KARASowsKI is not in agreement at all with the description given by Liszt of Chopin's appearance as a youth. The redoubtable Hungarian was born one year later than Chopin, and the two did not meet until 1831; so that what Liszt has to say about the younger Chopin can only be hearsay. In his book he devotes to a picture of Chopin several pages that are extracts from 'Lucrezia Floriani', a novel by George Sand in which the three chief characters are supposed to represent Chopin (Prince Karol), Liszt (Count Salvator Albani), and George Sand herself(Lucrezia):Gentle, sensitive and very lovely, he united at the age of fiftcen the charms of adolescence with the gravity of maturer years. He was delicate in both body and mind. Through lack of muscular development he retained a peculiar beauty and an exceptional physiognomy, which had, so to speak, neither age nor sex.... He was more like the ideal creations with which the poetry of medi?val times adorned Christian temples; a lovely angel with a form as pure and slight as that of a young Olympian god, with a face like that of a noble woman filled with a divine sorrow, and to crown all, an expression both tender and severe, both chaste and impassioned.Nothing could be further from the truth than these farfetched utterances. George Sand had undeniable gifts and indomitable energy, but Balzac was right when he told her that she could never portray a character. The first part of the description may bear some resemblance to the hot-house youth, but his face could never have been angelic, nor his figure like that of an Olympian god, neither would he ever have won a prize for good looks.Chopin was of small build, with thin legs and slight chest, and without any muscular development at all. His face was?finely chiselled, the nose large and the forehead high; he had thin lips and a melancholy expression. That he must have been wiry can be seen from the excellent way he stood up to the fatiguing diligence journeys. Travelling one hundred years ago was not an easy matter: yet after days on end of sitting and jogging he was able to see picture-galleries and museums, admire cathedrals and castles, pay visits, listen to complete operas, see several plays, and give two exhausting concerts as well. He does not appear to have been weaker than his companions. Few of his carly letters contain any reference to the state of his health, which must mean that it showed no extraordinary symptoms; and if he were nineteen years old to-day, with the advantages of games and of modern methods of physical development, he might never have contracted the devastating disease that killed him. Karasowski emphatically affirms that he was told by Chopin's old schoolfellow Wilhelm Kolberg that Chopin was only ill once before manhood, and that even this illness was only a slight chill. This may be believed. There was tuberculosis in the family; the youngest child died from it in 1827, and the father died from a chest complaint, though at the advanced age of 73. The tendency to a weak chest caused his mother and sisters to mollycoddle Frédéric, and continually remind him to "wrap up carefully in damp weather'- not the most healthy mode of upbringing. Another curious trait was his intense dislike of smoking: he could not bear either to smoke himself or to be surrounded by the smoke of others.We can conclude that he was a little more frail than the normal, that he lived entirely on his nerves, that he worked too hard and took too little exercise; and that whereas a robust nature would have counteracted these disabilities, his morbid love of melancholy intensified them. In some letters written during the early summer of 183r to his parents, he pointedly mentions his good health-probably as a sop to them-and tells how a friend from Warsaw was astonished that he had become such a 'sturdy fellow'. No, it was not his health that was pulling him down during his early twenties: it was worry and unhappiness. Had he been vital and energetic, his love of solitude, which bred moroseness, would not have dominated his existence. As it was, he allowed himself to become the prey of his?moods -the blackest of them generally the result of misunderstanding, and of the perpetual thought that no one loved him.At this period, in fact, Frédéric seems to have passed through a phase, not uncommon at his age, of misunderstanding everything and everybody. In support of this claim, let us examined some of his letters to Titus, the only one of his friends in whom he confided. At first, on reading these letters, one has a feeling of revulsion; the thought passes across one's mind that perhaps they are unhealthy, perverted-that this was no ordinary young men's friendship. But this thought changes as one pictures the sentimental attachments that did exist a few generations ago, particularly among the Saxon and Slavonic races; one does not so easily identify the Latins with such romantic friendships, but one does remember vividly some almost fantastic episodes in the literature of that period. Such a friendship was this of Frédéric and Titus. I wish that some lctters from Titus had been preserved, for they would enlighten us as to whether he wrote in the same vein, and would help to clear up the mystery.The earlier