Before leaving Vienna I had six letters given me, five from

Würfel and one from Blahetka, to Pixis, asking him to show me the

Conservatoire here.

[Sidenote: REQUESTED TO PLAY IN PRAGUE.]

They wanted me to play; but I shall only stay three days, and I

have no desire to forfeit the renown I won in Vienna. As Paganini

even was sharply criticised, I shall take care not to perform

in this place. The five letters from Würfel are to the Theatre

director, the bandmaster, and other musical celebrities. I shall

deliver the letters, for he asked me to very earnestly; but I will

not perform. The excellent Würfel has also given me a letter to

Klengel,[39] in Dresden.

I must now conclude, as it is quite time to go to Hankaʼs. I shall

introduce myself as godson of Count Skarbek, and I hope that no

further recommendation will be necessary.

Your FREDERIC.

* * * * *

_Dresden, August 26th, 1829._

I am merry and well. When I was in Vienna, a week ago, I did not

dream I should be in Dresden to-day. Our stay at Prague was very

short, but not without profit. Herr Hanka was very pleased to

receive news from Skarbek. Like all visitors to the Prague Museum

who have received any special attention from Herr Hanka, we had

to write our names in a book kept for the purpose; we found among

others the names of Brodzinski, Mocawski,[40] &c. Each of us wrote

whatever occurred to him in poetry or prose. What could I, a

musician, write that would be worth reading? The thought happily

struck Maciejowski to write four strophes for a Mazurka, and I set

them to music; so I think we have both immortalized ourselves in

the most characteristic manner.

Hanka was delighted with this idea, for the Mazourka contained a

reference to him and to his efforts for the elevation of the Slavs.

He has given me several views of Prague for Skarbek. I cannot

possibly tell you by letter all that Herr Hanka showed us. I must

describe, verbally, the lovely views, the majestic cathedral, with

the figure of St. John, in silver, the beautiful chapel of St.

Wenceslaus, inlaid with amethysts and other precious stones, and

many other things.

[Sidenote: MEETING WITH KLENGEL.]

I am indebted to Blahetkaʼs and Würfelʼs letters for the friendly

reception which I had from Pixis. He gave up his lessons, kept me

at his house, and asked me about all sorts of things. I noticed

Klengelʼs visiting card on his table, and asked if it belonged to

a relative of the famous Klengel, of Dresden. “Klengel himself is

here,” replied Pixis; “he called while I was out.”

I was delighted at the prospect of becoming acquainted with this

artist, to whom I had letters from Würfel. I spoke to Pixis about

it, and he invited me to come in the afternoon, if I wished to

meet Klengel, as he was expected then. We met by accident on the

steps of Pixisʼs house, and effected our first acquaintance there.

I listened to his fugues for more than two hours; I did not play,

as I was not asked. Klengelʼs playing pleased me, but, to speak

candidly, I had expected something still better. (I pray you not

to mention this to anyone.) He gave me an introductory letter

with the following address: “Al ornatissimo Signore Cavaliere

Morlacchi, primo Maestro della Capella Reale;” in which he begs

this gentleman to make me acquainted with the whole musical world

of Dresden, and in particular to present me to Fräulein Pechwell.

This lady is a pupil of Klengelʼs and, in his opinion, the first

pianist in Dresden. He was extremely affable towards me. Before

his departure—he is going to Vienna and Italy—I spent a couple of

hours with him, and our conversation never flagged. This has been

a very agreeable acquaintanceship, and I value it more highly than

Czernyʼs; but not a word of this either, my dear ones.

The three delightful days in Prague were over before we were aware.

I am, as you know, very absent-minded, and on the day we left

rushed suddenly into a strange room without knowing. “Good

morning,” said a cheerful voice. “I beg your pardon, I mistook

the number,” I answered, and ran away as fast as possible. We

left Prague at noon in a private carriage, and arrived at Teplitz

towards evening. The next day I found in the list at the Baths

Ludwig Lempickiʼs name; I immediately went to call on him. He

was very glad to see me, and told me there were several Poles

here; among others he mentioned old Pruszack, Joseph Köhler, and

Kretkowski, from Kamiona. Lempicki told me that they generally

all dined together in the “German hall,” but that to-day he was

invited to Prince Claryʼs Castle. This Prince belongs to one of the

most distinguished of the Austrian princely families. He is very

wealthy, and owns the town of Teplitz. Princess Clary, née Countess

Chotek[41] is sister of the present Oberstburggraf of Bohemia.

Lempicki said he was quite at home in Prince Claryʼs house, and

would introduce me there in the evening when the Princess always

gave receptions; he would mention my name to them at dinner.

Having no engagement for the evening, I accepted the proposal with

pleasure.

[Sidenote: VISIT TO PRINCE CLARY.]

We have seen all that is worth seeing here, and have also been

to Dux, the residence of the Count Waldsteins. We were shown the

halberd with which Albrecht Waldstein (or Wallenstein) was stabbed,

a piece of his scull, and other relics. In the evening, instead

of going to the theatre, I dressed and went with Lempicki to the

Castle. I put on my white gloves which had already done duty at

the Vienna concert. The company was not numerous, but very select:

an Austrian prince; an Austrian general, whose name I forget; an

English naval captain; two or three elegant dandies (Austrian

princes or counts, I believe); and the Saxon General von Leiser,

who bore the uncommon decoration of a scar on his face.

I talked most to Prince Clary. After tea Countess Chotek, mother

of the Princess, asked me to play. The instrument was a good one,

by Graff. I took my seat at the piano, and asked the company to

give me a theme for improvisation. The ladies, who had established

themselves at a table, immediately whispered to each other “un

thème, un thème.” Three pretty young princesses, after some

consultation, referred to a Herr Fritsche,[42] tutor to Prince

Claryʼs only son, and he suggested the chief theme in Rossiniʼs

“Moses,” which was unanimously approved of. I improvised, I suppose

with some success, for General von Leiser had a long talk with me

afterwards. When he heard I was going to Dresden, he at once wrote

the following to Baron von Friesen.

“Monsieur Frédéric Chopin est recommandé de la part du

General Leiser à Monsieur le Baron de Friesen, Maître

de Cérémonie de S. M. le roi de Saxe, pour lui être

utile pendant son séjour à Dresde, et de lui procurer la

connaissance de plusieurs des premiers artistes.”

Below was written in German: “Herr Chopin is one of the best

pianists I have heard.” I copied this literally for you, my

dearests, from the generalʼs pencil letter.

I had to play four times. The Prince and Princess asked me to

prolong my stay at Teplitz, and dine with them the next day.

Lempicki offered to accompany me to Warsaw, if I remained a day

or two here, but I could not hear of being separated from my

companions, so, with many thanks, I declined both proposals.

[Sidenote: ARRIVAL IN DRESDEN.]

We left yesterday morning, at 5 oʼclock, in a carriage, for

which we paid two Thalers, and arrived at Dresden at four in

the afternoon, when we met Lewinski and Lebecki. Everything has

happened very fortunately for me throughout the journey. The first

part of “Faust” is to be given to-day, and Klengel tells me that

the Italian opera will be on Saturday.

This letter was begun last night. Now I must dress for calling

on Baron von Friesen and Morlacchi, so have no time to spare. We

intend leaving in a week, but, weather permitting, not without

seeing the Saxon Switzerland. We hope to spend a few days in

Breslau, and go direct home from there. I am longing so much to

see you again, my dear parents, that I do not at all care to go to

Wiesiolowskiʼs first. Oh, how many stories and adventures I shall

have to relate, and each more interesting than the last.

P.S.—Baron von Friesen, maître dé cérémonie, received me very

kindly. He asked me where I was staying, and regretted that the

Chamberlain, who was also director of the royal band, was not at

Dresden just now, but he would find out who was his deputy, and

do all he could to show me something worth seeing during my short

sojourn. Whereupon many bows and stammered thanks on my part. My

next letter, from Breslau, will tell you the rest.[43] I have seen

the world-renowned gallery, the fruit show, the gardens, have paid

some visits, and am now going to the theatre. Enough, I hope, for

one day.

SECOND POSTSCRIPT.—It is night. Just returned from the theatre,

where I saw “Faust.”[44] The rush was so great that we had to be

in the _queue_, outside the office, before five oʼclock, to get

a ticket at all. The performance began at six, and lasted till

eleven oʼclock. Devrient,[45] whom I saw in Berlin, acted _Faust_.

A fearful but magnificent conception. Portions of Spohrʼs Opera,

“Faust,” were performed as Entrʼactes. Goetheʼs eightieth birthday

was celebrated to-day. Now I am off to bed, I expect Morlacchi

early to-morrow, and shall go with him to Fräulein Pechwellʼs, that

is, he will come with me.

Good night,

Your FREDERIC.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VI.

_INFLUENCE OF THE LAST JOURNEY ON CHOPIN. LETTERS TO TITUS

WOYCIECHOWSKI. FAREWELL CONCERT IN WARSAW. CHOPIN LEAVES HIS

NATIVE CITY._

The innocent youthful gaiety which accompanied Chopin on his journey

was his faithful companion for some time to come. The brilliant success

of his two performances in Vienna assured him that he really had

talent, and that his parents had not done wrong in allowing him to

dedicate himself wholly to art.

He returned from his second journey with wider views and riper

judgment. He left off drawing caricatures, with which, in boyish

mischief, he had often amused himself in Berlin. He felt, with intense

delight, that the wings of his genius were bearing him higher than

they did a year ago. With his inborn modesty he was surprised that

great musicians should marvel at his playing; he had, indeed, already

the courage to defend his opinions when they differed from those of

other musicians; but he always spoke with a certain reserve and

courtesy, which prevented him from giving offence, nor did he forget

to pay the respect which the young man owes to the elder. “That Vienna

would lose much if he went away without letting people hear him,” was

incomprehensible to the modest youth not yet fully conscious of his

talents.

It is characteristic of Chopin that he always began his letters in

a clear elegant hand; but, as if overpowered by the rush of thought

and feeling, the writing, as he proceeded, grew larger and more

hurried. His Polish letters are pithy and natural, and often contain

surprisingly original thoughts. A great deal cannot be transcribed into

German, although this language bears the palm for the best translations.

Fredericʼs humorous nature was often displayed in the address of a

letter. For example, he sent one to his father directed “To the Right

Hon. N. Chopin, Professor in Warsaw, and to the dear parents of the

son who is in Dresden.” He would often call his sisters “my children”

(mojo dzieci), out of tenderness, and add some playful affectionate

expressions. He never forgot to send remembrances to his much-honoured

teachers, Zwyny and Elsner, nor to gladden his fellow collegians and

intimate friends by kind words as reminders of himself.

[Sidenote: CHOPINʼS HEALTH.]

It has become the custom with most of the writers on Chopin to dilate

on his weak and exhausted health. The grossest exaggerations have been

current on this point, and, as is nearly always the case, more credence

has been given to the exaggerations than to the truth. Goethe says

truly, “People believe the truth so little because it is so simple.”

It has been said of Chopin that he suffered from his earliest years

from an incurable malady which might have caused death at any moment.

