ll "a beautiful
case." This halting and irresolution was a stumbling block in his
career and is faithfully mirrored in his art.

Chopin went to Posen in October, 1829, and at the Radziwills was
attracted by the beauty and talent of the Princess Elisa, who died
young. George Sand has noted Chopin's emotional versatility in the
matter of falling in and out of love. He could accomplish both of an
evening and a crumpled roseleaf was sufficient cause to induce frowns
and capricious flights--decidedly a young man tres difficile. He played
at the "Ressource" in November, 1829, the Variations, opus 2. On March
17, 1830, he gave his first concert in Warsaw, and selected the adagio
and rondo of his first concerto, the one in F minor, and the Potpourri
on Polish airs. His playing was criticised for being too delicate--an
old complaint--but the musicians, Elsner, Kurpinski and the rest were
pleased. Edouard Wolff said they had no idea in Warsaw of "the real
greatness of Chopin." He was Polish, this the public appreciated, but
of Chopin the individual they missed entirely the flavor. A week later,
spurred by adverse and favorable criticism, he gave a second concert,
playing the same excerpts from this concerto--the slow movement is
Constance Gladowska musically idealized--the Krakowiak and an
improvisation. The affair was a success. From these concerts he cleared
six hundred dollars, not a small sum in those days for an unknown
virtuoso. A sonnet was printed in his honor, champagne was offered him
by an enthusiastic Paris bred, but not born, pianist named Dunst, who
for this act will live in all chronicles of piano playing. Worse still,
Orlowski served up the themes of his concerto into mazurkas and had the
impudence to publish them.

Then came the last blow: he was asked by a music seller for his
portrait, which he refused, having no desire, he said with a shiver, to
see his face on cheese and butter wrappers. Some of the criticisms were
glowing, others absurd as criticisms occasionally are. Chopin wrote to
Titus the same rhapsodical protestations and finally declared in
meticulous peevishness, "I will no longer read what people write about
me." This has the familiar ring of the true artist who cares nothing
for the newspapers but reads them religiously after his own and his
rivals' concerts.

Chopin heard Henrietta Sontag with great joy; he was ever a lover and a
connoisseur of singing. He advised young pianists to listen caref