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:—

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 [a son of the 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.



CHAPTER XII



VIENNA MUSICAL LIFE.—KARNTHNERTHOR THEATRE.—SABINE HEINEFETTER.—CONCERTS: HESSE, THALBERG, DOHLER, HUMMEL, ALOYS SCHMITT, CHARLES CZERNY, SLAVIK, MERK, BOCKLET, ABBE STABLER, KIESEWETTER, KANDLER.—THE PUBLISHERS HASLINGER, DIABELLI, MECHETTI, AND JOSEPH CZERNY.—LANNER AND STRAUSS.—CHOPIN PLAYS AT A CONCERT OF MADAME GARZIA-VESTRIS AND GIVES ONE HIMSELF.—HIS STUDIES AND COMPOSITIONS OF THAT TIME.—HIS STATE OF BODY AND MIND.—PREPARATIONS FOR AND POSTPONEMENT OF HIS DEPARTURE.—SHORTNESS OF MONEY.—HIS MELANCHOLY.—TWO EXCURSIONS.—LEAVES FOR MUNICH.—HIS CONCERT AT MUNICH.—HIS STAY AT STUTTGART.—PROCEEDS TO PARIS.



The allusions to music and musicians lead us naturally to inquire further after Chopin's musical experiences in Vienna.

January 26, 1831.—If I had not made [he writes] the exceedingly interesting acquaintance of the most talented artists of this place, such as Slavik, Merk, Bocklet, and so forth [this "so forth" is tantalising], I should be very little satisfied with my stay here. The Opera indeed is good: Wild and Miss Heinefetter fascinate the Viennese; only it is a pity that Duport brings forward so few new operas, and thinks more of his pocket than of art.

What Chopin says here and elsewhere about Duport's stinginess tallies with the contemporary newspaper accounts. No sooner had the new manager taken possession of his post than he began to economise in such a manner that he drove away men like Conradin Kreutzer, Weigl, and Mayseder. During the earlier part of his sojourn in Vienna Chopin remarked that excepting Heinefetter and Wild, the singers were not so excellent as he had expected to find them at the Imperial Opera. Afterwards he seems to have somewhat extended his sympathies, for he writes in July, 1831:—

Rossini's "Siege of Corinth" was lately very well performed here, and I am glad that I had the opportunity of hearing this opera. Miss Heinefetter and Messrs. Wild, Binder, and Forti, in short, all the good singers in Vienna, appeared in this opera and did their best.

Chopin's most considerable criticism of this time is one on Miss Heinefetter in a letter written on December 25, 1830; it may serve as a pendant to his criticism on Miss Sontag which I quoted in a preceding chapter.

Miss Heinefetter has a voice such as one seldom hears; she sings always in tune; her coloratura is like so many pearls; in short, everything is faultless. She looks particularly well when dressed as a man. But she is cold: I got my nose almost frozen in the stalls. In "Othello" she delighted me more than in the "Barber of Seville," where she represents a finished coquette instead of a lively, witty girl. As Sextus in "Titus" she looks really quite splendid. In a few days she is to appear in the "Thieving Magpie" ["La Gazza ladra"]. I am anxious to hear it. Miss Woikow pleased me better as Rosina in the "Barber"; but, to be sure, she has not such a delicious voice as the Heinefetter. I wish I had heard Pasta!

The opera at the Karnthnerthor Theatre with all its shortcomings was nevertheless the most important and most satisfactory musical institution of the city. What else, indeed, had Vienna to offer to the earnest musician? Lanner and Strauss were the heroes of the day, and the majority of other concerts than those given by them were exhibitions of virtuosos. Imagine what a pass the musical world of Vienna must have come to when Stadler, Kiesewetter, Mosel, and Seyfried could be called, as Chopin did call them, its elite! Abbe Stadler might well say to the stranger from Poland that Vienna was no longer what it used to be. Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert had shuffled off their mortal coil, and compared with these suns their surviving contemporaries and successors—Gyrowetz, Weigl, Stadler, Conradin Kreutzer, Lachner, &c.—were but dim and uncertain lights.

With regard to choral and orchestral performances apart from the stage, Vienna had till more recent times very little to boast of. In 1830-1831 the Spirituel-Concerte (Concerts Spirituels) were still in existence under the conductorship of Lannoy; but since 1824 their number had dwindled down from eighteen to four yearly concerts. The programmes were made up of a symphony and some sacred choruses. Beethoven, Mozart, and Haydn predominated among the symphonists; in the choral department preference was given to the Austrian school of church music; but Cherubim also was a great favourite, and choruses from Handel's oratorios, with Mosel's additional accompaniments, were often performed. The name of Beethoven was hardly ever absent from any of the programmes. That the orchestra consisted chiefly of amateurs, and that the performances took place without rehearsals (only difficult new works got a rehearsal, and one only), are facts which speak for themselves. Franz Lachner told Hanslick that the performances of new and in any way difficult compositions were so bad that Schubert once left the hall in the middle of one of his works, and he himself (Lachner) had felt several times inclined to do the same. These are the concerts of which Beethoven spoke as Winkelmusik, and the tickets of which he denominated Abtrittskarten, a word which, as the expression of a man of genius, I do not hesitate to quote, but which I could not venture to translate. Since this damning criticism was uttered, matters had not improved, on the contrary, had gone from bad to worse. Another society of note was the still existing and flourishing Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde. It, too, gave four, or perhaps five yearly concerts, in each of which a symphony, an overture, an aria or duet, an instrumental solo, and a chorus were performed. This society was afflicted with the same evil as the first-named institution. It was a

gladdening sight [we are told] to see counts and tradesmen, superiors and subalterns, professors and students, noble ladies and simple burghers' daughters side by side harmoniously exerting themselves for the love of art.