This may have been the reason why Liszt describes him as very sickly

when only a youth of fifteen or sixteen; among other things about him

he says:

“* * * * Chopin was more like one of those ideal creations with

which the poetry of the middle ages adorned the Christian temples:

a beautiful angel, with a form pure and slight as a young god of

Olympus, with a face like that of a majestic woman filled with a

divine sorrow, and, as the crown of all, an expression at the same

time tender and severe, chaste and impassioned.

“He daily accustomed himself to think that the hour of his death

was near, and, under the influence of this feeling, he accepted

the careful attentions of a friend, from whom he concealed how

short a time, he believed, remained for him on earth. He possessed

great physical courage, and, if he did not accept with the heroic

carelessness of youth the idea of his approaching end, he at least

cherished the expectation of it with a kind of bitter pleasure.”

These remarks are not applicable to that period of Chopinʼs life, for

they are not in accordance with the facts. Chopin neither looked like

“a beautiful angel,” “a majestic woman filled with a divine sorrow,”

nor “a young god from Olympus;” just as little did he imagine daily

“that the hour of his death was near.” On the contrary, his cheerful

letters, pervaded with the joy of youth, showed that Frederic had as

good health as any other young man of his age. When travelling he

saw all that was worth seeing, gave two concerts within a week, paid

several visits, was present at long performances at the theatre, and

wrote a great many letters besides. Undeniably, Chopin had a delicate

constitution, but he was healthy, and strong enough to bear the fatigue

of travelling in a diligence.

It was not until ten years later that he was threatened with the

illness brought on by the excitement of Paris life. And if Frederic

had been sickly, would his parents have permitted their only, tenderly

loved son to travel abroad? Would they have consented to an absence of

two years—which followed the earlier journeys—if the young artist had

been troubled with a dangerous malady? Only in the last years of his

life his physical strength was often greatly exhausted, in consequence

of the rapid strides of the disease which caused his early death.

Chopinʼs playmate and schoolfellow, Wilhelm von Kolberg, who is

still living in Warsaw, affirms that till manhood, Chopin was only

ill once, and then from a cold. It is true that after the manner of

loving womanly hearts, mother and sisters very much petted their dear

Frederic. There was no lack of exhortations to “wrap up carefully in

cold damp weather;” he laughed good-humouredly at the instructions, but

followed them like an obedient son.

There were moments when, buried in thought, Frederic paid little heed

to the outer world, and avoided even his best friends. These were times

of communion with his muse, and he would suffer the intervention of no

third person.

[Sidenote: CHOPINʼS DISPOSITION.]

In a general way he was fond of pleasure, and delighted to share

it with his parents, family and friends. He never marred anyoneʼs

enjoyment. If he were among company who wished to dance, he would sit

down to the piano without being pressed and play the most charming

Mazurkas and other dances. If a bad player were at the piano, he would

politely and pleasantly put himself in his place. In after years also,

when he lived in Paris and had acquired a European reputation, he was

always willing, in the kindest manner, to delight a Polish family

with some national dances. As a player he was as indefatigable as the

dancers, who in their enthusiasm often did not know how to stop.

Like all intelligent young men, Frederic returned from his travels with

a wider knowledge of human nature. He perceived that the artists, whose

acquaintance he had lately made, were not all so amiable and free from

envy as he had imagined; he, therefore, clung the closer to the more

noble-minded among his compeers, for whom he retained through life a

friendly recollection.

Unfortunately, he did not fail to meet with bitter disappointments in

later years.

The artists in Vienna looked upon Chopin as a young man with a thorough

and most refined musical education, who was not puffed up with vanity,

and had no thought of settling in the Imperial city. They were,

therefore, favourably disposed towards him, and willingly lent their

assistance.

Like every true artist and poet, Chopin was tormented with doubts as

to the extent and range of his genius. Some, indeed, who heard him at

the concerts which he gave in Vienna, said that his playing was not

powerful enough; but with regard to his compositions there was but

one opinion. Real connoisseurs of pianoforte playing, truly musical

souls, knew how to value the smoothness, certainty, and elegance of his

style. The wonderful penetrating and melancholy expression peculiar

to Chopinʼs playing, found a response in all poetical minds. He was

pre-eminently the pianist for poets, and could not be exalted too

highly above the mass, who only desire technical skill and noise; the

musicians were especially interested by the character and originality

of his compositions. To complete the story of his Vienna experiences, I

give two letters to his most intimate friend Woyciechowski.

[Sidenote: HIS GREAT JOURNEY.]

_Warsaw, September 12th, 1829._

DEAREST TITUS,

You would not have heard from me, if I had not met Vicentius

Skarbek, and thereby been reminded that you would be in Warsaw by

the end of this month. I hoped that I should have been able to

tell you personally of my GREAT JOURNEY, for truly and sincerely

I should only be too glad to have a chat with you. But as this is

unfortunately impossible, let me tell you, dear, that I have been

to Cracow, Vienna, Prague, Dresden and Breslau.

We passed the first week at Cracow in taking walks, and visiting

the neighbourhood. Ojcow is very beautiful; but I shall not say

anything, for although you were not there, you know all about it

from Tanskaʼs accurate descriptions. I had good company on my way

to Vienna; if Cracow made so many demands upon me that I could not

find a few moments to think of you and my family, Vienna so utterly

stupefied and infatuated me, that, although a fortnight passed

without my receiving a letter from home, I felt no longing for my

friends. Just imagine my playing twice in the Royal and Imperial

Theatre in so short a time. This is how it came about: my publisher

Haslinger represented to me that it would be of advantage to my

compositions if I were to appear in Vienna; that my name was as yet

unknown, and my music difficult both to play and understand.

I did not yet think of it seriously, and replied:

“That I had not played a note for a fortnight, and so was not

prepared to present myself before a select and critical public.”

In the meantime Count Gallenberg, who writes pretty ballets, and

is manager of the Vienna theatre, came in. Haslinger introduced me

to him as a coward, afraid of appearing in public. The Count very

obligingly placed the theatre at my disposal, but I was shrewd

enough to decline, with thanks. The next day Würfel came in, and

urged me not to bring disgrace on my parents, Elsner, and myself by

neglecting the opportunity of performing in Vienna.

As soon as I had yielded to all this pressure, Würfel at once

undertook the necessary preparations. The next morning bills

announced my concert. It was impossible, therefore, to retreat,

although I did not know how or what I should play. Three

manufacturers proposed to send me pianos, but, owing to the narrow

limits of my lodgings, I was obliged to refuse their offers. What

would have been the use either of my practising a great deal two

days before the concert?

In one day I made the acquaintance of all the great artists

in Vienna, among them Mayseder, Gyrowetz, Lachner, Kreutzer,

Schuppanzigh, &c.

[Sidenote: DÉBUT IN VIENNA.]

The members of the orchestra looked sourly at me during the

rehearsal; they were particularly vexed at my making my _débût_

with new compositions. Then I began the Variations dedicated to

you, which were to come after the Rondo Cracovienne. The Variations

were a success, but the Rondo, owing to the way in which it was

written, went so badly that we were obliged to commence from the

beginning twice. I ought to have put the pauses below instead of

above. Enough; the gentlemen made such wry faces that I felt very

much inclined to announce myself ill in the evening.

Demmar, the manager, noticed the ill-temper of the orchestra, who

do not like Würfel. The latter wished to conduct himself, but the

orchestra declined (I donʼt know why) to play under his lead. Herr

Demmar advised me to improvise, at which proposal the orchestra

stared. I was so much irritated by what had happened that I

consented in despair; and who knows whether my miserable mood and

strange humour were not the cause of the great success I achieved?

The presence of the Viennese public did not excite me at all, and

I sat down, very calmly, to a wonderful instrument of Graffʼs, the

best, perhaps, then in Vienna. Beside me sat a young man, covered

with rouge, who had turned over for me in the Variations, and

plumed himself on having rendered the same service to Moscheles,

Hummel, and Herz. I played, as you may imagine, in a desperate

mood; the Variations, nevertheless, made such an effect that I was

encored enthusiastically. Fräulein Veltheim sang very beautifully.

As to my Improvisation I only know that it was followed by a storm

of applause and many recalls.

The Vienna newspapers were lavish in their praise. By universal

desire I played again a week after, congratulating myself that

no one could say now that I was only able to appear once. I was

especially pleased with the performance of the Rondo, because

Gyrowetz, Lachner, and other masters, and even the orchestra were

so delighted—forgive me for saying so—that they recalled me twice.

I was obliged to repeat the Variations (at the special request of

the ladies); Haslinger, too, was so pleased with them that he is

going to bring them out in _Odeon_; a great honour for me, is it

not?

Lichnowski, one of Beethovenʼs friends, wished to lend me his

piano for the concert (this is, indeed, something), as it seemed

to him that mine was too weak. But this was on account of my style

of playing, which pleased the ladies so much; especially Fräulein

Blahetka. It might be that she is favourably disposed towards

me (by the way, she is not yet twenty, a lovely and intelligent

girl). At my departure she honoured me by a composition, with an

inscription in her own handwriting.

The _Wiener Zeitung_ said, in a notice of the second concert, “This

is a young man who knows how to please by entirely original means.

His style differs totally from that of the ordinary concert giver.”

I hope this is satisfactory, especially as the article concludes,

“Herr Chopin to-day again received the most unanimous applause.”

Pardon me for writing such an opinion of myself, but I do so

because it pleases me more than any

amount of praise in the _Warsaw Courier_.

I became quite intimate with Czerny, and often played with him on

two pianos. He is a good-natured man, but nothing more. Klengel,

whom I saw at Pixisʼs, in Prague, I like best of all my artistic

acquaintances. He played his fugues to me (one might call them a

continuation of Bachʼs, there are forty-eight, and as many canons.)

What a contrast to Czerny! Klengel gave me a letter of introduction

to Morlacchi, in Dresden. We visited the Saxon Switzerland, so

rich in natural beauties, and the magnificent picture gallery;

but the Italian Opera had to be given up before my very eyes. I

was, unfortunately, obliged to leave the day on which “Crociato in

Egitto” was to be performed. My only consolation was that I had

already heard it in Vienna.

[Sidenote: STAY IN DRESDEN.]

Frau Pruszak, and her two children, Alexandrine and Constantin, are

in Dresden. I met them the day I left. What a pleasure! They called

out, “Pan Frycek, Pan Frycek;”[46] it was so charming that I should

certainly have stayed but for my companions. Herr Pruszak I met at

Teplitz. Teplitz is a wonderfully beautiful place. I was only there

a day, but went to a soirée at Prince Claryʼs.

I have been too much absorbed in my writing to be able to stop. I

affectionately embrace you, and kiss your lips, if you allow me.

Your FREDERIC.

* * * * *

_Warsaw, October 3rd, 1829._

DEAREST TITUS,

You write that you have read something about my concerts in two

newspapers; if they were Warsaw papers, you could certainly not

have been gratified, for not only is their translation bad, but

they have taken the trouble to distort, to my disparagement,

the comments of the Viennese critics. The Vienna _Sammler_ and

the _Zeitschrift für Literatur_, from which Hube brought me the

extracts, made the most flattering criticisms on my playing and

compositions (pardon me for writing this to you), and called me, in

conclusion, “An independent _virtuoso_, full of delicacy and the

deepest feeling.”[47] If such extracts had fallen into your hands I

should have no occasion to be ashamed.

