Impromptu

George Sand:
I used to think I'd die of suffocation when I was married. Now it's my freedom that's killing me.

George Sand:
I am not full of virtues and noble qualities. I love. That is all. But I love strongly, exclusively and steadfastly.

Alfred:
Art does *not* apologize!

Marie:
She's in love with Chopin.

Franz:
The Polish corpse?

Marie D'Agoult:
George! You'll want to sit over here, my dear - all the respectable people are on the other side.

George Sand:
Oh, don't stop! Monsieur Chopin, you are in the middle of a miracle! - I'm not quite yet cured.

Frederic Chopin:
How did you get in here? Who are you?

George Sand:
I am your slave, and you have summoned me with your music.

Frederic Chopin:
Oh, yes. I think I know who you are: I have heard you described. Madame Sand, rumor has it you are a woman, and so I must ask you to leave my private chambers.

George Sand:
Have I offended your modesty? I apologize. Only play me one more piece and I'll go.

Frederic Chopin:
No! This is ridiculously improper. And frightening, as well.

Eugene Delacroix:
He has trouble with his lungs. It's the misery of his life.

Duchess D'Antan:
Well, he should be bled. We have an excellent physician. He's developed a very special variety of leeches - quite painless, and they leave very little mark.

Franz Liszt:
Better yet, send in George to Monsieur Chopin: she leaves no mark at all.

Franz Liszt:
Good evening. I am God. In the time that I am relating, I have grown disappointed in my master creation, the human race. I endowed them with everything: the riches of the land, and of the sea, and of the air... and enough intelligence to worship me.

Marie D'Agoult:
You won't get him with a dress; on the contrary, my dear. I know the man. He is not a man; he is a woman. He is all emotion and refinement. He has very few defenses. You must win him as a man wins a woman; if anyone can do it, you can, George.

Alfred De Musset:
Did you read her latest novel? It's not even literature - it's drainage. The only good books she ever wrote were when she was with me: every morning, while she was sleeping, I'd cross out half her adjectives.

Marie D'Agoult:
He hasn't fallen in love with her, he has succumbed to her. Poor man was simply standing there - nobody warned him - and he was crushed under her wheels!

George Sand:
We shall all be in our graves soon enough, but Chopin is eternal.