letters of Frédéric were freer from such expressions as 'love' and 'kisses'; but after his return from his first visit to Vienna they steadily grew more affectionate, until he and Titus left later for Vienna together. He began by addressing his friend as 'Dear'; this developed into ‘Dearest', and soon into "My dearest Life'. But that is not all. As early as December 27, 1828, he writes:You don't like to be kissed. But let me do it to-day.September 12, 1829: 1 kiss you heartily, right on the lips; may I?October 3, 1829: Forgive me for sending you the waltz [Op. 70, No. 3]; perhaps it will make you angry with me, but really I did it to give you pleasure, for I do love you desperately.October 20, 1829: I embrace you heartily; people usually end their letters that way without thinking what they write; but believe me that I do mean what I write, because I love you.November 14, 1829: I received your last letter in which yousend me a kiss... my life, you are too kind; and believe me, I am nearly always with you; I will never desert you, I shall be till death your most affectionate....March 27, 1830: My dearest Life! I have never missed you as I do now; I have no one to pour things out to, I have not you. One look from you after each concert would be more to me than all the praises of the journalists, of the Elsners, the Kurpinskis, Solivas, and so on.April 10, 1830: I'll go out with him [Celinski]; perhaps I may see someone who will remind me of you; you are the only person I love.May 15, 1830: No; you don't know how much I love you, I can't show it to you in any way, and I have wished for so long that you could know. Ah, what would I not give, just to press your hand, you can't guess-half of my wretched life.June 5, 1830: What a pity that I can't post myself to you instead of this letter. Perhaps you would object; but I want you, and I expect you clean-shaven.September 4, 1830: I am going to wash now; don't kiss me, I'm not washed yet. You? If I were smeared with the oils of Byzantium you would not kiss me unless I forced you to it by magnetism. There's some kind of power in nature. To-day you will dream of kissing me! I have got to pay you out for the horrible dream you gave me last night.Could any woman write to her lover more longingly, more intimately, more passionately? Even the most steel-hearted woman-hater might have softened under such an onslaught. But no ordinary man can welcome such tokens of affection or submissive protestations from another of his sex. What was Titus's reaction? Apparently not what Frédéric was wishing for, judging by the little grumbles and upbraidings with which he gently admonishes his friend for his seeming coldness. All the letters to Titus of this period unmistakably bear the stamp of femininity; and though Frédéric grew out of the obviously transitory phase, and never again pleaded his cause in the same way in subsequent letters, he remained a feminine type of man throughout his life. Only in one characteristic can he be dubbed masculine -his keenness in demanding as much as possible for his compositions from the publishers. This is not an exclusively masculine trait, for a number of women make good business-men in these days; but at least in this one particular he could stick up for himself and not be the subservient one. In no other relationship did he succeed in being the dominant partner: someone always had to give him the lead.I think that Chopin was fortunate in having Titus forhis friend; a less masculine type might have been peculiarly harmful. Frédéric possessed an over-abundance of sensitiveness, and a high percentage of the qualities that are popularly accredited to the 'artistic temperament'; he did not need the company or the solace of a sentimental friend to develop these. Had Titus been his closest companion in Paris, instead of living on his estate in Poland, Frédéric would probably have acquired much more self-assurance, and have been better able to pursue his career as a concert pianist. His nature required the faith and encouragement of a friend; it could not thrive on the plaudits of an audience, or the empty prattle of salons where society ladies generally show off their lack of knowledge by the glibness of their tongues and the insincerity of their smiles.Another reason can be put forward for these outbursts of affection in Frédéric's letters to Titus. At the beginning of 1829 he imagined himself in love with a young singing student at theWarsaw Conservatorium, Constantia Gladkowska. Instead ofdeclaring his love like an ordinary mortal, he gloried in its secrecy, filling his soul with false imaginings, one moment in ecstasy, the next in despair. For a long time he even refused to meet her, fearing possibly that he might be disappointed by closer acquaintance, or, on the other hand, that she might ignore him. His lack of self-confidence must have been to blame, for he was never over-burdened with conceit; but there can be no doubt that most of his pleasure was derived from the bottling up of his emotions. He was quickly degenerating into a chronic state of morbidity. He would not allow himself to be happy, yet he was disgruntled over the happiness of his friends and acquaintances. He was at that difficult and dangerous stage in the life?