You will learn from me bye and bye what I think of doing this

winter. In no case shall I remain in Warsaw; where fate will

lead me I do not yet know. Prince and Princess Radziwill have,

in the most polite manner, invited me to Berlin, and offered me

apartments in their palace; but of what use would this be? I have

begun so much work that it would seem the wisest course for me to

remain here. I have also promised to return to Vienna, and a Vienna

paper openly declared that a sojourn in the Imperial city would be

very advantageous to me, and have the best influence on my career.

[Sidenote: CHOPINʼS IDEAL.]

You will, perhaps, think so too; but do not imagine that I am

thinking about Fräulein Blahetka, whom I mentioned in my letter.

I have already—to my misfortune, perhaps—found my ideal, which

I sincerely and loyally worship. Half a year has passed without

exchanging a syllable with her of whom I dream every night. While

thinking of this lovely being I composed the Adagio in my new

Concerto,[48] and early this morning the Waltz, which I send you.

Notice the passage marked +, nobody knows of it but yourself. How

glad I should be if I could play my newest compositions to you, my

dear friend. In the fifth bar of the Trio, the melody in the bass

must rise to the higher E flat in the violin cleff, which, however,

I need not tell you, for you will feel it for yourself.

I have no other news to send than that every Friday there is music

at Kesslerʼs. Yesterday they played, among other things, Spohrʼs

Octett, a wonderful work. I go to Brzezinaʼs[49] every day; he has

nothing new but Pixisʼs Concerto which made no great impression

on me; the Rondo seems the best part of it. You cannot imagine how

dull Warsaw looks. If it were not for the happiness I find with my

family I could not live here.

Oh, how miserable it is to have no one to share your sorrows and

joys, and, when your heart is heavy, to have no soul to whom you

can pour out your woes. You know very well what I mean. How often

do I communicate to my piano all that I would confide to you.

My friend, you must change into a delightful reality my dream of

travelling with you abroad. I do not know what I should do for joy.

But, alas, our ways lie wide apart.

I hope to go to Italy, from Vienna, for my further improvement,

and next winter I am to meet Hube in Paris; but everything may

be altered, as my kind father would like me to go to Berlin, for

which, to say the truth, I have no great desire. If, as I trust, I

go to Vienna, I shall, perhaps, choose the way through Dresden and

Prague, to visit Klengel again; also the famous picture gallery and

the Conservatoire.

I must now leave off, or I shall only weary you with my dry news,

and I do not want to do that. If you would only write me a few

lines, it would give me pleasure for several weeks. Forgive me for

sending you the Waltz, which will make you angry with me in the

end. My intention is to please you.

Your FREDERIC.

The favourable critiques in the Vienna newspapers of Chopinʼs playing

awakened universal interest in Warsaw, and caused his father to

take counsel with Elsner and other friends about Fredericʼs further

training. All agreed on sending the young artist for a longer sojourn

abroad. Warsaw offered, indeed, little artistic stimulus to Chopinʼs

extraordinary abilities; he passed there for a perfect artist. His

compositions, published in Warsaw, are among the best he ever wrote,

and if his creative talent grew and matured in later years, his early

works bear the true Chopin stamp.

[Sidenote: PROPOSED TOUR TO PARIS AND ITALY.]

Elsnerʼs advice was that Chopin should go to Italy first, then to

Paris, and so be away two years in all. From letters to his friend,

Titus Woyciechowski, who now resides at his estate Poturzyn, in Poland,

and who very kindly furnished these letters, we learn from Frederic

himself how he passed the next few years. It is most fortunate for us

that his most intimate friend has religiously preserved, as sacred

memorials, every line of the talented artist.

_Warsaw, October 20th, 1829._

MY DEAREST TITUS,

You wonʼt know how to make out why such a writing mania has

suddenly seized me, and how it is that, in so short a time, I send

you a third letter.

I start at seven this evening, _per diligence_, for

Wiesiowlowskiʼs, in Posen, and so write to you beforehand, not

knowing how long I shall stay there, though I have only got a

passport for a month. My idea is to return in about a fortnight.

The object of my journey is to see Prince Radziwill, who is living

at his estate not far from Kalitz. He wishes me to go to Berlin,

and live as a guest in his house, &c.; but I cannot see that it

would be of any real, that is to say, artistic use. “Mit grossen

Herren ist nicht gut Kirschen essen.”

My good father will not believe that these invitations are merely

_des belles paroles_.

Forgive me if I repeat myself. I easily forget what I have written,

and often fancy I am giving you news which is really stale.

Kessler gives a musical soirée every Friday; nearly all the

artists here meet together, and play whatever is brought forward,

_prima vista_; so, for example, there were performed, last Friday:

Concerto in C sharp minor, by Ries, with quartet accompaniment;

then Trio in E major, by Hummel; Beethovenʼs last Trio, which I

thought magnificent and impressive; also a Quartet, by Prince Louis

Ferdinand of Prussia, _alias_ Dussek;[50] and singing to conclude

with.

Elsner has praised my Concerto Adagio. He says there is something

new in it. As for the Rondo I do not want any opinion on that at

present, for I am not satisfied with it myself. I wonder whether I

shall finish it when I return.

Thank you very much for your letter, which pleased me exceedingly.

You have the happy gift of cheering and delighting one. You cannot

imagine how despondent I was in the morning, and how my spirits

rose when I received your letter. I embrace you warmly. Many write

this at the end of their letters and scarcely think about it; but

you know, dearest friend, that I do it sincerely, as truly as I am

called “Fritz.” I have composed a Study in my style; when we meet

again I will play it to you.

Your faithful

FREDERIC.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: VISIT TO PRINCE RADZIWILL.]

_Warsaw, Sunday, November 14th, 1829._

DEAREST TITUS,

I received your last letter at Radziwillʼs, at Antonin. I was there

a week, and you cannot think how quickly and pleasantly the time

passed. I travelled back by the last Post, and had great trouble

to get away. As for myself I could have stayed there till I was

driven away, but my occupations, and, above all, my concerto, which

still impatiently awaits its _Finale_, forced me to quit Paradise.

My dear Titus, there were three daughters of Eve there; the young

princesses, extremely amiable, musical, and kind-hearted; and the

Princess, their mother, who knows quite well that the value of a

man does not depend on his descent, is so lady-like and amiable

towards everyone that it is impossible not to honour her.

You know what a lover of music the Prince is. He showed me his

“Faust,” and I found much that is really beautiful in it; some

parts, indeed, show considerable intellectual power. Between

ourselves, I certainly should not have accredited a Stadtholder

with such music. I was struck, among other things, by the scene

where Mephistopheles allures Margaret to the window, by playing the

guitar and singing outside her house, while a Chorale is heard at

the same time in the neighbouring church. This is sure to produce

a great sensation. I only mention this to give you an idea of his

style. He is also a great admirer of Gluck. In the drama, he only

gives importance to music in so far as it depicts the situation or

the feelings, therefore the Overture has no conclusion, but leads

directly to the introduction. The orchestra is always invisible,

placed behind the stage,[51] so as not to distract the attention by

such externals as the conducting, the movements of the musicians,

&c.

[Sidenote: TEACHING A PRINCESS.]

I wrote an “Alla Polacca,” with ʼcello accompaniment during my

visit to Prince Radziwill. It is nothing more than a brilliant

drawing-room piece—suitable for the ladies. I should like Princess

Wanda to practice it. I am supposed to have given her lessons. She

is a beautiful girl of seventeen, and it was charming to direct her

delicate fingers. But, joking apart, she has real musical feeling,

and does not need to be told when to play _crescendo_, _piano_, or

_pianissimo_. Princess Elise was so much interested in my Polonaise

(F minor) that I could not refuse to send for it. Please let me

have it by return of post. I did not wish to be thought impolite,

but I should not like to write it out of my head again, my dearest,

for I should, perhaps, make it very different from the original.

You can picture to yourself the character of the Princess from her

having me play the Polonaise to her every day. The Trio in A flat

major always pleases her particularly.[52] She wishes me much to

go to Berlin in May, so nothing stands in the way of my going to

Vienna in the Winter. It does not seem likely that I shall get off

before December. Papaʼs birthday is on the sixth, which I shall, in

any case, keep with him. I do not think of starting till the middle

of December. I hope also to see you again.

You would not believe what a blank I feel in Warsaw just now. I

have no one to whom I can speak a couple of really confidential

words. You want one of my portraits. I certainly would have sent it

you if I could have stolen one from Princess Elise, who has two in

her album, which, I am assured are very faithful likenesses; but

you, my dearest, need no picture of me. Believe me, I am always

with you and will never forget you to the end of my life.

I remind you once more of the Polonaise; please send it by return.

I have written some studies; I should play them well in your

presence. Last Saturday, Kessler played Hummelʼs E major Concerto,

at the Ressource. Next Saturday, perhaps, I shall play; I shall

choose the Variations dedicated to you.

Your faithful

FREDERIC.

* * * * *

_Warsaw, March 27th, 1830._

I never missed you so much as now. I have no one to whom I can pour

out my heart. A single look from you, after the concert, would

be more to me than the praise of all the critics here. Immediately

on the receipt of your letter, I wanted to describe my first

concert to you; but I was so distracted and busy with preparations

for the second, which took place on Monday, that I was not capable

of collecting my thoughts. I am not, indeed, in a much better mood

to-day, but I cannot delay the sending of this letter any longer,

for the post goes, and who knows when my mind will be at rest again?

[Sidenote: THE FIRST CONCERT IN VIENNA.]

The first concert, for which three days before there was neither

box nor stall to be had, did not, on the whole, make the impression

I had expected. The first Allegro of the F. minor concerto (not

intelligible to everyone) was indeed rewarded with a bravo, but

this was, I think, because the public wished to show that it

knew how to understand and appreciate earnest music. In every

country there are plenty of people who readily assume the airs of

connoisseurs. The Adagio and Rondo made a great effect and were

followed by the heartiest applause and shouts of bravo. But the

Potpurri on Polish songs[53] completely missed its mark. They

applauded indeed, but, evidently, only to show the player they were

not wearied with him.

Kurpinski[54] thought he discovered fresh beauties in my concerto

that evening. Ernemann was entirely satisfied. Elsner regretted

that my piano was not stronger, the bass being, as he thought, not

heard clearly enough.

Those sitting in the gallery or standing in the orchestra appear to

have been most satisfied; there were complaints in the pit of the

playing being too soft. I should very much like to know the gossip

about me at “Kopciuszek.”[55] In consequence of the remarks in the

pit, Mochnacki, after highly praising me—especially for the Adagio

in the _Polish Courier_—advised me, for the future, to use more

power and energy. I knew quite well where this power lay, so at the

second concert I did not play on my own but on a Vienna instrument.

This time the audience, again very large, were perfectly content.

The applause knew no bounds, and I was assured that every note rang

out like a bell, and that I played much more finely than before.

When I appeared, in reply to a recall, they called out “give

another concert.” The Cracovienne produced a tremendous sensation;

there were four rounds of applause. Kurpinski regretted that I had

not played the Polish Fantasia on the Vienna piano, a remark which

Grzymala repeated the other day in the _Polish Courier_. Elsner

says I could not be properly judged of until after the second

concert. I confess, candidly, that I would rather have played on

my own instrument. The Vienna piano was generally regarded as more

appropriate to the size of the building.

