Etext of Mid-Day Magic
From at the Ghost Hour
By Paul Heyse Translated by Frances A. Van Santford
New York
Dodd, Mead & Company
1894

MID-DAY MAGIC


THE little adventure here recorded differs from those which
appear in the ordinary goblin-tale in that it did not happen at the
conventional and mysterious midnight hour, but rather in broad
daylight. I am able to give not only the year, but the very day of its
occurrence -- the 16th of July, 1885. Upon the 10th, I had taken my
degree at Leipzig, and immediately afterward I went to visit the
two dear old people -- an uncle and an aunt -- who had adopted me
upon the early death of my parents, in order that under their roof I
might recover from the fatigue attendant upon my promotion. They
lived in Dresden, and I need not tell you that they received me with
all the honors of a conqueror. Nevertheless, in spite of all their
care I continued nervous and pale, and after a few days my aunt
declared there must be something positive done to rouse me from
my lassitude. Nothing could be more salutary in such a case than a
stay among the woods and mountains. Accordingly, they resolved
to send me into the Saxon Switzerland. The "natural method" of
restoration I wholly approved; only as to the where, I opposed
them. At this midsummer season no nook or corner of that region
was safe from the incursions of health-seekers and tourists, so that
a comfortable resting-place, away from the throng, was hardly to
be hoped for.

As soon as my aunt disclosed her plan, there rose before me the
memory of a certain quiet little place, not far distant, which I had
frequently visited as a student in the old Dresden holidays, -- a
pretty little inn upon the right bank of the Elbe, standing somewhat
elevated in the midst of gardens, and not over a thousand paces
from Loschwitz. It has now been forced to give place to a large
and beautiful villa, which I saw to my sorrow when I recently had
occasion to pass that way. At that time, however, the hostelry was
kept by a young married pair with whom I was on friendly terms,
for I was confessedly prepossessed by the sturdy manliness of the
husband and the grace of his trim young wife. Moreover, I had
found their wine to my taste; and I was especially fond, on
moonlight nights, of the quiet of a particular balcony which was
built out over the winding river-road.

It was truly a hostelry of the old type, frequented only by staid
Burger families who drank there the famous Bl�mchen coffee, and
by occasional passing pedestrians. For the couple were already
well enough off to regard with disfavor any enlargement of their
business which involved conformity to the then rapidly-increasing
elegance of style.

It is true I did not then know whether my friends were prepared for
lodgers; but I felt sure that they would not refuse me a bed in some
chamber of the old house. So, walking-stick in hand, I trudged
along the river-road. During the two years since I had last looked
about me here nothing had altered. Scarcely one of the familiar
farm-houses had received so much as a fresh lime-wash, or a new
arbor among the tall bushes that thrust their blossoming tinges
above the garden hedge. The road by the river was but little
traveled, for the local traffic was carried on above, upon the
country road behind the houses; and in the deep, pervading
stillness the only sound which accompanied me was the gentle
plash of the waves as they came rippling in upon the pebbly beach.
Even in the house at which I stayed my steps everything seemed
exactly as of old. I mounted the same weather beaten stone stairs
to the little grated door which, if one only knew its peculiar
working, could be opened from without as well. The narrow path
that led through the inn garden was quite as neglected and
overgrown as ever. Only the patrons and a few regular guests of
the house knew of this entrance. Strangers came in at the upper
one. As I recognized a familiar face among the guests who sat
there, and did not wish to betray my presence, I went cautiously
around to the back of the house. There I met the old Ursula, a
fixture in the family and my especial patroness. She gave me a
joyful greeting as to one long absent; and as I made known that my
first want was not meat and drink, but rather a word with the
landlord, she showed me into the family sitting-room upon the
upper floor, and then ran hurriedly down the stairs to summon her
master and mistress, who just at that hour were busy in the
storehouse, which was built out at one side. I had time to look
about me a little in this apartment, into which I had not before set
foot. It was fitted up with old furniture and was extremely neat,
with pots of flowers upon the window-sills and beautiful roses in a
vase on the table in front of a sofa covered with black hair-cloth; a
canary bird hung in a cage by an open window, before which, the
dark foliage of a chestnut-tree waved gently in the evening wind.
Upon the wall, above the sofa, hung, in their tarnished gold
frames, three life-sized family portraits -- at the left, that of a
stately man in the costume of twenty years ago; opposite him, in
the elaborate finery of that time, a well-to-do woman, holding
upon one arm an infant laced in embroidered swaddling clothes;
between them hung the picture of a young girl just blossoming into
womanhood, dressed in the style of the first Empire, which
attracted me more than the other two. Not by any singular beauty --
the face, which was turned full toward the beholder, was a trifle
too round, and the little turned-up nose, too, and the pouting mouth
did not correspond exactly to my ideal of a charming, girlish head.
But the eyes, large and black, with long lashes, had such a
touchingly innocent and yet at the same time suggestively severe
expression, that they completely bewitched me. She was clad in a
white gown, adorned with a border of blue embroidery, and belted
closely below her young bosom. Her beautiful slender throat was
bare, as were also the charming arms, over which she had thrown a
thin red scarf. About her head clustered short, brown curls; it was a
so-called Titian head. In her hand she held a full-blown rose, and
upon her slender finger was a golden circlet with a heart-shaped
stone.

