What reveals perhaps more distinctly than anything else Chopin’s idiosyncrasy is his friendship for Titus Woyciechowski.  At any rate, it is no exaggeration to say that a knowledge of the nature of Chopin’s two passions, his love and his friendship—­for this, too, was a passion with him—­gives into our hands a key that unlocks all the secrets of his character, of his life, and of their outcome—­his artistic work.  Nay more, with a full comprehension of, and insight into, these passions we can foresee the sufferings and disappointments which he is fated to endure.  Chopin’s friendship was not a common one; it was truly and in the highest degree romantic.  To the sturdy Briton and gay Frenchman it must be incomprehensible, and the German of four or five generations ago would have understood it better than his descendant of to-day is likely to do.  If we look for examples of such friendship in literature, we find the type nowhere so perfect as in the works of Jean Paul Richter.  Indeed, there are many passages in the letters of the Polish composer that read like extracts from the German author:  they remind us of the sentimental and other transcendentalisms of Siebenkas, Leibgeber, Walt, Vult, and others.  There was somethine in Chopin’s warm, tender, effusive friendship that may be best characterised by the word “feminine.”  Moreover, it was so exacting, or rather so covetous and jealous, that he had often occasion to chide, gently of course, the less caressing and enthusiastic Titus.  Let me give some instances. 
   December 27th, 1828.—­If I scribble to-day again so much
   nonsense, I do so only in order to remind you that you are as
   much locked in my heart as ever, and that I am the same Fred
   I was.  You do not like to be kissed; but to-day you must
   permit me to do so.

The question of kissing is frequently brought up.

   September 12th, 1829.—­I embrace you heartily, and kiss you
   on your lips if you will permit me.

October 20th, 1829.—­I embrace you heartily—­many a one writes this at the end ol his letter, but most people do so with little thought of what they are writing.  But you may believe me, my dearest friend, that I do so sincerely, as truly as my name is Fred.

September 4th, 1830.—­Time passes, I must wash myself...do not kiss me now...but you would not kiss me in any case—­even if I anointed myself with Byzantine oils—­unless I forced you to do so by magnetic means.

Did we not know the writer and the person addressed, one might imagine that the two next extracts were written by a lover to his mistress or vice versa.

   November 14th, 1829.—­You, my dearest one, do not require my
   portrait.  Believe me I am always with you, and shall not
   forget you till the end of my life.

   May 15th, 1830.—­You have no idea how much I love you!  If I
   only could prove it to you!  What would I not give if I could
   once again right heartily embrace you!