The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1914-06-08
E. I'll. DILLON & GO.

and a. presenttment as of something strange and wonderful were going to happen to him flashed through his mind. He was on the point of turn ing back, when, laughing at his own lsuperstiti ousne he sprang lightly up the remaining steps and into the room Nothing remarkable occurred until
 most of the guests had left. Then Chopin seated himself at the piano and began to improvise. When he had finished he looked up and saw a simply dressed lady leaning on the in- struuaent, and looking at him with her
 dark passionate eyes as if she would
 read his soul This lady was George Sand.
 In 1887. Chopin was ailing with what was ultimately to become his death sickness. So George Sand in
 vited him to come and live with
 her and her two children at her country estatep at Nohants which he
 did during the summers Of 1887 and 1885, His health. however, becoming
 more precarious, his doctors suggest ed that he spend the next winter in the south. This led to his going to Sand as companion. The party reach ed Palmas the capital, in magnificent November weather. They were en- chanted with scenery of the island. Everything from the hut of the peasant. who in his most insignificant fDu11Q1n8S mas preserved the LTaQ1AOnS
 of the Arabic style, to the Infant clothed in rags. was tr1umphantly picturesque.
 But the rainy season coming on,
 the villa where they hac taken up 1 their residence being rather too well ventilated, was rendered unfit for oc- cupadon. Chopin immediately felt the effects of the damp and began to all and cough and bronchitis from
 which he had already suffered, was now followed by what appeared to be 1 1aryngeaI. tuberculosis.
 He became completely demoraIized, bearing pain courageously enough but he could not overcome the dis quietude of his imagination The old house was for him full Of terrors and phantoms. Often at ten o'clock at night he would be found at the piano. his face pale. his eyes wild, and his hair almost standing on end It was some minutes before he could recognize intruders, then he would make an attempt to laugh, and play ed terrible and heart rending things which had taken possession ofsshim, in those hours of solitude, sadness and | terror. It was then that he cona- posed the most beautiful of those short pieces, the eeRreIudes.''
 Chopin continued to grow worse, l and at last fled Majorca and returned to Paris. Here again he took up his f 4GSAAGAC0 WILL QAE4OSAA 0tbn0g WnOS9 ardor cooled in direct ratio to the ar
 tists failing health.
 She found more and more fault with the invalid, and finally, Eoaded by pin bricks of irritation which he could no longer endure he left her. He lived ten miraculous years af- ter this with a breath ready to fly away. He was obliged by sheer want of strength to curtaiI his teach ing, often giving lessons to such pu- pills as he retained while lying on a couch, with second plano at hand for illustration. That year the rev olution broke out and Chopin went to London. At the few private must l caIes he gave, he would come into the room almost bent dub1e, and with a
 distressing cough It seemed almost impossible that such an ernaciated man had the physique to play, his ag- l ure seemed so transparent (George Sand used to call him "naY dear Ca 1 daver.''1 @'N
 After a most disagreeable. and fa- tiguing tour through Scotland, Chopin returned. to GParis taking lodging at the Place vendone No. 12. when Oc- tober came he could no longer sit up without support Even the slightest l conversation gave him terrible dis tress, so that he endeavored generally to make himself understood by signs F,ortunately he was not left to the care of strangers. His sister came with her husband and daughter from Poland, and was with him to the last. Gutmann, his friend and most distinguish pupil, was also in con- stant attendance. The Countess Del phine Potcka, one of his warmest ad- mirers, hurried from Nice to be be- side him. When Chopin heard of her arrival he tmpIored her to sing.
 So the piano was rolled to the door of his chamber, while, with eobs in <zfT her cheeks, his gifted countrywoman sang She sang that famous canticIe to the Virgin, which, it is said, once saved the life of StradeIIo. s'How beautiful it is!" he exclaimed. My God how very beautiful! Again! Though overwhelmed with emotion, the Countess had the noble courage to. comply with the last wish of a friend and compatriot; she again took a seat at the piano, and sang a. hymn rom Marcello. By a spontaneous impulse all who were present threw themselves upon their knees-no one ventured to speak; the sacred silence was only broken by the voice of the singer floating like a melody from heaven above the sighs and sobs which formed it's 1nournful earth ac- compartment.
 At the climax of this solemn scene.
 George Sands presented herself at the door, craving admittance. She M1S SSAl4y put uIInIy repulSed by Guamann, he deening her visit likely to disastrously affect the dying man. Chopin did not know that she had come to pay her final tribute. Yet he spoke of her and wondered at her absence.
 At two o'clock in the 4saorning of October 17th, 1s49, he drank some
 wine held to his lips by his faithful
 Gutmann. Cher anai,'' he said, and
 kissing his pupils hand he passed in to the eternal silence. He died as
 he had lived-loving. It was beau
 tfful death. beautiful as that of Mo