of an emotional young man when the craving for sympathy, for affection, for soul-satisfaction has to be assuaged. Even the sharing of thoughts in the company of a kindred spirit would have afforded sufficient solace. Where could he find peace? To whom could he turn for consolation, for advice, for help and encouragement? Only to Titus, and he was forty miles away quite a journey in those pre-mechanical days. So Frédéric poured out his love in these letters, firmly assured that Titus alone was capable of understanding the misery and torment of his heart. From a letter written on October 3, 1829, it is evident that his state of mind had almost reached breaking-point. In this letter he first mentions his love for Constantia:If you want to know what I intend to do with myself this winter, learn that I shall not stay in Warsaw; but where circumstances will lead me, I don't know. It is true that Prince Radziwill, or rather she, who is very amiable, has invited me to Berlin, even offering me quarters in their own palace; but what of that, when I must go on where I have begun, especially as I promised to return to Vienna.... I am sure you will see that I must go back to Vienna; but it is not for Panna Blahetka, of whom I think I wrote to you. She is young, pretty and a pianist; but I, perhaps unfortunately, already have my own ideal, which I have served faithfully, though silently, for half a year; of which I dream, to thoughts of which the adagio of my concerto belongs, and which this morning inspired the little waltz I am sending you. Attention to one point here: no one knows about this but you. [The Waltz is the D flat, Op. 70, No.3, the Concerto that in F minor.]The secret was out-Frédéric could not contain it any longer. And for once he sccmed resolute. He had decided to leave Warsaw, giving the reasons later in the same letter:You wouldn't believe how dreary I find Warsaw now; if it weren't for the family making it a little more cheerful, I shouldn't stay. But how dismal it is to have no one to go to in the morning to share one's griefs and joys; how hateful when something weighs on you and there's nowhere to lay it down. You know to what I refer. I often tell to my pianoforte what I want to tell to you.

But Frédéric was not able to leave Warsaw for thirteen months-months of agony and solitude. There can be no doubt that the year and a half that elapsed between the dawn of his infatuation and his departure from Warsaw saw the beginning of his decline in health, and the birth of that moroseness and love for solitude which altered his whole nature and were to be so often the despair of his friends. Was Constantia vital to his artistic development? Was she the 'ideal' of his life, the fountain-spring of his inspirations-or was she only the imaginative necessity of his mind, which required, like that of the poet, aspiration for the unattainable? I am strongly inclined to theNicolas Chopin was anxious that his son should go to Berlin, but Frédéric thought otherwise. He had been much more impressed by Vienna, and by the musicians he had met there. He felt that their praises had been sincere, and that possibly he could become their colleague. Also Haslinger, his first publisher, was full of promises and fine words, and Frédéric thought that he really might get all his works published. On the way to Vienna he could visit Dresden and Prague, this time giving concerts. He would leave at the end of the month, so he tells Titus on October 3. Seventeen days later he writes:I start at 7 this evening by diligence for the Wiesolowskis in the province of Posen.... The reason of my journey is that Radziwill wili be on his estate beyond Kalisz. You see, there were all sorts of beautiful offers about my going to Berlin and living in his palace ;?very amusing;?

but I don't see any advantage in it, even if it could come off, which I doubt.

His father was inclined to believe the 'belles paroles' of the Prince, perhaps hoping for the financial assistance which Liszt wrongly maintained did exist; but Frédéric would have none of it.?However, the father wished him to accept this invitation, and that is why I have to go', he adds. He stayed at Antonin, the house of the Radziwills, for a week, and enjoyed himself tremendously .So far as my temporary personal pleasure went, I would have stopped there till they turned me out; but my affairs, and particularly my unfinished concerto [the E minor], which is waiting impatiently for the completion of its finale, spurred me on to abandon that paradise. There were two Eves in it: young princesses, very kind and friendly, musical, sensitive creatures. The old princess, too, knows that it is not birth which makes a person, and her behaviour so draws one to her that it is impossible not to love her.During his week's stay there he wrote his Alla Polacca for Pianoforte and Violoncello, Op. 3. "There is nothing in it but glitter; a salon piece, for ladies; you see, I wanted Princess Wanda to learn it.' Fickleness of heart, of which George Sand was to accuse him later in his life, manifested itself for a brief moment here. Princess Wanda was seventeen years old and very beautiful, and he delighted in guiding her pretty fingers and placing them properly on the keys. He found her musical, and had not to tell her 'crescendo here, piano there; now quicker, now slower, and so on'. To Princess Eliza he felt he must present his Polonaise in F minor, Op. 71, No. 3-she was so 'captivated' with it, but he had to beg Titus to send him his copy, for I don't want to write it out from memory, because perhaps I might get it down wrong'. This same princess drew two pictures of Frédéric in her album, and according to the sitter produced good likenesses. Titus had asked for a portrait, and Frédéric promised him one 'if I could steal one from Princess Eliza'. Evidently the young musician's visit was a success, for the Radziwills asked him once more to go to Berlin in the following May. He must this time have entertained the idea of accepting, for he wrote to Titus that there was now nothing to prevent him spending the winter in Vienna, evidently thinking that success in Vienna would pave the way for concerts in Berlin. He decided once more to leave Warsaw, planning to go to Vienna in December, after his father's name-day on the 6th: but he still had to wait a year before the actual departure.On his return from Antonin he immediately began to work on the Finale of the E minor Concerto, at the same time sketching out some of the études, Op. 10, and even finishing one or two of them. Occasionally he went to the house of the pianist Kessler, to whom is dedicated the German edition of the Twenty-four Preludes, and took part in performances of chamber-music.

