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?