piquancy of the anecdote, is generally
in inverse proportion to the narrator's knowledge of the matter
in question. In short, truth is only too often most unconscionably
sacrificed to effect. Accounts, for instance, such as L. Enault and
Karasowski have given of Chopin's first meeting with George Sand can be
recommended only to those who care for amusing gossip about the world of
art, and do not mind whether what they read is the simple truth or not,
nay, do not mind even whether it has any verisimilitude. Nevertheless,
we will give these gentlemen a hearing, and then try if we cannot find
some firmer ground to stand on.

L. Enault relates that Chopin and George Sand met for the first time at
one of the fetes of the Marquis de C., where the aristocracy of Europe
assembled--the aristocracy of genius, of birth, of wealth, of beauty,
&c.:--

The last knots of the chaine anglaise had already been untied,
the brilliant crowd had left the ball-room, the 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 he