such a _furore_ here as in Germany. Signora

Malibran gave “Otello;” Schröder-Devrient, Desdemona. Malibran

is a much smaller woman than the German singer, and people

thought, several times, that Desdemona would strangle Othello.

This was a very expensive performance. I paid twenty-four francs

for my place, just to see Malibran as the Moor, and not a very

extraordinary impersonation either. The orchestra was first-rate,

but the appointments of the Italian Opera are nothing to those of

“LʼAcadémie Royale.”

I do not believe that any spectacle at the Italian Opera, however

brilliant, ever came up to that of “Robert le Diable,” the new

five-act opera of Meyerbeer, the author of the “Crociato.” “Robert”

is a master-piece of the new school, in which devils sing through

speaking trumpets, and the dead rise from their tombs, but not

as in “Szarlatan,”[17] only fifty or sixty at once. The stage

represents the interior of a ruined cloister, with the moonlight

falling brightly on the nuns lying in their graves. In the last act

monks appear with incense amid a gorgeous illumination, and the

solemn strains of the organ resound from the adjacent building.

Meyerbeer has, by this work, made himself immortal; yet it took him

more than three years to obtain a performance of it. It is said

that for the organ and other accessories he paid more than twenty

thousand francs.

Madame Damoreau-Cinti is also a very fine singer; I prefer her

to Malibran. The latter astonishes, but Cinti fascinates you.

She sings the chromatic scales and _coloratures_ almost more

perfectly than the famous flautist, Tulou, plays them. It would

be almost impossible to find a more perfect _technique_. Nourrit,

the first tenor at the Grand Opera, is admired for his warmth of

feeling. Chollet, the first tenor of the Opera Comique, the best

impersonator of Fra Diavolo and excellent in the operas “Zampa” and

“Fiancée,” has quite an original manner of conceiving a part. He

charms universally by his sympathetic voice, and is the darling of

the public. The “Marquise de Brinvilliers” is now being played at

the Opera Comique; this marquise was the most famous poisoner in

the time of Louis XIV. The music is by eight composers: Cherubini,

Päer, Herold, Auber, Berton, Batton, Blangini, and Caraffa.

I pray, above all, dear Titus, that you will write to me soon, or

come yourself. My address is, Boulevard Poissonnière, 27. W. W.

expects you. I should be so delighted to see you, and there are

times when I am almost mad with longing, especially when it rains,

and I cannot go out. I shall, I think, have the assistance of the

best artists at my concert.

Yours till death,

FREDERIC.

[Sidenote: PARIS MORE PLEASANT THAN PROFITABLE.]

We see from this letter that Chopin was delighted with Paris. He found

himself highly esteemed by the most celebrated artists, yet much still

remained for him to desire. He had come to Paris with very modest

means, and with neither fame nor patronage, but he did not wish to be

always dependent on the kindness of his father, who was far from rich,

and had daughters to care for. Much, too, as Frederic liked France,

especially Paris, he felt that he was in a foreign country, and that

the Poles with whom he associated were fugitives. It gave him pain to

hear his native land mentioned. Under these circumstances, he curtailed

his expenditure as much as possible, and shared his lodgings with needy

friends.

He had hoped that his concert would make him a name among the musical

public, but as the theatrical director, Véron, would not permit any of

his singers to assist, the performance was of necessity postponed till

February 26th, 1832. Unfortunately, however, the receipts did not even

clear the expenses, for only the well-to-do among the Polish refugees

attended, and there was scarcely a French person present. Chopinʼs

friends tried to console him by telling him of the difficulties

other artists had had to struggle against in their early days. His

true friends—and he had indeed some such—advised him to go more into

society, for which he had plenty of opportunity, but on this point he

was not to be persuaded. The letters to his parents at this period are

tinged with melancholy.

His stay in Paris was saddened by the absence of any prospect of

improving his position. He, therefore, turned his thoughts to quite

another plan of life. Some young Polish exiles, who were neither able

nor willing to remain in Paris, had resolved to go to America. Chopin,

knowing there was a lack of good artists in the New World, thought

that he should do well to go there, and so be no longer a burden to

his father. He knew full well that his parents expected his entire

confidence, so he communicated his intentions, endeavouring to persuade

them that he could do nothing better than leave France, and seek his

fortunes on the other side of the Western ocean.

One involuntarily asks: what part could be played by Chopin, with his

romantic and poetical nature, in a country where coolness and practical

ability are of paramount importance? With his life-long horror of

charlatanism, his refined taste and aristocratic tendencies, how could

he have lived in America, or how could the Americans have appreciated

him? Had he settled there merely as a teacher, he would, perhaps,

have grown rich; but he would never have shone among the stars of the

musical world.

