For the past week, I’ve been completely drowned in the life and works of Fryderyk Chopin, whose music I have never particularly liked (except for the Nocturnes and Etudes) but with whom I am obliged to become reacquainted for the sake of the project I’m working on.  I treated myself to a volume of his collected letters, which have become my favorite reading material lately; while I am not his number-one fan in a musical sense, his personality absolutely delights me.  Chopin was a highly complex, extremely intelligent, fussy, gossipy, charming elitist with a wicked tongue and an often deadpan sardonic sense of humor.  I’ve always thought that if I’d met him, we would have hit it off famously.  His letters are a fascinating revelation both of his character and of the times he lived in; they range from beautifully tender epistles to beloved friends and family to imperious, spoiled-brat instructions to his friend Julian Fontana who was his factotum in Paris while Chopin was in Nohant and Majorca with George Sand.  Interwoven with his personal life are amazing insights about the nature of creativity and art.  Even if you have no interest in music, Chopin’s letters are worth reading; they are a marvelous autobiography, a first-hand portrait of a bygone age, and a testament to how much we, as a society, are lacking now that we no longer write letters.

Here are some random passages I appreciated:

(from 1825) I have seen the whole house where Copernicus was born, certainly a little profaned at present.  Imagine, Jasio, in that corner, in that very room, where that famous astronomer received the gift of life, stands now the bed of some German who probably, after eating too many potatoes, often emits many zephyrs.

(from 1825) Papa and I were invited to Jaworek’s the day before yesterday, to partake of a “lax.”  On receiving this invitation, I at first thought he had been seized by diarrhoea and was offering me the same; but later, when the “lax” was brought out to show how big it was and how many persons could eat it, I found that it was a salmon (in German, “lachs”) which had been sent to him from Danzig.

(from 1830) About the first concert:  the hall was full, and both boxes and stalls were sold out three days beforehand, but it did not produce on the mass of the audience the impression I expected.  The first Allegro is accessible only to the few; there were some bravos, but I think only because they were puzzled:  – What is this??? — and had to pose as connossieurs.

(from 1830) You must know that in that article the Official Bulletin declared that the Poles should be as proud of me as the Germans are of Mozart; obvious nonsense.  But in the same article the writer says that if I had fallen into the hands of some pedant or Rossinist — which is a stupid term — I should not have been what I am.  I am nothing, but he is right in saying that, if I had not been taught by Elsner, who imbued me with convictions, I should doubtless have accomplished still less than I now have. 

(from 1830) Next week I shan’t be able to refrain from abusing you for the thing I ought to have written about today, and that will be enough.  I don’t want anything from you, not even a handshake; I’m disgusted with you for ever.  You’re a Hellish Monster.

(from 1831) Everything I have seen abroad till now seems to me old and hateful, and just makes me sigh for home, for those blessed moments that I didn’t know how to value.  The people here are not my people; they’re kind, but kind from habit; they do everything too respectably, flatly, moderately.  I don’t even want to think of moderation.  I’m puzzled, I’m melancholy.  I don’t know what to do with myself.

(from 1831) People in Paris are odd; as soon as evening comes, you hear nothing but voices calling out the titles of new chapbooks; sometimes you can buy 3, 4 sheets of rubbish for a sou … “The Art of Having Lovers and Keeping Them,” “The Love Affairs of Priests,” “The Archbishop of Paris with the Duchesse du Barry”, and a thousand other indecencies, sometimes very wittily written.  It is really wonderful to see the methods people hit on here to earn a few pennies. 

(from 1832) “La Tentation,” an opera-ballet by Halevy and Gide, has tempted no one of good taste, for it is as little interesting as your German diet is in unison with the spirit of this century.

(an undated note, written in Paris) My dear friend — something has happened to me (as the ladies say at home); I can’t spend the evening with you because of a superboring strange dinner without even truffles. 

(from 1839, to Julian Fontana)  When thinking of the decoration for the Paris apartment, choose a paper like my old one, for both rooms; but varnished and shiny, with a narrow dark green stripe for a border.  For the vestibule something different, but good.  If, however, there are any prettier and more fashionable papers, which you like and know that I shall also like, take them.  I prefer them smooth, very clean and plain looking, rather than the common type.  That is why I like pearl color; it is neither glaring nor common-looking.  Have the grey curtains, that were in my study by the piano, hung in the vestibule; and in the bedroom the ones that were in the bedroom before, only underneath them hang the pale muslin ones that were under the grey ones.  I should like to have the wardrobe in the bedroom, if there is a good place for it, unless the living-room looks too bare between the windows.  If the red sofa that stood in the dining-room can hve white covers made of the same stuff as the chairs, it could be put in the drawing-room.

(from 1839, to Julian Fontana)  You are a priceless creature.  The apartment sounds splendid; only why is it so cheap?  Isn’t there some very unpleasant thing about it?  It is essential that it should not face north; weigh the conditions I gave you in my last letter, and if the apartment meets most of them, then take it.  Once more, though — is it all right, does it not smell bad, or is it not dirty, or are there not so many neighbors that you can’t go to the privy alone?  Write by the outgoing courier.  Make a plan of the apartment.  My comrade had a presentiment that you would find something; and I like what you write of it, but for heaven’s sake is it all right?  Remember that for her it can’t be just anyhow.  Think it all over, and make haste.  Arrrange it, and God be with you.  Follow your own intuition.  Think it over, and decide.  P.S.  Is the apartment like anybody’s?  Has Mardelle not a better one?  But don’t let him influence your judgment. 

(from 1846)  Sometimes I am satisfied with my violoncello sonata, sometimes not.  I throw it into the corner, then take it up again.  One must have time to judge rightly.  When one does a thing, it appears good, otherwise one would not write it.  Only later comes reflection, and one discards or accepts the thing.  Time is the best censor, and patience a most excellent teacher.