His character was indeed not easily understood.  A thousand subtle shades, mingling, crossing, contradicting and disguising each other, rendered it almost undecipherable at a first view.  As is usually the case with the Sclaves, it was difficult to read the recesses of his mind.  With them, loyalty and candor, familiarity and the most captivating ease of manner, by no means imply confidence, or impulsive frankness.  Like the twisted folds of a serpent rolled upon itself, their feelings are half hidden, half revealed.  It requires a most attentive examination to follow the coiled linking of the glittering rings.  It would be naive to interpret literally their courtesy full of compliment, their assumed humility.  The forms of this politeness, this modesty, have their solution in their manners, in which their ancient connection with the East may be strangely traced.  Without having in the least degree acquired the taciturnity of the Mussulman, they have yet learned from it a distrustful reserve upon all subjects which touch upon the more delicate and personal chords of the heart.  When they speak of themselves, we may almost always be certain that they keep some concealment in reserve, which assures them the advantage in intellect, or feeling.  They suffer their interrogator to remain in ignorance of some circumstance, some mobile secret, through the unveiling of which they would be more admired, or less esteemed, and which they well know how to hide under the subtle smile of an almost imperceptible mockery.  Delighting in the pleasure of mystification, from the most spiritual or comic to the most bitter and melancholy, they may perhaps find in this deceptive raillery an external formula of disdain for the veiled expression of the superiority which they internally claim, but which claim they veil with the caution and astuteness natural to the oppressed.

The frail and sickly organization of Chopin, not permitting him the energetic expression of his passions, he gave to his friends only the gentle and affectionate phase of his nature.  In the busy, eager life of large cities, where no one has time to study the destiny of another, where every one is judged by his external activity, very few think it worth while to attempt to penetrate the enigma of individual character.  Those who enjoyed familiar intercourse with Chopin, could not be blind to the impatience and ennui he experienced in being, upon the calm character of his manners, so promptly believed.  And may not the artist revenge the man?  As his health was too frail to permit him to give vent to his impatience through the vehemence of his execution, he sought to compensate himself by pouring this bitterness over those pages which he loved to hear performed with a vigor [Footnote:  It was his delight to hear them executed by the great Liszt himself.—­ Translator.] which he could not himself always command:  pages which are indeed full of the impassioned feelings of a man suffering deeply from wounds which he does not choose to avow.  Thus around a gaily flagged, yet sinking ship, float the fallen spars and scattered fragments, torn by warring winds and surging waves from its shattered sides.