George Sand was probably out of humour on the evening in question; that it was not her usual manner of receiving visitors may be gathered from what Chopin said soon after to Lenz when the latter came to him for a lesson.  “George Sand,” he said, “called with me on you.  What a pity you were not at home!  I regretted it very much.  George Sand thought she had been uncivil to you.  You would have seen how amiable she can be.  You have pleased her.”

Alexander Chodzko, the learned professor of Slavonic literature at the College de France, told me that he was half-a-dozen times at George Sand’s house.  Her apartments were furnished in a style in favour with young men.  First you came into a vestibule where hats, coats, and sticks were left, then into a large salon with a billiard-table.  On the mantel-piece were to be found the materials requisite for smoking.  George Sand set her guests an example by lighting a cigar.  M. Chodzko met there among others the historian and statesman Guizot, the litterateur Francois, and Madame Marliani.  If Chopin was not present, George Sand would often ask the servant what he was doing, whether he was working or sleeping, whether he was in good or bad humour.  And when he came in all eyes were directed towards him.  If he happened to be in good humour George Sand would lead him to the piano, which stood in one of the two smaller apartments adjoining the salon.  These smaller apartments were provided with couches for those who wished to talk.  Chopin began generally to prelude apathetically and only gradually grew warm, but then his playing was really grand.  If, however, he was not in a playing mood, he was often asked to give some of his wonderful mimetic imitations.  On such occasions Chopin retired to one of the side-rooms, and when he returned he was irrecognisable.  Professor Chodzko remembers seeing him as Frederick the Great.

Chopin’s talent for mimicry, which even such distinguished actors as Bocage and Madame Dorval regarded with admiration, is alluded to by Balzac in his novel “Un Homme d’affaires,” where he says of one of the characters that “he is endowed with the same talent for imitating people which Chopin, the pianist, possesses in so high a degree; he represents a personage instantly and with astounding truth.”  Liszt remarks that Chopin displayed in pantomime an inexhaustible verve drolatique, and often amused himself with reproducing in comical improvisations the musical formulas and peculiar ways of certain virtuosos, whose faces and gestures he at the same time imitated in the most striking manner.  These statements are corroborated by the accounts of innumerable eye and ear-witnesses of such performances.  One of the most illustrative of these accounts is the following very amusing anecdote.  When the Polish musician Nowakowski [footnote:  He visited