Fortunately for Chopin his parents were thoroughly opposed to his

emigrating. They conjured him to stay in Paris and wait for brighter

days, or to return to Warsaw. Rather than consent to his going to

America, they would endure to see their son exposed to the disagreeable

consequences imposed by the Russian Government on every one who

remained abroad after his passport had expired. His love for his

country, his family, and one whose image was deeply seated in his

heart, awakened an ardent longing to return home, although it was

not easy for him to leave Paris with its manifold attractions. His

friends and fellow-artists, Franz Liszt, Hiller, and Sowinski, tried to

dissuade him from leaving Paris, but Chopin would not listen to them.

His meeting with Prince Valentine Radziwill in the street on the

very day that Chopin was preparing for his departure, may appear to

many persons as mere chance, but it was not unlike a Providential

arrangement. The Prince was very friendly, and Chopin divulged his

intention, and bade him farewell. Instead of venturing to dissuade him

from his purpose, the Prince exacted a promise that he would spend the

evening with him at Rothschildʼs. In after life the importance of that

evening often recurred to Chopin.

[Sidenote: A PECUNIARY TURNING-POINT.]

In the brilliant _salons_ of the financial king, the artist, whose

every hope had fled, met the _haute volée_ of Paris. The hostess asked

him, in a kind manner, to play something, and he played and improvised

as he had, perhaps, never done before. His audience was enraptured;

they vied with each other in expressing their respect and admiration,

and were unwearied in praising his talents. From that evening his

position changed as if by magic; the future once more smiled upon him,

the mists which had hidden the sunshine of his life disappeared before

the bright rays of his rising fortunes. Even during the _soirée_ Chopin

received several requests to give lessons from the first families in

Paris. His pecuniary affairs improved daily. There was no further

occasion for him to take anything from his parents, and he entirely

gave up the idea of returning to Warsaw.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIV.

_IMPROVEMENT OF CHOPINʼS POSITION IN PARIS. ELSNERʼS

LETTER. MOSCHELESʼS AND FIELDʼS OPINIONS OF CHOPIN. TRIP TO

AIX-LA-CHAPELLE, CARLSBAD, MARIENBAD, DRESDEN, AND LEIPSIC.

VISIT TO MENDELSSOHN AND SCHUMANN._

Coincident with the rise of Chopinʼs star above the horizon of Parisian

society was the spread of his fame as a composer, so that after 1832

his works, some of which he had written in his own country, some in

Vienna, Leipsic, Paris, or during his travels, became widely diffused.

They included the three Nocturnes, op. 15; Bolero, op. 19; Scherzo, op.

20; Grande Polonaise Brillante, op. 22; Ballade, op, 23; four Mazurkas,

op. 24; two Polonaises, op. 26; two Nocturnes, op. 27; and Impromptu,

op. 29.

By most of the professional critics, these were, as we have already

said, dogmatically condemned as being devoid of all artistic merit.

There were, however, some few—but very few indeed—who unreservedly

recognized the boldness and originality of thought, the rare wealth of

harmony, and the newness of form displayed in Chopinʼs compositions,

and who were not staggered by the novelty of a fingering, totally

opposed to the traditional method. Field and Moscheles, however,

could not forgive Chopinʼs frequent departures from the customary

and classical forms, nor could they regard him as other than a bold

revolutionist. In 1833 Moscheles wrote on Chopinʼs early works as

follows:[18]

“I gladly avail myself of a few leisure evening hours to become

acquainted with Chopinʼs Etudes and other works. Their originality

and the national colouring of the motives are very charming; but

my fingers are constantly stumbling over hard, inartistic, and to

me incomprehensible modulations, so that the whole often seems too

cloying, and unworthy of a man and an accomplished musician.”

Later on he writes:—

“I am a sincere admirer of Chopinʼs originality; he produces the

newest and most attractive pianoforte work. But personally, I

object to his artificial and often forced modulations; my fingers

stick and stumble at such passages, and practise them as I may, I

never play them fluently.”

Although he somewhat modified this opinion in after years, it is

indicative of the impression produced on the most celebrated pianists

by Chopinʼs early works. Field had a presentiment that his own glory

would be dimmed by the rise of this new and brilliant orb, and he

publicly spoke of Chopin as, “un talent de chambre de malade.” This

criticism, which principally found credence in Germany, was for ever

silenced by the pen of Eusebius and Florestan, in Robert Schumannʼs

_Neue Zeitschrift für Musik_.

[Sidenote: CHOPINʼS GREAT POPULARITY.]

The fame and popularity of Chopin in the Paris _salons_ increased with

marvellous rapidity. He was overwhelmed with requests to play at public

concerts, for it was well-known how attractive he was to cultivated

audiences. On May 20th, 1832, he played at a concert in the hall of the

Conservatoire, got up by the Prince of the Muscovites for the benefit

of the poor. He chose the first Allegro from his F minor Concerto with

orchestral accompaniments,[19] Girard directing. Heinrich Herz asked

Chopin and Liszt to take part with him in a quartet for eight hands on

two pianos, at a concert he wished to give with his brother Jacob, on

April 3rd, 1833. Orlowski, a fellow student of Chopinʼs, wrote to his

own family about that time:—

“Chopin is healthy and strong; he turns the heads of all the

ladies, and the men are jealous of him. He is now the _mode_, and

the fashionable world will soon be wearing gloves à la Chopin. But

he pines after his country.”

