A few days after my last interview with Koffsky, I was fortunate enough to obtain a six months' engagement as bear leader. The Honorable Herbert Algernon Cecil FitzTaltork was only eighteen, but he possessed an obstinacy beyond his years, and an immovable ignorance that no cramming could shake. I led my growling and refractory charge through Italy and Switzerland, failing systematically to implant the faintest knowledge of anything in the singularly unproductive soil he called his brain; and I was heartily thankful when we went our separate ways, the honorable Bertie bound for his parents' "mansion" in Berkshire, I for my diggings in the Temple. I had not forgotten poor Koffsky all this time, and I had not been back many days, before I paid him a visit. The same thumb-sucking, dirty-aproned urchin opened the door for me, but I noticed that his frock was black, and unusually respectable. There was a singular absence of noise in the house; there were no children sliding down the banisters, no baby crawling on the stairs, no article of childish apparel airing on the landing. What had happened? Mrs. Koffsky put down her sewing and rose as I entered. The poor little woman's life had never been a very happy one, but she had always managed to keep bright and cheerful; now, as she stood looking at me, paler and thinner for her black dress, I thought I had never seen so sad a face. Her pretty blue eyes looked sunken and faded, her fair hair had taken a tinge of grey. "Mrs. Koffsky," I cried, concerned, "what is it? Is Koffsky 66 left England we were poorer than ever. Beethoven had been entirely wrapped up in his opera, and had done nothing to make money I could only earn a few shillings by needlework - we were nearly starving, and from cold and want of food the children fell sick. My husband was in despair; he went everywhere with his poor opera — but no one would have anything to say to it. We got poorer and poorer and the doctor said that only proper nursing and nourishment could save our children. I went to your rooms, but you were away and had left no address had no other friends to go to. Oh, Mr. Blencowe, it was terrible to see our children dying for want of a little money! And then, just as we were in despair, and there seemed no help anywhere, a gentleman came to see us a composer whom Koffsky had met once or twice, and — and he looked at the score of the opera, and made Beethoven play and sing it to him -and then then he offered to buy it." "To buy it!" I cried; "Koffsky's opera?" She smiled drearily. 66 we Yes, he offered to buy the opera, but only on condition that Beethoven should allow him to bring it out, with some alterations, as his own. He offered eighty pounds, and-and Koffsky took the money. He parted with the opera which was to bring him fame and fortune. He signed a paper, I don't know what it said, and - and the beautiful opera is gone. What else could we do, Mr. Blencowe? We got food and wine for the children-but it was too late. Stanislas and Mary are dead and Beethoven will never be famous now." "Poor Koffsky!" I murmured. "He did it to save us," said Mrs. Koffsky softly; "he gave us more than his life. That opera was his very soul, and Beethoven has never been the same since he lost it. He is dying." "No," she said in a quiet, dull voice, "Koffsky is not dead-yet, but I think he is dying. I am in mourning for my children," she added, glancing down at her dress. "You remember poor little Stanislas and my pretty Mary? they died three months ago. Ah, Mr. Blencowe," she cried, clasping her hands together, "if you had been at home I should not be a "He calls himself Edgardo Campanile," broken-hearted woman now! You have said Mrs. Koffsky, with a faint smile; always been a good friend to poor Beet."my husband says his real name is Edhoven, and you would have helped us, I ward Bell." am sure." "What is the name of the man who bought the opera? I started; I had some acquaintance "I would indeed," I said, "but how "with Campanile, and, though I know pretty "Sit down," answered Mrs. Koffsky, "and I will tell you; it will do me good to speak - I have so few friends." She shaded her eyes with her hand, and went on rapidly: : "We have always been very poor, you know, Mr. Blencowe; well, just when you well what meannesses most of my friends are capable of, I should never have credited him with quite such baseness. When we had talked a little further, Mrs. Koffsky took me into her husband's room; the poor fellow had expressed a desire to see me. Koffsky was stretched upon his bed, looking deathlike. His skin, which was of a dreadful yellow pallor, was stretched so tightly over the almost fleshless bones, that his face looked more like that of a skeleton than a human being. His eyes shone with unnatural brilliancy from their hollow sockets, and the intense blackness of his long, tangled hair made his pallor still more ghastly. "My poor Koffsky," I said, "I am sorry to see you like this." He reached me a feeble, claw-like hand, and his dry lips drew themselves into a ghostly smile. "Has Mary told you?" he gasped, raising himself with difficulty on his elbow. About your opera? — yes." "Great interest is felt throughout musical circles," said the Standard, "in the approaching production of a new opera by the well-known composer, Edgardo Campanile. Arnold von Winkelried' is founded on a supposed love episode in the "I sold it!" he cried, his eyes flashing life of the celebrated Swiss patriot, and wildly, "I sold it, my music, my heart's