Frederick Chopin as a Man and Musician

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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.