s.
The transparent delicacy of his complexion pleased the eye; his fair
hair was soft and silky; his nose slightly aquiline; his bearing so
distinguished, and his manners stamped with such high breeding, that
involuntarily he was always treated _en prince_. His gestures were many
and graceful; the tones of his voice veiled, often stifled. His stature
was low, his limbs were slight." Again, Mme. Sand paints him even more
characteristically in her novel "Lucrezia Floriani:" "Gentle, sensitive,
and very lovely, he united the charm of adolescence with the suavity of
a more mature age; through the want of muscular development he retained
a peculiar beauty, an exceptional physiognomy, which, if we may venture
so to speak, belonged to neither age nor sex.... It was more like the
ideal creations with which the poetry of the middle ages adorned
the Christian temples. The delicacy of his constitution rendered him
interesting in the eyes of women. The full yet graceful cultivation of
his mind, the sweet and captivating originality of his conversation,
gained for him the attention of the most enlightened men; while those
less highly cultivated liked him for the exquisite courtesy of his
manners."

All this reminds us of Shelley's dream of Hermaphroditus, or perhaps of
Shelley himself, for Chopin was the Shelley of music.

His life in Paris was quiet and retired. The most brilliant and
beautiful women desired to be his pupils, but Chopin refused except
where he recognized in the petitioners exceptional earnestness and
musical talent. He gave but few concerts, for his genius could not cope
with great masses of people. He said to Liszt: "I am not suited for
concert-giving. The public intimidate me, their breath stifles me. You
are destined for it; for when you do not gain your public, you have the
force to assault, to overwhelm, to compel them." It was his delight to
play to a few chosen friends, and to evoke for them such dreams from the
ivory gate, which Virgil fabled to be the portal of Elysium, as to make
his music

"The silver key of the fountain of tears,
Where the spirit drinks till the brain is wild:
Softest grave of a thousand fears,
Where their mother, Care, like a weary child,
Is laid asleep in a hed of flowers."

He avoided general society, finding in the great artists and those
sympathetic with art his congenial companions. His life was given up to
producing those unique compositions which m