After a rest in Edinburgh, where, passing a music-shop, I heard some blind man playing a mazurka of mine.

We fell silent and all joking ceased. We gazed mutely into each other's eyes and an intense longing for the fullest avowal of the truth forced us to a confession, requiring no words whatever, or the incommensurable misfortune that weighed upon us. With tears and sobs we sealed a vow to belong to each other alone.

My piano has not yet arrived. How did you send it? By Marseilles or by Perpignan? I dream music but I cannot make any because here there are not any pianos . . . in this respect this is a savage country.

I tell my piano the things I used to tell you

Here, whatever is not boring is not English.

I really don't know whether any place contains more pianists than Paris, or whether you can find more asses and virtuosos anywhere.

Nothing is more beautiful than the sound of the guitar.