CHAPTER X.
1829-1830.
MUSIC IN THE WARSAW SALONS.—MORE ABOUT CHOPIN'S CAUTION.—
MUSICAL VISITORS TO THE POLISH CAPITAL: WORLITZER, MDLLE. DE
BELLEVILLE, MDLLE. SONTAG, &c.—SOME OF CHOPIN'S ARTISTIC AND
OTHER DOINGS; VISIT TO POTURZYN.—HIS LOVE FOR CONSTANTIA
GLADKOWSKA.—INTENDED AND FREQUENTLY-POSTPONED DEPARTURE FOR
ABROAD; IRRESOLUTION.—THE E MINOR CONCERTO AND HIS THIRD CONCERT
IN WARSAW.—DEPARTS AT LAST.
After the turmoil and agitation of the concerts, Chopin resumed the even tenor of his Warsaw life, that is to say, played, composed, and went to parties. Of the latter we get some glimpses in his letters, and they raise in us the suspicion that the salons of Warsaw were not overzealous in the cultivation of the classics. First we have a grand musical soiree at the house of General Filipeus, [F- ootnote: Or Philippeus] the intendant of the Court of the Grand Duke Constantine. There the Swan of Pesaro was evidently in the ascendant, at any rate, a duet from "Semiramide" and a buffo duet from "Il Turco in Italia" (in this Soliva took a part and Chopin accompanied) were the only items of the musical menu thought worth mentioning by the reporter. A soiree at Lewicki's offers matter of more interest. Chopin, who had drawn up the programme, played Hummel's "La Sentinelle" and his Op. 3, the Polonaise for piano and violoncello composed at Antonin with a subsequently-added introduction; and Prince Galitzin was one of the executants of a quartet of Rode's. Occasionally, however, better works were performed. Some months later, for instance, at the celebration of a gentleman's name-day, Spohr's Quintet for piano, flute, clarinet, horn, and bassoon was played. Chopin's criticism on this work is as usual short:—
Wonderfully beautiful, but not quite suitable for the piano. Everything Spohr has written for the piano is very difficult, indeed, sometimes it is impossible to find any fingering for his passages.
On Easter-day, the great feasting day of the Poles, Chopin was invited to breakfast by the poet Minasowicz. On this occasion he expected to meet Kurpinski; and as in the articles which had appeared in the papers a propos of his concerts the latter and Elsner had been pitted against each other, he wondered what would be the demeanour of his elder fellow-countryman and fellow- composer towards him. Remembering Chopin's repeated injunctions to his parents not to mention to others his remarks on musicians, we may be sure that in this as in every other case Chopin proceeded warily. Here is another striking example of this characteristic and highly-developed cautiousness. After hearing the young pianist Leskiewicz play at a concert he writes:—
It seems to me that he will become a better player than Krogulski; but I have not yet dared to express this opinion, although I have been often asked to do so.
In the first half of April, 1830, Chopin was so intent on finishing the compositions he had begun that, greatly as he wished to pay his friend Titus Woyciechowski a visit at his country-seat Poturzyn, he determined to stick to his work. The Diet, which had not been convoked for five years, was to meet on the 28th of May. That there would be a great concourse of lords and lordlings and their families and retinues followed as a matter of course. Here, then, was an excellent opportunity for giving a concert. Chopin, who remembered that the haute voice had not yet heard him, did not overlook it. But be it that the Concerto was not finished in time, or that the circumstances proved less favourable than he had expected, he did not carry out his plan. Perhaps the virtuosos poured in too plentifully. In those days the age of artistic vagrancy had not yet come to an end, and virtuosity concerts were still flourishing most vigorously. Blahetka of Vienna, too, had a notion of coming with his daughter to Warsaw and giving some concerts there during the sitting of the Diet. He wrote to Chopin to this effect, and asked his advice. The latter told him that many musicians and amateurs had indeed often expressed a desire to hear Miss Blahetka, but that the expenses of a concert and the many distinguished artists who had arrived or were about to arrive made the enterprise rather hazardous.
Now [says Chopin, the cautious, to his friend] he [Blahetka] cannot say that I have not sufficiently informed him of the state of things here! It is not unlikely that he will come. I should be glad to see them, and would do what I could to procure a full house for his daughter. I should most willingly play with her on two pianos, for you cannot imagine how kindly an interest this German [Mr. Blahetka] took in me at Vienna.
Among the artists who came to Warsaw were: the youthful Worlitzer, who, although only sixteen years of age, was already pianist to the King of Prussia; the clever pianist Mdlle. de Belleville, who afterwards became Madame Oury; the great violinist Lipinski, the Polish Paganini; and the celebrated Henrietta Sontag, one of the brightest stars of the time. Chopin's intercourse with these artists and his remarks on them are worth noting: they throw light on his character as a musician and man as well as on theirs. He relates that Worlitzer, a youth of Jewish extraction, and consequently by nature very talented, had called on him and played to him several things famously, especially Moscheles' "Marche d'Alexandre variĆ©e." Notwithstanding the admitted excellence of Worlitzer's playing, Chopin adds—not, however, without a "this remains between us two"—that he as yet lacks much to deserve the title of Kammer- Virtuos. Chopin thought more highly of Mdlle. de Belleville, who, he says, "plays the piano beautifully; very airily, very elegantly, and ten times better than Worlitzer." What, we may be sure, in no wise diminished his good opinion of the lady was that she had performed his Variations in Vienna, and could play one of them by heart. To picture the object of Chopin's artistic admiration a little more clearly, let me recall to the reader's memory Schumann's characterisation of Mdlle. de Belleville and Clara Wieck.
They should not be compared. They are different mistresses of different schools. The playing of the Belleville is technically the finer of the two; Clara's is more impassioned. The tone of the Belleville caresses, but does not penetrate beyond the ear; that of Clara reaches the heart. The one is a poetess; the other is poetry itself.
Chopin's warmest admiration and longest comments were, however, reserved for Mdlle. Sontag. Having a little more than a year before her visit to Warsaw secretly married Count Rossi, she made at the time we are speaking of her last artistic tour before retiring, at the zenith of her fame and power, into private life. At least, she thought then it was her last tour; but pecuniary losses and tempting offers induced her in 1849 to reappear in public. In Warsaw she gave a first series of five or six concerts in the course of a week, went then by invitation of the King of Prussia to Fischbach, and from there returned to Warsaw. Her concerts were remarkable for their brevity. She usually sang at them four times, and between her performances the orchestra played some pieces. She dispensed altogether with the assistance of other virtuosos. But Chopin remarks that so great was the impression she made as a vocalist and the interest she inspired as an artist that one required some rest after her singing. Here is what the composer writes to his friend about her (June 5, 1830):—
…It is impossible for me to describe to you how great a pleasure the acquaintance with this "God-sent one" (as some enthusiasts justly call her) has given me. Prince Radziwitt introduced me to her, for which I feel greatly obliged to him. Unfortunately, I profited little by her eight days' stay with us, and I saw how she was bored by dull visits from senators, woyewods, castellans, ministers, generals, and adjutants, who only sat and stared at her while they were talking about quite indifferent things. She receives them all very kindly, for she is so very good-natured that she cannot be unamiable to anyone. Yesterday, when she was going to put on her bonnet previously to going to the rehearsal, she was obliged to lock the door of her room, because the servant in the ante-room could not keep back the large number of callers. I should not have one to her if she had not sent for me, Radziwill having asked me to write out a song which he has arranged for her. This is an Ukraine popular song ("Dumka") with variations. The theme and finale are beautiful, but the middle section does not please me (and it pleases Mdlle. Sontag even less than me). I have indeed made some alterations, but it is still good for nothing. I am glad she leaves after to-day's concert, because I shall pet rid of this business, and when Radziwill comes at the close of the Diet he may perhaps relinquish his variations.