Nothing was rehearsed, the players deciding amongst themselves the various works and combinations.? Frédéric mentions the C sharp minor Violin Concerto of Ries, arranged as a string quartet, the E major Pianoforte Trio of Hummel, the Octet of Spohr, which he thought a wonderful work, the B flat Trio of Beethoven, Op. 97-'I haven't heard anything so great for a long time;? Beethoven snaps his fingers at the whole world'-and a Quartet by Prince Ferdinand of Prussia, which was most probably written by Dussek, court pianist to the Prince. These Friday evenings were looked forward to with pleasurable excitement by Frédéric.? No doubt he found solace for his harassed soul in hearing and playing for the first time many of these works.? To modern ears the music of Ries, Spohr, Hummel and Dussek sounds strangely old-fashioned;? but one hundred years ago they were contemporary composers (with the exception of Dussek, who died in 1812), and the hand of time had not yet placed them in their respective pigeon-holes.? Since Beethoven's last quartet was written, the realm of chambermusic has been enriched by numberless works of every kind, and only the works of the comparatively few great men of the earlier period are heard to-day. Chopin had further opportunities for making music in public at some concerts given at the 'Ressource', the concert-hall which saw the first performance of his Rondo in C for two pianofortes.? On November 21 he played his 'La ci darem' Variations, and the success he had with this appearance prompted him to embark on two concerts of his own in Warsaw.? The first of these took place on March 17, 183o, and during the period of four months from November to March little seems to have happened.? No letters have been preserved, so we must picture Chopin alone in his misery, with only his beloved instrument on which to pour out his sorrow.? The pianoforte was the only outlet of a lonely and unhappy being, clamouring for love and affection, hungering for consolation. The first concert was a great success.? The hall was full, all the boxes and stalls having been sold three days ahead.? But the concert-giver was not much impressed.? He played his F minor Concerto, the Allegro movement being separated from the Adagio and Rondo by a Divertissement for French Horn, written and?played by G?rner, and in the second half the Fantasia on Polish Airs, Op. 13. The programme was completed by two Overtures, one by Elsner and the other by Kurpinski, and some Variations out of an opera by Paer, sung by a Madame Meier.ing: Chopin's own account of the concert makes amusing readThe first Allegro is accessible only to the few; there were some bravos, but I think only because they were puzzled: What is this? and had to pose as connoisseurs! The Adagio and Rondo had more effect; one heard some spontaneous shouts; but as for the Potpourri on Polish themes, in my opinion it failed to come off. They applauded, in the spirit of: let him go away knowing we were not bored.The local musicians were divided in their opinions, none of them appearing to differ very much from present-day musicians in their manner of summing-up a colleague. Elsner thought the tone of the instrument was too dull, but Chopin says that 'the "gods" and the people sitting in the orchestra were quite content; on the other hand, the pit complained that I played too softly'. The better opinions of his compositions were expressed by the better musicians, one of them, Edouard Wolff, saying, according to Niecks, that the people of Warsaw had no idea of the real greatness of Chopin.Chopin's pianoforte playing will be discussed in detail in a subsequent volume; but it is not difficult to understand why it did not make a deeper impression on first hearing. It was so original, so entirely personal, relying on finish and elegance rather than on bigness of tone or brilliance, and making its emotional appeal through subtlety of nuance and not by dynamic outbursts, that at first it created a feeling of surprise. In the Concertos one is carried away by the brilliance of the pianist, not by the art of the composer; and it is quite intelligible that the Warsaw audience should take more to the Fantasia type of piece, or the improvisations on well-known airs, or the Mazurkas and similar dance-rhythms. The music of these had an instant appeal for the Poles, and could excite their national fervour. After the second concert we shall find a greater appreciation of?Chopin's actual playing, and when he played in Warsaw for the last time seven months later he was acclaimed as their greatest executant.If Frédéric gave the impression that the first concert did not come up to his expectations, it at least made him desirous to give another, and he only waited a week to do so. He again played the F minor Concerto, divided as before, but substituted the Krakowiak for the Fantasia, and concluded the programme with an improvisation on national airs. The other items included a Symphony of Nowakowski, the Air Varié of de Bériot, played by the violinist Bielawski, and an aria from an opera by Soliva, the chief singing teacher in Warsaw, the singer again being Madame Meier. At this concert the young pianist did not play on his own pianoforte, but on a Viennese instrument lent for the occasion by the Russian general, Diakow. Frédéric infinitely preferred the softer tone of his own, but admitted that the audience preferred the more noisy one. His letter to Titus makes out that he was much more pleased with his reception at this concert. The audience was even larger, and, after