n 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