Mdlle. Sontag is not beautiful, but in the highest degree captivating; she enchants all with her voice, which indeed is not very powerful, but magnificently cultivated. Her diminuendo is the non plus ultra that can be heard; her portamento wonderfully fine; her chromatic scales, especially toward the upper part of her voice, unrivalled. She sang us an aria by Mercadante, very, very beautifully; the variations by Rode, especially the last roulades, more than excellently. The variations on the Swiss theme pleased so much that, after having several times bowed her acknowledgments for the applause, she had to sing them da capo. The same thing happened to her yesterday with the last of Rode's variations. She has, moreover, performed the cavatina from "Il Barbiere", as well as several arias from "La Gazza ladra" and from "Der Freischutz". Well, you will hear for yourself what a difference there is between her erformances and those we have hitherto heard here. On one occasion was with her when Soliva came with the Misses Gladkowska [the idea!] and Wolkaw, who had to sing to her his duet which concludes with the words "barbara sorte"—you may perhaps remember it. Miss Sontag remarked to me, in confidence, that both voices were really beautiful, but already somewhat worn, and that these ladies must change their method of singing entirely if they did not wish to run the risk of losing their voices within two years. She said, in my presence, to Miss Wolkow that she possessed much facility and taste, but had une voix trop aigue. She invited both ladies in the most friendly manner to visit her more frequently, promising to do all in her power to show and teach them her own manner of singing. Is this not a quite unusual politeness? Nay, I even believe it is coquetry so great that it made upon me the impression of naturalness and a certain naivete; for it is hardly to be believed that a human being can be so natural unless it knows all the resources of coquetry. In her neglige Miss Sontag is a hundred times more beautiful and pleasing than in full evening-dress. Nevertheless, those who have not seen her in the morning are charmed with her appearance at the concert. On her return she will give concerts up to the 22nd of the month; then, as she herself told me, she intends to go to St. Petersburg. Therefore, be quick, dear friend, and come at once, so that you may not miss more than the five concerts she has already given.
From the concluding sentence it would appear that Chopin had talked himself out on the subject; this. however, is not the case, for after imparting some other news he resumes thus:—
But I have not yet told you all about Miss Sontag. She has in her rendering some entirely new broderies, with which she produces great effect, but not in the same way as Paganini. Perhaps the cause lies in this, that hers is a smaller genre. She seems to exhale the perfume of a fresh bouquet of flowers over the parterre, and, now caresses, now plays with her voice; but she rarely moves to tears. Radziwill, on the other hand, thinks that she sings and acts the last scene of Desdemona in Othello in such a manner that nobody can refrain from weeping. To-day I asked her if she would sing us sometime this scene in costume (she is said to be an excellent actress); she answered me that it was true that she had often seen tears in the eyes of the audience, but that acting excited her too much, and she had resolved to appear as rarely as possible on the stage. You have but to come here if you wish to rest from your rustic cares. Miss Sontag will sing you something, and you will awake to life again and will gather new strength for your labours.
Mdlle. Sontag was indeed a unique artist. In power and fulness of voice, in impassioned expression, in dazzling virtuosity, and in grandeur of style, she might be inferior to Malibran, Catalani, and Pasta; but in clearness and sweetness of voice, in purity of intonation, in airiness, neatness, and elegance of execution, and in exquisiteness of taste, she was unsurpassed. Now, these were qualities particularly congenial to Chopin; he admired them enthusiastically in the eminent vocalist, and appreciated similar qualities in the pleasing pianist Mdlle. de Belleville. Indeed, we shall see in the sequel that unless an artist possessed these qualities Chopin had but little sympathy to bestow upon him. He was, however, not slow to discover in these distinguished lady artists a shortcoming in a direction where he himself was exceedingly strong—namely, in subtlety and intensity of feeling. Chopin's opinion of Mdlle. Sontag coincides on the whole with those of other contemporaries; nevertheless, his account contributes some details which add a page to her biography, and a few touches to her portraiture. It is to be regretted that the arrival of Titus Woyciechowski in Warsaw put for a time an end to Chopin's correspondence with him, otherwise we should, no doubt, have got some more information about Mdlle. Sontag and other artists.
While so many stars were shining, Chopin's light seems to have been under an eclipse. Not only did he not give a concert, but he was even passed over on the occasion of a soiree musicale at court to which all the most distinguished artists then assembled at Warsaw were invited—Mdlle. Sontag, Mdlle. de Belleville, Worlitzer, Kurpinski, &c. "Many were astonished," writes Chopin," that I was not invited to play, but I was not astonished." When the sittings of the Diet and the entertainments that accompanied them came to a close Chopin paid a visit to his friend Titus at Poturzyn, and on his return thence proceeded with his parents to Zelazowa Wola to stay for some time at the Count of Skarbek's. After leaving Poturzyn the picture of his friend's quiet rural life continually rose up in Chopin's mind. A passage in one of his letters which refers to his sojourn there seems to me characteristic of the writer, suggestive of moods consonant with his nocturnes and many cantilene in his other works:—
I must confess that I look back to it with great pleasure; I feel always a certain longing for your beautiful country- seat. The weeping-willow is always present to my mind; that arbaleta! oh, I remember it so fondly! Well, you have teased me so much about it that I am punished thereby for all my sins.
And has he forgotten his ideal? Oh, no! On the contrary, his passion grows stronger every day. This is proved by his frequent allusions to her whom he never names, and by those words of restless yearning and heart-rending despair that cannot be read without exciting a pitiful sympathy. As before long we shall get better acquainted with the lady and hear more of her—she being on the point of leaving the comparative privacy of the Conservatorium for the boards that represent the world—it may be as well to study the symptoms of our friend's interesting malady.
The first mention of the ideal we find in the letter dated October 3, 1829, wherein he says that he has been dreaming of her every night for the past six months, and nevertheless has not yet spoken to her. In these circumstances he stood in need of one to whom he might confide his joys and sorrows, and as no friend of flesh and blood was at hand, he often addressed himself to the piano. And now let us proceed with our investigation.
March 27, 1830.—At no time have I missed you so much as now.
I have nobody to whom I can open my heart.
April 17, 1830.—In my unbearable longing I feel better as soon as I receive a letter from you. To-day this comfort was more necessary than ever. I should like to chase away the thoughts that poison my joyousness; but, in spite of all, it is pleasant to play with them. I don't know myself what I want; perhaps I shall be calmer after writing this letter.
Farther on in the same letter he says:—
How often do I take the night for the day, and the day for the night! How often do I live in a dream and sleep during the day, worse than if I slept, for I feel always the same; and instead of finding refreshment in this stupor, as in sleep, I vex and torment myself so that I cannot gain strength.
It may be easily imagined with what interest one so far gone in love watched the debut of Miss Gladkowska as Agnese in Paer's opera of the same name. Of course he sends a full account of the event to his friend. She looked better on the stage than in the salon; left nothing to be desired in her tragic acting; managed her voice excellently up to the high j sharp and g; shaded in a wonderful manner, and charmed her slave when she sang an aria with harp accompaniment. The success of the lady, however, was not merely in her lover's imagination, it was real; for at the close of the opera the audience overwhelmed her with never-ending applause. Another pupil of the Conservatorium, Miss Wolkow, made her debut about the same time, discussions of the comparative merits of the two ladies, on the choice of the parts in which they were going to appear next, on the intrigues which had been set on foot for or against them, &c., were the order of the day. Chopin discusses all these matters with great earnestness and at considerable length; and, while not at all stingy in his praise of Miss Wolkow, he takes good care that Miss Gladkowska does not come off a loser:—
Ernemann is of our opinion [writes Chopin] that no singer can easily be compared to Miss Gladkowska, especially as regards just intonation and genuine warmth of feeling, which manifests itself fully only on the stage, and carries away the audience. Miss Wolkow made several times slight mistakes, whereas Miss Gladkowska, although she has only been heard twice in Agnese, did not allow the least doubtful note to pass her lips.
The warmer applause given to Miss Wolkow did not disturb so staunch a partisan; he put it to the account of Rossini's music which she sang.