I had been gazing for fully ten minutes upon this dear being, who
had long ago disappeared from earth, when the door opened and
the landlord entered, and behind him his little wife, carrying in her
arms a year-old child. They welcomed me most heartily, chid me
for staying so long away, and showed me the pretty doll which
heaven had sent in the meantime to crown their wedded bliss.
Everything, in fact, had thriven these two years; a little vineyard
which they cultivated had grown very profitable; the patronage of
the inn had increased to such an extent that they had been forced to
build a spacious garden-hall, in which even weddings and family
f�tes were wont to be celebrated.

But this very prosperity of the worthy pair drew a cross through my
plans, for I found no longer here the hoped-for quiet and seclusion.
And as I ventured to put the question whether I could find a quiet
lodging for a few weeks under their roof, the hostess explained
that unfortunately it was not to be had. "They had fitted up a
nursery for the child under the mansard roof; two other rooms
were occupied by a man and his wife from the city, with a sickly
lad, who was supposed to be recovering in the country air, but who
often, in the night, disturbed their sleep by his crying or coughing;
so that I was not likely to find in the only available room, rest,
either day or night. They were uncommonly sorry, and if they had
dreamed of my coming they would not have taken these strangers.
The husband corroborated all this, yet seemed to be considering
whether some expedient could not be hit upon, and at length said,
as I, with a suppressed sigh, seized once more my hat and stick:

"No, Riekchen, we must not let the Herr Professor go away from
here and find himself no more comfortable in a strange house.
There is still the garden-house of Aunt Blandine. To be sure, it is
many years since anyone lived there; but if the dust were swept out
and fresh curtains put up -- the Herr Professor is only particular
about having some very quiet corner -- his meals could be served
him in the front room, if he did not choose to come over here. The
back room could be used as a bedroom, and he could have the
whole garden to himself.

"What are you thinking of, husband?" put in the little woman, with
a gesture of reproof, while her eyes gave him an expressive sign.
"That is clearly impossible!" Here she stepped close to him and
whispered a few words, shaking her head the while, as over an
unheard-of piece of presumption.

Her husband only laughed good-humoredly, gave her a little slap
upon her plump shoulders, and said, turning to me:

"These woman-folk are all alike; even the most sensible among
them will let themselves be made fools of by some idle tale or
other. You see, Herr Professor, the old people hereabout say that it
is not quite canny in the little house over yonder; and the gossiping
young people follow their example. Yet no one has ever seen
anything amiss. And suppose Aunt Blandine does go sporting
about, what of it, Riekchen! The Herr Professor himself must be
the judge whether it would be disagreeable if a spruce young
woman should pay him a visit occasionally. There she hangs over
the sofa. Does she look as if she made it her sport to strike terror
into peaceable folk? Aunt Blandine, you must know Herr Professor
----" Here Ursula interrupted him with the announcement that the
master mason wished to see him about the new wash-house. That
concerned the housewife as well; and the two left me alone with
the old woman, to whom the landlord gave the necessary
directions about my quarters. I asked if she knew anything about
Aunt Blandine. No, she only knew that the young mamselle had
lived in the little house opposite. People declared that she still
showed herself there sometimes. But she had yet to meet any one
who himself had seen her, and for her part, she put no faith in it at
all; for the Fr�ulein had such a good, pious face, and had never
committed any crime that would prevent her resting quietly in her
grave.

