The morning star and Catholic messenger. [volume] (New Orleans [La.]) 1868-1881, 1868-05-24

s WOman-0IgA0A0t, lay there Oylng. Will
the strength of the death-struggle the once
halfway mp On the pillows. She sat erect,
and her large, dark eyes, whose brightness
almost ahea D glare around her, gazed
eagerly upon the self-possessed Sister, who
stood beside. the couch with q silent but
kind expression of inquiry upon her face.
Tho two women looked at each other rs
strangers might, meeting on q lonely heath.
"H Have you ever loved Z" asked Gretchen,
in hoarse voice.
eyes" answered the Sister, calmly.
Whom Z"
"Christ."
"And loved mani" groaned the dying
Gretchen. "Close your book, good woman.
The prayers almost drive me mad for
only love Franz, and cannot think of heaven,
or God, or Christ, or anything but him !!
81 always knew he was unworthy of the
deep feelings gave him-that he was self
ish, unfaithful, and without principle; but
I loved him passionately. When we were
both young he married me, for he thought
then that he loved me; but he did not it
was my music that infatuated him.
Franz became poet and an artist under
the Influence Of my tone-tongue; for al
a clever executant, and my husband drew
inspiration from me, through which his
genius scared off into the tone realm where
he was creator; while I, alas! remained
the mere instrument.
"I can feel now the thrill that would
pass through me when he buried his beau
tiful head in the folds of my robe while lis
senlng to my organ playing. The touch of
the passionate caresses which he never gave
me at any other time Jingle on my lips and
brow still, although SO many years have
dragged YEARLY over them, and ON them
lay the heavy SHOWS of winters upon win
tors Of neglect and absence.
:" At that touch, chords llarmOnies and
the divinest melodies rolled off from my
fingers like sparks and glowing lights.
Memory in those happy days had a marvel
Gus power. Without trouble could recall
difficult studies of Bach, and l executed
them with taste that sometimes startled
me; while he, my lover-no, my husband
for he was never my lover-drew music
life and material for fame from me, as l
strew the harmonies and sounds from the
keys and stops of the instrument. Why
should lie, with his untrue nature, have had
greater gifts than i, while my glowing,
earnest spirit lay mute within me-
You know, Sister, how superb his voice
WAS he has sung at your great festivals,
and people said the pathos of mortal and
the glory of an angel were blended in his
songs.
- He took the fiat outlines of charact ers
m operas, whose written notes lay over
Shem as mere hieroglyphics, and gave them
CORN anu shape-nay, more-lite and breath.
MASTERS crowded around him with their
compositions, for they needed not only his
voice, but his comprehension, to make their
Visions clear and palpable to the public.
Then it was that he met Selma Paz,
VINO was,-o God!-not only my rival, but
hls equal; she was what | should have
been, loving Franz as | did.
tried to bear it all patiently. After
SespeTs used to stay during the darkening
twilight i'll the old church alone l stroye,
To silence my gnawing grief by studying out
grand modulations, during the hot, black
hours when j knew they were giving pas
sionate. throbbing life to some music poets
VISION. swaying the crowd with the voIup-
tnous melodies, their rich, full -throated
voices floating off upon the air like disem-
bodied spirits, melting and pulsating to-
gethcr.
lmplering chords, sobbing, broken tone
chains lay spread out 10y my hands in wild
confusion on the still, solemn atmosphere
Oh che molly place as this knowledge coursed
IKE mati,lening venom through me- Blessed
incense from the evening conscientious.
t'ilnt as the memory of n good act, crept up
soothlngly; shadows gathered in close, as
timex folds of drapery about and above the
lonely organ loft. Silent us death was the
place and into this cold, dark ocean of
stiffness poured my hot flood efpassionatc
harmonies and yeXed, Questioning moduia-
tons.
.'Once in n while, as the waves of rich
treighted sounds, blending with the sur
rounding stiffness, died off, and became one
with it. and my weary fingers, dropping
from the keys, fell with helpless weight be-
side me, would hear the soft, retiring foot
s tall of some holy priest, who had been re-
Sitlng his prayers or performing pious
duty at the altar.
Con these lonely evening hours memory
would grow very cruel and bitter, as it re-
called to me the twilights that Franz and |
AID spent there together the first days of
nay love and our marriage-the time when
his unfolding genius drank inspiration at
nay fountain. His very words would be re-
Peated In my ears, as if said by some mock
ing demon
Play on, my beloved! Your music
gives me life'