The yellow book: an illustrated quarterly (11.1896)

Chopin Op. 47

By Stanley V. Makower

te in the afternoon of the seventeenth of October, eighteen


hundred and eighty-nine, the atmosphere in the little private

room of the Hotel Saxony was a mixture of cigar smoke and

fog.

The crimson shades sank lower and lower over the candles.
In one or two places the wire frames had toppled forward
with their silk canopies, and the grease was guttering woefully,
creeping over the edge of the candle and hurrying into little
solid lumps which formed an ever-changing pattern down the
side.
On the table were strewn the remains of a luxurious lunch ; a
confusion of fruit, flowers, and wine. The party consisted solely
of bachelors.
“ Oceana,” said the host, rising with his glass in his hand and
bending slightly forward to propose the toast, while he appealed
with his eyes to those round him. He was a young man, quietly
dressed in a suit of a thick, dark material, but a large sapphire pin
shone from his black satin tie.
The clear “ tink ” of glasses sounded as they met across the
table.