PARIS, October 6, 1837.
It has rained all day. No one has been in. No fantasies have crept to my
soul. Nothing to break the ceaseless, monotonous drip, drip, drip on my
heart. No one but a _garcon_ from the florist's bringing violets--the
great swelling bunch of English violets--Jane Stirling's violets!
Heavens, what a woman! I am like her now, in the little mirror on my
desk. Merely thinking of her has made me so! The great aquiline
nose--the shrewd, canny Scotch look--and the big mouth--alas, that
mouth! When it smiles I am enraged. Oh, Jane! Why dost thou haunt me,
night and day, with thy devotion and thy violets--and thy nose! Let
women be gentle, with soft glances that thrill--soft, dark flames.
Constantia's glance? Constantia? Nay, fickle. Fickle moon of yesternight
that drips--drips--drips. Will it never cease! I cannot play the pain
away. It eats into my heart. Yet life was made for joy and
love--love--love--sweet as dream-light--sweet as music--sad and sweet
and gay--love! The weariness rests upon me. The silver clock ticks. It
chimes the pain. One--two--three--nine--ten. The night wears slowly. I
must break the burden. I will look into a woman's face, and rest.
PARIS, October 10, 1837.
It was a thought of inspiration. I threw off the ugly loose coat and my
_ennui_ together. I plunged into the fragrant bath. Little tunes hummed
to me as I rose from it. I put on clean, fresh linen--fine as silk--and
evening dress. My blood coursed freely, and the scent of violets came to
me sweetly. It followed through the wet, dripping streets, and clung to
me as I ascended the softly carpeted stair to the salon of the Countess
Czosnowska. I was merry in my soul. Then a shadow crossed me. It fell
upon my shoulder, and I turned in fear to look. No one--except a naked
Venus on the wall. My good angel drew me on. I have seen her thrice
since then. It seems a day. She came and looked into my eyes, while I
played. It was fairy-music, witching and sweet--a little sad--the
fairies of the Danube. My heart danced with them in the fatherland. Her
eyes looked into mine. Sombre eyes--strange eyes. What did they say? She
leaned forward on the piano, gazing at me passionately. My soul leaped
back and stood at bay. The strange eyes smiled. It was a man's
face--breadth and depth and coarseness--and the strange, sad eyes. I
longed for them and shrank upon myself. She moved away. Later we spoke
together--commonplaces. Liszt brought her to me, where I was sitting
alone. Camellias framed us in. A sweet shadow rested on my heart. She
praised my playing--gently. She understood. But the strong, sad, ugly
face! I have seen her twice since then. In her own _salon_, with the
noblest minds of France about her--and once alone. Beautiful
face--haunting sadness! Aurora--sweetest name! She loves me!
Day-spring--loved-one! The night lags----
PARIS, November 5, 1838.
We are to go away together--to the South. There is a strange pain at my
chest, a haunting cough. It will not let me go. I shall escape it--in
the South. She cares for me, day and night. Her sweet breath! My
mother's face is sad in my dreams. I shall not dream when the sun shines
warm upon me--in the South----
MAJORCA, November 16, 1838.
We are alone--two souls--in this island of the sea. The surf beats at
night. I lie and listen. Jane Stirling came to see us off. She brought
violets--great, swelling English violets. I smell them in the mouldy
cloister cells, night and day. This monks' home is cold and bleak. The
wind rattles through it, and at night it moans. A chill is on me. When I
cough it echoes through my heart. I love the light. Sweet music waits
the light. I will not die. The shadow haunts. But life is strong.
Jane's violets on my grave! I will not die.
PARIS, March 14, 1839.
Paris--gay, live Paris! The cabs rattle sweetly on the stones. I can
breathe now. The funeral dirge will wait. In Marseilles we came upon
Nourrit--dead. Poor Adolphe! He could not bear the weight. A crash into
eternity! I knew it all. The solemn mass ascended for his soul--and high
above it all, I spoke in swelling chords--mystery--pain--justice--the
fatherland. A requiem for his soul--for Chopin's soul? And Heine smiles.
Brave Heine! With death upon his heart--inch by inch he fights it--with
laughs. I saw him yestermorn. His great eyes winked. They made a bet at
me. He will outlast us yet, he swore, ten years. Brave fight! Shall I
live to see it stop--gasp--the last quip fail on sunny lips? I peer
into the years between. They hang among the mists. Aurora comes. It is a
week. Sweet day-spring!