As far as choral singing is concerned the example deserves to be followed, but the matter stands differently with regard to instrumental music, a branch of the art which demands not only longer and more careful, but also constant, training. Although the early custom of drawing lots, in order to determine who were to sing the solos, what places the players were to occupy in the orchestra, and which of the four conductors was to wield the baton, had already disappeared before 1831, yet in 1841 the performances of the symphonies were still so little "in the spirit of the composers" (a delicate way of stating an ugly fact) that a critic advised the society to imitate the foreign conservatoriums, and reinforce the band with the best musicians of the capital, who, constantly exercising their art, and conversant with the works of the great masters, were better able to do justice to them than amateurs who met only four times a year. What a boon it would be to humanity, what an increase of happiness, if amateurs would allow themselves to be taught by George Eliot, who never spoke truer and wiser words than when she said:—"A little private imitation of what is good is a sort of private devotion to it, and most of us ought to practise art only in the light of private study—preparation to understand and enjoy what the few can do for us." In addition to the above I shall yet mention a third society, the Tonkunstler-Societat, which, as the name implies, was an association of musicians. Its object was the getting-up and keeping-up of a pension fund, and its artistic activity displayed itself in four yearly concerts. Haydn's "Creation" and "Seasons" were the stock pieces of the society's repertoire, but in 1830 and 1831 Handel's "Messiah" and "Solomon" and Lachner's "Die vier Menschenalter" were also performed.

These historical notes will give us an idea of what Chopin may have heard in the way of choral and orchestral music. I say "may have heard," because not a word is to be found in his extant letters about the concerts of these societies. Without exposing ourselves to the reproach of rashness, we may, however, assume that he was present at the concert of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde on March 20, 1831, when among the items of the programme were Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony, and the first movement of a concerto composed and played by Thalberg. On seeing the name of one of the most famous pianists contemporary with Chopin, the reader has, no doubt, at once guessed the reason why I assumed the latter's presence at the concert. These two remarkable, but in their characters and aims so dissimilar, men had some friendly intercourse in Vienna. Chopin mentions Thalberg twice in his letters, first on December 25, 1830, and again on May 28, 1831. On the latter occasion he relates that he went with him to an organ recital given by Hesse, the previously-mentioned Adolf Hesse of Breslau, of whom Chopin now remarked that he had talent and knew how to treat his instrument. Hesse and Chopin must have had some personal intercourse, for we learn that the former left with the latter an album leaf. A propos of this circumstance, Chopin confesses in a letter to his people that he is at a loss what to write, that he lacks the requisite wit. But let us return to the brilliant pianist, who, of course, was a more interesting acquaintance in Chopin's, eyes than the great organist. Born in 1812, and consequently three years younger than Chopin, Sigismund Thalberg had already in his fifteenth year played with success in public, and at the age of sixteen published Op. 1, 2, and 3. However, when Chopin made his acquaintance, he had not yet begun to play only his own compositions (about that time he played, for instance, Beethoven's C minor Concerto at one of the Spirituel-Concerte, where since 1830 instrumental solos were occasionally heard), nor had he attained that in its way unique perfection of beauty of tone and elegance of execution which distinguished him afterwards. Indeed, the palmy days of his career cannot be dated farther back than the year 1835, when he and Chopin met again in Paris; but then his success was so enormous that his fame in a short time became universal, and as a virtuoso only one rival was left him—Liszt, the unconquered. That Chopin and Thalberg entertained very high opinions of each other cannot be asserted. Let the reader judge for himself after reading what Chopin says in his letter of December 25, 1830:—

Thalberg plays famously, but he is not my man. He is younger than I, pleases the ladies very much, makes pot-pourris on "La Muette" ["Masaniello"], plays the forte and piano with the pedal, but not with the hand, takes tenths as easily as I do octaves, and wears studs with diamonds. Moscheles does not at all astonish him; therefore it is no wonder that only the tuttis of my concerto have pleased him. He, too, writes concertos.

Chopin was endowed with a considerable power of sarcasm, and was fond of cultivating and exercising it. This portraiture of his brother-artist is not a bad specimen of its kind, although we shall meet with better ones.

Another, but as yet unfledged, celebrity was at that time living in Vienna, prosecuting his studies under Czerny—namely, Theodor Dohler. Chopin, who went to hear him play some compositions of his master's at the theatre, does not allude to him again after the concert; but if he foresaw what a position as a pianist and composer he himself was destined to occupy, he could not suspect that this lad of seventeen would some day be held up to the Parisian public by a hostile clique as a rival equalling and even surpassing his peculiar excellences. By the way, the notion of anyone playing compositions of Czerny's at a concert cannot but strangely tickle the fancy of a musician who has the privilege of living in the latter part of the nineteenth century.

Besides the young pianists with a great future before them Chopin came also in contact with aging pianists with a great past behind them. Hummel, accompanied by his son, called on him in the latter part of December, 1830, and was extraordinarily polite. In April, 1831, the two pianists, the setting and the rising star, were together at the villa of Dr. Malfatti. Chopin informed his master, Elsner, for whose masses he was in quest of a publisher, that Haslinger was publishing the last mass of Hummel, and added:— For he now lives only by and for Hummel.

It is rumoured that the last compositions of Hummel do not sell well, and yet he is said to have paid a high price for them. Therefore he now lays all MSS. aside, and prints only Strauss's waltzes.

