Chopin did not press me to sit down [says Lenz], I stood as before a reigning sovereign.  “What do you wish? a pupil of Liszt’s, an artist?” “A friend of Liszt’s.  I wish to have the happiness of making, under your guidance, acquaintance with your mazurkas, which I regard as a literature.  Some of them I have already studied with Liszt.”  I felt I had been imprudent, but it was too late.  “Indeed!” replied Chopin, with a drawl, but in the politest tone, “what do you want me for then?  Please play to me what you have played with Liszt, I have still a few minutes at my disposal”—­he drew from his fob an elegant, small watch—­“I was on the point of going out, I had told my servant to admit nobody, pardon me!”

Lenz sat down at the piano, tried the gue of it—­an expression at which Chopin, who was leaning languidly on the piano and looking with his intelligent eyes straight in his visitor’s face, smiled—­ and then struck up the Mazurka in B flat major.  When he came to a passage in which Liszt had taught him to introduce a volata through two octaves, Chopin whispered blandly:—­

“This trait is not your own; am I right?  He has shown it you—­ he must meddle with everything; well! he may do it, he plays before thousands, I rarely before one.  Well, this will do, I will give you lessons, but only twice a week, I never give more, it is difficult for me to find three-quarters of an hour.”  He again looked at his watch.  “What do you read then?  With what do you occupy yourself generally?” This was a question for which I was well prepared.  “George Sand and Jean Jacques I prefer to all other writers,” said I quickly.  He smiled, he was most beautiful at that moment.  “Liszt has told you this.  I see, you are initiated, so much the better.  Only be punctual, with me things go by the clock, my house is a pigeon-house (pigeonnier).  I see already we shall become more intimate, a recommendation from Liszt is worth something, you are the first pupil whom he has recommended to me; we are friends, we were comrades.”

Lenz had, of course, too imaginative a turn of mind to leave facts in their native nakedness, but this tendency of his is too apparent to need pointing out.  What betrays him is the wonderful family likeness of his portraits, a kind of vapid esprit, not distantly related to silliness, with which the limner endows his unfortunate sitters, Chopin as well as Liszt and Tausig.  Indeed, the portraits compared with the originals are like Dresden china figures compared with Greek statuary.  It seems to me also very improbable that so perfect a gentleman as Chopin was should subject a stranger to an examination as to his reading and general occupation.  These questions have very much the appearance of having been invented by the narrator for the sake of the answers.  However, notwithstanding the many unmistakable embellishments, Lenz’s account was worth quoting, for after all it is not without a basis of fact and truth.  The following reminiscences of the lively Russian councillor, although not wanting in exaggerations, are less open to objections:—­