When Chopin comes to the end of his account of Miss Gladkowska's first appearance on the stage, he abruptly asks the question: "And what shall I do now?" and answers forthwith: "I will leave next month; first, however, I must rehearse my Concerto, for the Rondo is now finished." But this resolve is a mere flash of energy, and before we have proceeded far we shall come on words which contrast strangely with what we have read just now. Chopin has been talking about his going abroad ever so long, more especially since his return from Vienna, and will go on talking about it for a long time yet. First he intends to leave Warsaw in the winter of 1829-1830; next he makes up his mind to start in the summer of 1830, the question being only whether he shall go to Berlin or Vienna; then in May, 1830, Berlin is already given up, but the time of his departure remains still to be fixed. After this he is induced by the consideration that the Italian Opera season at Vienna does not begin till September to stay at home during the hot summer months. How he continues to put off the evil day of parting from home and friends we shall see as we go on. I called Chopin's vigorously-expressed resolve a flash of energy. Here is what he wrote not much more than a week after (on August 31, 1830):—
I am still here; indeed, I do not feel inclined to go abroad. Next month, however, I shall certainly go. Of course, only to follow my vocation and reason, which latter would be in a sorry plight if it were not strong enough to master every other thing in my head.
But that his reason was in a sorry plight may be gathered from a letter dated September 4, 1830, which, moreover, is noteworthy, as in the confessions which it contains are discoverable the key- notes of the principal parts that make up the symphony of his character.
I tell you my ideas become madder and madder every day. I am still sitting here, and cannot make up my mind to fix definitively the day of my departure. I have always a presentiment that I shall leave Warsaw never to return to it; I am convinced that I shall say farewell to my home for ever. Oh, how sad it must be to die in any other place but where one was born! What a great trial it would be to me to see beside my death-bed an unconcerned physician and paid servant instead of the dear faces of my relatives! Believe me, Titus, I many a time should like to go to you and seek rest for my oppressed heart; but as this is not possible, I often hurry, without knowing why, into the street. But there also nothing allays or diverts my longing. I return home to… long again indescribably… I have not yet rehearsed my Concerto; in any case I shall leave all my treasures behind me by Michaelmas. In Vienna I shall be condemned to sigh and groan! This is the consequence of having no longer a free heart! You who know this indescribable power so well, explain to me the strange feeling which makes men always expect from the following day something better than the preceding day has bestowed upon them? "Do not be so foolish!" That is all the answer I can give myself; if you know a better, tell me, pray, pray….
After saying that his plan for the winter is to stay two months in Vienna and pass the rest of the season in Milan, "if it cannot be helped," he makes some remarks of no particular interest, and then comes back to the old and ever new subject, the cud that humanity has been chewing from the time of Adam and Eve, and will have to chew till the extinction of the race, whether pessimism or optimism be the favoured philosophy.
Since my return I have not yet visited her, and must tell you openly that I often attribute the cause of my distress to her; it seems to me as if people shared this view, and that affords me a certain satisfaction. My father smiles at it; but if he knew all, he would perhaps weep. Indeed, I am seemingly quite contented, whilst my heart….
This is one of the occasions, which occur so frequently in Chopin's letters, where he breaks suddenly off in the course of his emotional outpourings, and subsides into effective silence. On such occasions one would like to see him go to the piano and hear him finish the sentence there. "All I can write to you now is indeed stupid stuff; only the thought of leaving Warsaw…" Another musical opportunity! Where words fail, there music begins.
Only wait, the day will come when you will not fare any better. Man is not always happy; sometimes only a few moments of happiness are granted to him in this life; therefore why should we shun this rapture which cannot last long?
After this the darkness of sadness shades gradually into brighter hues:—
As on the one hand I consider intercourse with the outer world a sacred duty, so, on the other hand, I regard it as a devilish invention, and it would be better if men… but I have said enough!…
The reader knows already the rest of the letter; it is the passage in which Chopin's love of fun gets the better of his melancholy, his joyous spirits of his sad heart, and where he warns his friend, as it were with a bright twinkle in his tearful eyes and a smile on his face, not to kiss him at that moment, as he must wash himself. This joking about his friend's dislike to osculation is not without an undercurrent of seriousness; indeed, it is virtually a reproach, but a reproach cast in the most delicate form and attired in feminine coquetry.
On September 18, 1830, Chopin is still in Warsaw. Why he is still there he does not know; but he feels unspeakably happy where he is, and his parents make no objections to this procrastination.
To-morrow I shall hold a rehearsal [of the E minor Concerto] with quartet, and then drive to—whither? Indeed, I do not feel inclined to go anywhere; but I shall on no account stay in Warsaw. If you have, perhaps, a suspicion that something dear to me retains me here, you are mistaken, like many others. I assure you I should be ready to make any sacrifice if only my own self were concerned, and I—although I am in love—had yet to keep my unfortunate feelings concealed in my bosom for some years to come.
Is it possible to imagine anything more inconsistent and self- delusive than these ravings of our friend? Farther on in this very lengthy epistle we come first of all once more to the pending question.
I was to start with the Cracow post for Vienna as early as this day week, but finally I have given up that idea—you will understand why. You may be quite sure that I am no egoist, but, as I love you, am also willing to sacrifice anything for the sake of others. For the sake of others, I say, but not for the sake of outward appearance. For public opinion, which is in high esteem among us, but which, you may be sure, does not influence me, goes even so far as to call it a misfortune if one wears a torn coat, a shabby hat, and the like. If I should fail in my career, and have some day nothing to eat, you must appoint me as clerk at Poturzyn. There, in a room above the stables, I shall be as happy as I was last summer in your castle. As long as I am in vigour and health I shall willingly continue to work all my life. I have often considered the question, whether I am really lazy or whether I could work more without overexerting my strength. Joking apart, I have convinced myself that I am not the worst idler, and that I am able to work twice as much if necessity demands it.
It often happens that he who wishes to better the opinion which others have formed of him makes it worse; but, I think, as regards you, I can make it neither better nor worse, even if I occasionally praise myself. The sympathy which I have for you forces your heart to have the same sympathetic feelings for me. You are not master of your thoughts, but I command mine; when I have once taken one into my head I do not let it be taken from me, just as the trees do not let themselves be robbed of their green garment which gives them the charm of youth. With me it will be green in winter also, that is, only in the head, but—God help me—in the heart the greatest ardour, therefore, no one need wonder that the vegetation is so luxuriant. Enough…yours for ever…Only now I notice that I have talked too much nonsense. You see yesterday's impression [he refers to the name-day festivity already mentioned] has not yet quite passed away, I am still sleepy and tired, because I danced too many mazurkas.
Around your letters I twine a little ribbon which my ideal once gave me. I am glad the two lifeless things, the letters and the ribbon, agree so well together, probably because, although they do not know each other, they yet feel that they both come from a hand dear to me.
Even the most courteous of mortals, unless he be wholly destitute of veracity, will hesitate to deny the truth of Chopin's confession that he has been talking nonsense. But apart from the vagueness and illogicalness of several of the statements, the foregoing effusion is curious as a whole: the thoughts turn up one does not know where, how, or why—their course is quite unaccountable; and if they passed through his mind in an unbroken connection, he fails to give the slightest indication of it. Still, although Chopin's philosophy of life, poetical rhapsodies, and meditations on love and friendship, may not afford us much light, edification, or pleasure, they help us substantially to realise their author's character, and particularly his temporary mood.
Great as was the magnetic power of the ideal over Chopin, great as was the irresolution of the latter, the long delay of his departure must not be attributed solely to these causes. The disturbed state of Europe after the outbreak of the July revolution in Paris had also something to do with this interminable procrastination. Passports could only be had for Prussia and Austria, and even for these countries not by everyone. In France the excitement had not yet subsided, in Italy it was nearing the boiling point. Nor were Vienna, whither Chopin intended to go first, and the Tyrol, through which he would have to pass on his way to Milan, altogether quiet. Chopin's father himself, therefore, wished the journey to be postponed for a short time. Nevertheless, our friend writes on September 22 that he will start in a few weeks: his first goal is Vienna, where, he says, they still remember him, and where he will forge the iron as long as it is hot. But now to the climax of Chopin's amorous fever.
