M. Rollinat is more trustworthy when he tells us that there was a pretty theatre and quite an assortment of costumes at the chateau; that the dramas and comedies played there were improvised by the actors, only the subject and the division into scenes being given; and that on two pianos, concealed by curtains, one on the right and one on the left of the stage, Chopin and Liszt improvised the musical part of the entertainment.  All this is, however, so much better and so much more fully told by George Sand (in Dernieres Pages:  Le Theatre des Marionnettes de Nohant) that we will take our information from her.  It was in the long nights of a winter that she conceived the plan of these private theatricals in imitation of the comedia dell’ arte—­namely, of “pieces the improvised dialogue of which followed a written sketch posted up behind the scenes.”

They resembled the charades which are acted in society and which are more or less developed according to the ensemble and the talent of the performers.  We had begun with these.  By degrees the word of the charade disappeared and we played first mad saynetes, then comedies of intrigues and adventures, and finally dramas of incidents and emotions.  The whole thing began by pantomime, and this was of Chopin’s invention; he occupied the place at the piano and improvised, while the young people gesticulated scenes and danced comic ballets.  I leave you to imagine whether these now wonderful, now charming improvisations quickened the brains and made supple the legs of our performers.  He led them as he pleased and made them pass, according to his fancy, from the droll to the severe, from the burlesque to the solemn, from the graceful to the passionate.  We improvised costumes in order to play successively several roles.  As soon as the artist saw them appear, he adapted his theme and his accent in a marvellous manner to their respective characters.  This went on for three evenings, and then the master, setting out for Paris, left us thoroughly stirred up, enthusiastic, and determined not to suffer the spark which had electrified us to be lost.

To get away from the quicksands of Souvenirs—­for George Sand’s pages, too, were written more than thirty years after the occurrences she describes, and not published till 1877—­I shall make some extracts from the contemporaneous correspondence of George Sand’s great friend, the celebrated painter Eugene Delacroix. [Footnote:  Lettres de Eugene Delacroix (1815 a 1863) recucillies et publiees par M. Philippe Burty.  Paris, 1878.] The reader cannot fail to feel at once the fresh breeze of reality that issues from these letters, which contain vivid sketches full of natural beauties and free from affectation and striving after effect:—­

  Nohant, June 7, 1842.