Johannes Matuszynski, who came to Paris in the same year (1834) to

study medicine, says the same thing in a letter to his father-in-law,

in Warsaw:—

“The first thing I did, on arriving in Paris, was to find out

Chopin, and I cannot describe what a pleasure it was to us both to

meet again after an absence of five years. He has grown so strong

and big that I scarcely knew him again. Chopin is the first pianist

in Paris, and gives a great many lessons, but none under twenty

francs. He has composed a great deal, and his works are very much

sought after. I am living with him in the Rue Chaussée dʼAntin, No.

5. This street is indeed rather far from the School of Medicine

and the hospitals; but I have good reasons for wishing to be with

him; he is all in all to me. We spend the evening at the theatre

or in visiting, and if we do neither of these we make ourselves

comfortable at home.”

[Sidenote: ELSNER URGES HIM TO WRITE AN OPERA.]

Eisner followed from a distance the artistic development of his beloved

pupil, with the warmest interest, and rejoiced over his success. He

wrote to him as follows:—

_Warsaw, September 14th, 1834._

Everything that I hear and read about my dear Frederic gives me

pleasure, but pardon my candour when I say that I have not yet

heard enough to satisfy me, whose pleasure it was, unworthy as I

am, to be your teacher in harmony and counterpoint, and who will

ever be one of your best friends and admirers. Before I leave

_hac lacrimarum valle_ I should like to see a performance of your

operas, not only for the sake of increasing your fame, but in the

interests of musical art generally, especially if the subject were

taken from the history of Poland. I am not saying too much. You

know that I cannot flatter you, as I am acquainted not only with

your genius but with your capacities, and I know that what the

critic referred to in your Mazurkas will only become valuable and

lasting in an opera.[20]

Urban says, “that a pianoforte composition stands in the same

relation to a vocal, orchestral, or a composition for any other

instrument, as an engraving does to an oil painting.” This is sound

criticism, although some compositions (especially when you play

them) may be regarded as coloured plates.

What a pity it is that we can no longer see and talk to each other;

I have a great deal more that I could tell you. And I want also to

thank you for the present, which is doubly valuable to me. I wish

I were a bird that I might visit you in your Olympian abode, which

the Parisians consider a swallowʼs nest.

Farewell; love me as I love you, for I am now and ever

Your sincere friend and well-wisher,

JOSEPH ELSNER.

Elsnerʼs letter made Chopin think seriously about composing an opera,

and he asked his friend Stanislas Kozmian to write a libretto on a

subject from Polish history. Unfortunately, however, either from want

of time, or because he feared the Russian Government might object to

a Polish national opera, Frederic soon relinquished the idea. Perhaps

also the approbation and popularity which his pianoforte works met

with everywhere, and especially in Paris, induced him to adhere to

that kind of composition. In February 1834, he gave his second public

concert in Paris. It took place at the Italian opera-house, and was the

most brilliant performance of the season. Habeneck conducted, and the

Concerto in E minor was performed for the first time.

Everything seemed to promise the most satisfactory results for the

_bénéficiaire_. The hall was filled with the best of the Parisian

aristocracy, with whom Chopin was the first favourite, and the presence

of the foremost artists gave an especial interest to the event. But

Fredericʼs hopes were disappointed. His refined and poetical playing

could not be heard to advantage in the large theatre; and it failed to

arouse the enthusiasm of the audience. Chopin felt this, and for a long

time was unwilling to play again in a large public hall. The _salon_

and a select circle of poets, artists, and connoisseurs formed a more

fitting arena for the triumphs of the gifted and keenly sensitive

artist.

Like those rare and beautiful plants which can only flourish in a

soft genial climate, Frederic, with his exquisite culture and delicate

sensibilities, could only play _con amore_ when in the best society,

and among connoisseurs who knew how to appreciate all the niceties of

his performance, which under such conditions had a truly magical charm.

It was not in Chopinʼs nature to win the favour of the general public;

and we might say of him, in Goetheʼs words:

“Wer den Besten seiner Zeit genug gethan,

Der hat gelebt fur alle Zeiten!”

[Sidenote: DISLIKE TO GIVING CONCERTS.]

With the exception of a journey to Rouen, to take part in his friend

Orlowskiʼs concert, which was a great sacrifice in the cause of

friendship, as appearing in public was distasteful to him, Frederic

made no more artistic tours after he settled in Paris. He said in

confidence to Liszt: “I am not adapted for giving concerts: I feel

timid in the presence of the public; their breath stifles me, their

curious gaze paralyzes me; but with you it is a vocation, for if you do

not please the public you know how to agitate and confound them.”