I regret very much [he writes on September 22, 1830] that I must write to you when, as to-day, I am unable to collect my thoughts. When I reflect on myself I get into a sad mood, and am in danger of losing my reason. When I am lost in my thoughts—which is often the case with me—horses could trample upon me, and yesterday this nearly happened in the street without my noticing it. Struck in the church by a glance of my ideal, I ran in a moment of pleasant stupor into the street, and it was not till about a quarter of an hour afterwards that I regained my full consciousness; I am sometimes so mad that I am frightened at myself.
The melancholy cast of the letters cited in this chapter must not lead us to think that despondence was the invariable state of Chopin's mind. It is more probable that when his heart was saddest he was most disposed to write to his friend his confessions and complaints, as by this means he was enabled to relieve himself to some extent of the burden that oppressed him. At any rate, the agitations of love did not prevent him from cultivating his art, for even at the time when he felt the tyranny of the passion most potently, he mentions having composed "some insignificant pieces," as he modestly expresses himself, meaning, no doubt, "short pieces." Meanwhile Chopin had also finished a composition which by no means belongs to the category of "insignificant pieces"—namely, the Concerto in E minor, the completion of which he announces on August 21, 1830. A critical examination of this and other works will be found in a special chapter, at present I shall speak only of its performance and the circumstances connected with it.
On September 18, 1830, Chopin writes that a few days previously he rehearsed the Concerto with quartet accompaniment, but that it does not quite satisfy him:—
Those who were present at the rehearsal say that the Finale is the most successful movement (probably because it is easily intelligible). How it will sound with the orchestra I cannot tell you till next Wednesday, when I shall play the Concerto for the first time in this guise. To-morrow I shall have another rehearsal with quartet.
To a rehearsal with full orchestra, except trumpets and drums (on September 22, 1830), he invited Kurpinski, Soliva, and the select musical world of Warsaw, in whose judgment, however, he professes to have little confidence. Still, he is curious to know how—
the Capellmeister [Kurpinski] will look at the Italian [Soliva], Czapek at Kessler, Filipeus at Dobrzynski, Molsdorf at Kaczynski, Ledoux at Count Sohyk, and Mr. P. at us all. It has never before occurred that all these gentlemen have been assembled in one place; I alone shall succeed in this, and I do it only out of curiosity!
The musicians in this company, among whom are Poles, Czechs, Germans, Italians, &c., give us a good idea of the mixed character of the musical world of Warsaw, which was not unlike what the musical world of London is still in our day. From the above remark we see that Chopin had neither much respect nor affection for his fellow-musicians; indeed, there is not the slightest sign in his letters that an intimacy existed between him and any one of them. The rehearsals of the Concerto keep Chopin pretty busy, and his head is full of the composition. In the same letter from which I quoted last we find the following passage:—
I heartily beg your pardon for my hasty letter of to-day; I have still to run quickly to Elsner in order to make sure that he will come to the rehearsal. Then I have also to provide the desks and mutes, which I had yesterday totally forgotten; without the latter the Adagio would be wholly insignificant, and its success doubtful. The Rondo is effective, the first Allegro vigorous. Cursed self-love! And if it is anyone's fault that I am conceited it is yours, egoist; he who associates with such a person becomes like him. But in one point I am as yet unlike you. I can never make up my mind quickly. But I have the firm will and the secret intention actually to depart on Saturday week, without pardon, and in spite of lamentations, tears, and complaints. My music in the trunk, a certain ribbon on my heart, my soul full of anxiety: thus into the post-chaise. To be sure, everywhere in the town tears will flow in streams: from Copernicus to the fountain, from the bank to the column of King Sigismund; but I shall be cold and unfeeling as a stone, and laugh at all those who wish to take such a heart-rending farewell of me!
After the rehearsal of the Concerto with orchestra, which evidently made a good impression upon the much-despised musical world of Warsaw, Chopin resolved to give, or rather his friends resolved for him that he should give, a concert in the theatre on October 11, 1830. Although he is anxious to know what effect his Concerto will produce on the public, he seems little disposed to play at any concert, which may be easily understood if we remember the state of mind he is in.
You can hardly imagine [he writes] how everything here makes me impatient, and bores me, in consequence of the commotion within me against which I cannot struggle.
The third and last of his Warsaw concerts was to be of a more perfect type than the two preceding ones; it was to be one "without those unlucky clarinet and bassoon solos," at that time still so much in vogue. To make up for this quantitative loss Chopin requested the Misses Gladkowska and Wolkow to sing some arias, and obtained, not without much trouble, the requisite permission for them from their master, Soliva, and the Minister of Public Instruction, Mostowski. It was necessary to ask the latter's permission, because the two young ladies were educated as singers at the expense of the State.
The programme of the concert was as follows:—
PART I
1. Symphony by Gorner.
2. First Allegro from the Concerto in E minor, composed and played by Chopin.
3. Aria with Chorus by Soliva, sung by Miss Wolkow.
4. Adagio and Rondo from the Concerto in E minor, composed and played by Chopin.
PART II
1. Overture to "Guillaume Tell" by Rossini.
2. Cavatina from "La Donna del lago" by Rossini, sung by Miss Gladkowska.
3. Fantasia on Polish airs, composed and played by Chopin.
The success of the concert made Chopin forget his sorrows. There is not one complaint in the letter in which he gives an account of it; in fact, he seems to have been enjoying real halcyon days. He had a full house, but played with as little nervousness as if he had been playing at home. The first Allegro of the Concerto went very smoothly, and the audience rewarded him with thundering applause. Of the reception of the Adagio and Rondo we learn nothing except that in the pause between the first and second parts the connoisseurs and amateurs came on the stage, and complimented him in the most flattering terms on his playing. The great success, however, of the evening was his performance of the Fantasia on Polish airs. "This time I understood myself, the orchestra understood me, and the audience understood us." This is quite in the bulletin style of conquerors; it has a ring of "veni, vidi, vici" about it. Especially the mazurka at the end of the piece produced a great effect, and Chopin was called back so enthusiastically that he was obliged to bow his acknowledgments four times. Respecting the bowing he says: "I believe I did it yesterday with a certain grace, for Brandt had taught me how to do it properly." In short, the concert-giver was in the best of spirits, one is every moment expecting him to exclaim: "Seid umschlungen Millionen, diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt." He is pleased with himself and Streicher's piano on which he had played; pleased with Soliva, who kept both soloist and orchestra splendidly in order; pleased with the impression the execution of the overture made; pleased with the blue-robed, fay-like Miss Wolkow; pleased most of all with Miss Gladkowska, who "wore a white dress and roses in her hair, and was charmingly beautiful." He tells his friend that:
she never sang so well as on that evening (except the aria in "Agnese"). You know "O! quante lagrime per te versai." The tutto detesto down to the lower b came out so magnificently that Zielinski declared this b alone was worth a thousand ducats.
In Vienna the score and parts of the Krakowiak had been found to be full of mistakes, it was the same with the Concerto in Warsaw. Chopin himself says that if Soliva had not taken the score with him in order to correct it, he (Chopin) did not know what might have become of the Concerto on the evening of the concert. Carl Mikuli, who, as well as his fellow-pupil Tellefsen, copied many of Chopin's MSS., says that they were full of slips of the pen, such as wrong notes and signatures, omissions of accidentals, dots, and intervals of chords, and incorrect markings of slurs and 8va's.
Although Chopin wrote on October 5, 1830, that eight days after the concert he would certainly be no longer in Warsaw, that his trunk was bought, his whole outfit ready, the scores corrected, the pocket-handkerchiefs hemmed, the new trousers and the new dress-coat tried on, &c., that, in fact, nothing remained to be done but the worst of all, the leave-taking, yet it was not till the 1st of November, 1830, that he actually did take his departure. Elsner and a number of friends accompanied him to Wola, the first village beyond Warsaw. There the pupils of the Conservatorium awaited them, and sang a cantata composed by Elsner for the occasion. After this the friends once more sat down together to a banquet which had been prepared for them. In the course of the repast a silver goblet filled with Polish earth was presented to Chopin in the name of all.