NOHANT, October 11, 1839.
They tell me I am well. The cough has ceased and the pain. But deep
below, it beats. Aurora's eyes are veiled. Only when I play will they
glow. They fill the world with light. I sit and play softly--her pen
moves fast. She can write with music--music--over her--around--Chopin's
music, whispered low--but clear as love. They said once George Sand was
clever. It is Chopin's touch that makes her great. It eats the soul. For
thee, Aurora, I could crawl upon the earth. I would not mind. I give
thee all. I ask a glance--a touch--a smile when thou art weary--leave to
love thee and to make sweet music. Thou wilt not be too cruel,
love--with thy veiled eyes?
NOHANT, May 3, 1847.
I must have money. I am a burden--sick--a cough that racks the soul.
Aurora comes but seldom. The cough hurts her. She is busy. I do not look
into her eyes. I lie and gaze across the field. It stretches from my
window--sunny, French field! Miles away, beneath a Polish sky, I see my
mother's eyes. Unshed tears are heavy. "Fritz, little Fritz," she calls
to me, "thou wilt be a great musician. Poland will be proud of thee!"
Poland--dear land--proud of Frederic Chopin! My heart is empty. It
aches.
NOHANT, June 1, 1847.
It is over. Life has stopped. A few years more or less, perhaps. But
never life again. I do not write the words. They hammer at my brain.
She spoke so sharply--and my soul was sick. I did not think she could.
If she had waited--I would not have tarried long, not too long, Aurora.
Hadst thou waited--weary of the burden, the sick burden of my complaint!
Money--I shall work--Waltzes that the public loves--and pays for.
Mazurkas from a torn heart! I shall work--a little while--20,000 francs
to set me free! I will die free!
PARIS, June 10, 1847.
Strange fortune that besets a man! The 20,000 franc paper is in my hand.
I turn it. I look at it. Jane Stirling and her goodness haunt my gloom.
She only asks to give. Strange, uncouth, Scotch lady! With thy heart of
gold, thy face of iron, and thy foot of lead! Thy francs lie heavy in
my hand. "Master," she writes my name. She only asks to give. But women
should be gentle, with soft, dark eyes that thrill. The day has closed.
I shall die free!
STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, June 16, 1848.
I am lying in a great chamber of the castle. The house is still. The
guests have creaked to their rooms. The last hoarse voice is hushed.
When I played for them below, my fingers twitched and my heart ached
with the numbness. I could have cried with weariness and pain. The
faithful Daniel lifted me like a child. He has undressed me and laid me
here among the swelling pillows. The light burns fitfully. It dances
among the shadows. Outside the bleak Scotch mist draws near. It peers
into my window. It is Jane's soul--soft and floating wool--and clammy.
My heart is ice--ingratitude and ice. She sits beside me all the day. We
talk of music! Strange, disjointed talk--with gaps of common
sense--hero-worship--and always the flame that burns for me--slow and
still. She has one thought, one wish--to guard my days with sweet
content. And in my soul the quenchless fire burns. It eats its way to
the last citadel. I have not long to wait. I shall not cry out with the
pain. Its touch is sweet--like death. "I'll beat you yet," brave Heine
writes. His soul is emptied. But the lips laugh. Jane's slow Scotch eyes
keep guard at death. My lightest wish grows law. The treasures of my
_salon_--shall they be hawked about the town? "Chopin's
wash-basin--going!--for ten sous--going!" My pictures, caskets,
tapestries, each rug and chair that I have loved, and the great piano
with its voice and soul of love. She will guard them. Faithful lady!
Cruel one--my soul curses thee, crushes thee forever--false dawn that
could not stand the sun's deep kiss--Aurora. Unrest--unrest--will it
never cease? Shall I lie quiet? There will be Polish earth upon me. The
silver goblet holds it. It is here beside me now. I reach and touch it
with my hand. Dear land of music and the soul! The silver cupful from
thy teeming fields is always near. It shall spill upon my breast--upon
this racked and breathless burden! But the heart within that beats and
burns--it shall be severed, chord by chord--it shall return to the land
that gave it. Dear Poland! I see thee in the mists--with my mother's
brow and mouth and chin. Poland that sings and weeps--sad land. My
heart is thine! Cleanse it in sweet-smelling earth! In thy bosom it
shall rest--at last--rest!