he circle of his own family and his early
acquaintances. Without any interruption he preserved close relations
with them; never ceasing to keep them up with the greatest care. His
sister Louise was especially dear to him, a resemblance in the character
of their minds, the bent of their feelings, bound them closely to each
other. Louise frequently came from Warsaw to Paris to see him. She spent
the last three months of his life with the brother she loved, watching
over him with undying affection. Chopin kept up a regular correspondence
with the members of his own family, but only with them. It was one of
his peculiarities to write letters to no others; it might almost have
been thought that he had made a vow to write to no strangers. It was
curious enough to see him resort to all kinds of expedients to escape
the necessity of tracing the most insignificant note. Many times he has
traversed Paris from one end to the other, to decline an invitation to
dinner, or to give some trivial information, rather than write a few
lines which would have spared him all this trouble and loss of time. His
handwriting was quite unknown to the greatest number of his friends. It
is said he sometimes departed from this custom in favor of his beautiful
countrywomen, some of whom possess several of his notes written in
Polish. This infraction of what seemed to be a law with him, may be
attributed to the pleasure he took in the use of this language.
He always used it with the people of his own country, and loved to
translate its most expressive phrases. He was a good French scholar,
as the Sclaves generally are. In consequence of his French origin, the
language had been taught him with peculiar care. But he did not like
it, he did not think it sufficiently sonorous, and he deemed its genius
cold. This opinion is very prevalent among the Poles, who, although
speaking it with great facility, often better than their native tongue,
and frequently using it in their intercourse with each other, yet
complain to those who do not speak Polish of the impossibility of
rendering the thousand ethereal and shifting modes of thought in any
other idiom. In their opinion it is sometimes dignity, sometimes grace,
sometimes passion, which is wanting in the French language. If they are
asked the meaning of a word or a phrase which they may have cited in
Polish, the reply invariably is: "Oh, that cannot be translated!" Then
follow explanations, serving as comments to