cians of
whom we heard so much in the first years after his coming to Paris,
he remained in close connection only with one-namely, with Franchomme.
Osborne soon disappeared from his circle. Chopin's intercourse with
Berlioz was in after years so rare that some of their common friends
did not even know of its existence. The loosening of this connection
was probably brought about by the departure of Hiller in 1836 and the
quarrel with Liszt some time after, which broke two links between the
sensitive Pole and the fiery Frenchman. The ageing Baillot and Cherubini
died in 1842. Kalkbrenner died but a short time before Chopin, but the
sympathy existing between them was not strong enough to prevent their
drifting apart. Other artists to whom the new-comer had paid due homage
may have been neglected, forgotten, or lost sight of when success was
attained and the blandishments of the salons were lavished upon him.
Strange to say, with all his love for what belonged to and came from
Poland, he kept compatriot musicians at a distance. Fontana was an
exception, but him he cherished, no doubt, as a friend of his youth in
spite of his profession, or, if as a musician at all, chiefly because
of his handiness as a copyist. For Sowinski, who was already settled
in Paris when Chopin arrived there, and who assisted him at his first
concert, he did not care. Consequently they had afterwards less and less
intercourse, which, indeed, in the end may have ceased altogether.
An undated letter given by Count Wodziriski in "Les trois Romans de
Frederic Chopin," no doubt originally written in Polish, brings the
master's feelings towards his compatriot, and also his irritability,
most vividly before the reader.

Here he is! He has just come in to see me--a tall strong
individual who wears moustaches; he sits down at the piano and
improvises, without knowing exactly what. He knocks, strikes,
and crosses his hands, without reason; he demolishes in five
minutes a poor helpless key; he has enormous fingers, made
rather to handle reins and whip somewhere on the confines of
Ukraine. Here you have the portrait of S... who has no other
merit than that of having small moustaches and a good heart.
If I ever thought of imagining what stupidity and charlatanism
in art are, I have now the clearest perception of them. I run
through my room with my ears reddening; I have a mad desire to
throw the door wide open; but one has to spare him,