Liszt, who knew Chopin, tells us that the composer evinced a decided preference for the Adagio of the second concerto and liked to repeat it frequently.  He speaks of the Adagio, this musical portrait of Delphine, as almost ideally perfect; now radiant with light, now full of tender pathos; a happy vale of Tempe, a magnificent landscape flooded with summer glow and lustre, yet forming a background for the rehearsal of some dire scene of mortal anguish, a contrast sustained by a fusion of tones, a softening of gloomy hues, which, while saddening joy, soothes the bitterness of sorrow.

What a lifelike portrait Chopin drew in this “beautiful, deep-toned, love-laden cantilena”!  For was it not the incomparable Delphine who was destined to “soothe the bitterness of sorrow” during his final hours on earth?

But while hers was a soul strung with chords that vibrated to the slightest breath of sorrow, she could be vivacious as well.  She was a child of Poland, that land of sorrow, but where sorrow, for very excess of itself, sometimes reverts to joy.  And so she had her brilliant joyous moments.  Chopin saw her in such moments, too, and, that the recollection might not pass away, for all time fixed her picture in her vivacious moods in the last movement, the Allegro vivace of the concerto, with what Niecks, one of the leading modern biographers of the composer, calls its feminine softness and rounded contours, its graceful, gyrating, dance-like motions, its sprightliness and frolicsomeness.  In the same way in the waltz, there is an obvious mingling of the gay and the sad, the tender and the debonair.  Chopin thought he was writing a waltz.  He really was writing “Delphine Potocka.”  He, too, was from Poland, and that circumstance of itself drew them to each other from the time when they first met in France.

One of Chopin’s favorite musical amusements, when he was a guest at the houses of his favorite friends, was to play on the piano musical portraits of the company.  At the salon of the Countess Komar, Delphine’s mother, he played one evening the portraits of the two daughters of the house.  When it came to Delphine’s he gently drew her light shawl from her shoulders, spread it over the keyboard, and then played through it, his fingers, with every tone they produced, coming in touch with the gossamer-like fabric, still warm and hallowed for him from its contact with her.

It seems to have been about 1830 that Delphine first came into the composer’s life.  In that year the Count and Countess Komar and their three beautiful daughters arrived in Nice.  Count Komar was business manager for one of the Potockas.  The girls made brilliant matches.  Marie became the Princess de Beauvau-Craon; Delphine became the Countess Potocka, and Nathalie, the Marchioness Medici Spada.  The last named died a victim to her zeal as nurse during a cholera plague in Rome.