brief, does not prove
that it was not sincere; in Liszt's case it would rather prove its
sincerity. And by corollary the fact that it was sincere, rather proved
that it would be brief.

The artistico-ecclesiastical life, or, as the German puts it so much
more patly, "_das kloesterlich-kuenstlerische Leben_," began to wear upon
him. For a time Liszt remained in Rome, taking a dwelling in the Via
Felice; later, in June of the year 1863, he moved to the Oratorio of
the Madonna del Rosario, where the Pope, Pius IX., visited him to hear
his miraculous music. He saw the princess often, usually dining with
her, and letters fluttered thickly between his home and hers in the
Piazza di Spagna, and later in the Via del Babuino.

Liszt was never a man for one of your gray existences. He was homesick
for Weimar, and was a constant truant from Rome. But he had duties
enough with his ambition as a composer and conductor, and his cloud of
pupils whom he taught without price. To his excursions we owe four
volumes of letters to the princess. The volumes average over four
hundred pages each of smallish type. They are in French, and have been
all published, the last volume appearing in 1902, under the editorship
of La Mara. Also a publication of the princess' letters has been
announced by her daughter, who wisely believes that in a matter which
has become the gossip of the world, the best defence is the fullest
possible presentation.

In Liszt's letters there is not much of the grand style he had affected
after his first elopement with De Laprunarede, though there is much
that is hysterical:

"How it is written above that you should be my Providence and my good
angel here below! I incessantly have recourse to you with prayers,
supplications, and benedictions."

"My words flow always to you as my prayer mounts to God."

"Since I must not have the bliss of seeing you again this evening, let
me at least tell you that I will pray with you before I sleep. Our
prayers are united as our souls." (Nov. 4, 1864)

"Next to my hours in the church the sweetest and dearest are those I
spend with you." (Feb. 18, 1869.)

"My ancient errors have left me a residue of chagrin that preserves me
from temptation. Be well assured that I tell you the truth and all the
truth." (Nov. 10, 1870.)

But to attempt a quotation from these letters would be like proffering
a spoonful of brine, and saying, "Here is an idea of the ocean." The
letters are full of