Chopin’s genius had now reached the most perfect stage of its development, and was radiating with all the intensity of which its nature was capable.  Notwithstanding such later creations as the fourth “Ballade,” Op. 52, the “Barcarolle,” Op. 60, and the “Polonaise,” Op. 53, it can hardly be said that the composer surpassed in his subsequent works those which he had published in recent years, works among which were the first three ballades, the preludes, and a number of stirring polonaises and charming nocturnes, mazurkas, and other pieces.

However, not only as a creative artist, but also as an executant, Chopin was at the zenith of his power.  His bodily frame had indeed suffered from disease, but as yet it was not seriously injured, at least, not so seriously as to disable him to discharge the functions of a musical interpreter.  Moreover, the great majority of his compositions demanded from the executant other qualities than physical strength, which was indispensable in only a few of his works.  A writer in the “Menestrel” (April 25, 1841) asks himself the question whether Chopin had progressed as a pianist, and answers:  “No, for he troubles himself little about the mechanical secrets of the piano; in him there is no charlatanism; heart and genius alone speak, and in these respects his privileged organisation has nothing to learn.”  Or rather let us say, Chopin troubled himself enough about the mechanical secrets of the piano, but not for their own sakes:  he regarded them not as ends, but as means to ends, and although mechanically he may have made no progress, he had done so poetically.  Love and sorrow, those most successful teachers of poets and musicians, had not taught him in vain.

It was a fortunate occurrence that at this period of his career Chopin was induced to give a concert, and equally fortunate that men of knowledge, judgment, and literary ability have left us their impressions of the event.  The desirability of replenishing an ever-empty purse, and the instigations of George Sand, were no doubt the chief motive powers which helped the composer to overcome his dislike to playing in public.

“Do you practise when the day of the concert approaches?” asked Lenz. [Footnote:  Die grossen Pianoforte-Virtusen unstrer Zeit, p. 36.] “It is a terrible time for me,” was Chopin’s answer; “I dislike publicity, but it is part of my position.  I shut myself up for a fortnight and play Bach.  That is my preparation; I never practise my own compositions.”  What Gutmann told me confirms these statements.  Chopin detested playing in public, and became nervous when the dreaded time approached.  He then fidgeted a great deal about his clothes, and felt very unhappy if one or the other article did not quite fit or pinched him a little.  On one occasion Chopin, being dissatisfied with his own things, made use of a dress-coat and shirt of his pupil Gutmann.  By the way, the latter, who gave me this piece of information, must have been in those days of less bulk, and, I feel inclined to add, of less height, than he was when I became acquainted with him.