May you never forget your country [said the speaker, according to Karasowski], wherever you may wander or sojourn, may you never cease to love it with a warm, faithful heart! Remember Poland, remember your friends, who call you with pride their fellow-countryman, who expect great things of you, whose wishes and prayers accompany you!
How fully Chopin realised their wishes and expectations the sequel will show: how much such loving words must have affected him the reader of this chapter can have no difficulty in understanding. But now came pitilessly the dread hour of parting. A last farewell is taken, the carriage rolls away, and the traveller has left behind him all that is dearest to him— parents, sisters, sweetheart, and friends. "I have always a presentiment that I am leaving Warsaw never to return to it; I am convinced that I shall say an eternal farewell to my native country." Thus, indeed, destiny willed it. Chopin was never to tread again the beloved soil of Poland, never to set eyes again on Warsaw and its Conservatorium, the column of King Sigismund opposite, the neighbouring church of the Bernardines (Constantia's place of worship), and all those things and places associated in his mind with the sweet memories of his youth and early manhood.
CHAPTER XI.
CHOPIN IS JOINED AT KALISZ BY TITUS WOYCIECHOWSKI.—FOUR DAYS AT BRESLAU: HIS VISITS TO THE THEATRE; CAPELLMEISTER SCHNABEL; PLAYS AT A CONCERT; ADOLF HESSE.—SECOND VISIT TO DRESDEN: MUSIC AT THEATRE AND CHURCH; GERMAN AND POLISH SOCIETY; MORLACCHI, SIGNORA PALAZZESI, RASTRELLI, ROLLA, DOTZAUER, KUMMER, KLENGEL, AND OTHER MUSICIANS; A CONCERT TALKED ABOUT BUT NOT GIVEN; SIGHT-SEEING.— AFTER A WEEK, BY PRAGUE TO VIENNA.—ARRIVES AT VIENNA TOWARDS THE END OF NOVEMBER, 1830.
Thanks to Chopin's extant letters to his family and friends it is not difficult to give, with the help of some knowledge of the contemporary artists and of the state of music in the towns he visited, a pretty clear account of his experiences and mode of life during the nine or ten months which intervene between his departure from Warsaw and his arrival in Paris. Without the letters this would have been impossible, and for two reasons: one of them is that, although already a notable man, Chopin was not yet a noted man; and the other, that those with whom he then associated have, like himself, passed away from among us.
Chopin, who, as the reader will remember, left Warsaw on November 1, 1830, was joined at Kalisz by Titus Woyciechowski. Thence the two friends travelled together to Vienna. They made their first halt at Breslau, which they reached on November 6. No sooner had Chopin put up at the hotel Zur goldenen Gans, changed his dress, and taken some refreshments, than he rushed off to the theatre. During his stay in Breslau he was present at three performances— at Raimund's fantastical comedy "Der Alpenkonig und der Menschenfeind", Auber's "Maurer und Schlosser (Le Macon)," and Winter's "Das unterbrochene Opferfest", a now superannuated but then still popular opera. The players succeeded better than the singers in gaining the approval of their fastidious auditor, which indeed might have been expected. As both Chopin and Woyciechowski were provided with letters of introduction, and the gentlemen to whom they were addressed did all in their power to make their visitors' sojourn as pleasant as possible, the friends spent in Breslau four happy days. It is characteristic of the German musical life in those days that in the Ressource, a society of that town, they had three weekly concerts at which the greater number of the performers were amateurs. Capellmeister Schnabel, an old acquaintance of Chopin's, had invited the latter to come to a morning rehearsal. When Chopin entered, an amateur, a young barrister, was going to rehearse Moscheles' E flat major Concerto. Schnabel, on seeing the newcomer, asked him to try the piano. Chopin sat down and played some variations which astonished and delighted the Capellmeister, who had not heard him for four years, so much that he overwhelmed him with expressions of admiration. As the poor amateur began to feel nervous, Chopin was pressed on all sides to take that gentleman's place in the evening. Although he had not practised for some weeks he consented, drove to the hotel, fetched the requisite music, rehearsed, and in the evening performed the Romanza and Rondo of his E minor Concerto and an improvisation on a theme from Auber's "La Muette" ("Masaniello"). At the rehearsal the "Germans" admired his playing; some of them he heard whispering "What a light touch he has!" but not a word was said about the composition. The amateurs did not know whether it was good or bad. Titus Woyciechowski heard one of them say "No doubt he can play, but he can't compose." There was, however, one gentleman who praised the novelty of the form, and the composer naively declares that this was the person who understood him best. Speaking of the professional musicians, Chopin remarks that, with the exception of Schnabel, "the Germans" were at a loss what to think of him. The Polish peasants use the word "German" as an invective, believe that the devil speaks German and dresses in the German fashion, and refuse to take medicine because they hold it to be an invention of the Germans and, consequently, unfit for Christians. Although Chopin does not go so far, he is by no means free from this national antipathy. Let his susceptibility be ruffled by Germans, and you may be sure he will remember their nationality. Besides old Schnabel there was among the persons whose acquaintance Chopin made at Breslau only one other who interests us, and interests us more than that respectable composer of church music; and this one was the organist and composer Adolph Frederick Hesse, then a young man of Chopin's age. Before long the latter became better acquainted with him. In his account of his stay and playing in the Silesian capital, he says of him only that "the second local connoisseur, Hesse, who has travelled through the whole of Germany, paid me also compliments."
Chopin continued his journey on November 10, and on November 12 had already plunged into Dresden life. Two features of this, in some respects quite unique, life cannot but have been particularly attractive to our traveller—namely, its Polish colony and the Italian opera. The former owed its origin to the connection of the house of Saxony with the crown of Poland; and the latter, which had been patronised by the Electors and Kings for hundreds of years, was not disbanded till 1832. In 1817, it is true, Weber, who had received a call for that purpose, founded a German opera at Dresden, but the Italian opera retained the favour of the Court and of a great part of the public, in fact, was the spoiled child that looked down upon her younger sister, poor Cinderella. Even a Weber had to fight hard to keep his own, indeed, sometimes failed to do so, in the rivalry with the ornatissimo Signore Cavaliere Morlacchi, primo maestro della capella Reale.
Chopin's first visit was to Miss Pechwell, through whom he got admission to a soiree at the house of Dr. Kreyssig, where she was going to play and the prima donna of the Italian opera to sing. Having carefully dressed, Chopin made his way to Dr. Kreyssig's in a sedan-chair. Being unaccustomed to this kind of conveyance he had a desire to kick out the bottom of the "curious but comfortable box," a temptation which he, however—to his honour be it recorded—resisted. On entering the salon he found there a great number of ladies sitting round eight large tables:—
No sparkling of diamonds met my eye, but the more modest glitter of a host of steel knitting-needles, which moved ceaselessly in the busy hands of these ladies. The number of ladies and knitting-needles was so large that if the ladies had planned an attack upon the gentlemen that were present, the latter would have been in a sorry plight. Nothing would have been left to them but to make use of their spectacles as weapons, for there was as little lack of eye-glasses as of bald heads.
The clicking of knitting-needles and the rattling of teacups were suddenly interrupted by the overture to the opera "Fra Diavolo," which was being played in an adjoining room. After the overture Signora Palazzesi sang "with a bell-like, magnificent voice, and great bravura." Chopin asked to be introduced to her. He made likewise the acquaintance of the old composer and conductor Vincent Rastrelli, who introduced him to a brother of the celebrated tenor Rubini.