Unfortunately there is not a word which betrays Chopin's opinion of Hummel's playing and compositions. We are more fortunate in the case of another celebrity, one, however, of a much lower order. In one of the prosaic intervals, of the sentimental rhapsody, indited on December 25, 1830, there occur the following remarks:—

The pianist Aloys Schmitt of Frankfort-on-the-Main, famous for his excellent studies, is at present here; he is a man above forty. I have made his acquaintance; he promised to visit me. He intends to give a concert here, and one must admit that he is a clever musician. I think we shall understand each other with regard to music.

Having looked at this picture, let the reader look also at this other, dashed off a month later in a letter to Elsner:—

The pianist Aloys Schmitt has been flipped on the nose by the critics, although he is already over forty years old, and composes eighty-years-old music.

From the contemporary journals we learn that, at the concert mentioned by Chopin, Schmitt afforded the public of Vienna an opportunity of hearing a number of his own compositions—which were by no means short drawing-room pieces, but a symphony, overture, concerto, concertino, &c.—and that he concluded his concert with an improvisation. One critic, at least, described his style of playing as sound and brilliant. The misfortune of Schmitt was to have come too late into the world—respectable mediocrities like him always do that—he never had any youth. The pianist on whom Chopin called first on arriving in Vienna was Charles Czerny, and he

was, as he is always (and to everybody), very polite, and asked, "Hat fleissig studirt?" [Have you studied diligently?] He has again arranged an overture for eight pianos and sixteen performers, and seems to be very happy over it.

Only in the sense of belonging rather to the outgoing than to the incoming generation can Czerny be reckoned among the aged pianists, for in 1831 he was not above forty years of age and had still an enormous capacity for work in him—hundreds and hundreds of original and transcribed compositions, thousands and thousands of lessons. His name appears in a passage of one of Chopin's letters which deserves to be quoted for various reasons: it shows the writer's dislike to the Jews, his love of Polish music, and his contempt for a kind of composition much cultivated by Czerny. Speaking of the violinist Herz, "an Israelite," who was almost hissed when he made his debut in Warsaw, and whom Chopin was going to hear again in Vienna, he says:—

At the close of the concert Herz will play his own Variations on Polish airs. Poor Polish airs! You do not in the least suspect how you will be interlarded with "majufes" [see page 49, foot-note], and that the title of "Polish music" is only given you to entice the public. If one is so outspoken as to discuss the respective merits of genuine Polish music and this imitation of it, and to place the former above the latter, people declare one to be mad, and do this so much the more readily because Czerny, the oracle of Vienna, has hitherto in the fabrication of his musical dainties never produced Variations on a Polish air.

Chopin had not much sympathy with Czerny the musician, but seems to have had some liking for the man, who indeed was gentle, kind, and courteous in his disposition and deportment.

A much more congenial and intimate connection existed between Chopin, Slavik, and Merk. [FOOTNOTE: Thus the name is spelt in Mendel's Musikalisches Conversations-Lexikon and by E. A. Melis, the Bohemian writer on music. Chopin spells it Slawik. The more usual spelling, however, is Slawjk; and in C.F. Whistling's Handbuch der musikalischen Literatur (Leipzig, 1828) it is Slavjk.] Joseph Slavik had come to Vienna in 1825 and had at once excited a great sensation. He was then a young man of nineteen, but technically already superior to all the violinists that had been heard in the Austrian capital. The celebrated Mayseder called him a second Lipinski. Pixis, his master at the Conservatorium in Prague, on seeing some of this extraordinary pupil's compositions—a concerto, variations, &c.—had wondered how anyone could write down such mad, unplayable stuff. But Slavik before leaving Prague proved at a farewell concert that there was at least one who could play the mad stuff. All this, however, was merely the prelude to what was yet to come. The appearance of Paganini in 1828 revealed to him the, till then, dimly-perceived ideal of his dreams, and the great Italian violinist, who took an interest in this ardent admirer and gave him some hints, became henceforth his model. Having saved a little money, he went for his further improvement to Paris, studying especially under Baillot, but soon returned to accept an engagement in the Imperial Band. When after two years of hard practising he reappeared before the public of Vienna, his style was altogether changed; he mastered the same difficulties as Paganini, or even greater ones, not, however, with the same unfailing certainty, nor with an always irreproachable intonation. Still, there can be no doubt that had not a premature death (in 1833, at the age of twenty-seven) cut short his career, he would have spread his fame all over the world. Chopin, who met him first at Wurfel's, at once felt a liking for him, and when on the following day he heard him play after dinner at Beyer's, he was more pleased with his performance than with that of any other violinist except Paganini. As Chopin's playing was equally sympathetic to Slavik, they formed the project of writing a duet for violin and piano. In a letter to his friend Matuszynski (December 25, 1830) Chopin writes:—

I have just come from the excellent violinist Slavik. With the exception of Paganini, I never heard a violin-player like him. Ninety-six staccato notes in one bow! It is almost incredible! When I heard him I felt inclined to return to my lodgings and sketch variations on an Adagio [which they had previously agreed to take for their theme] of Beethoven's.

The sight of the post-office and a letter from his Polish friends put the variations out of his mind, and they seem never to have been written, at least nothing has been heard of them. Some remarks on Slavik in a letter addressed to his parents (May 28, 1831) show Chopin's admiration of and affection for his friend still more distinctly:—

He is one of the Viennese artists with whom I keep up a really friendly and intimate intercourse. He plays like a second Paganini, but a rejuvenated one, who will perhaps in time surpass the first. I should not believe it myself if I had not heard him so often....Slavik fascinates the listener and brings tears into his eyes.