[Sidenote: PROGRAMME OF THE FIRST CONCERT.]

You know what the programme of the first concert was.[56] The

second began with a Symphony by Nowakowski[57] (par complaisance)

followed by a repetition of the first Allegro of my Concerto.

Then the Theatre Concert-master, Bulawski, played an Air Varié,

by Beriöt, and I, my Allegro and Rondo again. The second part

commenced with the Rondo Cracovienne. Meier sang an air from

Solivaʼs opera, “Helene and Malvina,” and, in conclusion, I

improvised on the Volkslied “W—miescie dziwne obyczaje,” (there

are strange customs in the town) which very much pleased the

people in the first rows. To be candid I must say that I did not

improvise as I had intended, but, perhaps, that would not have been

so well suited to the audience. I wonder that the Adagio pleased so

generally; from all I hear, it is with reference to this that the

most flattering observations have been made. You must have read the

newspapers, and you will see that the public were very pleased with

me.

A poem, addressed to me, and a large bouquet were sent to my house.

Mazurkas and Waltzes are being arranged on the principal themes

from my Concerto. Brzezina asked for my likeness, but I declined

giving it. This would be too much all at once, besides I do not

like the prospect of butter being wrapped up in the paper on which

I am pourtrayed, as was the case with Lelewelʼs portrait.

Wishes are expressed on all sides that I should give a third

concert, but I have no desire to do so. You would not believe

the excitement one has to go through for some days before the

performance. I hope to finish the first Allegro of the second

Concerto before the vacation, so I shall wait, at any rate, till

after Easter, although I am convinced that I should have a larger

audience than ever this time; for the “haute volée” have hardly

heard me at all yet. At the last concert a stentorian voice called

out from the pit, “Play at the Town Hall,” but I doubt whether

I shall follow this advice; if I play again, it will be in the

theatre. It is not a question of [Sidenote: PROCEEDS OF THE

CONCERTS.] receipts with me, for the Theatre did not bring me in

much. (The cashier, to whom everything was left, did as he liked.)

From both concerts, after all expenses had been deducted, I did not

receive quite 5,000 gulden,[58] although Dmuszewski, editor of the

_Warsaw Courier_, stated that no concert had been so crowded as

mine. Besides, the Town Hall, where the anxieties and arrangements

would be many, would not please everyone. Dobrzynski[59] is vexed

with me for not performing his symphony. Frau W. took it amiss that

I did not reserve a box for her, &c., &c.

I close this letter unwillingly, because I feel as if I had not

told you anything interesting yet. I have reserved all for the

desert which is nothing more than a warm embrace.

Your FREDERIC.

* * * * *

_Warsaw, May 15th, 1830._

You will certainly have wondered that Fritz did not answer your

letter by return of post; but as I could not immediately give the

information you asked for I delayed writing till to-day.

Now listen, my dearest, Henrietta Sonntag is coming to Warsaw

in June, or, perhaps, at the end of May. I am sure you will not

neglect the opportunity of hearing her. Oh, how thankful I am for

it. She must be in Danzig now, and from there she comes to us.

We have several concerts in prospect. Little Worlitzer, pianist

to the King of Prussia, has already been here a fortnight. He

plays very finely, and being of Jewish descent, has many natural

gifts. He has been with me; he is just sixteen; some of the things

he played at our house went famously. His best performance is

Moschelesʼs Variations on the Alexander March. He really plays

those excellently. You would like his style and manner of playing,

although—this to you only—he still lacks much to deserve his

title of Chamber _Virtuoso_. There is also a French pianist here,

Monsieur Standt. He intended giving a concert, but seems lately to

have relinquished the idea.

It is an agreeable piece of musical news that Herr Blahetka, father

of the _pianiste_ in Vienna, will, if I advise him, come here,

when the Diet meets, and give some concerts. But my position is a

difficult one; the man wants to make money, and if it happens that

his hopes are not fulfilled, he will be angry with me. I answered

immediately that I had often been asked whether he would not come,

and that many musicians and lovers of music would be glad to hear

his daughter; but I did not conceal from him that Sonntag would be

here, that Lipinski was coming, that we have only one theatre, and

that the expenses of a concert amount to at least 100 thalers. He

cannot say now that I did not properly inform him of the state of

things. It is very possible that he will come. I should be very

glad, and would do all in my power to get a full house for his

daughter. I would willingly also play with her on two pianos; for

you would not believe how kindly her father interested himself for

me in Vienna.

[Sidenote: THE NEW CONCERTO.]

I do not know yet when I shall commence my journey. I shall

probably be here during the hot months. The Italian Opera does not

begin in Vienna till September, so I have no occasion to hurry. The

Rondo for the new Concerto is not ready yet. I have not been in the

right mood to finish it. When the Allegro and Adagio are quite done

with, I shall not be in any anxiety about the _Finale_.

The Adagio in E major is conceived in a romantic, quiet, half

melancholy spirit. It is to give the impression of the eye resting

on some much loved landscape which awakens pleasant recollections,

such as a lovely spring moon-light night. I have written for the

violins to accompany _con sordini_. Will that have a good effect?

Time will show.

Write and tell me when you are coming back to Warsaw, for it would

be worse than it was the first time if I had to give my concert

without you. You do not know how I love you. Oh, if I could only

prove it! What would I not give to be able to embrace you heartily

once again.

* * * * *

_Warsaw, August 21st, 1830._

This is my second letter to you. You will scarcely think it

possible, but so it is.

I wrote to you directly after my prosperous return to Warsaw, but

as my parents stopped at Count Skarbekʼs, at Zelazowa Wola, I, of

course stopped too, and in the hurry forgot to post my letter. But

there is nothing bad in the world that has not some good in it.

Perhaps I shall not weary you so much with this as with the last

letter, when I had the image of your quiet country life, which I

had just quitted, constantly before my eyes. I may say, truly, that

I recall it with delight; I always feel a certain longing after

your beautiful country seat. I do not forget the weeping willow,

that Arbaleta! Oh, with what pleasure do I remember it! You have

teased me enough about it to punish me for all my sins. Let me tell

you what I have done since you left, and what is settled about my

departure.

[Sidenote: CONSTANTIA GLADKOWSKA.]

I was especially interested with Paërʼs opera, “Agnese,” because

Fräulein Gladkowska made her _débût_ in it. She looks better on the

stage than in a drawing-room. Her first-rate tragic acting leaves

nothing to be desired, and her vocalization, even to the high F

sharp or G, is excellent. Her _nuances_ are wonderful, and if her

voice was rather tremulous at first, through nervousness, she sang

afterwards with certainty and smoothness. The opera was curtailed

which, perhaps, did not make it seem so tedious to me. The harp

romance which Fräulein Gladkowska sang in the second act was very

fine. I was quite enraptured. She was recalled at the conclusion of

the opera, and greeted with unbounded ovations.[60]

In a weekʼs time Fräulein Watkow[61] is to play the _rôle_ of

Fiorilla, in the opera of “Il Turco in Italia,” which will be sure

to please the public better. A great many people blame the opera of

“Agnese,” without knowing why.

I do not contend that Soliva[62] might have chosen something better

for Gladkowska; “Vestalin” would, perhaps, have been more suitable,

but “Agnese” is beautiful also; the music has many good points,

which the young _debutante_ brought out capitally.

And now what am I to do?

I start next month, but I must first try my Concerto, for the Rondo

is ready now.

* * * * *

_Warsaw, August 31st, 1830._

It was high time for your letter to arrive, for as soon as I

received it, I lost my catarrh. Would that my letters might be

endowed with the same miraculous power.

I still stay here, and nothing, indeed, attracts me abroad. But I

am certain to go next month, in obedience to my calling, and my

reason, which must be weak, if it were not strong enough to conquer

all other inclinations.

This week I must try the whole of the E minor Concerto, with

quartet accompaniment, to give me confidence, as Elsner says the

first orchestral trial will not go well. Last Saturday, I tried

the Trio, and, perhaps, because I had not heard it for so long,

was satisfied with myself. “Happy man,” you will say, wonʼt you?

It then struck me that it would be better to use the Viola instead

of the Violin, as the first string predominates in the Violin, and

in my Trio is hardly used at all. The viola would, I think, accord

better with the ʼcello. The Trio will then be ready to print. So

much about myself. Now something as to the other musicians.

[Sidenote: FRÄULEIN WOTKOW.]

Last Saturday, Soliva brought forward his second pupil, Fräulein

Wotkow, who delighted the whole house with her natural grace and

good acting, also with her beautiful eyes and pearly teeth. She was

more charming on the stage than any of our actresses. I scarcely

recognized her voice at first, she was so agitated. But she acted

so excellently, no one would have supposed her to be a _debutante_.

Notwithstanding the encores and the enormous applause she received,

she did not overcome her embarassment till the second act, when the

capabilities of her voice revealed themselves, though not quite so

fully as at the rehearsal, and at the performance the day before

yesterday.

In vocal ability Fräulein Wotkow is far surpassed by Fräulein

Gladkowska. If I had not myself heard the former I should not have

believed there could be such a difference between two singers.

Ernemann shares our opinion, that it is not easy to find a singer

equal to Gladkowska, especially in the bell-like purity of her

intonation, and true warmth of feeling, which are only properly

displayed on the stage. She entrances her hearers. Wotkow made

several slight mistakes, whilst with Gladkowska one did not hear a

single note that was in the least doubtful, although she has only

performed twice in “Agnese.”

When I saw the two vocalists the day before yesterday and presented

your compliments to them, they were evidently gratified and

commissioned me to thank you.

Wotkowʼs reception was warmer than Gladkowskaʼs, which Soliva

did not seem to like. He said to me, yesterday, that he did not

wish Wotkow to win more applause than her fellow pupil. I think

a considerable share of the approbation is to be ascribed to the

character which pleases the public better (captivated also by the

young girlʼs beauty) than the tragic misery of the unhappy daughter

in Paerʼs opera. Gladkowska is to appear shortly in the “Diebischen

Elster,” but this “shortly” will last till I am over the mountains.

Perhaps you will then be in Warsaw, and will give me your opinion

of the performance. Her third _rôle_ is to be “Vestalin.”

* * * * *

_Warsaw, October 5th, 1830._

I was longing very much for your letter, which has somewhat

soothed me. You cannot conceive how impatient and wearied (a

feeling I cannot struggle against) I am of everything here. After

the orchestral trial of my second Concerto, it was decided that

I should appear with it at the Theatre on Monday, 11th instant.

Although this does not quite suit me, I am curious to know what

effect the composition will have on the public. I hope the Rondo

will produce a good impression generally. Soliva said, “il

vous fait beaucoup dʼhonneur;” Kurpinski thought it contained

originality, and Elsner an especially piquant rhythm. To arrange

a good concert, in the true sense of the word, and to avoid the

unfortunate clarionet and flageolet solos, Mdlles. Gladkowska and

Wotkow will give some solo numbers. As to overtures I will not have

the one either to “Leszek,” or to “Lodoiska,” but that to “William

Tell.”

