Frederick Chopin, as a Man and Musician — Complete

by Frederick Niecks

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:—

I live on the fourth story, in a fine street, but I have to
strain my eyes in looking out of the window when I wish to
see what is going on beneath. You will find my room in my new
album when I am at home again. Young Hummel composer] is so kind as to draw it for me. It is large and
has five windows; the bed is opposite to them. My wonderful
piano stands on the right, the sofa on the left; between the
windows there is a mirror, in the middle of the room a fine,
large, round mahogany table; the floor is polished. Hush!
"The gentleman does not receive visitors in the afternoon"—
hence I can be amongst you in my thoughts. Early in the
morning the unbearably-stupid servant wakes me; I rise, get
my coffee, and often drink it cold because I forget my
breakfast over my playing. Punctually at nine o'clock appears
my German master; then I generally write; and after that,
Hummel comes to work at my portrait, while Nidecki studies my
concerto. And all this time I remain in my comfortable
dressing-gown, which I do not take off till twelve o'clock.
At that hour a very worthy German makes his appearance, Herr
Leibenfrost, who works in the law-courts here. If the weather
is fine I take a walk with him on the Glacis, then we dine
together at a restaurant, Zur bohmischen Kochin, which is
frequented by all the university students; and finally we go
(as is the custom here) to one of the best coffee-houses.
After this I make calls, return home in the twilight, throw
myself into evening-dress, and must be off to some soiree: to-
day here, to-morrow there. About eleven or twelve (but never
later) I return home, play, laugh, read, lie down, put out
the light, sleep, and dream of you, my dear ones.

If is evident that there was no occasion to fear that Chopin would kill himself with too hard work. Indeed, the number of friends, or, not to misuse this sacred name, let us rather say acquaintances, he had, did not allow him much time for study and composition. In his letters from Vienna are mentioned more than forty names of families and single individuals with whom he had personal intercourse. I need hardly add that among them there was a considerable sprinkling of Poles. Indeed, the majority of the houses where he was oftenest seen, and where he felt most happy, were those of his countrymen, or those in which there was at least some Polish member, or which had some Polish connection. Already on December 1, 1830, he writes home that he had been several times at Count Hussarzewski's, and purposes to pay a visit at Countess Rosalia Rzewuska's, where he expects to meet Madame Cibbini, the daughter of Leopold Kozeluch and a pupil of Clementi, known as a pianist and composer, to whom Moscheles dedicated a sonata for four hands, and who at that time was first lady-in-waiting to the Empress of Austria. Chopin had likewise called twice at Madame Weyberheim's. This lady, who was a sister of Madame Wolf and the wife of a rich banker, invited him to a soiree "en petit cercle des amateurs," and some weeks later to a soiree dansante, on which occasion he saw "many young people, beautiful, but not antique [that is to say not of the Old Testament kind], "refused to play, although the lady of the house and her beautiful daughters had invited many musical personages, was forced to dance a cotillon, made some rounds, and then went home. In the house of the family Beyer (where the husband was a Pole of Odessa, and the wife, likewise Polish, bore the fascinating Christian name Constantia—the reader will remember her) Chopin felt soon at his ease. There he liked to dine, sup, lounge, chat, play, dance mazurkas, &c. He often met there the violinist Slavik, and the day before Christmas played with him all the morning and evening, another day staying with him there till two o'clock in the morning. We hear also of dinners at the house of his countrywoman Madame Elkan, and at Madame Schaschek's, where (he writes in July, 1831) he usually met several Polish ladies, who by their hearty hopeful words always cheered him, and where he once made his appearance at four instead of the appointed dinner hour, two o'clock. But one of his best friends was the medical celebrity Dr. Malfatti, physician-in-ordinary to the Emperor of Austria, better remembered by the musical reader as the friend of Beethoven, whom he attended in his last illness, forgetting what causes for complaint he might have against the too irritable master. Well, this Dr. Malfatti received Chopin, of whom he had already heard from Wladyslaw Ostrowski, "as heartily as if I had been a relation of his" (Chopin uses here a very bold simile), running up to him and embracing him as soon as he had got sight of his visiting-card. Chopin became a frequent guest at the doctor's house; in his letters we come often on the announcement that he has dined or is going to dine on such or such a day at Dr. Malfatti's.

