He was young, handsome, and gay, and his companionship was sought on every side. Had not his breast been stirred by an impulse stronger than the mere desire for popularity, Frédéric Chopin would have developed into nothing more than an elegant young musician, the acknowledged favorite of his fellow-townsmen. But he was not content to end his career so tamely. He must see the world. He must conquer the public beyond his native land. He must play, he must compose, he must work and study to greater ends.
Accordingly, one day in November, at the age of twenty-one, he set out for Vienna. When he found himself actually leaving kindred and home behind, a flood of sadness swept over him.
"I shall never return," he groaned; "my eyes will never look upon Warsaw again!"
His friends responded lightly to these fears, and with their words of cheer he soon recovered his usual bright spirit.
He was escorted as far as the first day's travel would carry him by a score of affectionate friends; and at the end of a banquet given in his honor, he was touched to the heart by one of their number presenting to him a silver goblet filled with Polish earth, with entreaties that he would meet the world as a man, and keep his country in constant remembrance.
In Vienna he attracted much attention by his playing, and at the end of a year he was accounted one of the leading musical spirits of the city.
He had decided to pay a brief visit to his home and friends, when on his way he was horrified to learn that his beloved Poland had been seized by the Russians, that his country was in the hands of the enemy, and that Warsaw was converted into a camp of foreign soldiers. He dared not advance farther, as all absent Poles had been warned by the new Government to keep away from Poland, on pain of death.
Frédéric was nearly crushed by these unlooked-for tidings, and, only waiting to learn that his parents were safe and well, he set his face toward Paris. Here he decided to make his home, as had so many others of his exiled countrymen. Success in this city meant success in the world, and for this Frédéric Chopin labored through the following years.
His playing was so rare, so peculiarly delicate, that no one in Paris could approach him in his chosen style. One critic called him "the piano god," another, "Velvet Fingers"; and when his compositions were printed, and the people could play them for themselves, they were nigh transported by his genius.