Shortly after falling in with Slavik, Chopin met Merk, probably at the house of the publisher Mechetti, and on January 1, 1831, he announces to his friend in Warsaw with unmistakable pride that "Merk, the first violoncellist in Vienna," has promised him a visit. Chopin desired very much to become acquainted with him because he thought that Merk, Slavik, and himself would form a capital trio. The violoncellist was considerably older than either pianist or violinist, being born in 1795. Merk began his musical career as a violinist, but being badly bitten in the arm by a big dog, and disabled thereby to hold the violin in its proper position (this is what Fetis relates), he devoted himself to the violoncello, and with such success as to become the first solo player in Vienna. At the time we are speaking of he was a member of the Imperial Orchestra and a professor at the Conservatorium. He often gave concerts with Mayseder, and was called the Mayseder of the violoncello. Chopin, on hearing him at a soiree of the well-known autograph collector Fuchs, writes home:—

Limmer, one of the better artists here in Vienna, produced some of his compositions for four violoncelli. Merk, by his expressive playing, made them, as usual, more beautiful than they really are. People stayed again till midnight, for Merk took a fancy to play with me his variations. He told me that he liked to play with me, and it is always a great treat to me to play with him. I think we look well together. He is the first violoncellist whom I really admire.

Of Chopin's intercourse with the third of the "exceedingly interesting acquaintances" whom he mentions by name, we get no particulars in his letters. Still, Carl Maria von Bocklet, for whom Beethoven wrote three letters of recommendation, who was an intimate friend of Schubert's, and whose interpretations of classical works and power of improvisation gave him one of the foremost places among the pianists of the day, cannot have been without influence on Chopin. Bocklet, better than any other pianist then living in Vienna, could bring the young Pole into closer communication with the German masters of the preceding generation; he could, as it were, transmit to him some of the spirit that animated Beethoven, Schubert, and Weber. The absence of allusions to Bocklet in Chopin's letters does not, however, prove that he never made any, for the extant letters are only a small portion of those he actually wrote, many of them having in the perturbed state of Poland never reached their destination, others having been burnt by his parents for fear of the Russian police, and some, no doubt, having been lost through carelessness or indifference.

The list of Chopin's acquaintances is as yet far from being exhausted. He had conversations with old Abbe Stadler, the friend of Haydn and Mozart, whose Psalms, which he saw in MS., he admired. He also speaks of one of the performances of old, sacred, and secular music which took place at Kiesewetter's house as if he were going to it. But a musician of Chopin's nature would not take a very lively interest in the historical aspect of the art; nor would the learned investigator of the music of the Netherlanders, of the music of the Arabs, of the life and works of Guido d'Arezzo, &c., readily perceive the preciousness of the modern composer's originality. At any rate, Chopin had more intercourse with the musico-literary Franz Kandler, who wrote favourable criticisms on his performances as a composer and player, and with whom he went on one occasion to the Imperial Library, where the discovery of a certain MS. surprised him even more than the magnitude and order of the collection, which he could not imagine to be inferior to that of Bologna—the manuscript in question being no other than his Op. 2, which Haslinger had presented to the library. Chopin found another MS. of his, that of the Rondo for two pianos, in Aloys Fuchs's famous collection of autographs, which then comprised 400 numbers, but about the year 1840 had increased to 650 numbers, most of them complete works. He must have understood how to ingratiate himself with the collector, otherwise he would hardly have had the good fortune to be presented with an autograph of Beethoven.

Chopin became also acquainted with almost all the principal publishers in Vienna. Of Haslinger enough has already been said. By Czerny Chopin was introduced to Diabelli, who invited him to an evening party of musicians. With Mechetti he seems to have been on a friendly footing. He dined at his house, met him at Dr. Malfatti's, handed over to him for publication his Polonaise for piano and violoncello (Op. 3), and described him as enterprising and probably persuadable to publish Elsner's masses. Joseph Czerny, no relation of Charles's, was a mere business acquaintance of Chopin's. Being reminded of his promise to publish a quartet of Elsner's, he said he could not undertake to do so just then (about January 26, 1831), as he was publishing the works of Schubert, of which many were still in the press.

Therefore [writes Chopin to his master] I fear your MS. will have to wait. Czerny, I have found out now, is not one of the richest publishers here, and consequently cannot easily risk the publication of a work which is not performed at the Sped or at the Romische Kaiser. Waltzes are here called works; and Lanner and Strauss, who lead the performances, Capellmeister. In saying this, however, I do not mean that all people here are of this opinion; on the contrary, there are many who laugh at it. Still, it is almost only waltzes that are published.

It is hardly possible for us to conceive the enthusiasm and ecstasy into which the waltzes of the two dance composers transported Vienna, which was divided into two camps:—

The Sperl and Volksgarten [says Hanslick] were on the Strauss and Lanner days the favourite and most frequented "concert localities." In the year 1839 Strauss and Lanner had already each of them published more than too works. The journals were thrown into ecstasy by every new set of waltzes; innumerable articles appeared on Strauss, and Lanner, enthusiastic, humorous, pathetic, and certainly longer than those that were devoted to Beethoven and Mozart.

These glimpses of the notabilities and manners of a by-gone generation, caught, as it were, through the chinks of the wall which time is building up between the past and the present, are instructive as well as amusing. It would be a great mistake to regard these details, apparently very loosely connected with the life of Chopin, as superfluous appendages to his biography. A man's sympathies and antipathies are revelations of his nature, and an artist's surroundings make evident his position and merit, the degree of his originality being undeterminable without a knowledge of the time in which he lived. Moreover, let the impatient reader remember that, Chopin's life being somewhat poor in incidents, the narrative cannot be an even-paced march, but must be a series of leaps and pauses, with here and there an intervening amble, and one or two brisk canters.

