ake him, _par excellence_,
the king of the pianoforte. He was recognized by Liszt, Kalkbrenner, Pie
y el, 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."

IV.

Mme. Sand, in her "Lettres d'un Voyageur," depicts the painful lethargy
which seizes the artist when, having incorporated the emotion which
inspired him in his work, his imagination still remains under the
dominance of the insatiate idea, without being able to find a new
incarnation. She was suffering in this way when the character of Chopin
excited her curiosity and suggested a healthful and happy relief. Chopin
dreaded to meet this modern Sibyl. The superstitious awe he felt was a
premonition whose meaning was hidden from him. They met, and Chopin lost
his fear in one of those passions which feed on the whole being with a
ceaseless hunger.

In the fall of 1837 Chopin yielded to a severe attack of the disease
which was hereditary in his fr