At the Roman Catholic church, the Court Church, Chopin met Morlacchi, and heard a mass by that excellent artist. The Neapolitan sopranists Sassaroli and Tarquinio sang, and the "incomparable Rolla" played the solo violin. On another occasion he heard a clever but dry mass by Baron von Miltitz, which was performed under the direction of Morlacchi, and in which the celebrated violoncello virtuosos Dotzauer and Kummer played their solos beautifully, and the voices of Sassaroli, Muschetti, Babnigg, and Zezi were heard to advantage. The theatre was, as usual, assiduously frequented by Chopin. After the above- mentioned soiree he hastened to hear at least the last act of "Die Stumme von Portici" ("Masaniello"). Of the performance of Rossini's "Tancredi," which he witnessed on another evening, he praised only the wonderful violin playing of Rolla and the singing of Mdlle. Hahnel, a lady from the Vienna Court Theatre. Rossini's "La Donna del lago," in Italian, is mentioned among the operas about to be performed. What a strange anomaly, that in the year 1830 a state of matters such as is indicated by these names and facts could still obtain in Dresden, one of the capitals of musical Germany! It is emphatically a curiosity of history.
Chopin, who came to Rolla with a letter of introduction from Soliva, was received by the Italian violinist with great friendliness. Indeed, kindness was showered upon him from all sides. Rubini promised him a letter of introduction to his brother in Milan, Rolla one to the director of the opera there, and Princess Augusta, the daughter of the late king, and Princess Maximiliana, the sister-in-law of the reigning king, provided him with letters for the Queen of Naples, the Duchess of Lucca, the Vice-Queen of Milan, and Princess Ulasino in Rome. He had met the princesses and played to them at the house of the Countess Dobrzycka, Oberhofmeisterin of the Princess Augusta, daughter of the late king, Frederick Augustus.
The name of the Oberhofmeisterin brings us to the Polish society of Dresden, into which Chopin seems to have found his way at once. Already two days after his arrival he writes of a party of Poles with whom he had dined. At the house of Mdme. Pruszak he made the acquaintance of no less a person than General Kniaziewicz, who took part in the defence of Warsaw, commanded the left wing in the battle of Maciejowice (1794), and joined Napoleon's Polish legion in 1796. Chopin wrote home: "I have pleased him very much; he said that no pianist had made so agreeable an impression on him."
To judge from the tone of Chopin's letters, none of all the people he came in contact with gained his affection in so high a degree as did Klengel, whom he calls "my dear Klengel," and of whom he says that he esteems him very highly, and loves him as if he had known him from his earliest youth. "I like to converse with him, for from him something is to be learned." The great contrapuntist seems to have reciprocated this affection, at any rate he took a great interest in his young friend, wished to see the scores of his concertos, went without Chopin's knowledge to Morlacchi and to the intendant of the theatre to try if a concert could not be arranged within four days, told him that his playing reminded him of Field's, that his touch was of a peculiar kind, and that he had not expected to find him such a virtuoso. Although Chopin replied, when Klengel advised him to give a concert, that his stay in Dresden was too short to admit of his doing so, and thought himself that he could earn there neither much fame nor much money, he nevertheless was not a little pleased that this excellent artist had taken some trouble in attempting to smooth the way for a concert, and to hear from him that this had been done not for Chopin's but for Dresden's sake; our friend, be it noted, was by no means callous to flattery. Klengel took him also to a soiree at the house of Madame Niesiolawska, a Polish lady, and at supper proposed his health, which was drunk in champagne.
There is a passage in one of Chopin's letters which I must quote; it tells us something of his artistic taste outside his own art:- -
The Green Vault I saw last time I was here, and once is enough for me; but I revisited with great interest the picture gallery. If I lived here I would go to it every week, for there are pictures in it at the sight of which I imagine I hear music.
Thus our friend spent a week right pleasantly and not altogether unprofitably in the Saxon Athens, and spent it so busily that what with visits, dinners, soirees, operas, and other amusements, he leaving his hotel early in the morning and returning late at night, it passed away he did not know how.
Chopin, who made also a short stay in Prague—of which visit, however, we have no account—arrived in Vienna in the latter part of November, 1830. His intention was to give some concerts, and to proceed in a month or two to Italy. How the execution of this plan was prevented by various circumstances we shall see presently. Chopin flattered himself with the belief that managers, publishers, artists, and the public in general were impatiently awaiting his coming, and ready to receive him with open arms. This, however, was an illusion. He overrated his success. His playing at the two "Academies" in the dead season must have remained unnoticed by many, and was probably forgotten by not a few who did notice it. To talk, therefore, about forging the iron while it was hot proved a misconception of the actual state of matters. It is true his playing and compositions had made a certain impression, especially upon some of the musicians who had heard him. But artists, even when free from hostile jealousy, are far too much occupied with their own interests to be helpful in pushing on their younger brethren. As to publishers and managers, they care only for marketable articles, and until an article has got a reputation its marketable value is very small. Nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand judge by names and not by intrinsic worth. Suppose a hitherto unknown statue of Phidias, a painting of Raphael, a symphony of Beethoven, were discovered and introduced to the public as the works of unknown living artists, do you think they would receive the same universal admiration as the known works of the immortal masters? Not at all! By a very large majority of the connoisseurs and pretended connoisseurs they would be criticised, depreciated, or ignored. Let, however, the real names of the authors become known, and the whole world will forthwith be thrown into ecstasy, and see in them even more beauties than they really possess. Well, the first business of an artist, then, is to make himself a reputation, and a reputation is not made by one or two successes. A first success, be it ever so great, and achieved under ever so favourable circumstances, is at best but the thin end of the wedge which has been got in, but which has to be driven home with much vigour and perseverance before the work is done. "Art is a fight, not a pleasure-trip," said the French painter Millet, one who had learnt the lesson in the severe school of experience. Unfortunately for Chopin, he had neither the stuff nor the stomach for fighting. He shrank back at the slightest touch like a sensitive plant. He could only thrive in the sunshine of prosperity and protected against all those inimical influences and obstacles that cause hardier natures to put forth their strength, and indeed are necessary for the full unfolding of all their capabilities. Chopin and Titus Woyciechowski put up at the hotel Stadt London, but, finding the charges too high, they decamped and stayed at the hotel Goldenes Lamm till the lodgings which they had taken were evacuated by the English admiral then in possession of them. From Chopin's first letter after his arrival in the Austrian capital his parents had the satisfaction of learning that their son was in excellent spirits, and that his appetite left nothing to be desired, especially when sharpened by good news from home. In his perambulations he took particular note of the charming Viennese girls, and at the Wilde Mann, where he was in the habit of dining, he enjoyed immensely a dish of Strudeln. The only drawback to the blissfulness of his then existence was a swollen nose, caused by the change of air, a circumstance which interfered somewhat with his visiting operations. He was generally well received by those on whom he called with letters of introduction. In one of the two exceptional cases he let it be understood that, having a letter of introduction from the Grand Duke Constantine to the Russian Ambassador, he was not so insignificant a person as to require the patronage of a banker; and in the other case he comforted himself with the thought that a time would come when things would be changed.
In the letter above alluded to (December 1, 1830) Chopin speaks of one of the projected concerts as if it were to take place shortly; that is to say, he is confident that, such being his pleasure, this will be the natural course of events. His Warsaw acquaintance Orlowski, the perpetrator of mazurkas on his concerto themes, was accompanying the violinist Lafont on a concert-tour. Chopin does not envy him the honour:—
Will the time come [he writes] when Lafont will accompany me? Does this question sound arrogant? But, God willing, this may come to pass some day.
