CHAPTER XV.
CHOPINʼS ACQUAINTANCE WITH GEORGE SAND.
HIS LIFE AMONG HIS FRIENDS. WINTER SOJOURN IN THE ISLAND OF MAJORCA (1838-1839)
T had been raining the whole day, and Chopin, whose nerves were painfully affected by changes of weather and especially by damp, was in wretched spirits. None of his friends had been in to see him, there were no new books to amuse or excite him, and no melodious thoughts demanding expression had presented themselves. At length, when it was nearly ten oʼclock, it occurred to him to go to Countess C.ʼs, who had her jour fixe, when an intellectual and agreeable circle always assembled in her salon. As he walked up the carpeted steps Chopin imagined himself followed by a shadow, exhaling an odour of violets; he had a feeling that he was in the presence of something strange and wonderful, and felt almost inclined to turn back; then, laughing at his superstitiousness, he sprang lightly up the remaining steps and entered the room. A numerous company was assembled, and, mingled with the well-known faces, there were some that he had not seen before.
The party had broken up into groups, talking, with French grace and vivacity, of the theatre, literature, politics and the events of the day. In a humour for listening rather than talking, Chopin sat down in a corner of the room and watched the beautiful forms passing before him, for many charming women frequented Countess C.ʼs.
GEORGE SAND. When part of the company had gone and only the intimate friends of the hostess remained, Chopin, who was in the mood for weaving musical fairy tales, (Märchen) sat down to the piano and improvised. His hearers, whom in his absorption he had quite forgotten, listened breathlessly. When he had finished he looked up, and saw a simply dressed lady leaning on the instrument and looking at him with her dark passionate eyes as if she would read his soul. Chopin felt himself blushing under her fascinating gaze; she smiled slightly, and when he retired behind a group of camelias he heard the rustling of a silk dress, and perceived the odour of violets. The lady who had looked at him so inquiringly while he was at the piano was approaching with Liszt. In a deep musical voice she said a few words about his playing, and then spoke about the subject of his improvisation. Frederic felt moved and flattered. Undoubtedly the highest reward of the poet and artist is to find themselves understood; and while listening to the sparkling intellectual eloquence and poetry of her words, Chopin felt that he was appreciated as he had never been before. This lady was Aurora Dudevant, at that time the most celebrated of French authoresses, whose romances, written under the name of George Sand, were, of course, well known to him. That night, when he returned home, the pleasing words were still ringing in his ears, the flashing glance was still dazzling his eyes. But this first interview impressed his intellect only; his heart and his sense of beauty were untouched. He wrote to his parents, “I have made the acquaintance of an important celebrity, Madame Dudevant, well-known as George Sand; but I do not like her face, there is something in it that repels me.” But when he met this talented woman again, her attractive conversation, in which was nearly always hidden some delicate flattery, made him forget that she was not beautiful. Her love for him—for George Sand was passionately enamoured of Chopin—gave to her decided and rather manly features a certain attractive softness, and made her shy and almost humble towards him; thus, unconsciously, she stirred his heart. Frederic felt at first merely grateful to her; then, if not as passionately, yet truly and deeply he returned her love. The wound inflicted by Mariaʼs faithlessness was healed. The consciousness of being loved by the foremost of French authoresses, a woman of European celebrity, filled Frederic with happy pride. He was no longer alone and solitary, for Aurora Dudevant was not only his beloved one, but an intellectual and steadfast friend in whose heart he found a home from which fate could never banish him.
He began about this time to withdraw from large assemblies, and spent most of his time in communion with his muse, and among a small circle of friends. Always fastidious about his surroundings, he was even more so now; but he always received his intimate acquaintances with perfect good humour and true Chopin amiability. Franz Liszt, Ferdinand Hiller, and Baron von Stockhausen are, perhaps, the only living representatives of those interesting “soirées intimes” at Chopinʼs house in the Rue Chaussée dʼAntin. Liszt writes:—
“His apartment was only lighted by some wax candles, grouped round one of Pleyelʼs pianos, which he particularly liked for their slightly veiled yet silvery sonorousness, and easy touch, permitting him to elicit tones which one might think proceeded from one of those harmonicas of which romantic Germany has preserved the monopoly, and which were so ingeniously constructed by its ancient masters from the union of crystal and water.
“As the corners of the room were left in obscurity, all idea of limit was lost, so that there seemed no boundary save the darkness of space. Some tall piece of furniture, with its white cover, would reveal itself in the dim light; an indistinct form, raising itself like a spectre to listen to the sounds by which it had been evoked. The light concentrated round the piano glided wave-like along the floor mingling with the red flashes of fire-light. A solitary portrait, that of a pianist, a sympathetic friend and admirer, seemed invited to be the constant auditor of those sighing, murmuring, moaning tones which ebbed and flowed upon the instrument. By a strange accident, the polished surface of the mirror reflected, so as to double for our eyes, the beautiful oval with the silky curls which has so often been copied and of which countless engravings have been reproduced for the friends of the elegant composer.”