deals with the ultimate death of the hero. blood, my own child I sold it to a stran- We hear that the opera will be quite a new ger! It is gone. I shall never compose departure from the composer's usual light another, and the name of Beethoven Koff- and somewhat trifling style, and in place sky will remain unknown and unhonored. of his light, sparkling music we are to exI did it for their sakes for Mary and pect weird harmonies and wailing chords. the children and the children died-The voice of rumor whispers that 'Arnold and I have sold my music, my fame-my life!" His voice died away in a moan. Pressently, he plucked my sleeve and drew me nearer to him. "It is to be performed next week," he whispered, "at Drury Lane. Oh yes, fine singers will sing in my opera, fine people will hear it but II shall not hear it. Campanile would not tell me about it, but I have looked and asked, and found out everything for myself. He has changed the name and found a new libretto - he has altered some of my music" here a spasm of anguish passed over the musician's face-"he has mutilated my chef d'œuvre - but it is still Koffsky's music. Next week the world will ring with the fame of the great composer but my name will remain known." "It is shameful!" I cried hotly. von Winkelried' is the outcome of a bet, Mr. Cyrus P. Tewanger, the renowned American musical dilettante, having laid a wager to the effect that Signor Campanile is incapable of writing anything in the serious style of opera that will prove a success and add to his reputation. If Arnold von Winkelried' finds favor with a London audience, Signor Campanile will be the richer by one thousand pounds." I went at once to Drury Lane and took a stall for Thursday night, determined to hear my poor friend's opera. Thursday came, and found me punctually in my place. It was a full house; pretty women, diamonds, and fine dresses were as plentiful as they always are in an English opera-house. I saw the faces of many wellknown musical critics in the stalls around un-me, and wondered if that rogue, Campa "Yes, it is shameful - but what could I do? It has killed me. The doctor thinks I can't last beyond this week, but I shall live till my opera is performed." "And yet is it not something that your music should be heard?" I asked after a long pause. He smiled. "Yes, you are right-it is something. My child is not born in vain; my child will live and conquer the world; what does it matter if the father is unknown? But it is hard on the father, is it not? and when he loses his child what has he to live for?" 66 with a large pink handkerchief. When he saw me he started up and caught hold of my arm with a visibly trembling hand. Blencowe," he said, "they tell me you know that scoundrelly Pole What was he doing here? Why the devil did the fellow behave like that? Does he drink? Is he mad?" repetition of the motif of the hero's love-stricken, and was mopping his forehead song in the second act. There was a roar of applause from the whole house; the opera's success was complete. I looked at my watch; it was three minutes to eleven, and I hurriedly dived for my hat and coat. I had just got them on, when a shout for the composer was raised from the gallery and taken up by the entire audience. Curious to see whether Campanile would have the audacity to respond to this call, I waited. There was a momentary pause, during which the shout of "Composer! composer!" became louder than ever, and then the heavy curtain was rolled back, and a figure came slowly forward. Good heavens! it was Koffsky! Koffsky whom I had left last week more Idead than alive. What pluck the man must possess to have dragged himself here! As Koffsky advanced slowly across the stage a sudden and intense silence fell upon the house. A door must suddenly have been opened near me, for I felt a cold wind sweep across my face and a curious, chilly sensation creep through the roots of my hair. "Why did you let him go on?" I asked. "I tell you I couldn't help it!" stammered Campanile; "I-I was just going on myself, of course, when when suddenly there was Koffsky, standing right in front of me. I swear he wasn't there before I swear I never saw him pass, but there he was. Of course I tried to stop the fellow, but — but I couldn't move! I felt as cold as ice — I feel so still. I'll tell you what, there's something wrong somewhere- there's something devilish curious!" He shivered as he spoke, whether from conscience or a chill I cannot undertake to say. But certainly the scoundrel had all the appearance of a man who has had a severe shock. "Where is Koffsky now?" I asked. "I don't know," shuddered Campanile, collapsing into his chair again in a heap. "I haven't seen him since- since then; I hope to God I shall never see him again!" he added under his breath. Just then a servant came up with some bottles and glasses, and I saw him swallow down half a tumbler of brandy as though it had been water. By this time I was beginning to feel scared myself. An undefined, curious feeling of terror weighed upon me, and without losing any more time I left the green-room and hurried out into the street. Koffsky must have gone straight home, so I took a hansom and drove off to his lodgings. To my surprise the door was ajar; I pushed it open and went in. The house was very silent, there was no light on the stairs. Had they all gone to bed? But I was determined to solve the mystery of Koffsky's appearance at the opera, and striking a match I stumbled up-stairs and entered the