robustness
and all it entails, Chopin might have been moderately happy, perhaps
even have continued to enjoy moderately good health, if body and soul
had been well matched. This, however, was not the case. His thoughts
were too big, his passions too violent, for the frail frame that held
them; and the former grew bigger and more violent as the latter grew
frailer and frailer. He could not realise his aspirations, could not
compass his desires, in short, could not fully assert himself. Here,
indeed, we have lit upon the tragic motive of Chopin's life-drama,
and the key to much that otherwise would be enigmatical, certainly not
explicable by delicacy and disease alone. His salon acquaintances, who
saw only the polished outside of the man, knew nothing of this disparity
and discrepancy; and even the select few of his most intimate friends,
from whom he was not always able to conceal the irritation that gnawed
at his heart, hardly more than guessed the true state of matters. In
fact, had not Chopin been an artist, the tale of his life would have
for ever remained a tale untold. But in his art, as an executant and a
composer, he revealed all his strength and weakness, all his excellences
and insufficiencies, all his aspirations and failures, all his successes
and disappointments, all his dreams and realities.

Chopin [wrote Anton Schindler in 1841] [FOOTNOTE: Beethoven in
Paris, p. 71] is the prince of all pianists, poesy itself at
the piano... His playing does not impress by powerfulness of
touch, by fiery brilliancy, for Chopin's physical condition
forbids him every bodily exertion, and spirit and body are
constantly at variance and in reciprocal excitement. The
cardinal virtue of this great master in pianoforte-playing
lies in the perfect truth of the expression of every feeling
within his reach [dessen er sich bemeistern darf], which is
altogether inimitable and might lead to caricature were
imitatior attempted.

Chopin was not a virtuoso in the ordinary sense of the word. His sphere
was the reunion intime, not the mixed crowd of concert audiences. If,
however, human testimony is worth anything, we may take it as proven
that there never was a pianist whose playing exercised a charm equal to
that of Chopin. But, as Liszt has said, it is impossible to make those
who have not heard him understand this subtle, penetrating charm of an
ineffable poesy. If words could give an idea of Chopin's playing, it