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 voice veiled, often stifled.  His stature was low, his limbs were slight.”  Again, Mme. 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 recognized 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 hed 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 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.