But in the midst of a circle of beautiful women, surrounded by friendly

and familiar faces, a new poetical life stirred within him; the look

of melancholy, which so often overshadowed his face, yielded to an

amiable and sympathetic smile; the earnest and beautiful expression of

his features was wonderfully fascinating; his conversation sparkled

with intelligence, and, unconsciously to himself, the influence of his

fresh and harmless wit was indescribably felt by those around. When in

a happy mood, his improvisation delighted and elevated the minds of his

hearers, or if he happened to be under the inspiration of Comus,[21]

awakened a sense of the purest and most innocent joy. He was often in

those moods in French, but more often in Polish households, in which,

of course, he felt more at home, and, although in the midst of Paris,

could fancy himself once more in his beloved fatherland.

He liked to have all the new _belles lettres_ publications sent to him.

To any poem that took his fancy he would write a melody, which was soon

spread abroad by his friends Fontana and Orda. (The latter, a youth of

great promise, fell in Algiers). Prince Casimir Lubomirski, Grzymala,

and other musical Poles took an interest in these improvisations,

and helped to make them known. These songs were often heard at the

houses of Countess Komar, and her charming daughters—one of whom was

Princess Beauvau—where Chopin was always a welcome guest. The clever

Princess and her younger sister, the Countess Delphine Potocka, famous

for her rare beauty and her fascinating singing, gathered around them

the _élite_ of the literary and artistic world. No wonder was it that

the young Countess made a profound and striking impression on the

susceptible heart of Frederic, and that it was a delight to him to

accompany her magnificent voice with his poetical playing.

[Sidenote: MEETS MENDELSSOHN AT AIX-LA-CHAPELLE.]

In the latter half of May, 1834, Chopin determined, for the first

time, to forsake his pupils and take a trip to Aix-la-Chapelle, with

Ferdinand Hiller, in order to be present at the grand Lower-Rhine

musical festival, conducted by Mendelssohn. Chopinʼs friendship

with the celebrated composer of “St. Paul” dated from their meeting

in Paris, in 1832, and resting as it did on mutual regard, was

now confirmed and strengthened. Mendelssohn, who was at that time

director of the Düsseldorf Stadt Orchestra, was much pleased to meet,

at Aix-la-Chapelle, his old friend Hiller, and also Chopin, whose

compositions he esteemed very highly. During the festival he spent as

much time as possible with the two Parisians, about whom he wrote, on

May 23rd, to his mother:—

“They have both made progress in their playing, and Chopin is now

one of the first pianists; he produces as many novelties on the

piano as Paganini does on his violin, and marvels that one would

not have thought possible. Hiller, too, is an excellent player,

with plenty of force and fancy. But both of them aim rather at

Parisian sensationalism, and too often disregard time, repose,

and true musical feeling. I, perhaps, incline to the opposite

extreme, and so we supplied each otherʼs deficiencies, and all

three, I believe, learnt something from one another. About me

there was a dash of the school-master, about them the _soupçon_ of

a _mirliflore_ or an _incroyable_. After the festival we travelled

together to Düsseldorf, and spent a very pleasant day in music and

discussion; yesterday, I accompanied them to Cologne; and early

this morning they went up by steamer to Coblentz, and I came down.

Thus ended the charming episode.”[22]

A great pleasure was in prospect for Chopin in the following year. His

father had been strongly urged by the Warsaw doctors to go to Carlsbad

for the sake of his health, and as soon as Frederic heard that this was

decided on he left Paris, about the end of July, and in a few days had

the pleasure of embracing his beloved parents, whom, for five years, he

had so painfully missed. It is more easy to imagine than to describe

the delight of this meeting. Their dear little Frederic had become a

man, and had grown stronger and more staid. He had acquired a certain

dignity of bearing, which well became him, and which commanded the

respect of the artistic world; but in affection and gratitude to his

parents he was the same Fritz, who in childhood and youth had delighted

the hearts of his father and mother. The time sped very enjoyably, and

the sad and trying parting hour came a great deal too soon for Frederic

no less than for his affectionate father and tender mother. Again and

again they clasped their beloved son in their arms, vainly

endeavouring to banish the presentiment that they would never see

him again in this world. And this was the last time that these good

parents, whose constant care was for the welfare of their son, ever

beheld him.

[Sidenote: SHORT VISIT TO LEIPSIC.]

Frederic spent a few days at Leipsic on his return to Paris. His

arrival had been expected, and of course there was a great excitement

in artistic circles about the playing of so original and poetic a

composer. The conflicting opinions about his works added to the

interest of his visit. A letter from Frederic Wieck, father of the

famous Clara, to Nauenburg, a music teacher at Halle, shows what

a sensation the coming of Chopin created among the musicians of

Leipsic.[23] It runs as follows:—

“DEAREST FRIEND,

“I hasten to answer your letter of the 19th, which I received last

evening. Banck returns to-morrow, so then we shall be altogether.

