that kind of fever which is observable in the peasants of the environs of Paris.  All the women have the appearance of those sweet faces one sees only in the pictures of the old masters.  They are all Saint Annes.

Amidst the affectations, insincerities, and superficialities of Chopin’s social intercourse, Delacroix’s friendship—­we have already seen that the musician reciprocated the painter’s sentiments—­stands out like a green oasis in a barren desert.  When, on October 28, 1849, a few days after Chopin’s death, Delacroix sent a friend a ticket for the funeral service of the deceased, he speaks of him as “my poor and dear Chopin.”  But the sincerity of Delacroix’s esteem and the tenderness of his love for Chopin are most fully revealed in some lines of a letter which he wrote on January 7, 1861, to Count Czymala [Grzymala]:—­

When I have finished [the labours that took up all his time], I shall let you know, and shall see you again, with the pleasure I have always had, and with the feelings your kind letter has reanimated in me.  With whom shall I speak of the incomparable genius whom heaven has envied the earth, and of whom I dream often, being no longer able to see him in this world nor to hear his divine harmonies.

If you see sometimes the charming Princess Marcelline [Czartoryska], another object of my respect, place at her feet the homage of a poor man who has not ceased to be full of the memory of her kindnesses and of admiration for her talent, another bond of union with the seraph whom we have lost and who, at this hour, charms the celestial spheres.

The first three of the above extracts from Delacroix’s letters enable us to form a clear idea of what the everyday life at Nohant was like, and after reading them we can easily imagine that its monotony must have had a depressing effect on the company-loving Chopin.  But the drawback was counterbalanced by an advantage.  At Paris most of Chopin’s time was occupied with teaching and the pleasures of society, at Nohant he could devote himself undisturbed and undistracted to composition.  And there is more than sufficient evidence to prove that in this respect Chopin utilised well the quiet and leisure of his rural retirement.

Few things excite the curiosity of those who have a taste for art and literature so much as an artist’s or poet’s mode of creation.  With what interest, for instance, do we read Schindler’s account of how Beethoven composed his Missa Solemnis—­of the master’s absolute detachment from the terrestrial world during the time he was engaged on this work; of his singing, shouting, and stamping, when he was in the act of giving birth to the fugue of the Credo!  But as regards musicians, we know, generally speaking, very little on the subject; and had not George Sand left us her reminiscences, I should not have much to tell the reader about Chopin’s mode of creation.  From Gutmann I learned that his master worked long