little sittingroom. It was empty, save for the two children. I paused a moment, uncertain what to do, then, seeing a light under Koffsky's door, I knocked gently. "Who the deuce is that fellow?" murmured the critic beside me, and it seemed to me that he was very pale. At the same moment I became aware that I felt extremely ill at ease, not to say frightened, but why and wherefore I could not imagine. Koffsky paused in the centre of the stage and bowed solemnly. I shall never forget his face. He was very pale, paler and more deathly than ever, and his thin face wore an expression of intense and triumphant joy such as I have never seen in any human countenance. He walked slowly across the stage and disappeared behind the wings. I drew a deep breath; the curious, chilly feeling that oppressed me vanished, and I felt the blood returning to my cheeks. At the same moment the applause broke out again, mingled with hisses from Campanile's friends, who naturally resented this mis-appropriation of the honors of the evening. While Koffsky stood before the curtain I had felt rooted to the spot, but now an intense curiosity seized me as to how the man had got there, and what had happened to him at the hands of the presumably furious Campanile. But how was it that Campanile had allowed him to appear at all? Absorbed in these queries I hurried to the green-room. I found Campanile sur- I waited for nearly half an hour, then the rounded by friends and musicians, all ply- door opened softly and she came out, a ing him with eager questions which he lighted candle in her hand. The flickering appeared incapable of answering. He light showed me a terribly white, tearwas huddled in a chair; he looked panic-stained face. "Hush!" said Mrs. Koffsky's low voice from within; "hush! I will come out to you." "Forgive me for disturbing you at such | an hour," I began, "but I am anxious about your husband. Has he come home yet?" "He has gone home," she answered, with a curious emphasis on the word. "Gone home where ? to Poland? that can't be! I saw him less than an hour ago." "That is impossible," she said quietly; my husband is dead." "Dead!" I gasped; "but, Mrs. Koffsky, I saw him!" For all answer she led me into her room. The sheet was drawn up over the bed, but under it I could see the outline of a still figure. She drew down the sheet. Yes, there was Koffsky's dead white face, fixed in that same look of triumphant joy it had worn on the boards of Drury Lane. "He is happy now," said his wife softly. I felt cold with horror. I realized now what was the meaning of the chill intangible terror that had haunted me. "At what hour did he die?" I asked in a voice that sounded quite unlike my own. "At eleven," she answered. I felt myself turning paler; it was at eleven that Koffsky had appeared before the curtain at Drury Lane. "Good God!" I cried, "I have seen your husband's spirit!" She took me into the sitting-room and I told her what I had seen, in a whisper, to avoid rousing the children. There is something ghastly in a whisper, and when I had ended my story I felt more terrified than ever. Mrs. Koffsky looked at me with an awestruck face. "It is marvellous," she murmured, "but you don't know yet how marvellous. Beethoven knew that his opera was to be given to-night, and all day he has seemed waiting waiting. He has been terribly ill; a dozen times I thought he was dying -dead- but he rallied; it seemed as though he would not die. Suddenly, this evening, as the clock struck half past eight he started, moved, and half raised himself in his bed. "Hark! he cried, 'hark! don't you hear? it has begun! my music! I hear it!' moment Beethoven started upright in bed; his eyes were widely opened and fixed as though they saw, oh, so far away! "Listen!" he cried, don't you hear? Oh, you must hear! applause! shouts ! they are calling me! Mary, they are calling me!' He remained for a moment, gazing eagerly before him with a strange look of joy upon his face, then fell back. He was quite dead, and as I raised his head upon my arm the clock struck the first stroke of eleven." Mrs. Koffsky was silent. I drew a deep breath and a little chilly wind stirred my hair. Poor Koffsky! His dying ears had heard the distant echoes of his beloved music; the applause he had so longed for in life had had power to draw his spirit to the spot. Beethoven Koffsky had been happier in his death than in his life. From Blackwood's Magazine. A ROYAL GOVERNESS. THE DUCHESSE DE GONTAUT. I. ONE of the rarest qualities found in autobiographies is the continuity of vital power, by which I mean the equality of impressionability manifested by the writer. The biography of one individual written by another may be complete, - it is framed within the circle of his own subsisting forces; whereas the record of events written by their own agent is under chronological and varying influences the impressions of maturity differing from those of youth, and those of later years almost invariably lacking the direct and fiery impulse of unexhausted time. Obviously, no autobiography can aim at being a life; but its chief defects lie in the inequality to receive, and therefore convey, impressions. An autobiography is mostly a collection of notes, not necessarily, or to the reader's appreciation, made by one and the same person; and here is to be found the superiority of Madame de Gontaut's book. It is a thoroughly equal and homogeneous production equal from first to last in its peculiar qualities of impressionability, and