When the remains were lowered into the grave, Polish earth was scattered on the coffin. It was the same that Chopin had brought from Wola nineteen years before as a memorial of his beloved fatherland. He had always guarded it with pious care, and shortly before his death had requested that if he might not rest in Polish soil his body might at least be covered with his native earth. Chopinʼs heart, which had beaten so warmly and suffered so deeply for his country was, according to his desire, sent to the land whose sun had shone on his happy youth; it is preserved _ad interim_ in the church of the Sacred Cross, at Warsaw.
To what has been written I have little to add. Chopin was a model son, an affectionate brother, and a faithful friend. His personal appearance was so agreeable and harmonious that the eye rested on him with pleasure. His dark brown eyes[46] were cheerful rather than pensive, his smile was kindly and perfectly good-natured; he had a complexion of almost transparent delicacy, and luxuriant brown hair, as soft as silk; his Roman nose was slightly aquiline; all his movements were graceful, and he had the manners of an aristocrat of the highest rank. Everyone with any discernment of true gentility and real genius could not but say, on seeing Chopin, “there is a distinguished man.” His voice was musical and rather subdued. He was not above middle height, naturally delicate, and in his general contour resembled his mother.
One of his lady friends not inaptly remarked that “his disposition was joyous, but his heart full of dreamy yearning,” which shows that by his good spirits he diffused cheerfulness around him. Through his nature there ran a vein of melancholy and enthusiasm (schwärmerei) which was very attractive. He had so much amiability and good-breeding, that his physical sufferings, his nervous excitability, and the violent antipathies which he felt in common with all nervous people never, made any difference to his behaviour in daily life. He rarely spoke about his own feelings lest he should be misunderstood.
At some houses in Paris he was a daily guest, and he always spent the evening with friends. Thus he had the _entrée_ of twenty or thirty _salons_, where he met with universal kindness and attention, as everybody was fascinated by him. To have transported Frederic Chopin, the darling of princesses and countesses, from these refined surroundings into a simple common-place circle, would have been nothing short of depriving him of the chief end of his existence.