vigorous clapping, exclamations were heard from all over the hall expressing approval of his pearl-like tone, and clamouring for a third concert. He seems to have been particularly impressed by being recalled four times after the Krakowiak. Evidently the day of easily won encores had not yet dawned. In the Concerto, the musicians and the critics seem to have preferred the Adagioa fact that astonished the composer. Mlle de Moriolles sent him a laurel wreath; a fellow-composer, Orlowski, wrote some Mazurkas and Waltzes on the themes of the Concerto, a compliment well-meant, but particularly annoying to Chopin, for they were published against his wishes: Brzezina, the publisher, asked for his portrait, but this Frédéric refused, as he did not "want anyone to wrap up butter in me' (as had actually been done with the portrait of someone else). A sonnet was published in the Warsaw Courier, and in the Official Bulletin appeared exaggerated compliments and preposterous remarks that made him desperate. What upset him most was an article that declared that the Poles should be as proud of him as the Germans of Mozart; he could not bear this ridiculous over-praise.Chopin had this time won over his public, and, no doubt,was innately conscious of his victory; yet we find him not quite happy about the financial results of his efforts.From both concerts, after covering the cost, I had less than 5000 fiorins [roughly ￡125], though they had never had so large an audience for a pianoforte concert as for the first one, and the second was still bigger.One would imagine that these receipts, above the expenditure, were pretty high for those days; yet he finds cause for the following remark: 'I feel, more than ever before, that the man has not been born who can please everyone.' This proves the artist in him; for it is rare to find one who is ever satisfied either with his work, or with the remuneration for it, and many are ungrateful into the bargain. A true artist can always think that he might have done better; but the payment, whether adequate or not, should not be allowed to be a disturbing factor. Ingratitude was never to be one of Chopin's failings, though he remained watchful with his publishers, and was uncommonly successful with them.Notwithstanding the oft-heard clamourings for a third concert, Frédéric steadfastly refused to announce one until just before his departure. He hoped to leave very soon for Vienna, and still had thoughts of the invitation to Berlin for May; but he did not want to play his F minor Concerto in public again. The E minor was almost finished; but the curious indecision of his mind was reflected in his work - he could not complete the scoring. Not until August 21 could he definitely tell his friends that it was ready for performance, and even then it was full of mistakes and careless notation. Chopin admitted that Soliva, who was the conductor at the concert, had to take the score home and correct it before a performance was possible.The last Diet that was held in Poland was convened on May28. At the opening of this Diet, Nicholas of Russia was very direct, and in no uncertain language told the Poles how dissatisfied he was with their government. Poland, like the rest of Europe, was in a state of upheaval: only a spark was needed to set the whole country ablaze. The revolution arrived six months later, and Poland ceased to exist as an independent country.
Meanwhile its capital was filled with nobles and their families and entourages, and the city was gay and joyous once again. Chopin was advised to give his concert; but again the unfinished Concerto was the stumbling-block. Foreign artists swarmed in Warsaw, taking advantage of the festive season and the enlarged population. A court concert was given in which Chopin was not invited to participate -an unexpected slight, as he was personally known both to the Czar and the Grand Duke Constantine. Among the artists engaged for the concert was Henrietta Sontag, one of the very best singers of the day, and possibly of all time. Chopin was wild with enthusiasm about her artistry, and completely captivated by her personality.Sontag is not beautiful, but extraordinarily pretty. She charms everyone with her voice, which is not very big...but it is very highly cultivated; her diminuendi are non plus ultra, her portamenti lovely, and especially her ascending chromatic scales are exquisite.... It seems as if she breathed some perfume of the freshest flowers into the hall; she caresses, she strokes, she enraptures, but she seldom moves to tears.He begs Titus to 'come without fail, and forget your rustic fatigues in the lap of pleasure'. In another place he says:It is a supernatural amiability; it is coquetry, carried to such a point that it becomes natural; it is impossible to suppose that anyone could be like that by nature, without knowing the resources of coquetry. She is a million times prettier and more attractive in morning dress [négligé] than in evening and gala costume, although those who have not seen her in the morning also fall in love with her.Probably what won the heart of Frédéric still more was the great singer's kindness and encouragement to Constantia Gladkowska. Chopin had called on Sontag one morning, and had met his 'ideal' with a fellow-pupil, Mlle Wolkow, and their teacher, Soliva. Whether he had met his adored one before this occasion we do not know. Perhaps this was the introduction, for in his next letter to Titus, though it is written ten weeks later, he appears to talk in a more rational manner, as if they were friends.

