Chopin's violence was psychic, a travailing and
groaning of the spirit; the bright roughness of adventure was
missing from his quotidian existence. The tragedy was within. One
recalls Maurice Maeterlinck: "Whereas most of our life is passed
far from blood, cries and swords, and the tears of men have
become silent, invisible and almost spiritual." Chopin went from
Poland to France--from Warsaw to Paris--where, finally, he was
borne to his grave in Pere la Chaise. He lived, loved and died;
and not for him were the perils, prizes and fascinations of a
hero's career. He fought his battles within the walls of his soul-
-we may note and enjoy them in his music. His outward state was
not niggardly of incident though his inner life was richer,
nourished as it was in the silence and the profound unrest of a
being that irritably resented every intrusion. There were events
that left ineradicable impressions upon his nature, upon his
work: his early love, his sorrow at parting from parents and
home, the shock of the Warsaw revolt, his passion for George
Sand, the death of his father and of his friend Matuszynski, and
the rupture with Madame Sand--these were crises of his history.
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