Wurfel has conversations with him about the arrangements for a concert, and Graff, the pianoforte-maker, advises him to give it in the Landstandische Saal, the finest and most convenient hall in Vienna. Chopin even asks his people which of his Concertos he should play, the one in F or the one in E minor. But disappointments were not long in coming. One of his first visits was to Haslinger, the publisher of the Variations on "La ci darem la mano," to whom he had sent also a sonata and another set of variations. Haslinger received him very kindly, but would print neither the one nor the other work. No wonder the composer thought the cunning publisher wished to induce him in a polite and artful way to let him have his compositions gratis. For had not Wurfel told him that his Concerto in F minor was better than Hummel's in A flat, which Haslinger had just published, and had not Klengel at Dresden been surprised to hear that he had received no payment for the Variations? But Chopin will make Haslinger repent of it. "Perhaps he thinks that if he treats my compositions somewhat en bagatelle, I shall be glad if only he prints them; but henceforth nothing will be got from me gratis; my motto will be 'Pay, animal!'" But evidently the animal wouldn't pay, and in fact did not print the compositions till after Chopin's death. So, unless the firm of Haslinger mentioned that he will call on him as soon as he has a room wherein he can receive a visit in return, the name of Lachner does not reappear in the correspondence.
In the management of the Karnthnerthor Theatre, Louis Duport had succeeded, on September 1, 1830, Count Gallenberg, whom severe losses obliged to relinquish a ten years' contract after the lapse of less than two years. Chopin was introduced to the new manager by Hummel.
He (Duport) [writes Chopin on December 21 to his parents] was formerly a celebrated dancer, and is said to be very niggardly; however, he received me in an extremely polite manner, for perhaps he thinks I shall play for him gratis. He is mistaken there! We entered into a kind of negotiation, but nothing definite was settled. If Mr. Duport offers me too little, I shall give my concert in the large Redoutensaal.
But the niggardly manager offered him nothing at all, and Chopin did not give a concert either in the Redoutensaal or elsewhere, at least not for a long time. Chopin's last-quoted remark is difficult to reconcile with what he tells his friend Matuszyriski four days later:" I have no longer any thought of giving a concert." In a letter to Elsner, dated January 26, 1831, he writes:—
I meet now with obstacles on all sides. Not only does a series of the most miserable pianoforte concerts totally ruin all true music and make the public suspicious, but the occurrences in Poland have also acted unfavourably upon my position. Nevertheless, I intend to have during the carnival a performance of my first Concerto, which has met with Wurfel's full approval.
It would, however, be a great mistake to ascribe the failure of Chopin's projects solely to the adverse circumstances pointed out by him. The chief causes lay in himself. They were his want of energy and of decision, constitutional defects which were of course intensified by the disappointment of finding indifference and obstruction where he expected enthusiasm and furtherance, and by the outbreak of the revolution in Poland (November 30, 1830), which made him tremble for the safety of his beloved ones and the future of his country. In the letter from which I have last quoted Chopin, after remarking that he had postponed writing till he should be able to report some definite arrangement, proceeds to say:—
But from the day that I heard of the dreadful occurrences in our fatherland, my thoughts have been occupied only with anxiety and longing for it and my dear ones. Malfatti gives himself useless trouble in trying to convince me that the artist is, or ought to be, a cosmopolitan. And, supposing this were really the case, as an artist I am still in the cradle, but as a Pole already a man. I hope, therefore, that you will not be offended with me for not yet having seriously thought of making arrangements for a concert.
What affected Chopin most and made him feel lonely was the departure of his friend Woyciechowski, who on the first news of the insurrection returned to Poland and joined the insurgents. Chopin wished to do the same, but his parents advised him to stay where he was, telling him that he was not strong enough to bear the fatigues and hardships of a soldier's life. Nevertheless, when Woyciechowski was gone an irresistible home-sickness seized him, and, taking post-horses, he tried to overtake his friend and go with him. But after following him for some stages without making up to him, his resolution broke down, and he returned to Vienna. Chopin's characteristic irresolution shows itself again at this time very strikingly, indeed, his letters are full of expressions indicating and even confessing it. On December 21, 1830, he writes to his parents:—
I do not know whether I ought to go soon to Italy or wait a little longer? Please, dearest papa, let me know your and the best mother's will in this matter.
And four days afterwards he writes to Matuszynski:—
You know, of course, that 1 have letters from the Royal Court of Saxony to the Vice-Queen in Milan, but what shall I do? My parents leave me to choose; I wish they would give me instructions. Shall I go to Paris? My acquaintances here advise me to wait a little longer. Shall I return home? Shall I stay here? Shall I kill myself? Shall I not write to you any more?
Chopin's dearest wish was to be at home again. "How I should like to be in Warsaw!" he writes. But the fulfilment of this wish was out of the question, being against the desire of his parents, of whom especially the mother seems to have been glad that he did not execute his project of coming home.
I would not like to be a burden to my father; were it not for this fear I should return home at once. I am often in such a mood that I curse the moment of my departure from my sweet home! You will understand my situation, and that since the departure of Titus too much has fallen upon me all at once.
The question whether he should go to Italy or to France was soon decided for him, for the suppressed but constantly-increasing commotion which had agitated the former country ever since the July revolution at last vented itself in a series of insurrections. Modena began on February 3,1831, Bologna, Ancona, Parma, and Rome followed. While the "where to go" was thus settled, the "when to go" remained an open question for many months to come. Meanwhile let us try to look a little deeper into the inner and outer life which Chopin lived at Vienna.
The biographical details of this period of Chopin's life have to be drawn almost wholly from his letters. These, however, must be judiciously used. Those addressed to his parents, important as they are, are only valuable with regard to the composer's outward life, and even as vehicles of such facts they are not altogether trustworthy, for it is always his endeavour to make his parents believe that he is well and cheery. Thus he writes, for instance, to his friend Matuszyriski, after pouring forth complaint after complaint:—"Tell my parents that I am very happy, that I am in want of nothing, that I amuse myself famously, and never feel lonely." Indeed, the Spectator's opinion that nothing discovers the true temper of a person so much as his letters, requires a good deal of limitation and qualification. Johnson's ideas on the same subject may be recommended as a corrective. He held that there was no transaction which offered stronger temptations to fallacy and sophistication than epistolary intercourse:—
In the eagerness of conversation the first emotions of the mind burst out before they are considered. In the tumult of business, interest and passion have their genuine effect; but a friendly letter is a calm and deliberate performance in the cool of leisure, in the stillness of solitude, and surely no man sits down by design to depreciate his own character. Friendship has no tendency to secure veracity; for by whom can a man so much wish to be thought better than he is, as by him whose kindness he desires to gain or keep?
These one-sided statements are open to much criticism, and would make an excellent theme for an essay. Here, however, we must content ourselves with simply pointing out that letters are not always calm and deliberate performances, but exhibit often the eagerness of conversation and the impulsiveness of passion. In Chopin's correspondence we find this not unfrequently exemplified. But to see it we must not turn to the letters addressed to his parents, to his master, and to his acquaintances- -there we find little of the real man and his deeper feelings— but to those addressed to his bosom-friends, and among them there are none in which he shows himself more openly than in the two which he wrote on December 25, 1830, and January 1, 1831, to John Matuszynski. These letters are, indeed, such wonderful revelations of their writer's character that I should fail in my duty as his biographer were I to neglect to place before the reader copious extracts from them, in short, all those passages which throw light on the inner working of this interesting personality.
Dec. 25, 1830.—I longed indescribably for your letter; you know why. How happy news of my angel of peace always makes me! How I should like to touch all the strings which not only call up stormy feelings, but also awaken again the songs whose half-dying echo is still flitting on the banks of the Danube-songs which the warriors of King John Sobieski sang!
You advised me to choose a poet. But you know I am an undecided being, and succeeded only once in my life in making a good choice.
The many dinners, soirees, concerts, and balls which I have to go to only bore me. I am sad, and feel so lonely and forsaken here. But I cannot live as I would! I must dress, appear with a cheerful countenance in the salons; but when I am again in my room I give vent to my feelings on the piano, to which, as my best friend in Vienna, I disclose all my sufferings. I have not a soul to whom I can fully unbosom myself, and yet I must meet everyone like a friend. There are, indeed, people here who seem to love me, take my portrait, seek my society; but they do not make up for the want of you [his friends and relations]. I lack inward peace, I am at rest only when I read your [his friends' and relations'] letters, and picture to myself the statue of King Sigismund, or gaze at the ring [Constantia's], that dear jewel. Forgive me, dear Johnnie, for complaining so much to you; but my heart grows lighter when I speak to you thus. To you I have indeed always told all that affected me. Did you receive my little note the day before yesterday? Perhaps you don't care much for my scribbling, for you are at home; but I read and read your letters again and again.