Having described the social and artistic sphere, or rather spheres, in which Chopin moved, pointed out the persons with whom he most associated, and noted his opinions regarding men and things, almost all that is worth telling of his life in the imperial city is told—almost all, but not all. Indeed, of the latter half of his sojourn there some events have yet to be recorded which in importance, if not in interest, surpass anything that is to be found in the preceding and the foregoing part of the present chapter. I have already indicated that the disappointment of Chopin's hopes and the failure of his plans cannot altogether be laid to the charge of unfavourable circumstances. His parents must have thought so too, and taken him to task about his remissness in the matter of giving a concert, for on May 14, 1831, Chopin writes to them:—"My most fervent wish is to be able to fulfil your wishes; till now, however, I found it impossible to give a concert." But although he had not himself given a concert he had had an opportunity of presenting himself in the best company to the public of Vienna. In the "Theaterzeitung" of April 2, 1831, Madame Garzia-Vestris announced a concert to be held in the Redoutensaal during the morning hours of April 4, in which she was to be assisted by the Misses Sabine and Clara Heinefetter, Messrs. Wild, Chopin, Bohm (violinist), Hellmesberger (violinist, pupil of the former), Merk, and the brothers Lewy (two horn-players). Chopin was distinguished from all the rest, as a homo ignotus et novus, by the parenthetical "pianoforte-player" after his name, no such information being thought necessary in the case of the other artists. The times are changed, now most readers require parenthetical elucidation after each name except that of Chopin. "He has put down the mighty from their seat and has exalted them of low degree!" The above-mentioned exhortation of his parents seems to have had the desired effect, and induced Chopin to make an effort, although now the circumstances were less favourable to his giving a concert than at the time of his arrival. The musical season was over, and many people had left the capital for their summer haunts; the struggle in Poland continued with increasing fierceness, which was not likely to lessen the backwardness of Austrians in patronising a Pole; and in addition to this, cholera had visited the country and put to flight all who were not obliged to stay. I have not been able to ascertain the date and other particulars of this concert. Through Karasowski we learn that it was thinly attended, and that the receipts did not cover the expenses. The "Theaterzeitung," which had given such full criticisms of Chopin's performances in 1829, says not a word either of the matinee or of the concert, not even the advertisement of the latter has come under my notice. No doubt Chopin alludes to criticisms on this concert when he writes in the month of July:—

Louisa [his sister] informs me that Mr. Elsner was very much pleased with the criticism; I wonder what he will say of the others, he who was my teacher of composition?

Kandler, the Vienna correspondent of the "Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung," after discussing in that paper (September 21, 1831) the performances of several artists, among others that of the clever Polish violin-virtuoso Serwaczynski, turns to "Chopin, also from the Sarmatian capital, who already during his visit last year proved himself a pianist of the first rank," and remarks:—

The execution of his newest Concerto in E minor, a serious composition, gave no cause to revoke our former judgment. One who is so upright in his dealings with genuine art is deserving our genuine esteem.

All things considered, I do not hesitate to accept Liszt's statement that the young artist did not produce such a sensation as he had a right to expect. In fact, notwithstanding the many pleasant social connections he had, Chopin must have afterwards looked back with regret, probably with bitterness, on his eight months' sojourn in Vienna. Not only did he add nothing to his fame as a pianist and composer by successful concerts and new publications, but he seems even to have been sluggish in his studies and in the production of new works. How he leisurely whiled away the mornings at his lodgings, and passed the rest of the day abroad and in society, he himself has explicitly described. That this was his usual mode of life at Vienna, receives further support from the self-satisfaction with which he on one occasion mentions that he had practised from early morning till two o'clock in the afternoon. In his letters we read only twice of his having finished some new compositions. On December 21, 1830, he writes:—

I wished to enclose my latest waltz, but the post is about to depart, and I have no longer time to copy it, therefore I shall send it another time. The mazurkas, too, I have first to get copied, but they are not intended for dancing.

And in the month of July, 1831, "I have written a polonaise, which I must leave here for Wurfel." There are two more remarks about compositions, but of compositions which were never finished, perhaps never begun. One of these remarks refers to the variations on a theme of Beethoven's, which he intended to compose conjointly with Slavik, and has already been quoted; the other refers to a grander project. Speaking of Nidecki, who came every morning to his lodgings and practised his (Chopin's) concerto, he says (December 21, 1830):—

If I succeed in writing a concerto for two pianos so as to satisfy myself, we intend to appear at once with it in public; first, however, I wish to play once alone.

What an interesting, but at the same time what a gigantic, subject to write on the history of the unrealised plans of men of genius would be! The above-mentioned waltz, polonaise, and mazurkas do not, of course, represent the whole of Chopin's output as a composer during the time of his stay in Vienna; but we may surmise with some degree of certainty that few works of importance have to be added to it. Indeed, the multiplicity of his social connections and engagements left him little time for himself, and the condition of his fatherland kept him in a constant state of restlessness. Poland and her struggle for independence were always in his mind; now he laments in his letters the death of a friend, now rejoices at a victory, now asks eagerly if such or such a piece of good news that has reached him is true, now expresses the hope that God will be propitious to their cause, now relates that he has vented his patriotism by putting on the studs with the Polish eagles and using the pocket-handkerchief with the Kosynier (scythe-man) depicted on it.

What is going on at home? [he writes, on May 28, 1831.] I am always dreaming of you. Is there still no end to the bloodshed? I know your answer: "Patience!" I, too, always comfort myself with that.

But good health, he finds, is the best comfort in misfortune, and if his bulletins to his parents could be trusted he was in full enjoyment of it.

Zacharkiewicz of Warsaw called on me; and when his wife saw me at Szaszek's, she did not know how to sufficiently express her astonishment at my having become such a sturdy fellow. I have let my whiskers grow only on the right side, and they are growing very well; on the left side they are not needed at all, for one sits always with the right side turned to the public.