Towards the end of June Frédéric went to stay at Poturzyn, Titus' estate, after which he went with his parents on a visit to Count Skarbek at Zelazowa-Wola, his birthplace. He must have been in his element with Titus, and probably the friendly consolation and the tranquillity of the country did much to restore his peace of mind. Writing to Titus on August 21, 183o, hed admits 'a sort of homesickness for your fields; I can't forget that birch-tree under the windows. That cross-bow, - it's so romantic! I remember how you wore me out over that cross-bow for my sins'. He goes on to discuss Gladkowska's singing. She had grown out of the pupil stage and had just made her début in the name-part in Pa?r's opera Agnese.She does not lack much; better on the stage than in a hall. Quite apart from the tragic acting-splendid, nothing to be said about that,-the singing itself, if it weren't for the F sharp, and G, sometimes in the high register one could not ask for anything better of its kind. As for the phrasing, it would delight you; she shades gorgeously, and though on first entering her voice shook a little, afterwards she sang very bravely.He adds that in the end she was recalled before the curtain, and received overwhelming applause.He is still definite in his letters about his approaching departure from Warsaw, but each time something happens, or his indecisions return. Every letter to Titus names a date. On August 31 he says:You may believe me that next week I really shall go; but I go to satisfy my vocation and my reason, which last must be very small, since it has not strength enough to destroy everything else in my head.But before he goes he has work to do. He has arranged to rehearse the new Concerto with a string quartet, on the advice of Elsner, who, no doubt, expected trouble with the orchestral parts; and as the accompaniments to the two concertos are mainly for strings, and as Elsner well knew Chopin's careless habits, this advice was sound. But was it mere carelessness, or was it unsound knowledge of orchestration that gave so much trouble? The answer seems to be the latter.

Frédéric names a certain Linowski as being engaged in copying out the parts, and mentions a new idea that has 'come into his head':... instead of violins to use violas, because on the violin it's the fifth that has most resonance, and here it is not much used. The viola will be more powerful against the violoncello, which is [playing] in its own register....The G minor Trio, Op. 8, which the composer had not heard for some time, was also rehearsed, and made him feel 'rather pleased' with himself.Chopin's letters are now becoming more rambling, more detached, although he appears to have more matter. His obsession was to get the upper hand, and one feels that his hitherto great powers of concentration were for the time being evaporating. Despite his success, his knowledge of a growing command in his creative work, and the pleasurable anticipation of the Viennese trip, he cannot have been happy. He finishes the same letter (August 31) as follows:I am glad that the secret is buried in my heart, and that what begins with you ends with me. And you can be glad that in me you have an abyss into which you can safely fling everything, as if into a second self, for your own soul has long lain at the bottom of it. I keep your letters, as if they were ribbons from a beloved one. I have the ribbon; write to me, and in a week I will enjoy myself chattering to you again.Following this outpouring, he writes four days later to Titus in an even more hopeless vein:I tell you, Hypocrite, that I am more crazy than usual. I am still here; I have not the strength to decide on my date; I think I shall go away to forget my home for ever; I think I shall go away to die; and how dismal it must be to die anywhere else except where one has lived! How horrible it will be to see beside my death-bed some cold-blooded doctor or servant instead of my own family. Believe me, I am sometimes ready to go to Chodkiewicz's to find tranquillity with you; then, when I?leave the house, I walk the streets, get melancholy, and come home again, what for? -Just to mope.That is it. He must mope, must be the slave of his thoughts, must selfishly gloat over his own grief. If he had had the requisite courage to tell Constantia of his love he would have been much happier; but, fortunately for his music and for a grateful world, he was not an ordinary mortal, and could not behave like one. Our sympathy is all for him, but I do not know that he deserved it. His neurotic mind could only be satisfied by the self-glorification he felt in his misery. Most people require a stimulus to urge them to achieve-this was his urge. A little later on he philosophises:A man can't always be happy; perhaps joy comes only for a few moments in life; so why tear oneself away from illusions that can't last long anyhow? Just as on the one hand, I regard the tie of comradeship as the holiest of things, so on the other hand, I maintain that it is an infernal invention, and that it would be better if human beings knew neither money, nor porridge, nor boots, nor hats, nor becfsteaks, nor pancakes, etc. better than as it is.I think that Frédéric's mind would have become completely