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 hoarse 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--ingratitude 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
_s