Franz Schubert, with his youth and his wreaths of fame, his homely face and soul of fire, is dead these many years; but the soul of fire is not dead.... The Countess Esterhazy, framed for love, is dust and ashes in her marble house. The night music plays over her tomb.

The night music plays wherever night is.

FREDERIC CHOPIN--A RECORD

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 pa.s.sionately. My soul leaped back and stood at bay. The strange eyes smiled. It was a man's face--breadth and depth and coa.r.s.eness--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 n.o.blest 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 Ma.r.s.eilles we came upon Nourrit--dead. Poor Adolphe! He could not bear the weight. A crash into eternity! I knew it all. The solemn ma.s.s 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 hoa.r.s.e 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--ingrat.i.tude 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!

THE MAN WITH THE GLOVE

I

"Ho, _Tiziano_! Ala-ala-_ho_! _Tizi-ah-no_!"

The group in the gondola raised a merry call. The gondola rocked at the foot of a narrow flight of steps leading to a tall, sombre dwelling. The moonlight that flooded the gondola and steps revealed no sign of life in the dark front.

The young man sitting with his back to the gondolier raised the call again: "What, ho!--Tiziano!" The clear, tenor voice carried far, and occupants of pa.s.sing gondolas turned to look and smile at the dark, handsome youth as they drifted past.

The door at the top of the steps opened and t.i.tian ran lightly down. He carried in his hand a small lute with trailing purple ribbons, and the cap that rested on his thick curls was of purple velvet. He lifted it with gentle grace as he stepped into the gondola and took the vacant seat beside a young woman facing the bow of the boat.

Her smiling face was turned to him mockingly. "Late again, Signor Cevelli, and yet again!" She plucked at the strings of a small instrument lying on her lap, and the notes tinkled the music of her words.