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