George Sand brought her two children and her ailing genius to a monastery in the hills. It rained for the entire winter.
Chopin wrote the Preludes in a stone cell with a view of almond trees. He coughed up blood. He hated it. The locals, scandalized by Sand's trousers and her cigars, refused to sell them food.
They left in February. The cell is still there. So, more or less, is the piano.
"The Mallorcan light is its own substance — denser, somehow, than anywhere else."
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