moral and physical health.  I still attributed his despair and horror of Majorca to the excitement of fever and the exces de caractere of that place.  Nohant offered pleasanter conditions, a less austere retreat, congenial society, and resources in case of illness.  Papet was to him an enlightened and kind physician.  Fleury, Duteil, Duvernet, and their families, Planet, and especially Rollinat, were dear to him at first sight.  All of them loved him also, and felt disposed to spoil him as I did.

Among those with whom the family at Nohant had much intercourse, and who were frequent guests at the chateau, was also an old acquaintance of ours, one who had not grown in wisdom as in age, I mean George Sand’s half-brother, Hippolyte Chatiron, who was now again living in Berry, his wife having inherited the estate of Montgivray, situated only half a league from Nohant.

His warmth of manner, his inexhaustible gaiety, the originality of his sallies, his enthusiastic and naive effusions of admiration for the genius of Chopin, the always respectful deference which he showed to him alone, even in the inevitable and terrible apres-boire, found favour with the eminently-aristocratic artist.  All, then, went very well at first, and I entertained eventually the idea that Chopin might rest and regain his health by spending a few summers with us, his work necessarily calling him back to Paris in the winter.

However, the prospect of this kind of family union with a newly-made friend caused me to reflect.  I felt alarmed at the task which I was about to undertake, and which I had believed would be limited to the journey in Spain.

In short, George Sand presents herself as a sister of mercy, who, prompted by charity, sacrifices her own happiness for that of another.  Contemplating the possibility of her son falling ill and herself being thereby deprived of the joys of her work, she exclaims:  “What hours of my calm and invigorating life should I be able to devote to another patient, much more difficult to nurse and comfort than Maurice?”

The discussion of this matter by George Sand is so characteristic of her that, lengthy as it is, I cannot refrain from giving it in full.

A kind of terror seized me in presence of a new duty which I was to take upon me.  I was not under the illusion of passion.  I had for the artist a kind of maternal adoration which was very warm, very real, but which could not for a moment contend with maternal love, the only chaste feeling which may be passionate.

I was still young enough to have perhaps to contend with love, with passion properly so called.  This contingency of my age, of my situation, and of the destiny of artistic women, especially when they have a horror of passing diversions, alarmed me much, and, resolved as I was never to submit to any influence which might divert me from my children, I saw a less, but still possible danger in the tender