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--i