Now for the musical news. The first subscription concert, under

the direction of Mendelssohn, will take place on October 4th, the

second on the 11th. To-morrow, or the next day, Chopin will arrive

from Dresden, but probably he will not give a concert, for he is

very lazy. He might have remained longer here, had he not been

dissuaded by a false friend (a dog of a Pole) from making the

acquaintance of the musical world of Leipsic; Mendelssohn, however,

who is very friendly with Schumann and myself, will perform.

According to a speech which Chopin made to a friend in Dresden

he does not believe there is a lady in Germany who can play his

compositions. We will see what Clara can do.”

There seems to me no justification for the ill-humour of the

much-esteemed musical pedagogue, who is so uncomplimentary in his

expressions and so hasty about the imaginary false friend. Chopin had

not thought of giving a concert in Leipsic, as he was only passing

through, and he had, moreover, a great dislike to performing in public.

He was very pleased with the Leipsic artists, and played some of his

own compositions to them at Mendelssohnʼs house; he also heard Clara

Wieck, and was delighted with her poetical playing, and, astonished at

the marvellous attainments of one so young, for whom he prophesied a

brilliant future.

It is quite possible that Chopin may have doubted whether there was a

lady in Germany capable of playing his compositions; but it is very

unlikely that he should have said so, for he was always very gallant to

ladies, and was, as we know, a sincere admirer of Fräulein Blahetkaʼs

playing.

[Sidenote: LETTER FROM MENDELSSOHN TO HIS SISTER.]

In a letter from Mendelssohn to his sister Fanny Henselt, we find the

following:—

_Leipsic, Oct. 6th, 1835._

.... The day after I left Henseltʼs for Delitzsch Chopin arrived

there; he could only stay a day, so we spent the whole of it

together and had music. I cannot help saying, dear Fanny, that

I have recently discovered that your criticism did not do him

justice; perhaps, as is often the case, he was not in the right

humour when you heard him. I have once more been charmed by his

playing, and I am convinced that if you and father had heard him

perform some of his best compositions as he played them to me, you

would say the same thing.

There is something so thoroughly original and masterly about

his pianoforte playing, that he may be called a truly perfect

_virtuoso_; and as I love perfection in any form, I spent a most

agreeable, although a very different day from that with you

at Henseltʼs. I was very glad to be once more with a thorough

musician, not with those half _virtuosi_ and half classists, who

would like to unite in music “les honneurs de la vertu et les

plaisirs du vice,” but with one who has a clearly defined aim, and

although this may be the poles asunder from mine, I can get on with

such a person capitally, but not with those half-and-half people.

Sunday evening was really very remarkable when Chopin made me play

over my oratorio to him, while curious Leipzigers stole into the

room to see him, and when, between the first and second parts, he

dashed into his new _études_ and a new Concerto, to the amazement

of the Leipzigers; and then I resumed my “St. Paul.” It was just as

if a Cherokee and a Kaffir had met to converse.

He also played a sweetly pretty new nocturne, a good deal of which

I have got by heart that I may please Paul by playing it to him.

Thus we had a good time of it together, and he promised faithfully

to return in the winter if I would compose a new symphony and give

a performance of it in his honour; we pledged ourselves, in the

presence of three witnesses, so we shall see whether we both keep

our word.

This letter shows that Mendelssohn had no great antipathy to Chopinʼs

compositions, and that he was much interested by many of them;

Mademoiselle Ehlert, the authoress of “Musical Letters to a Friend,”

is, therefore, wrong in placing Mendelssohn among Chopinʼs opponents.

It has been said that Mendelssohn would not allow his pupils to play

Chopinʼs compositions. As far as I know, the composer of “St. Paul” and

“Elijah” had no time to give lessons, and it is quite understandable

that he may not have recommended Chopinʼs works to the pupils of the

Leipsic Conservatoire. But, with his love of justice, Mendelssohn

felt it his duty to combat the objections of his sister, who had been

educated on the old classic principles.

Chopinʼs second and last sojourn in Germany was in 1836. Under the

pretext of trying a cure he went to Marienbad, and there his destiny

was decided. Every flame, however fierce, must expire unless it receive

nourishment. Constantia Gladkowska, whom the youthful Frederic had

worshipped as a saint, married in Warsaw. When Chopin heard the news

he was deeply grieved and even angry. But time, which heals all wounds,

calmed his passionate spirit.

[Sidenote: BETROTHED TO MARIA WODZYNSKI.]

Chopin met in Paris some young Poles of good family—the brothers

Wodzynski, who had been at his fatherʼs _pension_. Through them he

became acquainted with their sister Maria, a charming and amiable

girl. He felt attracted towards her at first sight, and his interest

gradually changed to ardent love. Knowing that in the middle of July

she would be with her mother at Marienbad he went thither, full of hope

and longing. Chopin soon discovered that Maria returned his affection,

and they were engaged with the glad consent of their relatives. When

they left Marienbad the Wodzynski family decided to spend a few weeks

with Chopin at Dresden.