Although his "ideal" is not there to retain him, yet he cannot make up his mind to leave Vienna. On May 28, he writes:—

How quickly this dear time passes! It is already the end of May, and I am still in Vienna. June will come, and I shall probably be still here, for Kumelski fell ill and was obliged to take to bed again.

It was not only June but past the middle of July before Chopin left, and I am afraid he would not always have so good an excuse for prolonging his stay as the sickness of his travelling-companion. On June 25, however, we hear of active preparations being made for departure.

I am in good health, that is the only thing that cheers me, for it seems as if my departure would never take place. You all know how irresolute I am, and in addition to this I meet with obstacles at every step. Day after day I am promised my passport, and I run from Herod to Pontius Pilate, only to get back what I deposited at the police office. To-day I heard even more agreeable news—namely, that my passport has been mislaid, and that they cannot find it; I have even to send in an application for a new one. It is curious how now every imaginable misfortune befalls us poor Poles. Although I am ready to depart, I am unable to set out.

Chopin had been advised by Mr. Beyer to have London instead of Paris put as a visa in his passport. The police complied with his request that this should be done, but the Russian Ambassador, after keeping the document for two days, gave him only permission to travel as far as Munich. But Chopin did not care so long as he got the signature of the French Ambassador. Although his passport contained the words "passant par Paris a Londres," and he in after years in Paris sometimes remarked, in allusion to these words, "I am here only in passing," he had no intention of going to London. The fine sentiment, therefore, of which a propos of this circumstance some writers have delivered themselves was altogether misplaced. When the difficulty about the passport was overcome, another arose: to enter Bavaria from cholera-stricken Austria a passport of health was required. Thus Chopin had to begin another series of applications, in fact, had to run about for half a day before he obtained this additional document.

Chopin appears to have been rather short of money in the latter part of his stay in Vienna—a state of matters with which the financial failure of the concert may have had something to do. The preparations for his departure brought the pecuniary question still more prominently forward. On June 25, 1831, he writes to his parents:—

I live as economically as possible, and take as much care of every kreuzer as of that ring in Warsaw [the one given him by the Emperor Alexander]. You may sell it, I have already cost you so much.

He must have talked about his shortness of money to some of his friends in Vienna, for he mentions that the pianist-composer Czapek, who calls on him every day and shows him much kindness, has offered him money for the journey should he stand in need of it. One would hardly have credited Chopin with proficiency in an art in which he nevertheless greatly excelled—namely, in the art of writing begging letters. How well he understood how to touch the springs of the parental feelings the following application for funds will prove.

July, 1831.—But I must not forget to mention that I shall probably be obliged to draw more money from the banker Peter than my dear father has allowed me. I am very economical; but, God knows, I cannot help it, for otherwise I should have to leave with an almost empty purse. God preserve me from sickness; were, however, anything to happen to me, you might perhaps reproach me for not having taken more. Pardon me, but consider that I have already lived on this money during May, June, and July, and that I have now to pay more for my dinner than I did in winter. I do not do this only because I myself feel I ought to do so, but also in consequence of the good advice of others. I am very sorry that I have to ask you for it; my papa has already spent more than three groschen for me; I know also very well how difficult it is to earn money. Believe me, my dearest ones, it is harder for me to ask than for you to give. God will not fail to assist us also in the future, punctum!

Chopin was at this time very subject to melancholy, and did not altogether hide the fact even from his parents. He was perhaps thinking of the "lengthening chain" which he would have to drag at this new remove. He often runs into the street to seek Titus Woyciechowski or John Matuszynski. One day he imagines he sees the former walking before him, but on coming up to the supposed friend is disgusted to find "a d—— Prussian."

I lack nothing [he writes in July, 1831] except more life, more spirit! I often feel unstrung, but sometimes as merry as I used to be at home. When I am sad I go to Madame Szaszek's; there I generally meet several amiable Polish ladies who with their hearty, hopeful words always cheer me up, so that I begin at once to imitate the generals here. This is a fresh joke of mine; but those who saw it almost died with laughing. But alas, there are days when not two words can be got out of me, nor can anyone find out what is the matter with me; then, to divert myself, I generally take a thirty-kreuzer drive to Hietzing, or somewhere else in the neighbourhood of Vienna.

This is a valuable bit of autobiography; it sets forth clearly Chopin's proneness to melancholy, which, however, easily gave way to his sportiveness. That low spirits and scantiness of money did not prevent Chopin from thoroughly enjoying himself may be gathered from many indications in his letters; of these I shall select his descriptions of two excursions in the neighbourhood of Vienna, which not only make us better acquainted with the writer, but also are interesting in themselves.

June 25, 1831.—The day before yesterday we were with Kumelski and Czapek...on the Kahlenberg and Leopoldsberg. It was a magnificent day; I have never had a finer walk. From the Leopoldsberg one sees all Vienna, Wagram, Aspern, Pressburg, even Kloster-Neuburg, the castle in which Richard the Lion-hearted lived for a long time as a prisoner. Also the whole of the upper part of the Danube lay before our eyes. After breakfast we ascended the Kahlenberg, where King John Sobieski pitched his camp and caused the rockets to be fired which announced to Count Starhemberg, the commandant of Vienna, the approach of the Polish army. There is the Camaldolese Monastery in which the King knighted his son James before the attack on the Turks and himself served as acolyte at the Mass. I enclose for Isabella a little leaf from that spot, which is now covered with plants. From there we went in the evening to the Krapfenwald, a beautiful valley, where we saw a comical boys' trick. The little fellows had enveloped themselves from head to foot in leaves and looked like walking bushes. In this costume they crept from one visitor to another. Such a boy covered with leaves and his head adorned with twigs is called a "Pfingstkonig" [Whitsuntide-King]. This drollery is customary here at Whitsuntide.

