Liszt describes Chopin in these words--"His blue eyes were more
spiritual than dreamy; his bland smile never writhed into bitterness.
The transparent delicacy of his complexion pleased the eye; his fair
hair was soft and silky; his nose slightly aquiline; his bearing so
distinguished, and his manners stamped with such high breeding, that
involuntarily he was always treated _en prince_. His gestures were many
and graceful; the tones of his voiced veiled, often stifled. His stature
was low, his limbs were slight." Again, Mdme. Sand paints him even more
characteristically in her novel, _Lucrezia Floriani_--"Gentle,
sensitive, and very lovely, he united the charm of adolescence with the
suavity of a more mature age; through the want of muscular development
he retained a peculiar beauty, an exceptional physiognomy, which, if we
may venture so to speak, belonged to neither age nor sex.... It was more
like the ideal creations with which the poetry of the Middle Ages
adorned the Christian temples. The delicacy of his constitution rendered
him interesting in the eyes of women. The full yet graceful cultivation
of his mind, the sweet and captivating originality of his conversation,
gained for him the attention of the most enlightened men; while those
less highly cultivated liked him for the exquisite courtesy of his
manners."
All this reminds us of Shelley's dream of Hermaphroditus, or perhaps
of Shelley himself, for Chopin was the Shelley of music.
His life in Paris was quiet and retired. The most brilliant and
beautiful women desired to be his pupils, but Chopin refused except
where he recognised in the petitioners exceptional earnestness and
musical talent. He gave but few concerts, for his genius could not
cope with great masses of people. He said to Liszt, "I am not suited
for concert-giving. The public intimidate me, their breath stifles me.
You are destined for it; for when you do not gain your public, you
have the force to assault, to overwhelm, to compel them." It was his
delight to play to a few chosen friends, and to evoke for them such
dreams from the ivory gate, which Virgil fabled to be the portal of
Elysium, as to make his music
"The silver key of the fountain of tears,
Where the spirit drinks till the brain is wild;
Softest grave of a thousand fears,
Where their mother, Care, like a weary child,
Is laid asleep in a bed of flowers."
He avoided general society, finding in the great artists and those
sympathetic with art his congenial companions. His life was given up
to producing those unique compositions which make him, _par
excellence_, the king of the pianoforte. He was recognised by Liszt,
Kalkbrenner, Pleyel, Field, and Meyerbeer, as being the most wonderful
of players; yet he seemed to disdain such a reputation as a cheap
notoriety, ceasing to appear in public after the first few concerts,
which produced much excitement and would have intoxicated most
performers. He sought largely the society of the Polish exiles, men
and women of the highest rank who had thronged to Paris.
His sister Louise, whom he dearly loved, frequently came to Paris from
Warsaw to see him; and he kept up a regular correspondence with his
own family. Yet he abhorred writing so much that he would go to any
shifts to avoid answering a note. Some of his beautiful countrywomen,
however, possess precious memorials in the shape of letters written in
Polish, which he loved much more than French. His thoughtfulness was
continually sending pleasant little gifts and souvenirs to his Warsaw
friends. This tenderness and consideration displayed itself too in his
love of children. He would spend whole evenings in playing
blind-man's-buff or telling them charming fairy stories from the
folk-lore in which Poland is singularly rich.
Always gentle, he yet knew how to rebuke arrogance, and had sharp
repartees for those who tried to force him into musical display. On
one occasion, when he had just left the dining-room, an indiscreet
host, who had had the simplicity to promise his guests some piece
executed by him as a rare dessert, pointed him to an open piano.
Chopin quietly refused, but on being pressed said, with a languid and
sneering drawl:--"Ah, sir, I have just dined; your hospitality, I see,
demands payment."