You would hardly imagine the difficulty I had to obtain permission

for the ladies to sing. The Italian granted it readily, but I had

to go to a higher authority still: to the Minister Mostowski, who

finally agreed, for it makes no difference to him. I do not know

yet what they will sing, but Soliva tells me that a chorus will be

necessary for one of the arias.

I am certain not to be in Warsaw a week after the concert. My

trunk is bought, the outfit ready, the score corrected, the pocket

handkerchiefs hemmed, the new stockings and the new coat tried on,

&c. Only the leave-taking remains, and that is the hardest of all.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: THE CONCERT “A PERFECT SUCCESS.”]

_Warsaw, October 12th, 1830._

MY DEAREST,

The concert, yesterday, was a perfect success; I hasten to inform

you of it. I was not in the least anxious, and played as if I had

been at home. The hall was crammed. Görnerʼs symphony opened the

ball; then I played the first Allegro from the E minor Concerto;

the notes seemed to roll along of themselves on the Streicher

piano. A roar of applause followed. Soliva was very satisfied;

he conducted his Aria, with chorus, which was very well sung by

Fräulein Wotkow. She looked like a fairy in her light blue dress.

After this Aria came my Adagio and Rondo, and then the usual

interval. Connoisseurs and lovers of music came on to the stage and

complimented me on my playing, in the most flattering manner.

The second part began with the _Tell_ Overture. Soliva conducted

capitally, and the impression it produced was deep and abiding.

The Italian was really so good to me that I owe him my everlasting

gratitude. He afterwards conducted the Cavatina from “La Donna del

Lago,” which Fräulein Gladkowska sung. She wore a white dress, had

roses in her hair, and looked charmingly beautiful. She has never

sung as she did last evening, except in the air in “Agnese.” “O,

quanto lagrime per te versai,” and the “tutto detesto” were heard

splendidly, even to the low B. Zielinski declared that this B alone

was worth a thousand ducats.

When I had led the ladies from the stage I played my Fantasia

on National Airs. This time I understood myself, the orchestra

understood me, and the public understood us both. The Mazovian air,

at the end, made a great sensation. I was so rapturously applauded

that I had to appear four times to bow my thanks. And, be assured,

I did it quite gracefully, for Brandt had fully instructed me. If

Soliva had not taken my score home and corrected it, and, as

conductor, restrained me when I wanted to run away, I do not know

what would have happened. He kept us all so splendidly in check

that I never played so comfortably with an orchestra before. The

Streicher piano was very much liked, but Fräulein Wotkow still more.

I am thinking of nothing but my packing up. On Saturday or

Wednesday I go out into the wide world.

Ever your truly affectionate

FREDERIC.

This last concert, therefore, called forth the most favourable and

enthusiastic notices of Chopin. The Warsaw newspapers were all full of

his praises. They compared him to the chief European _virtuosi_, and

prophesied the most brilliant future, saying that some day Poland would

be justly proud of the great pianist and composer, &c., &c.

The sad but very important day in the life of a young artist, that on

which he leaves his fatherʼs house, drew near. Frederic had to part,

for a lengthened period, from all that was dearest to him, home,

parents, sisters, and also from that lovely young artiste, the ideal

object of his enthusiastic love. He was to leave her, and, alas! for

ever.

[Sidenote: CHOPIN LEAVES WARSAW.]

On November 2nd, 1830, he said adieu to his beloved parents, who gave

him their blessing, and embraced his sisters with tearful eyes. From

Warsaw he went first to Kalisz, where he expected to meet his friend,

Titus Woyciechowski, to travel with him to Vienna, through Breslau

and Dresden. A circle of friends, of which the venerable Elsner was

one, accompanied Frederic to Wola (the first village beyond Warsaw)

where the pupils of the Conservatoire awaited him and sang a cantata,

composed for the occasion by Elsner. At the banquet given there in

his honour, a silver goblet, of artistic workmanship filled to the

brim with his native earth, was presented to him. The sight of this

beautiful and ingenious gift caused the shining, art-loving eyes of

Frederic to fill with tears of the deepest emotion.

“May you, wherever you go, never forget your fatherland, or cease to

love it with a warm and faithful heart,” said the friend who presented

him the goblet in the name of them all. “Think of Poland, think of your

friends, who are proud to call you their countryman, who expect great

things from you, whose wishes and prayers accompany you.”

The young artist once more pressed the hand of each, and then turned

his steps onwards. Before him lay the wide, checkered, unknown world;

but the consciousness of a true aim and a green blossoming hope

sustained him.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VII.

_THE CLASSIC AND ROMANTIC ELEMENTS IN POLISH LITERATURE._

_INFLUENCE OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL ON CHOPIN. HIS FIRST

COMPOSITIONS._

To the lover and especially to the _connoisseur_ of music it will

be interesting to make a more thorough examination of Chopinʼs

compositions, in order to appreciate them rightly, and to learn with

what intellectual equipment he set out on his long years of travel. His

first works were written in a period of apparent quietness and calm.

After the battle of Waterloo, which had happened during the peaceful

labours of the Vienna Congress, the nations once more breathed freely;

the great conqueror was in captivity, and the political relations

of the European States seemed for the time settled. Peace, so much

desired, had succeeded at length to the long and sanguinary wars, and

brought with it the hope of quickened life and renewed effort.

Poland, like every other country, grew conscious of its own powers, its

pride revived, and patriotic reformers were energetic in diffusing

plans for the amelioration of its internal affairs. By degrees chaos

resolved itself into order, foreign influences were shaken off,

and foreign customs discarded. Despite the miseries the country

had suffered, some enthusiasts dreamed that the golden age of the

Jagellons was about to return. Men of science were astir in the field

of discovery, and eagerly seeking to throw fresh light on established

truths. For years the garlands of fame had been won by bold warriors,

and subtle politicians; now, poet, artist, and _savant_ were to

gather _their_ laurels on the peaceful fields of science and art. A

new intellectual life, full of aspiring fancy and creative impulse,

universally prevailed.

At the Vienna Congress the right of being called a “kingdom” had been

granted only to the smaller portion of Poland. Although exhausted

by the Napoleonic wars, and earnestly engaged in healing its own

wounds, the nation was anxiously desirous of restoring culture, and

encouraging literature and art. There was a general feeling that on

the establishment of a new social and political order, literature—as

in Germany and other countries—would find its subjects in the life

and manners of the people. The outbursts of feeling, the power of

conception, and the universal impulse towards expression would, it

was thought, lay the foundations of a national poetry, the classic

forms not being considered in harmony with the character of the Polish

nation.

Following the example of some industrious collectors of Polish

songs and proverbs, a brisk investigation was instituted into the

literary treasures of other countries. We had at that time but one

representative of the new æsthetical and philosophical ideas and poetic

tendencies—Casimir Brodzinski. As professor of Polish Literature at

the Warsaw University, and member of the Scientific Society, he could

not directly oppose the fundamental principles of his colleagues, who

belonged to the classical school; but these circumstances facilitated

rather than retarded the spread of his opinions, which he propagated

by his lectures at the University and by essays in the journals. These

opinions were based on the principles of Kant and Schiller, on the

historical study of Polish literature, and on the poetical theories

of the Romantic School. [Sidenote: RISE OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL.]

Casimir Brodzinski gathered around him a band of talented young men,

and a contest began, which daily became more violent and bitter,

between the Classists and Romanticists. On one side were the advocates

of the old classic principles; on the other youth, with its ready

enthusiasm for everything new, with such men as Bohdan Zaleski, Sewerin

Goszczynski, Anton Malczewski, Stephan Witwicki, Moritz Goslowski, and

later on Slowacki and Sigismund Krasinski. Mickiewicz,[63] the gifted

author of “Grazyna” and “Dziady;” and the greatest of Polish poets,

supported by the historians Lelewel and Brodzinski, placed himself at

the head of the Romantic School, and his genius soon triumphed over its

opponents.

At the time when the battle between the champions of the two schools

was raging hottest, Chopin felt the first stirrings of creative genius.

Living in the midst of a youthful circle, enthusiastic for national

poetry, which it not unjustly regarded as the basis of all poetry, he

made research for national melodies, and sought by careful artistic

treatment to enhance their value and give them an assured place in

musical literature. In this he succeeded more completely than any

other composer. No one could reproduce with such beauty and truth the

peculiar melancholy feeling pervading all Sarmatian melodies.

[Sidenote: NATIONAL AND SOCIAL INFLUENCES.]

The noblest enthusiasm glows in Chopinʼs music: it may be called the

complement, or rather the illustration of the new national poetry. An

eminent Polish historian says of it: “A peculiar importance belongs

to Chopinʼs music, because in it more than in any other our nation is

represented in the noblest light, in the possession of an independence,

hitherto unknown. Such music springs from the same source as our

national poetry.”

With respect to Chopin, the same author also quotes the following

passage from Alfred de Mussetʼs “Confessions dʼun enfant du

siecle,” which characterizes, with such wonderful poetic feeling and

psychological keenness, the prevailing malady of the age: “When the

war was over, the Emperor an exile, and portraits of Wellington and

Blücher, with the inscription ‘Salvatoribus mundi,’ adorned every wall,

a new generation was beholding, with gloomy thought, the ruins of the

past. In the veins of these youths flowed the same warm blood which had

flooded the whole world. Everyone raved about the snows of Moscow, and

the sands of Egypt, every soul was full of dreams, swelling with lofty

thoughts and panting with desires which were impossible, for wherever

men turned their eyes all was emptiness and desolation. The more mature

believed in nothing, the learned lived in an eternal contradiction,

poets preached despair. An awful hopelessness raged like a pest in

the civilised world.” If, according to Alfred de Musset, political

and literary circumstances had exercised so baneful an effect on the

younger generation in France, how much more excuse was there for such a

state of things in Poland, where hope had turned into scepticism, and

melancholy become a chronic evil.

The sensitive and pliant Sarmatian temperament is as susceptible

to hope as to despair, but the miserable political condition of

the country for generations could not but foster an inclination to

melancholy. The more finely strung natures, who perhaps, maintain with

difficulty the necessary equilibrium for ordinary affairs, are, of

course most sensitive to such influences. Considering the political

circumstances of Poland, we can only wonder that misery and despair

did not lead the nation to further extremes.

Among those whose productions expressed their love for their country,

and profound sorrow for its shameful debasement, Chopin, for tenderness

and refinement, stands pre-eminent. His handsome aristocratic

appearance, and that enthusiasm of nature, which was transfused into

his music, distinguished him above his compeers. The fatal events

which, at the beginning of the decade of 1830, brought Poland to the

verge of ruin, could not but influence the works of every native

artist. Libelt, one of the chief poets of that time, sung from the very

depth of his soul:

“Die traute Heimathe bietet uns kein Gluck,

Erliegt dem Vaterland das Misgeschick.”

How could Chopin sing a cheerful song out of a merry heart? He would

have had to assume a cheerfulness he could not feel, which to his

intensely natural character would have been extremely difficult. Like

every great man, he was greatest when left to the inspirations of his

genius. The fire and spirit of youth, indeed, glowed in his soul, and

sweet melodies flowed from his pen, but through his smile the hot tear

always glistened—a tribute to his country and to his brethren fallen in

her defence.

