Chopin related that in May, 1834, he had taken a trip to Aix-la-Chapelle with Hiller and Mendelssohn.  “Welcomed there in a very friendly manner, people asked me when I was introduced:  ’You are, I suppose, a brother of the pianist?’ I answered in the affirmative, for it amused me, and described my brother the pianist.  ’He is tall, strong, has black hair, a black moustache, and a very large hand.’” To those who have seen the slightly-built Chopin and his delicate hand, the joke must have been exceedingly amusing.

On the 20th of April, 1840, Liszt, who had come back to Paris after extended artistic tours, gave a matinee to an invited audience in Erard’s saloon.  He played, as he did always, very brilliantly, and the next morning I had to give a minute account to Chopin of what and how he had played.  He himself was too unwell to be present.  When I spoke of Liszt’s artistic self-control and calmness in overcoming the greatest technical difficulties, he exclaimed:  “Ainsi il parait que mon avis est juste.  La derniere chose c’est la simplicite.  Apres avoir epuise toutes les difficultes, apres avoir joue une immense quantite de notes, et de notes, c’est la simplicite qui sort avec tout son charme, comme le dernier sceau de l’art.  Quiconque veut arriver de suite a cela n’y parviendra jamais, on ne peut commencer par la fin.  II faut avoir etudie beaucoup, meme immensement pour atteindre ce but, ce n’est pas une chose facile.  II m’etait impossible,” he continued, “d’assister a sa matinee.  Avec ma sante ou ne peut rien faire.  Je suis toujours embrouille avec mes affaires, de maniere que je n’ai pas un moment libre.  Que j’envie les gens forts qui sont d’une sante robuste et qui n’ont rien a faire!  Je suis bien fache, je n’ai pas le temps d’etre malade.”

When I studied his Trio he drew my attention to some passages which now displeased him, he would now write them differently.  At the end of the Trio he said:  “How vividly do the days when I composed it rise up in my memory!  It was at Posen, in the castle surrounded by vast forests of Prince Radziwill.  A small but very select company was gathered together there.  In the mornings there was hunting, in the evenings music.  Ah! and now,” he added sadly, “the Prince, his wife, his son, all, all are dead.”

At a soiree (Dec. 20, 1840) he made me play the Sonata with the Funeral March before a large assemblage.  On the morning of the same day I had once more to play over to him the Sonata, but was very nervous.  “Why do you play less well to-day?” he asked.  I replied that I was afraid.  “Why?  I consider you play it well,” he rejoined very gravely, indeed, severely.  “But if you wish to play this evening as nobody played before you, and nobody will play after you, well then!"...These words restored my composure.  The thought that I played to his satisfaction possessed me also in the evening; I had the happiness of gaining Chopin’s approval and the applause of the audience.  Then he played with me the Andante of his F minor Concerto, which he accompanied magnificently on the second piano.  The entire assemblage assailed him with the request to perform some more of his compositions, which he then did to the delight of all.