Then we two went down the steps and through the garden toward a
little side gate, which opened upon a narrow alley sloping
gradually up from the river-road, and which as a rule remained
closed. Over there, directly opposite, the same key unlocked a
similar gate, through which one entered a neglected flower-garden.
I had not, observed it before, as I had never spent much time out
there. From the street below one could not look into it. The hedge
which surrounded it had shot up too high, and the lower entrance,
a grated door at the head of a flight of steps, was so thickly
overgrown by elder-bushes that one might easily pass it by
unnoticed. As I now trod this quiet enclosure which, about a
hundred feet square, rose in a gentle slope toward the highroad at
the summit, an astonishing sight disclosed itself.

Here, as if for ten years no human being had set foot within, there
bloomed, in incredible profusion, a wild luxuriance of the most
beautiful roses -- almost literally hundred-leaved, -- together with
pinks, honeysuckle, jasmine and heliotrope in a confused tangle;
and in the midst of these, like white islands rising out of a sea of
bloom, little groups of unusually tall-stemmed lilies, whose heavy
fragrance was wafted to me above all the rest. The forest of
flowers was just then lighted up with the glow of the setting sun,
and as the trees and shrubbery, which closed the garden in on all
sides, had grown so thick that nothing was to be seen of the
neighboring houses, the impression which the little garden made
upon me was delightful as a fairy tale, yet at the same time almost
oppressive.

The Frau let everything grow wild out here, as God made it, the
old woman explained, while she bent aside the branches of some
tall rose-bushes to open a path for me. There was never time to
clean it up properly and keep it in order. To hire a gardener
especially for that would hardly pay, for the flowers which this
uncared-for piece of ground yielded at all seasons were sent to the
city twice a week and sold advantageously to dealers. When the
paths grew too dense, the landlord would come and let in the light
with his large clipping-shears. Long years before, the father of the
present owner had used often to smoke his pipe up there in front of
the little house on pleasant evenings. Perhaps some spirit of the
night had at some time appeared to him there and made it
disagreeable for him. But it could scarcely have been the maiden
Blandine.

And now I saw for myself the insignificant garden- house in which
I was to lodge: a little, gray, four-cornered wooden box, under a
widely projecting, pointed, shingle roof; on the front side, the
door, and a single window closed by a shutter, which, at some
time, must have been painted green. At each side there was also a
square window, guarded by a stout wooden shutter -- everything
beaten by wind and weather. Under the eaves were several
sparrows' nests whose occupants, in evident indignation, flew out
with loud cries and twitterings as the old woman turned the door
upon its rusty hinges and we stepped across the threshold.

A damp smell of mould greeted us; but when we had flung open
all these shutters, the low room did look ** "did not look" in the
least uninhabitable. A Rococo commode against one wall; a
garden bench in the centre of the room, grouped together, several
old chairs and a table over which still lay a faded cover of a gay
pattern; at one window a small ornamental table inlaid with a
mosaic in wood, and upon it yet a little work-basket with a piece
of embroidery begun. The prettiest feature was a half dozen large
flower-pieces in flat, wooden frames. They were mostly roses and
lilies by some painstaking hand, drawn rather stiffly, yet with a
manifest feeling for form, upon pale, gray paper, and carefully
mounted. In the midst of these modest pictures I was surprised by
the sight of a large map of central Europe, upon which the route
from Dresden to Moscow was traced by a blood-red line; and
among these, for a garden-house, singular wall decorations, hung a
tiny miniature in a gold frame, representing a young man in an
unfamiliar uniform, but with the face so faded, or worse,
obliterated, that save the brown spots which took the place of eyes,
and a fine black mustache, nothing of his features could be
recognized.

