Frederic Chopin as a Man and Musician, vol 2 | Page 2

murmur of discreet
conversation was heard in the boudoirs: the fetes of the intimate friends
began. Chopin seated himself at the piano. He played one of those
ballads whose words are written by no poet, but whose subjects,
floating in the dreamy soul of nations, belong to the artist who likes to
take them. I believe it was the Adieux du Cavalier...Suddenly, in the
middle of the ballad, he perceived, close to the door, immovable and
pale, the beautiful face of Lelia. [FOOTNOTE: This name of the
heroine of one of her romances is often given to George Sand. See Vol.
I., p. 338.] She fixed her passionate and sombre eyes upon him; the
impressionable artist felt at the same time pain and pleasure...others
might listen to him: he played only for her.
They met again.
From this moment fears vanished, and these two noble souls
understood each other...or believed they understood each other.
Karasowski labours hard to surpass Enault, but is not like him a master
of the ars artem celare. The weather, he tells us, was dull and damp,
and had a depressing effect on the mind of Chopin. No friend had
visited him during the day, no book entertained him, no musical idea
gladdened him. It was nearly ten o'clock at night (the circumstantiality
of the account ought to inspire confidence) when he bethought himself
of paying a visit to the Countess C. (the Marquis, by some means,
magical or natural, has been transformed into a Countess), this being
her jour fixe, on which an intellectual and agreeable company was
always assembled at her house.
When he ascended the carpet-covered stairs [Unfortunately we are not
informed whether the carpet was Turkey, Brussels, or Kidderminster],
it seemed to him as if he were followed by a shadow that diffused a
fragrance of violets [Ah!], and a presentiment as if something strange
and wonderful were going to happen to him flashed through his soul.
He was on the point of turning back and going home, but, laughing at

his own superstition, he bounded lightly and cheerfully over the last
steps.
Skipping the fine description of the brilliant company assembled in the
salon, the enumeration of the topics on which the conversation ran, and
the observation that Chopin, being disinclined to talk, seated himself in
a corner and watched the beautiful ladies as they glided hither and
thither, we will join Karasowski again where, after the departure of the
greater number of the guests, Chopin goes to the piano and begins to
improvise.
His auditors, whom he, absorbed in his own thoughts and looking only
at the keys, had entirely forgotten, listened with breathless attention.
When he had concluded his improvisation, he raised his eyes, and
noticed a plainly- dressed lady who, leaning on the instrument, seemed
to wish to read his soul with her dark fiery eyes. [Although a severe
critic might object to the attitude of a lady leaning on a piano as
socially and pictorially awkward, he must admit that from a literary
point of view it is unquestionably more effective than sitting or
standing by the door.] Chopin felt he was blushing under the
fascinating glances of the lady [Bravo! This is a master-touch]; she
smiled [Exquisite!], and when the artist was about to withdraw from the
company behind a group of camellias, he heard the peculiar rustling of
a silk dress, which exhaled a fragrance of violets [Camellias, rustling
silks, fragrance of violets! What a profusion of beauty and sweetness!],
and the same lady who had watched him so inquiringly at the piano
approached him accompanied by Liszt. Speaking to him with a deep,
sweet voice, she made some remarks on his playing, and more
especially on the contents of his improvisation. Frederick listened to
her with pleasure and emotion, and while words full of sparkling wit
and indescribable poetry flowed from the lady's eloquent lips [Quite a
novel representation of her powers of conversation], he felt that he was
understood as he had never been.
All this is undoubtedly very pretty, and would be invaluable in a novel,
but I am afraid we should embarrass Karasowski were we to ask him to
name his authorities.
Of this meeting at the house of the Marquis de C.--i.e., the Marquis de
Custine--I was furnished with a third version by an
eye-witness--namely, by Chopin's pupil Adolph Gutmann. From him I

learned that the occasion was neither a full-dress ball nor a chance
gathering of a jour fixe, but a musical matinee. Gutmann, Vidal (Jean
Joseph), and Franchomme opened the proceedings with a trio by
Mayseder, a composer the very existence of whose once popular
chamber-music is unknown to the present generation. Chopin played a
great deal, and George Sand devoured him with her eyes. Afterwards
the musician and the