“This is two-four time,” said Meyerbeer.  Chopin denied this,
  made me repeat the piece, and beat time aloud with the pencil
  on the piano—­his eyes were glowing.

  “Two crotchets,” repeated Meyerbeer, calmly.

  Only once I saw Chopin angry, it was at this moment.  It was
  beautiful to see how a light red coloured his pale cheeks.

  “These are three crotchets,” he said with a loud voice, he who
  spoke always so low

  “Give it me,” replied Meyerbeer, “for a ballet in my opera
  ("L’Africaine,” at that time kept a secret), I shall show it
  you then.”

“These are three crotchets,” Chopin almost shouted, and played it himself.  He played the mazurka several times, counted aloud, stamped time with his foot, was beside himself.  But all was of no use, Meyerbeer insisted on two crotchets.  They parted very angrily.  I found it anything but agreeable to have been a witness of this angry scene.  Chopin disappeared into his cabinet without taking leave of me.  The whole thing lasted but a few minutes.

Exhibitions of temper like this were no doubt rare, indeed, hardly ever occurred except in his intercourse with familiars and, more especially, fellow-countrymen—­sometimes also with pupils.  In passing I may remark that Chopin’s Polish vocabulary was much less choice than his French one.  As a rule, Chopin’s manners were very refined and aristocratic, Mr. Halle thinks they were too much so.  For this refinement resulted in a uniform amiability which left you quite in the dark as to the real nature of the man.  Many people who made advances to Chopin found like M. Marmontel—­I have this from his own mouth—­that he had a temperament sauvage and was difficult to get at.  And all who came near him learned soon from experience that, as Liszt told Lenz, he was ombrageux.  But while Chopin would treat outsiders with a chilly politeness, he charmed those who were admitted into his circle both by amiability and wit.  “Usually,” says Liszt, “he was lively, his caustic mind unearthed quickly the ridiculous far below the surface where it strikes all eyes.”  And again, “the playfulness of Chopin attacked only the superior keys of the mind, fond of witticism as he was, recoiling from vulgar joviality, gross laughter, common merriment, as from those animals more abject than venomous, the sight of which causes the most nauseous aversion to certain sensitive and delicate natures.”  Liszt calls Chopin “a fine connoisseur in raillery and an ingenious mocker.”  The testimony of other acquaintances of Chopin and that of his letters does not allow us to accept as holding good generally Mr. Halle’s experience, who, mentioning also the Polish artist’s wit, said to me that he never heard him utter a sarcasm or use a cutting expression.