Frederic felt at this time at the topmost pinnacle of happiness, and

his gay humour communicated itself to everyone around him. His friends,

remembering the harmless but clever jokes he used to play in his youth

during his visits to the country, rejoiced that the famous artist,

the darling of Parisian drawing rooms, had so preserved his natural

simplicity and loveable modesty. They would laughingly recall how often

he used to take his sistersʼ delicate evening gloves when he could not

afford to buy new ones for himself, and how he promised to send them

gloves from Paris by the dozen; a promise which, as soon as he had made

a position in that city, he conscientiously performed.

He would often mimic the playing of the most celebrated European

_virtuosi_, imitating them even in the minutest details. He frequently

played his mazurkas, which are full of a sweet melancholy, and then

show how the rhythm must be shortened to adapt them for dancing.

Directly the conversation turned upon his own family he grew serious;

he was no longer the artist indulging his own wayward fancies, but the

grateful son and affectionate brother. From infancy till death he had

constantly received proofs of the tenderest affection, and his glowing

and sensitive heart was bound to his parents and sisters by innumerable

and indissoluble ties; he therefore suffered more from absence than

many another.

When full of the hope of becoming a happy bridegroom, he formed a plan

for leaving Paris, his second home, with all its fascinating charms,

its glittering _salons_, the scene of so many of his triumphs, and

returning to Poland. He wished to withdraw from the world and to settle

in the country near his family in the neighbourhood of Warsaw; there he

would establish schools for the people, and, without troubling himself

about the public, quietly pursue his beloved art. With this idea in his

mind, he bade, as he thought, a short adieu to his betrothed, and set

off for Paris through Leipsic.

[Sidenote: LETTER FROM SCHUMANN.]

Frederic wrote to Robert Schumann, who, having long desired to make

his acquaintance, looked anxiously forward to his arrival. Chopin on

his side was very pleased to have a chance of becoming acquainted

with and personally expressing his regard for so famous a man. It was

about this meeting that Schumann wrote the following letter to the

Chapel-master, Heinrich Dorn:—

_Leipsic, September, 6th, 1836._[24]

MY VERY DEAR SIR,

The day before yesterday, just as I had received your letter and

was about to answer it, who should walk in but Chopin. This was a

great pleasure to me, and we spent a delightful day together.... I

have got a new _ballade_ of his; it seems to me the most pleasing

but not the cleverest of his works (genialischtes nicht genialstes

werk.) I told him I liked it best of all, and after a long pause

he said, with much emphasis, “I am very glad you do, for it is my

favourite also.”

He played also a host of new studies, nocturnes and mazurkas, all

of them inimitable. The way in which he sits down to the piano is

exceedingly impressive. You would be very pleased with his playing;

yet Clara is a greater _virtuosa_ than even he. Imagine to yourself

perfection unconscious of its own merit.

Pleased with the warm reception of the German artist Chopin quitted

Leipsic after having cast a garland on the monument of Prince Joseph

Poniatowski.[25]

He was very busy with his own thoughts; he believed that his wandering

life was now ended, and that with his new duties he would enter on a

new career. Thinking of his lovely bride he soared on the rosy wings of

fancy into an ideal land amidst images of indescribable happiness and

blessed hope.

Rough reality, alas! aroused him from his delicious dreams, and

inflicted a deep and painful wound upon his heart. Some time after his

return to Paris, he learned that his bride had elected to marry a count

instead of an artist. The consequences to Chopin were very serious:

finding that his hopes of an ideal union were shattered, to wipe out

and forget the insult he had received, he threw himself into the arms

of a woman who exercised a very pernicious influence over him.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XV.

_CHOPINʼS ACQUAINTANCE WITH GEORGE SAND. HIS LIFE AMONG HIS

FRIENDS. WINTER SOJOURN IN THE ISLAND OF MAJORCA (1838-1839)_

It had been raining the whole day, and Chopin, whose nerves were

painfully affected by changes of weather and especially by damp, was

in wretched spirits. None of his friends had been in to see him, there

were no new books to amuse or excite him, and no melodious thoughts

demanding expression had presented themselves. At length, when it was

nearly ten oʼclock, it occurred to him to go to Countess C.ʼs, who

had her _jour fixe_, when an intellectual and agreeable circle always

assembled in her _salon_. As he walked up the carpeted steps Chopin

imagined himself followed by a shadow, exhaling an odour of violets;

he had a feeling that he was in the presence of something strange and

wonderful, and felt almost inclined to turn back; then, laughing at his

superstitiousness, he sprang lightly up the remaining steps and entered

the room. A numerous company was assembled, and, mingled with the

well-known faces, there were some that he had not seen before.

The party had broken up into groups, talking, with French grace and

vivacity, of the theatre, literature, politics and the events of the

day. In a humour for listening rather than talking, Chopin sat down in

a corner of the room and watched the beautiful forms passing before

him, for many charming women frequented Countess C.ʼs.

[Sidenote: GEORGE SAND.]

