nterest in piano-forte music, even though it was not played by a
Chopin, proceeds thus:--

I can never forget some evenings which I spent with him
[Bellini] and Chopin and a few other guests at Madame
Freppa's. Madame Freppa, an accomplished and exceedingly
musical woman, born at Naples, but of French extraction, had,
in order to escape from painful family circumstances, settled
in Paris, where she taught singing in the most distinguished
circles. She had an exceedingly sonorous though not powerful
voice, and an excellent method, and by her rendering of
Italian folk-songs and other simple vocal compositions of the
older masters charmed even the spoiled frequenters of the
Italian Opera. We cordially esteemed her, and sometimes went
together to visit her at the extreme end of the Faubourg St.
Germain, where she lived with her mother on a troisieme au
dessus de l'entresol, high above all the noise and tumult of
the ever-bustling city. There music was discussed, sung, and
played, and then again discussed, played, and sung. Chopin
and Madame Freppa seated themselves by turns at the
pianoforte; I, too, did my best; Bellini made remarks, and
accompanied himself in one or other of his cantilene, rather
in illustration of what he had been saying than for the
purpose of giving a performance of them. He knew how to sing
better than any German composer whom I have met, and had a
voice less full of sound than of feeling. His pianoforte-
playing sufficed for the reproduction of his orchestra,
which, indeed, is not saying much. But he knew very well what
he wanted, and was far from being a kind of natural poet, as
some may imagine him to have been.

In the summer of 1835, towards the end of July, Chopin journeyed to
Carlsbad, whither his father had been sent by the Warsaw physicians. The
meeting of the parents and their now famous son after a separation of
nearly five years was no doubt a very joyous one; but as no accounts
have come down to us of Chopin's doings and feelings during his sojourn
in the Bohemian watering-place, I shall make no attempt to fill up the
gap by a gushing description of what may have been, evolved out of
the omniscience of my inner consciousness, although this would be an
insignificant feat compared with those of a recent biographer whose
imaginativeness enabled her to describe the appearance of the sky
and the state of the w