In March, 1839, I went to Paris, accompanied by a kind aunt, who was a highly-cultured musical connoisseur, animated by the wish to get if possible lessons from Chopin, whose compositions inspired me with enthusiasm.  But he was from home and very ill; indeed, it was feared he would not return to Paris even in the winter.  However, at last, at last, in October, 1839, he came.  I had employed this long time in making myself acquainted with the musical world in Paris, but the more I heard, nay, even admired, the more was my intention to wait till Chopin’s return confirmed.  And I was quite right.

On the 30th of October, 1839, we, my kind aunt and I, went to him.  At that time he lived in Rue Tronchet, No. 5.  Anxiously I handed him my letters of introduction from Vienna, and begged him to take me as a pupil.  He said very politely, but very formally:  “You have played with applause at a matinee at the house of Countess Appony, the wife of the Austrian ambassador, and will hardly require my instruction.”  I became afraid, for I was wise enough to understand he had not the least inclination to accept me as a pupil.  I quickly protested that I knew very well I had still very, very much to learn.  And, I added timidly, I should like to be able to play his wondrously-beautiful compositions well.  “Oh!” he exclaimed, “it would be sad if people were not in a position to play them well without my instruction.”  “I certainly am not able to do so,” I replied anxiously.  “Well, play me something,” he said.  And in a moment his reserve had vanished.  Kindly and indulgently he helped me to overcome my timidity, moved the piano, inquired whether I were comfortably seated, let me play till I had become calm, then gently found fault with my stiff wrist, praised my correct comprehension, and accepted me as a pupil.  He arranged for two lessons a week, then turned in the most amiable way to my aunt, excusing himself beforehand if he should often be obliged to change the day and hour of the lesson on account of his delicate health.  His servant would always inform us of this.

Alas! he suffered greatly.  Feeble, pale, coughing much, he often took opium drops on sugar and gum-water, rubbed his forehead with eau de Cologne, and nevertheless he taught with a patience, perseverance, and zeal which were admirable.  His lessons always lasted a full hour, generally he was so kind as to make them longer.  Mikuli says:  “A holy artistic zeal burnt in him then, every word from his lips was incentive and inspiring.  Single lessons often lasted literally for hours at a stretch, till exhaustion overcame master and pupil.”  There were for me also such blessed lessons.  Many a Sunday I began at one o’clock to play at Chopin’s, and only at four or five o’clock in the afternoon did he dismiss us.  Then he also played, and how splendidly but not only his own compositions, also those of other masters, in order to teach the pupil how they should be performed.  One morning he