December 1, 1830.—On the whole things are going well with
me, and I hope with God's help, who sent Malfatti to my
assistance—oh, excellent Malfatti!—that they will go better
still.
December 25, 1830.—I went to dine at Malfatti's. This
excellent man thinks of everything; he is even so kind as to
set before us dishes prepared in the Polish fashion.
May 14, 1831.—I am very brisk, and feel that good health is
the best comfort in misfortune. Perhaps Malfatti's soups have
strengthened me so much that I feel better than I ever did.
If this is really the case, I must doubly regret that
Malfatti has gone with his family into the country. You have
no idea how beautiful the villa is in which he lives; this
day week I was there with Hummel. After this amiable
physician had taken us over his house he showed us also his
garden. When we stood at the top of the hill, from which we
had a splendid view, we did not wish to go down again. The
Court honours Malfatti every year with a visit. He has the
Duchess of Anhalt-Cothen as a neighbour; I should not wonder
if she envied him his garden. On one side one sees Vienna
lying at one's feet, and in such a way that one might believe
it was joined to Schoenbrunn; on the other side one sees high
mountains picturesquely dotted with convents and villages.
Gazing on this romantic panorama one entirely forgets the
noisy bustle and proximity of the capital.

This is one of the few descriptive passages to be found in Chopin's
letters—men and their ways interested him more than natural scenery.
But to return from the villa to its owner, Chopin characterises
his relation to the doctor unequivocally in the following
statement:—"Malfatti really loves me, and I am not a little proud of
it." Indeed, the doctor seems to have been a true friend, ready with act
and counsel. He aided him with his influence in various ways; thus,
for instance, we read that he promised to introduce him to Madame
Tatyszczew, the wife of the Russian Ambassador, and to Baron Dunoi,
the president of the musical society, whom Chopin thought a very useful
personage to know. At Malfatti's he made also the acquaintance of some
artists whom he would, perhaps, have had no opportunity of meeting
elsewhere. One of these was the celebrated tenor Wild. He came to
Malfatti's in the afternoon of Christmas-day, and Chopin, who had been
dining there, says: "I accompanied by heart the aria from Othello, which
he sang in a masterly style. Wild and Miss Heinefetter are the ornaments
of the Court Opera." Of a celebration of Malfatti's name-day Chopin
gives the following graphic account in a letter to his parents, dated
June 25, 1831:— Mechetti, who wished to surprise him [Malfatti],
persuaded the Misses Emmering and Lutzer, and the Messrs. Wild,
Cicimara, and your Frederick to perform some music at the
honoured man's house; almost from beginning to end the
performance was deserving of the predicate "parfait." I never
heard the quartet from Moses better sung; but Miss Gladkowska
sang "O quante lagrime" at my farewell concert at Warsaw with
much more expression. Wild was in excellent voice, and I
acted in a way as Capellmeister.

To this he adds the note:—

Cicimara said there was nobody in Vienna who accompanied so
well as I. And I thought, "Of that I have been long
convinced." A considerable number of people stood on the
terrace of the house and listened to our concert. The moon
shone with wondrous beauty, the fountains rose like columns
of pearls, the air was filled with the fragrance of the
orangery; in short, it was an enchanting night, and the
surroundings were magnificent! And now I will describe to you
the drawing-room in which we were. High windows, open from
top to bottom, look out upon the terrace, from which one has
a splendid view of the whole of Vienna. The walls are hung
with large mirrors; the lights were faint: but so much the
greater was the effect of the moonlight which streamed
through the windows. The cabinet to the left of the drawing-
room and adjoining it gives, on account of its large
dimensions, an imposing aspect to the whole apartment. The
ingenuousness and courtesy of the host, the elegant and
genial society, the generally-prevailing joviality, and the
excellent supper, kept us long together.

Here Chopin is seen at his best as a letter writer; it would be difficult to find other passages of equal excellence. For, although we meet frequently enough with isolated pretty bits, there is not one single letter which, from beginning to end, as a whole as well as in its parts, has the perfection and charm of Mendelssohn's letters.