The old woman opened the low side-door, and I stepped into a
dark chamber, in which light first found its way when I threw open
the shutters of a single small window. Now I saw a narrow
bedstead in the corner; next, a tall-legged washstand with a toilet
set of Meiszener porcelain; and, on the wall above it, an engraving
after Carlo Dolce's Ecce Homo.

"Here the Herr Professor will have to sleep," said Ursula, "if it is
not too narrow and uncomfortable for him. The straw bed and
mattress are still good for use; the other things we will bring up
and whatever else is needed, in order that a Christian man may
have his regular attendance. The Herr Professor need have no fear
that he will be disturbed here, if he is spook-proof, -- which is,
after all, a stupid superstition, although many a one whom I know
would not spend the night here for all the gold in the world,
because the Fr�ulein is said to have slept in that very bed. But that
was long ago, and the dear God she prayed to every night would
not send such a poor soul wandering about, only to frighten
peaceable people. No, that He surely would not; for what purpose
could He have in doing it?"

Whereupon this enlightened old person left me, to provide further
for my wants over at the inn; and at the expiration of half an hour I
was quite settled. The bed was made up freshly with pillows and
coverlids ** (real word?); water had been drawn from a little open
well which stood near the garden-house, hidden by an elder-bush
and upon the table in the front room was spread the frugal supper
which I had ordered. For I was so pleased with my strange new
quarters that I could not make up my mind to go over to the inn,
which was lively with guests, as was evident from the lights that
streamed across to me. The old woman came once more, to wish
me a good-night in the name of the host and hostess, and to excuse
them from coming in person, -- they were so much in demand. She
removed the dishes and left me alone with my bottle of Mosel
wine.

And now, for the first time, I roamed over my little domain,
through the narrow, overgrown paths, between the flowering
shrubs; and then I strolled back to an arbor which stood in one
corner of the garden above, upon a level with the garden-house,
and was thickly overgrown with morning-glory vines, so that a
deep darkness and stifling sultriness reigned within. I accordingly
placed a chair which I found there, at the entrance, lighted my
pipe, and sat, I knew not how long, in blissful contemplation under
the star-lit sky; while the night flowers began to distill their heavy
fragrance, and the glowworms tinkled here and there in the long
grass. When I looked away beyond my little kingdom I saw, behind
the tall bushes on its lower border, the broad, quietly-flowing
river; and now and then a little vessel or a light skiff glided by,
throwing across the dark waves a passing gleam from a lantern on
board. A steamboat, too, with music, floated past and disappeared
behind the tops of the willows, toward the town, like some
fantastic dream-picture. Quite late, the sickle of the waning moon
appeared hanging poised above the wide landscape. The plain,
opposite, with the houses on the farther bank, were veiled in mist,
and only solitary lights which glimmered across showed that there
were living beings in that vague distance.

The air had by degrees grown cooler after the day's heat, and I
drank it in with such a feeling of delight, that it struck eleven, and
then twelve, from the church-tower at Loschwitz, before I could
make up my mind to retire. Of any of the horrors of the ghost-hour
I could not find the least trace, and even when I stretched myself
upon my bed my every thought was far removed from anything
unearthly. I had left the little window open, and before it the
branches of the tall shrubs waved gently in the night wind. In one
of the neighboring gardens a nightingale warbled. I listened
awhile, and then fell asleep. In the night I wakened once or twice
from disturbed dreams, roused by the varied noises which belong
to a summer's night, -- the scream of the night-hawk on the hunt
for smaller prey; over my head the stealthy creeping of a cat or the
scratching of a marten in wait for the sparrows under the roof; in
the gray morning the rattling of wheels and the cracking of whips
upon the near highroad, -- still no sound from the supernatural
world.

