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!