unhinged if he had been forced to remain in Warsaw. Physically, mentally and musically it was imperative that he should leave.On September 18, fourteen days later, he is writing about the rehearsals of the E minor Concerto with the quartet, saying that people seem to prefer the Finale; and he sounds quite happy: but in a trice he is back at his pet theme:When we have rehearsed it, I shall go; but where, when I don't want to go anywhere? All the same, I don't mean to stay in Warsaw; and if you suspect any love-affair, as many personsd in Warsaw do, drop it, and believe that, where my ego is concerned, I can rise above all that, and if I were in love, I would manage to conceal the impotent and miserable passion for another few years. Think what you like. ... I don't want to travel with you. I'm not making it up; indeed as I love you, it would spoil that moment, worth a thousand monotonous?days, when we embrace each other abroad for the first time. I could not now await you, receive you, talk to you, as I could do then, when joy will shut out all cold conventional phrases and let one heart talk to the other in some divine tongue.... Then perhaps I could let myself go; could tell you what I always dream of, what is everywhere before my eyes; what I constantly hear, what causes me more joy and more sorrow than all else on earth. But don't think that I'm in love:-not I; I have put off that till later.Here is a change of front. Since his visit to Poturzyn his letters to Titus have again become more affectionate. Is he, in his attempt to forget Constantia, trying to convince himself that Titus was more necessary to him-that the love he felt for his friend was the deeper and more concrete? Or was this mere bravado, a cloak to hide himself behind, a barrage against the eyes of his friends? He mentions a pretty girl at a party who reminded me of my ideal', then proceeds to tell his friend that he had written to an agent named Bartek in London, that he had decided to start in a week's time by the Cracow diligence, but had had to abandon the idea, and then begs to be understood for the delay: Titus must have been scolding him for his indecision. He then asks Titus to take him in as a clerk on his estate when he has nothing to eat, saying that he would be content to live over the stable. 'If only my health lasts, I hope to work all my life. Sometimes I wonder whether I really am lazy; whether I ought to work more, when my physical strength allows it.' He was evidently either anxious over his health, or else the ceaseless worry of his mind was affecting his body.Joking apart, I have convinced myself that I really am not such a hopeless vagabond, and that when necessity compels me I can do twice as much work as I do now. ... It's no use, I know that I love you and want you to love me always more and more, and that's why I scribble all this....You are not the master of your thoughts; but I am, and I won't be thrown over, any more than trees will give up the foliage that brings them life, and joy, and character.Four days later he begins another long letter by explaining?that the reason he is still in Warsaw is that his father will not allow him to travel on account of the disturbances in Germany. This was certainly a rational excuse, because the whole of Europe was soon to be in the throes of revolution. As it was, a Pole was only allowed a passport for Austria, and Frédéric could not have got beyond Vienna. He tells Titus about the rehearsal of the Concerto with full orchestra, and expresses his not too polite opinions about the Warsaw musicians who were invited to hear it. Later on he confesses that he does not imitate his friend in one particular-'in taking sudden decisions'-but says that he has decided to leave secretly on Saturday week. It seemed as if the only way he would ever make up his mind to leave his native soil would be by someone grasping him and hauling him off. But the poignant note is struck onceagain when he describes an unexpected glimpse of his beloved in church:I blundered out in a state of delightful torpor, and for a quarter of an hour didn't know what I was doing; meeting Dr. Parys, I didn't know how to explain my confusion, and had to make up a tale of a dog running under my fect and getting trodden on.He candidly admits that he is crazy. All this time he must have been quietly working, despite his restless spirit and apparently broken heart, for he speaks of sending to Titus 'a few silly things', but says that he had no time to copy them on that particular day.The success of this rehearsal of the Concerto determined Frédéric to give a third concert. It was fixed for October 11, and by way of contrast he asked the two young singers Mlles Wolkow and Gladkowska to sing in each half. As they were both pupils at the expense of the state, Chopin had to ask permission for them from the Minister of Public Instruction. This was readily given, and he was happy. He swears that he will be out of Poland a week after the concert, that his trunk is bought, his outfit ready, his scores corrected, his pocket-handkerchiefs hemmed, his trousers made. 'Only to say good-bye, and that's the worst.' This sounds as if arrangements were decisive for once-but his week stretched out into three.?