one from beginning to end with the mind whence it springs. From 1780 to 1836, over the space of fiftysix years, these extraordinarily sincere and interesting pages are the work of one and "He fell back on his pillows, but I could see that he was listening, and sometimes he smiled and beat time feebly with his hand and hummed a few bars of a song. An hour or two went on like this; I thought it must be time to give him his medicine, and looked at the clock. wanted three minutes to eleven. At that pante des Enfants de France, de 1773-80 à 1836. I vol It Mémoires de la Duchesse de Gontaut, GouverParis: Plon, 1891. the same person; they are experiences of public and private life, chronicled throughout with the same impartiality and the same unabated vigor. It is owing to this sustained level of thought and conscience that we can say with perfect truth that never have the historic aspects of the so-called great French Revolution been so dispassionately described, or the more homely dramatic incidents of the July Revolution more feelingly told. Neither have the bearings of these two events upon each other ever been made more clear to the reader's eye. Nor could it be otherwise, if one reflects that, although half a century elapses between the two periods of time, their narrator is the same; they are the work of a witness in whom no intellectual or moral change has taken place. These souvenirs of Madame de Gontaut constitute pre-eminently a pleasant book. Pleasant to read, because so evidently pleasant to write; and pleasant to write, because so unmistakably interesting to have lived through. And yet, notice the dates: between 1780-89 and 1836 we count the overthrow of a dynasty over a thousand years old, the destruction of two thrones (one by the guillotine), the crimes of a military despotism, the miseries of the "emigration," and the temporary ruin of all the various creeds on which the peace, prosperity, and worldly honor of French civilization had been evolving itself for centuries. Such a succession of "mind-quakes " (if I may be allowed the expression) are, within so comparatively short a period, not to be paralleled within the annals of the Western world; and yet we repeat it advisedly - Madame de Gontaut's memoirs are an undeniably pleasant book, for the pleasantness of it centres in herself. Not that she is indifferent to, or in any degree unmindful of, the sufferings of others- quite the contrary; but there is in her a steady, internal, moral sunlight that shines unfailingly over all things, is never dimmed, and never vacillates, neither dazzling by any sudden exultation nor perturbing the spirit by any sudden eclipse. It is truly the story of an existence, or a mind, equal to any fate, and, in its firm serenity, superior to all circumstance. In one phrase of her own lies the best explanation of all she was and all she did. After recalling one of the worst disasters of her emigration experiences, "You may," she says, "my dear children, perbaps accuse me of making too light of all vicissitudes. You would be wrong; God has simply endowed me with the faculty of making the best of his severest inflic tions; and I believe this to be the surest proof of real faith, and the only way of living through life without repining." Madame de Gontaut was born in Paris, in 1773, of one of the most distinguished of so-called court families, but not one of the most prejudiced. Prejudice, as the word has come to be understood, was of later growth. The possessors of the highest worldly goods felt many of them so relatively safe in their possessions, that what was later on abused as "privilege' was till the close of the seventeenth century regarded as a simple right, altogether unobjected to. With much to be complained of, no doubt, there was a large amount of humanity afloat, and reform was still a term meaning progress in which all classes could join; it was not as yet indicative of class warfare, still less of any offending arrogance of caste. There were among the highest a vast number so contented with what fate had awarded them, so unperplexed by suspicions of insecurity, that they could afford to live on easy terms with their own good luck, and enjoy the pleasures of existence without being as yet troubled by any uncomfortable notions of public obligations to their inferiors. The sentimentalisms of the Rousseau school had not yet attained to their full practice of authority; did not yet reign to the absolute detriment of kindly affability, as it was generally called. The genial philanthropy which was beginning to assert itself was a kind of fashion, a manner of charm, added to other distinctions rather a grace than a virtue. The rigidity of the manners and principles of the seventeenth century had disappeared with the sway of etiquette under the Grand Roi, and the civilian dignity of constitutional or parliamentary rule had not succeeded it. A great deal was already loosened, very little was accepted as established, and the untrammelled, well satisfied "upper ten thousand" in France exercised a cheerful supremacy over any of the misgivings that might be on the eve of tormenting the brains of messieurs les idéologues or les philosophes. Spite of John Law, who was not comprehended for a hundred years to come, and of the regent, who was put out of court as a coiner of base currency, money mere money had attained to none of the vilifying predominance it has achieved since then. Until long after 1789 it had comparatively no overbearing significance, |