When part of the company had gone and only the intimate friends of

the hostess remained, Chopin, who was in the mood for weaving musical

fairy tales, (Märchen) sat down to the piano and improvised. His

hearers, whom in his absorption he had quite forgotten, listened

breathlessly. When he had finished he looked up, and saw a simply

dressed lady leaning on the instrument and looking at him with her dark

passionate eyes as if she would read his soul. Chopin felt himself

blushing under her fascinating gaze; she smiled slightly, and when he

retired behind a group of camelias he heard the rustling of a silk

dress, and perceived the odour of violets. The lady who had looked

at him so inquiringly while he was at the piano was approaching with

Liszt. In a deep musical voice she said a few words about his playing,

and then spoke about the subject of his improvisation. Frederic felt

moved and flattered. Undoubtedly the highest reward of the poet and

artist is to find themselves understood; and while listening to the

sparkling intellectual eloquence and poetry of her words, Chopin

felt that he was appreciated as he had never been before. This lady

was Aurora Dudevant, at that time the most celebrated of French

authoresses, whose romances, written under the name of George Sand,

were, of course, well known to him. That night, when he returned home,

the pleasing words were still ringing in his ears, the flashing glance

was still dazzling his eyes. But this first interview impressed his

intellect only; his heart and his sense of beauty were untouched. He

wrote to his parents, “I have made the acquaintance of an important

celebrity, Madame Dudevant, well-known as George Sand; but I do not

like her face, there is something in it that repels me.” But when

he met this talented woman again, her attractive conversation, in

which was nearly always hidden some delicate flattery, made him

forget that she was not beautiful. Her love for him—for George Sand

was passionately enamoured of Chopin—gave to her decided and rather

manly features a certain attractive softness, and made her shy and

almost humble towards him; thus, unconsciously, she stirred his

heart. Frederic felt at first merely grateful to her; then, if not as

passionately, yet truly and deeply he returned her love. The wound

inflicted by Mariaʼs faithlessness was healed. The consciousness of

being loved by the foremost of French authoresses, a woman of European

celebrity, filled Frederic with happy pride. He was no longer alone and

solitary, for Aurora Dudevant was not only his beloved one, but an

intellectual and steadfast friend in whose heart he found a home from

which fate could never banish him.

He began about this time to withdraw from large assemblies, and spent

most of his time in communion with his muse, and among a small circle

of friends. Always fastidious about his surroundings, he was even more

so now; but he always received his intimate acquaintances with perfect

good humour and true Chopin amiability. Franz Liszt, Ferdinand Hiller,

and Baron von Stockhausen are, perhaps, the only living representatives

of those interesting “soirées intimes” at Chopinʼs house in the Rue

Chaussée dʼAntin. Liszt writes:—

“His apartment was only lighted by some wax candles, grouped

round one of Pleyelʼs pianos, which he particularly liked for

their slightly veiled yet silvery sonorousness, and easy touch,

permitting him to elicit tones which one might think proceeded from

one of those harmonicas of which romantic Germany has preserved the

monopoly, and which were so ingeniously constructed by its ancient

masters from the union of crystal and water.

“As the corners of the room were left in obscurity, all idea of

limit was lost, so that there seemed no boundary save the darkness

of space. Some tall piece of furniture, with its white cover, would

reveal itself in the dim light; an indistinct form, raising itself

like a spectre to listen to the sounds by which it had been evoked.

The light concentrated round the piano glided wave-like along the

floor mingling with the red flashes of fire-light. A solitary

portrait, that of a pianist, a sympathetic friend and admirer,

seemed invited to be the constant auditor of those sighing,

murmuring, moaning tones which ebbed and flowed upon the

instrument. By a strange accident, the polished surface of the

mirror reflected, so as to double for our eyes, the beautiful oval

with the silky curls which has so often been copied and of which

countless engravings have been reproduced for the friends of the

elegant composer.”

[Sidenote: CHOPINʼS GUESTS.]

Among the frequent guests at this abode were: Heinrich Heine, the

German poet, of whom Enault said that sarcasm had consumed his

heart, and scepticism swallowed up his soul; Meyerbeer, the greatest

dramatic musician of the day; Liszt, who astonished the world with his

magnificent impassioned playing, and who, understanding the poetic

soul of the Polish artist, paid a literary tribute in after years to

his memory; Ferdinand Hiller,[26] a famous pianist and a warm and

faithful friend of Chopin; Ary Schäffer, the most classic of the

Romantic painters; Eugène Delacroix, who sought for harmony of colour

in Chopinʼs enchanting music; Adolphe Nourrit, the celebrated singer,

who, under the influence of melancholy, committed suicide; Baron von

Stockhausen, ambassador of the King of Hanover at the French court,

a pupil and admirer of Chopin; and besides these, a little band of

his own countrymen, at whose head was the veteran Niemcewicz, who had

such an ardent yearning for his fatherland that his one wish was to

rest from his labours in his native soil; Mickiewicz, the greatest of

Polish poets, who, ever dreaming of his beloved Lithuania, celebrated

its beauty in verse worthy of a Homer; the favourite poet Witwicki;

