.........For such respect, the memory of Chopin will remain doubly dear to the friends and artists whom he encountered on his path, as well as to those unknown friends whom the poet's songs win over; as to the artists who, succeeding him, will strive to be worthy of him! In none of his many folds, Chopin's character ever concealed a single movement, a single impulse that was not dictated by the most delicate sense of honor and the noblest harmony of affections. And yet, never was nature more apt at being forgiven for eccentricities, incongruous singularities, and excusable but unbearable defects. His imagination was ardent, his feelings went as far as violence (his physical organism was weak and sickly!). Who can fathom the sufferings arising from this contrast? They must have been intense, but he never put them on display! He religiously guarded his own secret, withdrawing his sufferings from all eyes under the impenetrable serenity of a proud resignation. The delicacy of his constitution and his heart imposed upon him the feminine martyrdom of unconfessed tortures, thus giving to his destiny some features of feminine fates. Excluded from the frantic arena of usual activities due to his health, without sympathy for that useless buzzing where some bees join many drones, squandering the abundance of their strength, he created for himself a hive set apart from the too-trodden and too-frequented paths. Neither adventures, nor complications, nor episodes had importance in his life, which he simplified, although it was in conditions that seemed to make such a result difficult to achieve. His feelings and impressions formed its events, more notable and important to him than external changes and occurrences. The lessons he gave without respite, with regularity and assiduity, were like his task, domestic and daily, fulfilled with conscience and satisfaction. He poured out his heart in his compositions as others pour it out in prayer, pouring into them all those repressed expansions, those unexpressed sorrows, those unspeakable regrets that pious souls pour out in their conversations with God. He said in his works what those souls only say on their knees: those mysteries of passion and pain that man has been given to understand without words, because he has not been given to express them in words......(...)...The whole of his person was harmonious; it did not seem to require any comment. His blue gaze was more spiritual than dreamy; his sweet and fine smile never became bitter. The delicacy and transparency of his complexion seduced the eye, his blond hair was silky, his aquiline nose expressively accentuated, his stature not very tall, his limbs fragile. His gestures were graceful and manifold; the timbre of his voice a little muffled, often stifled. His attitudes possessed such nobility, and his manners such an imprint of aristocracy, that one involuntarily treated him like a prince. His entire appearance brought to mind that of convolutes, undulating above stems of incredible fineness, their calyxes divinely colored, but of a fabric so vaporous that the slightest contact tears them. ....(...)....He was usually cheerful; his caustic spirit quickly unearthed the ridiculous far beyond the surfaces where it strikes all eyes. He displayed in his mimicry a facetious brio, long undiminished. He often enjoyed reproducing, in comic improvisations, the musical formulas and particular tics of certain virtuosos; redoing their gestures and movements; counterfeiting their faces, with a talent that commented on their entire personality in a minute....(....) ...Material elegance was as natural to Chopin as that of the spirit. It betrayed itself as much in the objects that belonged to him as in his aristocratic manners. He had the coquetry of apartments; loving flowers very much, he always adorned his dwellings with them. Without approaching the splendid opulence with which some of the celebrities of Paris decorated their houses at that time, he maintained on this point—as on the chapter of elegance regarding canes, brooches, buttons, and jewelry, then in great vogue—the instinctive line of the 'comme il faut', between too much and too little. ...Since he did not confuse his time, his thought, or his ways of proceeding with those of anyone else, the company of women often suited him less, as it obliged him to fewer subsequent relations. Having always maintained an exquisite inner purity, which the storms of life have somewhat disturbed, but never sullied, because they never shook in him the propensity for good, the inclination toward honesty, respect for virtue, or faith in holiness, Chopin never lost that"
youthful ingenuity that allowed him to feel at ease in a circle of people whose virtue, honesty, and respectability formed their main characteristics and greatest attraction. He loved the lighthearted conversations of those he appreciated; he delighted in the childish pleasures of the young. He would gladly spend entire evenings playing hide-and-seek with young girls, telling them funny or charming little stories, making them laugh with those mad laughs of youth that are even more pleasing to hear than the song of a blackbird. All this together meant that Chopin—so intimately linked with some of the most prominent personalities of the artistic and literary movement of the time that their existences seemed to form a single one—remained nonetheless a stranger among them. His individuality did not merge with any other. None of the Parisians were able to understand that union, accomplished in the highest regions of being, between the aspirations of genius and the purity of desires. Even less could one feel the charm of that intimate nobility, of that innate elegance, of that virile chastity, all the more flavorful because it was unaware of its disdain for the common materialistic mortal, while everyone believed that imagination could not be fused into the forms of a masterpiece unless it was heated to a white heat in the high ovens of an acrid sensuality full of infamous dross!....(.....)....Sweet, sensitive, exquisite in everything, at fifteen he possessed all the graces of adolescence joined with the gravity of mature age. He remained delicate in body as in spirit. But that lack of muscular development allowed him to preserve a beauty, an exceptional physiognomy that had, so to speak, neither age nor sex. It was not the virile and bold air of a descendant of that lineage of ancient magnates, who knew nothing but drinking, hunting, and warring; it was not even the effeminate suavity of a pink-colored cherub. It was something like those ideal creatures that Medieval poetry used as ornaments for Christian temples. An angel beautiful in face, like a tall and sad woman, pure and slender in form like a young god of Olympus, and, to crown the whole, an expression at once tender and severe, chaste and passionate. This was the core of his being. Nothing was purer and more exalted at once than his thoughts, nothing was more tenacious, more exclusive, and more minutely devoted than his affections....But that being included nothing except what was identical to him....the rest did not exist for him except as a kind of painful dream, from which he attempted to withdraw by living among people. Always lost in his fantasies, reality displeased him....( ....) ..Externally, he was so affectionate, by virtue of his good education and natural grace, that he had the gift of pleasing even those who did not know him. His enchanting face predisposed them in his favor; the weakness of his constitution made him interesting in the eyes of women; the abundant and easy culture of his spirit, the sweet and flattering originality of his conversation captured the attention of educated men. As for those of a less fine temperament, they loved his exquisite courtesy and were all the more sensitive to it because they did not conceive, in their frank good-naturedness, how it was the exercise of a duty and how sympathy played no part in it....(...)...All forms of benevolence took on an unusual grace in him, and when he expressed his gratitude, he did so with a profound emotion that repaid friendship tenfold.......( from: "The Life of Chopin" by F. Liszt )