The second excursion is thus described:—

July, 1831.—The day before yesterday honest Wurfel called on me; Czapek, Kumelski, and many others also came, and we drove together to St. Veil—a beautiful place; I could not say the same of Tivoli, where they have constructed a kind ol caroitsscl, or rather a track with a sledge, which is called Rutsch. It is a childish amusement, but a great number of grown-up people have themselves rolled down the hill in this carriage just for pastime. At first I did not feel inclined to try it, but as there were eight of us, all good friends, we began to vie with each other in sliding down. It was folly, and yet we all laughed heartily. I myself joined in the sport with much satisfaction until it struck me that healthy and strong men could do something better—now, when humanity calls to them for protection and defence. May the devil take this frivolity!

In the same letter Chopin expresses the hope that his use of various, not quite unobjectionable, words beginning with a "d" may not give his parents a bad opinion of the culture he has acquired in Vienna, and removes any possible disquietude on their part by assuring them that he has adopted nothing that is Viennese in its nature, that, in fact, he has not even learnt to play a Tanzwalzer (a dancing waltz). This, then, is the sad result of his sojourn in Vienna.

On July 20, 1831, Chopin, accompanied by his friend Kumelski, left Vienna and travelled by Linz and Salzburg to Munich, where he had to wait some weeks for supplies from home. His stay in the capital of Bavaria, however, was not lost time, for he made there the acquaintance of several clever musicians, and they, charmed by his playing and compositions, induced him to give a concert. Karasowski tells us that Chopin played his E minor Concerto at one of the Philharmonic Society's concerts—which is not quite correct, as we shall see presently—and adds that

the audience, carried away by the beauty of the composition and his excellent, poetic rendering, overwhelmed the young virtuoso with loud applause and sincere admiration.

In writing this the biographer had probably in his mind the following passage from Chopin's letter to Titus Woyciechowski, dated Paris, December 16, 1831:—"I played [to Kalkbrenner, in Paris] the E minor Concerto, which charmed the people of the Bavarian capital so much." The two statements are not synonymous. What the biographer says may be true, and if it is not, ought to be so; but I am afraid the existing documents do not bear it out in its entirety. Among the many local and other journals which I have consulted, I have found only one notice of Chopin's appearance at Munich, and when I expectantly scanned a resume of Munich musical life, from the spring to the end of the year 1831, in the "Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung," I found mention made of Mendelssohn and Lafont, but not of Chopin. Thus, unless we assume that Karasowski—true to his mission as a eulogising biographer, and most vigorous when unfettered by definite data—indulged in exaggeration, we must seek for a reconciliation of the enthusiasm of the audience with the silence of the reporter in certain characteristics of the Munich public. Mendelssohn says of it:—

The people here [in Munich] have an extraordinary receptivity for music, which is much cultivated. But it appears to me that everything makes an impression and that the impressions do not last.

Speaking of Mendelssohn, it is curious to note how he and Chopin were again and again on the point of meeting, and again and again failed to meet. In Berlin Chopin was too bashful and modest to address his already famous young brother-artist, who in 1830 left Vienna shortly before Chopin arrived, and in 1831 arrived in Munich shortly after Chopin had left. The only notice of Chopin's public appearance in Munich I have been able to discover, I found in No. 87 (August 30, 1831) of the periodical "Flora", which contains, under the heading "news," a pretty full account of the "concert of Mr. Chopin of Warsaw." From this account we learn that Chopin was assisted by the singers Madame Pellegrini and Messrs. Bayer, Lenz, and Harm, the clarinet-player Barmann, jun., and Capellmeister Stunz. The singers performed a four-part song, and Barmann took part in a cavatina (sung by Bayer, the first tenor at the opera) with clarinet and pianoforte accompaniment by Schubert (?). What the writer of the account says about Chopin shall be quoted in full:—

On the 28th August, Mr. F. Chopin, of Warsaw, gave a morning concert [Mittags Concert] in the hall of the Philharmonic Society, which was attended by a very select audience. Mr. Chopin performed on the pianoforte a Concerto in E minor of his own composition, and showed an excellent virtuosity in the treatment of his instrument; besides a developed technique, one noticed especially a charming delicacy of execution, and a beautiful and characteristic rendering of the motives. The composition was, on the whole, brilliantly and well written, without surprising, however, by extraordinary novelty or a particular profundity, with the exception of the Rondo, whose principal thought as well as the florid middle sections, through an original combination of a melancholy trait with a capriccio, evolved a peculiar charm, on which account it particularly pleased. The concert- giver performed in conclusion a fantasia on Polish national songs. There is a something in the Slavonic songs which almost never fails in its effect, the cause of which, however, is difficult to trace and explain; for it is not only the rhythm and the quick change from minor to major which produce this charm. No one has probably understood better how to combine the national character of such folk- songs with a brilliant concert style than Bernhard Romberg [Footnote: The famous violoncellist], who by his compositions of this kind, put in a favourable light by his masterly playing, knew how to exercise a peculiar fascination. Quite of this style was the fantasia of Mr. Chopin, who gained unanimous applause.

From Munich Chopin proceeded to Stuttgart, and during his stay there learnt the sad news of the taking of Warsaw by the Russians (September 8, 1831). It is said that this event inspired him to compose the C minor study (No. 12 of Op. 10), with its passionate surging and impetuous ejaculations. Writing from Paris on December 16, 1831, Chopin remarks, in allusion to the traeic denouement of the Polish revolution: "All this has caused me much pain. Who could have foreseen it!"

