That Nohant summer away from Paris--
gentle breeze calming the maestro’s scarred lungs--
filled them both with melody and rarest
colors. Hearing voices within, he plunged
into his Polonaise. She started her
book Consuelo, based on their friend Pauline.
Later she wrote how he wept, complainer
and endless editor while composing.
Delacroix painted their joint portrait, spoke
of seeking both color and form as one.
Frederic nodded. Next morning, he woke
to storms of coughing. Called out. Feared her gone.
She moved close to him, calmed his false alarm,
enclosing his graying form in her arms.
Roger Armbrust
February 18, 2012