The Rondo, op. 1 (dedicated to Madame Linde) composed in 1825,

and afterwards arranged as a duet, although artistically written

throughout, is Chopinʼs weakest work. His individuality was not

at that time fully developed, and Hummelʼs influence was unmistakable.

It is no disparagement of his talents to say this, for every young

pianist of that period made Hummel his model, and, moreover, every

genius, however independent, begins by unconsciously imitating his

favourite composers and artists. As an instance of this we need only

mention Beethoven.

In the following works, the “Introduction et Polonaise brillante pour

piano et ʼcello” (op. 3), the Sonata in C minor, (op. 4), dedicated to

Elsner, and the Trio (op. 8), which, although entitled “Premier Trio,”

has had no successor, the leaning towards Hummel is still evident; the

motives are easily comprehensible, harmonious, clear and simple in

their development, but the Variations on “Don Juan” already bear the

true Chopin stamp.

[Sidenote: SCHUMANN ON CHOPIN.]

In 1831, just after the appearance of this piece, R. Schumann wrote a

long article in the _Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung_, under the simple

heading, “An opus 2.” We quote a part of it:

“Eusebius had just stepped softly into the room. You are familiar

with the ironical smile on the pale face by which he tries to

excite attention. I was sitting at the piano with Florestan, who

is, as you are aware, one of those peculiar musicians who pre-judge

everything new and extraordinary. But to-day a surprise awaited

him. With the words, ‘Hats off, gentlemen, a genius!’ Eusebius laid

before us a piece of music of which we were not allowed to see the

title. I carelessly turned over the leaves. There is something

fascinating in the enjoyment of music without sound. I think, too,

that every composer has his own manner of writing notes; Beethoven

looks different to Mozart, just as Jean Paulʼs words do not look

like Goetheʼs. But now it seemed to me as if quite strange eyes,

flowersʼ eyes, basilisksʼ eyes, peacocksʼ eyes were gazing at me.

Light dawned in places; I thought I saw Mozartʼs ‘La ci darem la

mano’ entwined in a hundred chords. Leoporello seemed to be looking

steadily at me, and Don Juan glided past in his white mantle.

‘Now play it,’ said Florestan. Eusebius consented, and we sat

squeezed in a window niche to listen. He played like one inspired

and brought forth an innumerable host of the most life-like forms;

as if the enthusiasm of the moment had raised his fingers beyond

their usual possibilities. With the exception, however, of a happy

smile, Florestan only expressed his approbation by saying that

these Variations might have been Beethovenʼs or Franz Schubertʼs,

if these composers had been pianoforte _virtuosi_. But when he

turned to the title page and read, ‘_La ci darem la mano_, varié

pour le pianoforte par Frédéric Chopin, Oeuvre 2,’ we both cried in

astonishment, ‘a second work!’ We were dumbfounded, and could only

exclaim, ‘Yes, but this is something clever. Chopin—I never heard

the name, who can he be? An unmistakable genius. In the Variations,

in the concluding movement and in the rondo genius shines in every

bar.’”

For one of the greatest musicians in Germany to write thus

enthusiastically of an Opus 2, by an unknown composer, the work must

have been marked by unusual originality, creative power, and technical

perfection. One of the most noteworthy of the innumerable services

rendered by Robert Schumann is, that in spite of the most adverse

criticism, he first paved the way for Chopinʼs popularity in Germany,

in which endeavour he was zealously aided by his wife, the world-famed

pianist, Clara Wieck Schumann.

[Sidenote: CHOPINʼS MAZURKAS.]

Among Chopinʼs works, especially distinguished for newness of form,

we place the Mazurkas, op. 6 and 7. This national dance, with its

monotonous, poor, and apparently common-place rhythm, rose under

Chopinʼs magic touch to a poetic dignity, of which no Polish musician

had hitherto dreamed. I have already mentioned how carefully and

perseveringly Chopin listened to and assimilated the national songs;

he eliminated all vulgarity from the rhythm, and retained only its

characteristic element, while the melody he idealised and glorified

with his finest poetry. Thus arose that exquisite series of mazurkas,

filled with gladness and melancholy, smiles and tears. The two works

referred to form, so to speak, the first links in the chain.

In a foreign country, hundreds of miles from his beloved home, Chopin

often felt an indescribable yearning for his family and fatherland.

At such times art was his only, and indeed his best solace. His piano

was his confidant, and for hours he would pour out his feelings in

sweet melancholy strains: the tones-poems thus composed being among

the finest which ever flowed from his pen. This mazurka form, peculiar

to the Poles, seemed to reveal a particular phase of feeling shared in

more or less by all Chopinʼs contemporaries. The mazurka is the musical

expression of a national yearning, and is to every Slav singularly full

of charm and sympathy.

[Sidenote: CHOPINʼS AND FIELDʼS NOCTURNES.]

The three Nocturnes (op. 9) are true Petrarchian sonnets, overflowing

with grace, fairy-like charm, and captivating sweetness; they seem like

whisperings, on a still summer night, under the balcony of the beloved

one. Chopin writes: “I have the _cognoscenti_ and the poetic natures

on my side.” But the reviewers appear to have belonged to neither

category, for the reception they gave to the nocturnes was to put their

heads together and say, “he has stolen it from Field!” They even went

so far as to assert that Chopin was a pupil[64] of that composer, who

was then living in St. Petersburg.[65]

There exists, at all times, a species of half-educated, envious

criticism, ever ready to support mediocre talent, and to stifle the

first germs of genius. Chopin felt its sting. Foremost among such

opponents was Rellstab, of Berlin, who, in his journal, the _Iris_,

wrote disparagingly of Chopinʼs talents and compositions. Sikorski, on

the other hand, well-known as one of the best and most conscientious

of Polish critics, says: “On comparing Fieldʼs nocturnes with those of

Chopin, it must be candidly confessed that the former do not surpass

the latter; although it is not to be denied that in spite of some

striking Chopin traits, opus 9 somewhat resembles Fieldʼs works in

depth of feeling and particular turns of expression. Their differences

may be thus described: Fieldʼs nocturnes represent a cheerful, blooming

landscape, bathed in sunshine; while Chopinʼs depict a romantic,

mountainous region, with a dark back-ground, and lowering clouds

flashing forth lightning.”

Worthy of mention among Chopinʼs early works are the “Variations

brillantes” (op. 12), “Grandes Etudes” (op. 10), and some very

interesting pieces with orchestral accompaniments, written between

1828—30, for example, “Grand Fantaisie sur des airs polonais” (op. 13),

“Cracovienne” (op. 14), and two Concertos, of which the one in E minor

was composed before his last journey from Warsaw. The Fantasia and

Rondo are almost unknown to the German public, although distinguished

by an originality never wanting in Chopinʼs works. The technical

difficulties, and the specifically Polish character of the earlier

works have, perhaps, hindered their popularity. But this is not the

case with the Concertos in E minor (op. 11), and F minor (op. 21.)[66]

Chopinʼs spiritual kinsman, Robert Schumann, valued them very highly,

and made merry over their opponents, whom he jocosely likened to the

French, in the time of Louis Philippe, refusing to recognize the

legitimate Duke of Modena as King, because he had ascended the throne

by a revolution.

Chopin never imitated other composers; and never suffered himself to

be misled by unjust blame or vulgar praise. The approval of genuine

musicians gave him pleasure, but we can say of him, as we cannot of

everyone, that he never courted distinctions or applause. This noble

feature of his character was sometimes inimical to his interests, for

the gentlemen of the press are not best pleased when a poet and artist

pays no homage to their power by asking for their help and favour.

In 1834, Schumann wrote, in his “Gesammelte Schriften über Musik und

Musiker,” vol. 1, p. 275: “We may incidentally refer to a famous

jackass of a newspaper which, as we hear, (for we do not read it, and

flatter ourselves that in this we are not quite unlike Beethoven)

sometimes glances at us, under its mask, with its dagger-like eyes,

and only because we jokingly suggested that the member of their staff

who wrote about Chopinʼs Don Juan Variations resembled a bad verse,

with a couple of feet too much, which it was proposed to lop off at

leisure. But why should I recall this to-day, when I have just come

from Chopinʼs F minor Concerto? Beware! Milk, cool blue milk _versus_

poison. For what is a whole year of newspapers to a Chopin concerto?

What is master of arts madness to poetic madness? What are ten

editorial crowns to an _adagio_ in the second concerto?... Chopin does

not present himself with an orchestral army like the great geniuses, he

has only a little cohort, but this is devoted to him to the last man.”

[Sidenote: LISZT ON CHOPINʼS CONCERTS.]

Chopinʼs friend and brother artist, Franz Liszt, the greatest pianist

of the present century, although not sharing Schumannʼs unbounded

enthusiasm, always pays due recognition to Chopinʼs talents, and

occasionally the tribute of his supreme admiration. Speaking of the two

Concertos, Chopin would, he thinks, have preferred greater freedom, but

did violence to the promptings of his genius in order to conform to

the old-fashioned rules of composition. Liszt says: “These works are

distinguished by a style of rare excellence, and contain passages of

great interest, phrases of astonishing grandeur. Take, for example,

the _Adagio_ in the second Concerto, for which he had a decided

preference himself, and was in the habit of frequently performing.

The accessory figures display the composerʼs happiest manner, while

the proportions of the chief phrase of the fundamental subject are

wonderfully grand. This subject, with a recitative in the minor, forms

the antistrophe. The whole movement is ideally perfect, now radiant

with joy, now melting in pity.”

I feel bound, in conclusion, to supplement the criticisms of Schumann

and Liszt, at that time the only representatives of the so-called music

of the future, by an opinion formed at the present day, and unbiased,

therefore, by the prejudices and controversies to which our masterʼs

creative genius gave rise. The younger generation of musicians—and the

pianists in particular—having, in a great measure, studied Chopin from

their early youth, know how to appreciate him, for we can only truly

estimate what we are thoroughly acquainted with, and which has, so to

speak, become to us a second nature. The discussion as to Chopinʼs

_status_ in the musical world is over, and his high position assigned

to him once for all. It is, however, interesting to read the criticism

of one of the most gifted pianists of the present day, Hermann Scholtz.

In a letter, which I here quote, he says, speaking of Chopinʼs earliest

compositions:

[Sidenote: HERMANN SCHOLTZʼS CRITICISM.]

“In considering these works, we are most astonished at the great

productiveness which he displayed in early youth. What a wealth of

melody, harmony, and rhythm appears even in these first compositions!

His originality is marvellous, for at a period when other composers

are more or less dependant on models, with him everything is new.

He is rightly called the creator of a new pianoforte music; for who

before him wrote for the instrument as he did? in whom do we find

such nobility of thought, such spiritualization of passages? I will

merely remind you of the manner in which he treated the left hand. His

tone-poems in the dance form (especially his mazurkas and polonaises)

receive an unusual charm from their national colouring.