Matuszynski, Fontana, Erzymala, and last of all Mussetʼs “la femme à

lʼœil sombre,” who empoisoned the later life of our artist, so that

he might have said with a bleeding heart as Musset did, “et si je ne

crois plus aux larmes, cʼest que je lʼai vu pleurer.” Only those who

had seen Chopin receiving these friends and gracefully dispensing true

Polish hospitality, and who had also been fortunate enough to hear him

improvise, could say that they really knew him. The confidential talk

of a small circle would put him in the best of humours, and he would

often be as merry as in the early happy days of youth in his fatherʼs

house, before he had become acquainted with the cares and troubles of

life.

Chopin was not fond of giving up his time to others, but when he did,

he did so entirely. If an old friend or fellow-student from Warsaw came

to see him, he would immediately put off his pupils and devote the

day to his visitor. He would then order a carriage, take his guest to

breakfast on the Boulevards, and drive around the suburbs (generally

to Montmorency). After some hours of innocent enjoyment in the country,

they would return to Paris, dine at one of the best restaurants, and

finish the day at the theatre. After that they would occasionally go

to some tea-garden or pleasure “local,” where there would be no lack

of amusement and pretty dancers. On such occasion Frederic was the

Amphytrion of his guests, and would never suffer them to pay anything.

[Sidenote: INJURIOUS EFFECTS OF PARISIAN LIFE.] This kind of Parisian

life could not but be injurious to Chopinʼs delicate constitution. In

the Autumn of 1837[27] he had, for the first time, a pulmonary attack

which much weakened him. Both his friends and the physicians were

very anxious about his health; it was generally thought that he was

in consumption, and he was urged to go to the South of France. Just

at that time George Sand was intending to go to the Island of Majorca

for the sake of her son Maurice, and pressed Chopin to go with her.

Frederic found it very hard to leave Paris, and to separate himself

from his doctor, his friends, and his piano. He was by disposition loth

to break up pleasant associations, and every change agitated him, but

he could not say no to a woman whom he so revered.

His friends did not think this journey at all advisable; Frederic was

not, however, very much exhausted by it, but as soon as he landed, in

November, 1838, he was taken dangerously ill. The cold and damp of

his first apartments gave him a violent cough, and the new-comers were

regarded with such evident dislike by the occupants that they hastened

to quit the house. In Majorca, consumption was thought as infectious

as cholera and the plague, and no one would take in the invalid. At

length he and his friends found shelter in a very lonely and slightly

built house (karthaus) called “Waldemosa,” which had just been vacated

by the monks. This cloister was situated in a charming glen, surrounded

by orange trees; but, of course, in such a building there was not a

trace of comfort, and it did not contain a particle of furniture. The

winter that year was a very hard one; it rained for a fortnight without

ceasing, and snow fell several times. Chopin, therefore, sent to

Marseilles for a stove and a piano; but, as he said in writing to his

parents, he was obliged to wait for them a long time. When at length

they arrived the authorities and inhabitants of Palma were in a great

state of excitement; they regarded these strange objects as diabolical

machines intended to blow up the town.

[Sidenote: DANGEROUSLY ILL AT MAJORCA.]

Our artist did not receive the wished for benefit from his stay in

Majorca, but grew paler and thinner every day. Although his complaint

was anything but chronic, all the doctors gave up attending him. Chopin

himself was perfectly composed about his condition. The last physician

whom he had consulted, not thoroughly understanding his disease, did

not use the right means to arrest it, and the bronchitis was followed

by a nervous agitation, which the doctor, not having observed the

contrary symptoms, treated as phthisis. He ordered stimulating diet,

bleeding, and a milk cure. These measures were quite opposed to the

nature of the complaint. The effects of the loss of blood were almost

fatal, and Fredericʼs sufferings increased daily. The doctor constantly

insisted on bleeding, but the friend, who nursed him with the utmost

care, seemed to hear a voice saying, “it is killing him.” It soon

appeared that this was a Providential presentiment. The milk cure did

not succeed; there were no cows in the neighbourhood, and Frederic did

not like that which was substituted—goatʼs milk.

“The poor great artist! It was difficult sometimes to know how to

treat him,” says George Sand.[28] “What I feared, unhappily came

to pass—he lost all patience. He bore his bodily sufferings like

a man, but he could not bridle his ever restless imagination. The

house seemed to him full of spirits—spectres which plagued him

more than his pulmonary pains. He tried to hide from us what was

troubling him, but we soon found it out. Coming back, one evening,

about ten oʼclock with my children from visiting the ruins of the

cloister, we found Chopin at the piano. His looks were wild, his

hair stood on end, and it was some seconds before he recognized

us. Then he forced a smile and began to play something. During the

short time he had been left alone, in his depression, a host of

demoniacal thoughts had, against his will, crowded upon him.