The day after the concert he hastens to tell Titus all about it, and about his wonderful success. There is not a moment's sorrow in the letter--the world is rosy, life is worth the effort after all.I was not a bit, not a bit nervous, and played the way I play when I'm alone, and it went well.After a Symphony by G?rner, the horn-player of the March 17 concert, came the Allegro of the E minor Concerto, "which I just reeled off.... Furious applause'. Mlle Wolkow sang an Aria of Soliva, and then came the Adagio and Rondo of the Concerto. The Overture to William Tell of Rossini opened the second part, and was followed- by Mlle Gladkowska, 'dressed just right for her face, in white, with roses on her head', singing the Cavatina from La Donna del Lago by Rossini 'as she has sung nothing yet'. Frédéric is in the seventh heaven, and quotes a musician, Zielinski, as having said that Gladkowska's low B was worth a thousand ducats. The programme finished with Chopin playing his Fantasia on Polish Airs, Op. 13.This time I was all right and the orchestra was all right, and the pit understood. This time the last mazurka elicited big applause, after which-the usual farce-I was called up. No one hissed, and I had to bow 4 times; but properly now, because Brandt has taught me how to do it.Evidently the young pianist was very excited and was inclined, in his performance, to rush away, for he gratefully acknowledges the debt he owes to the conductor, Soliva, who held him back. He had never enjoyed playing with the orchestra so much before; this was obviously due to two things -his experience gained at Kessler's ensemble-music parties, and the extra rehearsals for the new concerto, taken at Elsner's advice.Chopin did not speak about the musicians' opinions of the concerto. They had expressed themselves at the orchestral rehearsal to which he had invited them, and though he had little respect for their judgement, he mentions to Titus that Solivasaid after the Rondo: Il vous fait beaucoup d'honneur. Kurpinski?admired the originality of the work, and Elsner was attracted by its rhythm. Frédéric adds in passing that in the interval between the two parts, when they had returned from the buffet the musicians mounted the stage 'to produce an effect favourable to me'.All his despondency had vanished. His whole time was occupied with preparations for the long-looked-for journey, soon to be an accomplished fact. On November 1, 1830, Chopin left his beloved Poland. Elsner and some intimate friends travelled with him to Zelazowa-Wola, and there they were met by a gathering of pupils from the Conservatorium of Warsaw, who had come to do him honour and sing a Cantata that Elsner had composed for the occasion. A banquet was given, toasts were drunk, and a silver goblet filled with the soil of Poland was presented to Frédéric. Karasowski gives the words of the friend who presented the gift as follows: 'May you, wherever you go, never forget your fatherland, or cease to love it with a warm and faithful heart. Think of Poland, think of your friends, who are proud to call you their countryman, who expect great things from you, whose wishes and prayers accompany you.'It was only natural that the emotion of the moment was overpowering to the young Pole. He was separating from all he held most dear, and the parting must have been both sad and long. He had often had a presentiment that once he left his native land it would be for ever; and destiny willed it so. Hisd heart often ached for a sight of Poland in the years to come; but either his health, or his work, or his finances, or the prevailing political conditions prevented a return. Poland was ever in his thoughts. His love for his country was almost fanatical.Now for Kalisz, where he was to meet Titus, whom he had persuaded to go with him to Vienna. He had been miserably unhappy for most of the last two years: was the future to be any brighter? Hc must have determined to forget his 'ideal'; and it is not even certain whether Constantia ever knew of his adoration. She married a certain Joseph Grabowski, a small country gentleman, in 1832, and soon after the marriage became blind. Once or twice Chopin mentions her in his letters, but the pangs of his first love had not eaten deeply into his soul. He was very impressionable, and was always asking for affection and sympathy, becoming a willing victim to the joys and sorrows of being in love. The episode left no sting behind it, but it undoubtedly altered his nature: during this period he had changed from an eager, cheerful and oftentimes humorous youth to a silent, morose, and pessimistic young man. He was entering a new world, where he might not be understood, whered he would have to fight his battles alone and unaided. He was not yet twenty-one; he had little money and very few friends in the new sphere of his choice. It was a vast undertaking, especially at that black period in European history, when civil war was rife all over the continent. Courage and grit were needed, and we cannot deny Frédéric these two qualities, in spite of the many evidences of his lack of decision. That he succeeded we all know: but he nearly succumbed.