“Among his weakest compositions are the ‘Rondo, op. 1,’ ‘Sonata,

op. 4,’ and ‘Rondo à la Mazur, op. 5,’ which in form leaves much

to be desired, but, by its melodic charm and grace of feeling,

is so irresistably fascinating that its weaknesses are more than

counterbalanced. Exception might be taken to the instrumentation of

the ‘Cracovienne,’ the Fantasia on Polish airs, the Variations on ‘Don

Juan,’ and the two Concertos, but on examining the pianoforte part we

find it full of the most beautiful thoughts, besides an unusual number

of passages quite new of their kind and affording ample opportunity for

the display of the pianistʼs virtuosity. I would particularly mention

the _Larghetto_, from the second Concerto, a piece full of poetic

charm. In it all the attributes of a perfect work of art appear in the

happiest union: noble melody, choice harmonies, agreeable figures, and

the perfection of form, while the thoroughly original ideas are finely

contrasted. One thing, indeed, is frequently lacking in Chopinʼs

compositions—especially in those written in the larger forms—the

thematic work, which is the _point dʼappui_ in the works of Beethoven

and the older masters. In view of his undeniable excellencies, we

readily look with indulgence on these minor failings in an artist of

such rare imaginative power as Chopin, who, while revealing to his

hearers a new world of thought, is himself, completely absorbed in the

creations of his fancy, for which reason most of his shorter works give

the impression of an improvisation.

“Chopin gives us his finest and most finished work in the smallest

forms, such as the nocturnes, in which we see the real enthusiasm of

his nature; his studies even are redolent with poetry. Play numbers 3,

6, 9, 10, and 12 from op. 10, and you cannot fail to agree with me. I

consider the last study (in C minor), with its heroic character, as the

most beautiful in this collection. To Chopin is due the merit of having

first used the broken chords in a spread-out form, which had formerly

been written only in a close position. To this innovation we owe a host

of interesting figures, as his studies and concertos abundantly prove.

The transposition of the third and other intervals to a higher octave

produces that agreeable effect which is so captivating in his music.

Chopin may possibly have received a suggestion from Weber, who used

plenty of firm chords in a scattered position.

[Sidenote: CHARACTERISTICS OF HIS MUSIC.]

“One of Chopinʼs special characteristics is the employment of the

diminished chord, especially the chord of the seventh. This frequently

occurs in his mazurkas, in which, by the enharmonic use of this chord,

he accomplishes a charming return to the chief subject. We must point

out a passage in the Etude in A flat, No. 10, op. 10, in which, by

an enharmonic change of the ordinary chord of the seventh, the chief

melody re-enters on the chord of the six-four, which produces an effect

quite bewitching. We meet with similar examples in Schumannʼs Romance

(F sharp) and Mendelssohnʼs ‘Songs without Words’ (No. 1, book 2.)

Wagner, also, has turned this modulation to the happiest account in his

newest operas.

“Another of Chopinʼs peculiarities is that he always repeats the chief

thought in a new form, and by arabesques or fresh harmonization always

gives it an additional interest.”

With such an intellectual equipment, of whose greatness he was not

himself conscious, Chopin went abroad. Granting that his creative

talent developed in after years, and that he daily gained fresh stores

of knowledge and experience, we still maintain that, as regards real

inspiration, he was never grander or more independent than in his

first works. They glow with that inimitable youthful fire, which no

one possesses for more than a limited period, but which produces an

unfailing delight and an indelible impression.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VIII.

_GERMAN AND ITALIAN MUSIC IN THE YEARS 1827—1831. JOHANN

MATUSZYNSKI._

The goal of Chopinʼs travels was Italy, the land still glorious in

fame, the land of love, the cradle of the arts. In the home of the

great masters, where sweet melodies are heard in every mouth, he hoped

to perfect himself in the practice of his art, and to gather fresh

thoughts for new works.

[Sidenote: POPULARITY OF ITALIAN MUSIC.]

In Germany, music had, by the first quarter of the present century,

attained a high position; such men as Handel, Glück, Haydn, Mozart,

Beethoven, and Weber had enriched the world with masterpieces; all the

larger towns possessed a good opera house, and the best singers and

instrumentalists were heard in the concert halls. But the _repertoires_

consisted almost exclusively of Italian music, especially of the works

of that most prolific writer and universal favourite, Gioacchino

Rossini. Mozartʼs operas were rarely heard: “Der Freischütz” was the

only German opera that had attained any popularity; “Fidelio” met with

so little success that, after one performance in Vienna, it was

withdrawn, and, as was then thought, finally.

Beethovenʼs immortal works, however highly _connoisseurs_ might esteem

them, were lying unheeded in libraries. The _chefs dʼorchestres_,

either from indolence, personal grudge, or because they were envious

of the master who had surpassed all other composers, showed little

readiness to study his wonderful creations; besides which, the players

of that time were seldom technically qualified for the difficult

task of adequately rendering Beethovenʼs Symphonies. The more easily

comprehensible music of the Italian school was received by the public

with great _gusto_, and only a few isolated voices were heard asking

for deeper and more earnest works.

Although Beethoven had been sleeping three years in the Währinger

churchyard, at Vienna, nothing of his music was heard beyond an

occasional performance of his larger works at the Vienna “Spirituel

oder Gesellschafts-Concerten,” or the production of one of the last

quartets by Schuppanzigh, who received but little thanks for his

pains.[67] Beethovenʼs Sonatas had as completely vanished from the

piano as if they had been buried with their author. By a considerable

section of the public his glorious Pianoforte Concertos, and the Violin

Concerto were thought wearisome, and almost unplayable; only by a very

small and select minority was the master sincerely reverenced and

warmly admired. Through their exertions to make his works accessible to

the general public, his fame gradually increased, till, like the sun

long struggling through its clouds, it shone over the whole civilised

world.

How often must the master have been cut to the heart at seeing how

small was the number of those who understood him, and how many of his

countrymen exclusively preferred Italian music. But every lofty genius

is aware of the real measure of its own greatness: mediocre ability

over-estimates itself, great talent knows what are its capacities,

but genius despite much or long misunderstanding, and uninfluenced by

praise or blame, goes on its way, trusting to the voice within which

ever and again cries, “your time is coming.”

Beethoven made no secret of his opinions, and, regardless of giving

offence, spoke out plainly against the French and Italian music of

his day. To this Schindler, in his Biography of Beethoven, refers as

follows: “At the beginning of the third decade of the present century,

when the flood of Italian music was at its height, Beethoven was one

day conversing with some friends on the almost desperate prospects of

musical art, when we heard him say decisively, ‘But they cannot deprive

me of my place in the history of art.’” This clearly shows that sure

confidence about the future consoled him for the lack of present

success.

Under such circumstances the generality of compositions were, of

course, of an insipid kind, designed only for external effect. The

famous pianists of the day—Field, Cramer, Klengel (pupils of Clementi),

and Hummel (pupil of Dionys Weber)[68]—gradually disappeared from the

scene of the triumphs of Field as a _virtuoso_, and of Hummel as a

composer and tasteful player. Among a younger generation of musicians,

Kalkbrenner bore the palm; after him came Moscheles, Herz, Thalberg,

and Mendelsohn. Liszt had not made a name till some years later. Felix

Mendelssohn had attracted attention by his instrumental works, but his

fame was then merely in the bud. Franz Schubert[69] was only known in

Vienna and Prague as a song-writer. In Vienna, where he was born and

lived for the whole of his short life, people knew nothing, or cared

nothing, about his C major Symphony.

[Sidenote: AN ATTEMPTED MUSICAL REFORM.]

A little band of true lovers of art, men to whom music was something

sacred, strove to bring about a reform, and shrunk not from material

sacrifices in the cause of earnest music. Deeming the encouragement

of young and struggling artists a _desideratum_ they offered prizes

for the best symphony, which were competed for from time to time,

as, in 1834, when Lachner won the first prize. Attracted by the

honour and pecuniary advantages there was no lack of competitors, but

although most of the compositions displayed knowledge, industry, and

conscientious work, none of them were illumined by the immortal spark

of genius. It was at length perceived that no amount of prize-giving

would produce genius, or even talent; that the true musician, like the

poet, must be _born_; and the scheme was abandoned.

The German masters of that day were more successful in the domain of

opera than in that of symphony; Winterʼs “Das unterbrochene Opferfest,”

Weiglʼs “Schweizerfamilie,” Spohrʼs “Jessonda,” “Azor und Zemire,”

and “Faust,” were favourably received for upwards of twenty years.

Of Kreutzerʼs works, “Das Nachtlager von Granada” has alone been

preserved, of Marschnerʼs (the greatest opera composer of the three we

have mentioned) “Der Templar und die Judin” and “Hans Heiling” have

remained on the stage. Lortzing, a writer of comic operas, came out

later, as also did Flotow. Meyerbeer, whose “Robert le Diable,” and

“Les Huguenots” have now been over the whole world, had then, with the

exception of his “Ritter des Kreuzes,” only written operas for the

Italian stage, but had been unable to compete with the highly-admired

Rossini.

[Sidenote: PAGANINIʼS PLAYING.]

Italy could no longer boast illustrious _virtuosi_ like Corelli,

Tartini, Viotti, Scarlatti, and Clementi, whose genius had attracted

the eyes of all Europe; but she possessed a Paganini, the greatest

violinist of the century, as Catalini was the greatest singer. Spohr,

in his autobiography, says a great deal in disparagement of Paganini,

not, indeed, from jealousy, for, being himself one of the greatest

violinists musical history can produce, he adhered as closely to the

principles of the Classic School as Paganini did to those of the

Romantic. Those who heard them both say, that although they could not

but admire Spohr, he never carried them away with the same force, or

produced such a deep undying impression as Paganini.

In 1829, Paganini appeared at several concerts in Warsaw, and Chopin

was entranced by his playing. He never ceased to speak with enthusiasm

of the Paganini evenings, which seemed to carry him out of the real

world into a land of happy dreams.

Lipinski,[70] who had made Paganiniʼs acquaintance at Piacenza, met

him again in Warsaw, and the two artists greeted each other with the

sincerest pleasure. In spite of all the honour paid to the great

Italian, it was felt that Polish patriotism was in question, and this

showed itself very warmly. A competition was proposed, which the two

artists accepted; they each played their favourite pieces in turn, and

concluded with a double Concerto by Kreutzer,[71] amid frantic shouts

of applause.

The modesty of Chopinʼs character and his freedom from jealousy

appear from a remark which he made on this occasion, “If I were such

a pianist as Paganini is a violinist I should like to engage in a

similar competition with a pianist of equal powers.” That evening he

made up his mind to pay a long visit to Paganiniʼs fatherland; no less

did the singers attract him “to the land where the citrons bloom,” for

Italy had at that day a more brilliant array of vocal artists than

any country in Europe. The mild climate of those happy regions is

favourable to the development of fine voices; but the Italian singing

masters understand also the art of bringing out the voice to the best

advantage.

[Sidenote: ITALIAN MUSIC.]

The Italian composers, Rossini, Mercadente, Vaccai, Bellini, and

Donizetti wrote excellently for the voice, but they not only required

a fine, rich organ, but an artistic culture, such as in these days,

unfortunately, is rare. What a stimulus to fresh effort Chopin hoped to

receive from hearing Rubini, Mario, Galli, Lablache, Tamburin, Pasta,

Judith, Grusi, and Palazzesi!

In Poland, Italian opera was considered the finest in the world. Every

great city, like London, Paris, Vienna, St. Petersburg, or Stockholm,

had an Italian opera house; even in such cities as Dresden and Münich

there was an Italian as well as a German opera, or at least Italian

singers were engaged besides German ones.