With his visits to Stuttgart Chopin's artist-life in Germany came to a close, for, although he afterwards repeatedly visited the country, he never played in public or made a lengthened stay there. Now that Chopin is nearing Paris, where, occasional sojourns elsewhere (most of them of short duration) excepted, he will pass the rest of his life, it may interest the reader to learn that this change of country brought with it also a change of name, at least as far as popular pronunciation and spelling went. We may be sure that the Germans did not always give to the final syllable the appropriate nasal sound. And what the Polish pronunciation was is sufficiently indicated by the spelling "Szopen," frequently to be met with. I found it in the Polish illustrated journal "Kiosy," and it is also to be seen in Joseph Sikorski's "Wspomnienie Szopena" ("Reminiscences of Chopin"). Szulc and Karasowski call their books and hero "Fryderyk Chopin."



CHAPTER XIII



CHOPIN'S PRODUCTIONS FROM THE SPRING OF 1829 TO THEEND OF 1831.—THE CHIEF INFLUENCES THAT HELPED TO FORM HIS STYLE OF COMPOSITION.



Let us pause for a little in our biographical inquiries and critically examine what Chopin had achieved as a composer since the spring of 1829. At the very first glance it becomes evident that the works of the last two years (1829-1831) are decidedly superior to those he wrote before that time. And this advance was not due merely to the increased power derived from practice; it was real growth, which a Greek philosopher describes as penetration of nourishment into empty places, the nourishment being in Chopin's case experience of life's joys and sorrows. In most of the works of what I call his first period, the composer luxuriates, as it were, in language. He does not regard it solely or chiefly as the interpreter of thoughts and feelings, he loves it for its own sake, just as children, small and tall, prattle for no other reason than the pleasure of prattling. I closed the first period when a new element entered Chopin's life and influenced his artistic work. This element was his first love, his passion for Constantia Gtadkowska. Thenceforth Chopin's compositions had in them more of humanity and poetry, and the improved subject-matter naturally, indeed necessarily, chastened, ennobled, and enriched the means and ways of expression. Of course no hard line can be drawn between the two periods—the distinctive quality of the one period appears sometimes in the work of the other: a work of the earlier period foreshadows the character of the later; one of the later re-echoes that of the earlier.

The compositions which we know to have been written by Chopin between 1829 and 1831 are few in number. This may be partly because Chopin was rather idle from the autumn of 1830 to the end of 1831, partly because no account of the production of other works has come down to us. In fact, I have no doubt that other short pieces besides those mentioned by Chopin in his letters were composed during those years, and subsequently published by him. The compositions oftenest and most explicitly mentioned in the letters are also the most important ones—namely, the concertos. As I wish to discuss them at some length, we will keep them to the last, and see first what allusions to other compositions we can find, and what observations these latter give rise to.

On October 3, 1829, Chopin sends his friend Titus Woyciechowski a waltz which, he says, was, like the Adagio of the F minor Concerto, inspired by his ideal, Constantia Gladkowska:—

Pay attention to the passage marked with a +; nobody, except you, knows of this. How happy would I be if I could play my newest compositions to you! In the fifth bar of the trio the bass melody up to E flat dominates, which, however, I need not tell you, as you are sure to feel it without being told.

The remark about the bass melody up to E flat in the trio gives us a clue to which of Chopin's waltzes this is. It can be no other than the one in D flat which Fontana published among his friend's posthumous works as Op. 70, No. 3. Although by no means equal to any of the waltzes published by Chopin himself, one may admit that it is pretty; but its chief claim to our attention lies in the fact that it contains germs which reappear as fully-developed flowers in other examples of this class of the master's works—the first half of the first part reappears in the opening (from the ninth bar onward) of Op. 42 (Waltz in A flat major); and the third part, in the third part (without counting the introductory bars) of Op. 34, No. 1 (Waltz in A flat major).

On October 20, 1829, Chopin writes:—"During my visit at Prince Radziwill's [at Antonin] I wrote an Alla Polacca. It is nothing more than a brilliant salon piece, such as pleases ladies"; and on April 10, 1830:—

I shall play [at a soiree at the house of Lewicki] Hummel's "La Sentinelle," and at the close my Polonaise with violoncello, for which I have composed an Adagio as an introduction. I have already rehearsed it, and it does not sound badly.

Prince Radziwill, the reader will remember, played the violoncello. It was, however, not to him but to Merk that Chopin dedicated this composition, which, before departing from Vienna to Paris, he left with Mechetti, who eventually published it under the title of "Introduction et Polonaise brillante pour piano et violoncelle," dediees a Mr. Joseph Merk. On the whole we may accept Chopin's criticism of his Op. 3 as correct. The Polonaise is nothing but a brilliant salon piece. Indeed, there is very little in this composition—one or two pianoforte passages, and a finesse here and there excepted—that distinguishes it as Chopin's. The opening theme verges even dangerously to the commonplace. More of the Chopinesque than in the Polonaise may be discovered in the Introduction, which was less of a piece d'occasion. What subdued the composer's individuality was no doubt the violoncello, which, however, is well provided with grateful cantilene.

On two occasions Chopin writes of studies. On October 20, 1829: "I have composed a study in my own manner"; and on November 14, 1829: "I have written some studies; in your presence I would play them well." These studies are probably among the twelve published in the summer of 1833, they may, however, also be among those published in the autumn of 1837. The twelfth of the first sheaf of studies (Op. 10) Chopin composed, as already stated, at Stuttgart, when he was under the excitement caused by the news of the taking of Warsaw by the Russians on September 8, 1831.