His piano
was but a sieve for some, and we are rather amused than otherwise
on reading the romantic nonsense of his boyish letters.
After the Vienna trip his spirits and his health flagged. He was
overwrought and Warsaw became hateful to him, for he loved but
had not the courage to tell it to the beloved one. He put it on
paper, he played it, but speak it he could not. Here is a point
that reveals Chopin's native indecision, his inability to make up
his mind. He recalls to me the Frederic Moreau of Flaubert's
"L'Education Sentimentale." There is an atrophy of the will, for
Chopin can neither propose nor fly from Warsaw. He writes letters
that are full of self-reproaches, letters that must have both
bored and irritated his friends. Like many other men of genius he
suffered all his life from folie de doute, indeed his was what
specialists call "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.
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