Had Chopin gone to Italy his playing would undoubtedly have captivated

a people so sensitive to artistic beauty, and it is possible that the

voice of praise might have rendered him insensible to other influences;

but as a mere listener he had been learning to admire, and criticise

the achievements of others.

Mozart, to whom Chopin looked up with reverence, had visited Italy

when fourteen years of age, and won great triumphs as a pianist, but

as soon as he had heard the glorious voices and perfect vocalization

of the operatic singers, he felt stirred by the desire of writing an

opera. In 1770, he composed “Midritate Rè di Ponta,” and the success

of this work made him resolve to devote his energies thenceforth more

especially to the stage. In no other country could a composer attain

such operatic triumphs; the report of a new and well-received opera

ran like wild-fire from town to town, and the fame of a young composer

spread from the Italian cities over the whole world.

Meyerbeer also began his career as a pianist, and as such achieved a

brilliant success. Salieri, hearing him improvise at Vienna, at once

discerned his ability, and said to him, “What are you going to do?

Go to Italy, and study the operatic style, and the Italian method of

singing.” Through the influence of his wealthy family, Meyerbeerʼs

first operatic attempts had been produced at the Royal Theatre in

Berlin, but had excited little interest. To the somewhat dispirited

young writer, Salieriʼs advice seemed very acceptable. He acted upon

it, and when he had been some months in Milan, wrote an operetta,

which had a very favourable reception. After an interval of a year he

produced the “Crociato in Egitto,” which carried the name of Meyerbeer

all over Italy. Although not quite twenty years of age, the doors of

the Royal Academy of Music in Paris were opened to him, and they were

the key to those of the entire musical world.

Many of Chopinʼs friends and admirers used to say, “Our Frederic will

do likewise, and become a first rate operatic composer.” For him,

however, a different though a still splendid destiny was in store. The

non-fulfilment of these expectations, to which his rare musical gifts

had given rise, may be explained by external circumstances.

[Sidenote: WHY HE DID NOT WRITE AN OPERA.]

It seems at first sight a matter of surprise that Chopin did not

produce one dramatic work during his many yearsʼ residence in Paris,

where there is such an abundance of good models and first-rate artists;

besides which there was at that time not only the Grand Opera, but

the Comic and Italian operas. But no one fully acquainted with the

circumstances will be astonished that, in Paris, Chopin should have

held aloof from the stage. In Italy, a new opera can be mounted without

much expense, for the public care little about costumes and scenery.

They attend the opera solely for the music; if this finds favour and

the singers are good a new work may be performed, several nights in

succession, and the fortune of the composer is made. But in Paris a new

opera necessitates a large outlay, besides which—and particularly in

the case of a foreigner—a famous reputation and influential patronage

are requisite for the acceptance of any great operatic work. The

Parisians demand a mounting at once tasteful and gorgeous, and every

opera—whatever the excellence of the music—must include some brilliant

dances in order to produce a due effect. Otherwise a _fiasco_ may be

predicted with something like certainty.

When Chopin settled in Paris he had to take thought for means of

subsistence, in order to render needless any further pecuniary

sacrifices on the part of his parents. In spite of his masterly skill

he did not find it easy to gain a footing in a city, where there were

already many pianists of talent and celebrity. In the winter famous

performers from all parts of Europe resorted to the capital of the

continent to let their light shine before the leaders of fashion.

To keep abreast of such competitors Chopin was compelled to study

continuously, and only a _virtuoso_ knows what this means. Neither

could he abandon society, although this would have been better for his

delicate health. If he could have lived according to his inclinations

as a composer, not as an executant, and a Scribe had written a libretto

for him, an opera might then have been included among his productions

in Paris.

But we have been anticipating and must return to our artist, whose

beautiful, dreamy eyes beamed with delight as he thought of Italy, the

ideal land of his imagination. He was subject, of course, to seasons

of depression, and yearning after his beloved family, for his was not

one of those superficial natures which soon forgets what is not before

its eyes. He thought fondly of parents and sisters, and of his adored

Constantia with all the passionate ardour of his poetic soul. Her sweet

voice was ever ringing in his ears, and in his dreams he saw her eyes

suffused with tears; while the ring which she had slipped on his finger

at parting was his dearest jewel. His letters to his confidential

friend, Johann Matuszynski, show how noble and fervent was his love,

yet Constantiaʼs name never once appears in his letters to his family,

from whom he kept secret his attachment. He used earnestly to beg his

friend to send him frequent news of his “angel of peace,” as he called

his Constantia, that he might not perish with longing and unrest.

[Sidenote: JOHANN MATUSZYNSKI]

As this friend faithfully fulfilled what was required of him, a brief

reference may be made to his life. Johann Matuszynski was born in

Warsaw, December 9th, 1809, and, after passing through the Lyceum,

went to the University to study medicine. At the end of six terms of

diligent study, he was appointed regimental surgeon in 1830, just

when the war of freedom broke out in Poland. Four years later he

graduated at Tübingen, and received the diploma of doctor of medicine

and surgery. At the same time he wrote a treatise on “Plica Polonica,”

which was highly commended. He next went to Paris, where he immediately

visited his friend Chopin, whom he had not seen for five years.

They had been schoolfellows at the Lyceum, and as the doctor was an

excellent flautist they had as boys played duets together. A weakness

of the chest obliged Matuszynski, in after years, to abandon his

instrument.

In Paris he soon attracted the attention of the first physicians, and,

what for a foreigner is very rare, was made professor at the “Ecole de

Médicine.” Proud of this position, he devoted himself to his profession

with an assiduity injurious to his delicate health, and he died of

consumption, April 20th, 1842.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER IX.

CHOPINʼS STAY IN BRESLAU, DRESDEN, PRAGUE, AND VIENNA.

At Kaliz, where Frederic met his friend and travelling companion, Titus

Woyciechowski, he was the guest of the physician, Dr. Kelbich. That

most agreeable man requested him to give a concert in the little town,

but the young artist declined, not being satisfied with the orchestra.

At the present day, a famous pianoforte _virtuoso_ like Chopin would

not concern himself about the orchestra, but unhesitatingly perform the

longest programme, without the assistance of any other artists. Then,

however, pianists rarely played less than two pieces with orchestral

accompaniment; they engaged the co-operation of other musicians, partly

from a respect for art, partly for the sake of offering the public more

variety.

Chopin declared that it was impossible to play the whole evening,

and as soon as Woyciechowski arrived, he bade a grateful farewell to

his hospitable host and pursued his journey. The friends stopped at

Breslau, from whence Chopin wrote as follows:—

_Breslau, November, 9th, 1830._

MY BELOVED PARENTS AND SISTERS,

We arrived here very comfortably on Saturday evening, at six,

in bright pleasant autumn weather. We put up at the Hotel “Zur

Goldenen Gans,” and, as soon as we had dressed and taken some

refreshment, we went to the theatre, where Raimundʼs “Alpine King”

was being performed. You will see the piece some day. The public

admired the scenery more than we did. I thought the acting pretty

good. The day before yesterday “Maurer and Schlosser” was given,

but not in first-rate style. To-day I shall hear the “Interrupted

Sacrifice;” I am quite curious to see how it will turn out. There

is a want of good singers here, but then the theatre is very cheap;

a place in the pit only costs two Polish gulden.[72]

[Sidenote: MUSIC AT BRESLAU.]

Breslau pleases me much better this time than last. I have

delivered Sowinskiʼs letter, but have scarcely seen him yet, for

we were unfortunately out when he called. We had first gone to the

_Ressource_, where, by invitation of the conductor, Schnabel, I was

present at the rehearsal for the concert in the evening. There are

three concerts a week.

As is often the case at rehearsals, there was a very poor

orchestra; a certain Referendar Hellwig was going to perform

Moschelesʼ E flat major Concerto. Before this gentleman sat down,

Schnabel, who had not heard me for four years, asked me to try the

piano. I could not refuse this request, and played some Variations.

Schnabel overwhelmed me with expressions of praise and pleasure.

This made Hellwig feel a little uneasy, and I was pressed to take

his place in the evening. Schnabel threw his influence into the

scale, and asked me so heartily, that I could not deny the dear old

man his wish. He is a great friend of Herr Elsnerʼs, which means

much to me; but I told Schnabel at once that I only played for his

sake, that for weeks I had not touched an instrument, and that it

was not part of my programme to play in Breslau. Schnabel replied,

that he was well aware of that, but that when he saw me in church,

yesterday, he wished to ask me, but did not venture to do so. What

could I do? So I went back to the hotel with his son to fetch my

music, and played the Romance and Rondo from the second Concerto.

The Germans admired my playing at the rehearsal. “What a light

touch he has,” I heard them whisper; but about the composition I

did not catch a syllable. Titus, whose ears are everywhere, and who

is always active on my behalf, heard one gentleman say, “there is

no doubt that this young man can play, but he cannot compose.”

Yesterday, at the _table dʼhôte_, I made the acquaintance of a

very amiable-looking gentleman, who was sitting opposite me. In

the course of conversation I discovered that his name was Scharff,

that he knew Scholtz, of Warsaw, well, and was on friendly terms

with the gentlemen to whom I had letters of introduction. This Herr

Scharff was wonderfully kind and obliging to Titus and myself. He

took us all over Breslau, went with us to the suburbs of the town,

wrote down our names as guests at the _Ressource_, and procured

us visitorsʼ tickets for the concert yesterday, which he sent

before the rehearsal. How astonished this friendly gentleman, and

his companion who had obtained the tickets, must have been, when

they beheld in one of the strangers the chief personage in the

performance.

[Sidenote: PLAYS AT A CONCERT.]

Besides playing the Rondo, I improvised, for the sake of the

connoisseurs, on a theme from the “Mutes of Portice.” There was an

overture, and some dancing to conclude with. Schnabel wanted to

regale me with a sumptuous supper, but I only took a cup of broth.

Of course I have made the acquaintance of the chief organist in

Breslau, Herr Köhler; he promised to show me his organ. I met,

also, a certain Baron Nesse di Neisse, a great violin player and a

pupil of Spohrʼs.

Another musician resident here, a Herr Hesse,[73] was also very

complimentary to me; but none of the Germans, except Schnabel,

whose face beams with real delight, and who claps me on the

shoulder every moment, quite know what to make of me.

Titus took delight in watching what went on around. As I have not

yet got a name, people could not make up their minds whether to

praise or to blame me, and connoisseurs were not quite certain

whether my music was really good, or only seemed so. A gentleman

came up to me and praised the form, as something quite new. I donʼt

know his name, but I think of all my listeners he understood me the

best.

Schnabel placed a carriage at my disposal in the kindest manner;

but when the dancing began, about ten, we went quietly home. I am

truly glad that I was able to give pleasure to the dear old man.

After the concert, Schnabel introduced me to a lady who is

considered the first pianist in Breslau. She thanked me very much

for the “delightful surprise,” as she expressed it, but regretted,

exceedingly, that I would not make up my mind to appear in public.

The Referendar consoled himself, and sang—though very

indifferently—Figaroʼs air from the “Barbiere di Sevilla.”