So it chanced that I did not awaken until late in the morning, when
the old woman stuck her head in at my door, anxious to know
whether anything dreadful had happened to me during the night. I
laughingly assured her that the Fr�ulein had vouchsafed me no
visit, and she might set the Frau within at rest upon that point.
After breakfast I found myself lured out into the garden, sparkling
with dew, even where it lay in shadow; but I resisted the
temptation long enough to write two or three letters. By this time,
the morning coolness had vanished, and upon the flowers which
now stood in the broad sunshine there descended such a scorching
glow that it was advisable to stay in the little house and while
away the hottest hours behind the half-closed shutters in golden
sunlight.

I took up a book that I had brought with me -- Hermann Linng's
poems. They had but recently appeared, and were, as yet, little
known in North Germany. A South German student- friend had
recommended them to me and had given me his copy. As an
historian, he thought I could not afford to miss an acquaintance
with the new order of historical lyric which this poet handled in
quite an original way. I found this opinion soon confirmed by my
reading; and I felt that here was one of the great lyric geniuses,
which are as rare as black diamonds, and far more prized.

Upon that forenoon I opened the volume at random, and found in
it a most intimate sympathy with the mysterious life of nature and
the heart of man. Again and again I read the songs, so irresistible
in their simplicity: "Softer Grows My Slumber," "Cold and Snowy
Blows the Wind," "The Song of the Fish-wife," "Old Dreams
Return," "To my Pompeian Lamp," -- or by whatever other titles
these touchingly beautiful inner revelations of a human soul,
glowing with poetic fire, were called. And they took at once, such
a strong hold upon me that to this day I know half the little book
by heart and often repeat song after song to myself upon my lonely
walks. As I was situated at that time, the following sonnet touched
me with its especial charm. "Midday Magic," it was entitled, and
although it is well known to most of us, I cannot forbear to
transcribe it, as it corresponds so exactly with my mood upon that
day:
The heat of midday lies, a-quivering with delight,

Spread deep in sultry stillness over vale and height. 
A solitary wood-bird drums 'mid yonder firs; 

Down in the gorge, distant and dull, the saw-mill whirs.
The brook slips swiftly by, toward shadows cool and dim, 

The flowers, athirst, bend looks of longing after him --
Their leaves beseeching spread. Anon, a butterfly, 

Drunken with blossom-brews, on drowsy wing goes by.
A thatch of willow boughs above his little boat, 

The ferry-man has built; and there he sits to note
How, mirrowed on the tide, the changing cloud-forms float.
This is the hour: the reeds make moaning, sad to tears --

Startling the fisher's sleep; a laugh the hunter hears; 
And to the shepherd's eye, gray rock like gold appears.


When I had finished reading this I closed my eyes and abandoned
myself for a while to the sweet sense of lyric enchantment which
swelled in my veins like new wine. Then I rose and crossed the
threshold of my tiny house. There lay the world before me -- my
own, green, peaceful world -- quivering with delight under the
same sultry brilliancy which the verses pictured. Butterflies hung
as though intoxicated over the cups of the lilies and roses; soft
bird-voices were all around me; below, in the river, the waves
hurried by, as though in haste to escape into the shade, out of reach
of the sunbeams. All was indeed magical! At last, when my head
began to ache, I went slowly, still repeating the verses to myself,
toward the vine-covered arbor.

A little bench stood within, and I threw myself down upon it, my
book still in my hand, but without reading further, as the darkness
prevented me. I can still recall plainly the singular thing which
happened me ** "happened to me" as I looked out from my green
hiding-place upon the scintillating brilliancy of noontide. It was as
though the ether above me were a crystal sea, and I sat low within
its depths, so that the fluent waves rolled and eddied above me and
trickled down in bright pearls upon the growth at the sea's bottom.
I myself was imprisoned in a deep grotto, in which breathing was
as laborious as in a diving-bell; and still this confinement
produced no discomfort; on the contrary, I was penetrated by a
secret sense of well-being, such as I used to feel as a child when
we played at hide-and-seek, and I crouched in some snug corner
where I was sure I should not be speedily found.

Only, my eyes ached when I had stared too long into the waving,
ethereal light. I had to close them for a few moments, and in the
purple darkness about me I harkened to the humming, whirring
noises which thronged in upon my ear through the vines of the
arbor -- the rustling and whispering of the leaves in the hedge-row,
the buzzing and chirping of the insects, and the other mysterious
noises which are only perceptible when all human sounds are
hushed and the day seems to stand still for an instant, at its height,
and hold its breath.

