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:—