Dr. Freyer has called on me several times; he had learned from Schuch that I was in Vienna. He told me a great deal of interesting news, and enjoyed your letter, which I read to him up to a certain passage. This passage has made me very sad. Is she really so much changed in appearance? Perhaps she was ill? One could easily fancy her being so, as she has a very sensitive disposition. Perhaps she only appeared so to you, or was she afraid of anything? God forbid that she should suffer in any way on my account. Set her mind at rest, and tell her that as long as my heart beats I shall not cease to adore her. Tell her that even after my death my ashes shall be strewn under her feet. Still, all this is yet too little, and you might tell her a great deal more.
I shall write to her myself; indeed, I would have done so long ago to free myself from my torments; but if my letter should fall into strange hands, might this not hurt her reputation ? Therefore, dear friend, be you the interpreter of my feelings; speak for me, "et j'en conviendrai." These French words of yours flashed through me like lightning. A Viennese gentleman who walked beside me in the street when I was reading your letter, seized me by the arm, and was hardly able to hold me. He did not know what had happened to me. I should have liked to embrace and kiss all the passers-by, and I felt happier than I had done for a long time, for I had received the first letter from you. Perhaps I weary you, Johnnie, with my passionateness; but it is difficult for me to conceal from you anything that moves my heart.
The day before yesterday I dined at Madame Beyer's, her name is likewise Constantia. I like her society, her having that indescribably dear Christian name is sufficient to account for my partiality; it gives me even pleasure when one of her pocket-handkerchiefs or napkins marked "Constantia" comes into my hands.
I walked alone, and slowly, into St. Stephen's. The church was as yet empty. To view the noble, magnificent edifice in a truly devout spirit I leant against a pillar in the darkest corner of this house of God. The grandeur of the arched roof cannot be described, one must see St. Stephen's with one's own eyes. Around me reigned the profoundest silence, which was interrupted only by the echoing footsteps of the sacristan who came to light the candles. Behind me was a grave, before me a grave, only above me I saw none. At that moment I felt my loneliness and isolation. When the lights were burning and the Cathedral began to fill with people, I wrapped myself up more closely in my cloak (you know the way in which I used to walk through the suburb of Cracow), and hastened to be present at the Mass in the Imperial Court Chapel. Now, however, I walked no longer alone, but passed through the beautiful streets of Vienna in merry company to the Hofburg, where I heard three movements of a mass performed by sleepy musicians. At one o'clock in the morning I reached my lodgings. I dreamt of you, of her, and of my dear children [his sisters].
The first thing I did to-day was to indulge myself in melancholy fantasias on my piano.
Advise me what to do. Please ask the person who has always exercised so powerful an influence over me in Warsaw, and let me know her opinion; according to that I shall act.
Let me hear once more from you before you take the field. Vienna, poste restante. Go and see my parents and Constantia. Visit my sisters often, as long as you are still in Warsaw, so that they may think that you are coming to me, and that I am in the other room. Sit down beside them that they may imagine I am there too; in one word, be my substitute in the house of my parents.
I shall conclude, dear Johnnie, for now it is really time. Embrace all my dear colleagues for me, and believe that I shall not cease to love you until I cease to love those that are dearest to me, my parents and her.
My dearest friend, do write me soon a few lines. You may even show her this letter, if you think fit to do so.
My parents don't know that I write to you. You may tell them of it, but must by no means show them the letter. I cannot yet take leave of my Johnnie; but I shall be off presently, you naughty one! If W…loves you as heartily as I love you, then would Con…No, I cannot complete the name, my hand is too unworthy. Ah! I could tear out my hair when I think that I could be forgotten by her!
My portrait, of which only you and I are to know, is a very good likeness; if you think it would give her pleasure, I would send it to her through Schuch.
January 1, 1831.—There you have what you wanted! Have you received the letter? Have you delivered any of the messages it contained? To-day I still regret what I have done. I was full of sweet hopes, and now am tormented by anxiety and doubts. Perhaps she mocks at me—laughs at me? Perhaps—ah! does she love me? This is what my passionate heart asks. You wicked AEsculapius, you were at the theatre, you eyed her incessantly with your opera-glass; if this is the case a thunderbolt shall…Do not forfeit my confidence; oh, you! if I write to you I do so only for my own sake, for you do not deserve it.
Just now when I am writing I am in a strange state; I feel as if I were with you [with his dear ones], and were only dreaming what I see and hear here. The voices which I hear around me, and to which my ear is not accustomed, make upon me for the most part only an impression like the rattling of carriages or any other indifferent noise. Only your voice or that of Titus could to-day wake me out of my torpor. Life and death are perfectly alike to me. Tell, however, my parents that I am very happy, that I am in want of nothing, that I amuse myself famously, and never feel lonely.
If she mocks at me, tell her the same; but if she inquires kindly for me, shows some concern about me, whisper to her that she may make her mind easy; but add also that away from her I feel everywhere lonely and unhappy. I am unwell, but this I do not write to my parents. Everybody asks what is the matter with me. I should like to answer that I have lost my good spirits. However, you know best what troubles me! Although there is no lack of entertainment and diversion here, I rarely feel inclined for amusement.
To-day is the first of January. Oh, how sadly this year begins for me! I love you [his friends] above all things. Write as soon as possible. Is she at Radom? Have you thrown up redoubts? My poor parents! How are my friends faring?
I could die for you, for you all! Why am I doomed to be here
so lonely and forsaken? You can at least open your hearts to
each other and comfort each other. Your flute will have
enough to lament! How much more will my piano have to weep!
You write that you and your regiment are going to take the field; how will you forward the note? Be sure you do not send it by a messenger; be cautious! The parents might perhaps— they might perhaps view the matter in a false light.
I embrace you once more. You are going to the war; return as a colonel. May all pass off well! Why may I not at least be your drummer?
Forgive the disorder in my letter, I write as if I were intoxicated.
The disorder of the letters is indeed very striking; it is great in the foregoing extracts, and of course ten times greater with the interspersed descriptions, bits of news, and criticisms on music and musicians. I preferred separating the fundamental and always-recurring thoughts, the all-absorbing and predominating feelings, from the more superficial and passing fancies and affections, and all those matters which were to him, if not of total indifference, at least of comparatively little moment; because such a separation enables us to gain a clearer and fuller view of the inner man and to judge henceforth his actions and works with some degree of certainty, even where his own accounts and comments and those of trustworthy witnesses fail us. The psychological student need not be told to take note of the disorder in these two letters and of their length (written to the same person within less than a week, they fill nearly twelve printed pages in Karasowski's book), he will not be found neglecting such important indications of the temporary mood and the character of which it is a manifestation. And now let us take a glance at Chopin's outward life in Vienna.
I have already stated that Chopin and Woyciechowski lived together. Their lodgings, for which they had to pay their landlady, a baroness, fifty florins, were on the third story of a house in the Kohlmarkt, and consisted of three elegant rooms. When his friend left, Chopin thought the rent too high for his purse, and as an English family was willing to pay as much as eighty florins, he sublet the rooms and removed to the fourth story, where he found in the Baroness von Lachmanowicz an agreeable young landlady, and had equally roomy apartments which cost him only twenty florins and pleased him quite well. The house was favourably situated, Mechetti being on the right, Artaria on the left, and the opera behind; and as people were not deterred by the high stairs from visiting him, not even old Count Hussarzewski, and a good profit would accrue to him from those eighty florins, he could afford to laugh at theprobable dismay of his friends picturing him as "a poor devil living in a garret," and could do so the more heartily as there was in reality another story between him and the roof. He gives his people a very pretty description of his lodgings and mode of life:—