But when I opened my eyes again I beheld a strange sight.

At the other end of the garden, as though she had just stepped
through the lower gate, walked a bright, slender, female figure,
slowly, and quite absorbed in herself, the face hidden under a large
straw hat of an old-fashioned shape. She was evidently no stranger
here, for she found the narrow paths, although they were
smothered in the thick growth of shrubbery, and passed through
them, bending back their sprays without effort or haste. Sometimes
she stooped, to the right or left, as if to ascertain carefully how it
fared with various plants. When she reached the end of the path,
she turned into the next one running parallel with it, but she was
always in such a direction from me that I was able to catch only
occasional glimpses of her profile and a curl of her brown hair
which blew out over the brim of her straw hat. The image of this
maiden-fiend of the garden, in the midst of this flowing field of
lilies and roses, was so lovely that I kept quite still, lest I should
frighten away this charming visitor by my sudden appearance.

Before a spray of hundred-leaved roses the figure paused for a
while. I saw her stoop and bury her face in the open blossoms.
Then she raised her head and broke off a half-blown bud with one
little hand, which was partly covered by a black knitted mit **
"mitt". As all this took place very near to my arbor, I could observe
more exactly what she wore. No, I had not been deceived; it was a
gown, girdled high, below the bosom, similar to the one I had seen
yesterday in the picture of the young girl hanging in my host's
sitting-room. Along the edge, bordering the low neck, ran the blue
embroidery; the same red scarf was thrown about the shoulders;
the arms were covered only as far as the elbows with the
coquettish white sleeves. And now, as she walked along and
looked up at the garden-house, I confess that for an instant a slight
shudder passed over me. It was the same somewhat round face
under the fair forehead, with its shadowing brown curls, and the
great dark eyes peered about with the same look of intense
melancholy.

The singular sensation did not last long. I knew not why, but as
this unknown stood before me, in the fairest bloom of youth and
health, a deep sympathy stirred in my breast: a certain curiosity as
well, as to what were the circumstances surrounding this young
creature, who walked about here in full daylight, in the costume of
my grandmother's time, as though she had just run away from a
masquerade. And the similarity to the portrait! How had she found
her way into the garden through the shore-gate of which old Ursula
said the key had been lost?

I had not much time to consider these riddles, for the slender
figure had already reached the top of the garden-hill and was
approaching, always with dallying step, along the upper walk. I
thought it would be the proper thing for me to walk out and
introduce myself to her as the lord of this little domain. But when I
rose from the bench I saw her start back suddenly, stare for an
instant into the gloom of the arbor, and then fly toward me with
the half-stifled cry: "Edward! Have you come at last?"

She stretched out her arms, her curls fluttered, her young bosom
heaved convulsively; suddenly she stopped as though turned to
stone; her arms sank at her side; an unspeakably sad expression
appeared upon her face, from which all color had fled, and two
great tears trickled from under the long lashes.

"Pardon me, sir!" she faltered, almost inaudibly. "I thought another
might have been seated there, and I suffered myself to be deceived
by the uncertain light -- again. I beg you will excuse me; I will not
disturb you further."

I had come to the entrance of the arbor, as she involuntarily drew a
step backward.

"Not you, but I, Fr�ulein, have to ask pardon," I said. "I am only
quartered here since yesterday, a guest. You, however, belong
doubtless to the house; and if you do not wish intruders in the
garden, I will at once withdraw."

She looked at me unmoved while I was speaking. Her features had
regained their composure; but a strange, restless look in her eyes
caused me to suspect that this delightful being was possibly not in
her right mind -- which would account for her singular style of
dress.

"How could I drive you away?" she returned, in a soft, lovely
voice. "I have no longer any right to this place; I must be content if
they allow me to come back now and then and look after the
flowers which I so loved. But I have even forfeited the right to care
for them. They do not need my care, either. Only see how luxuriant
they become without me! Heaven surely watches over them."

She sighed, and held the rose pressed closely to her little nose.
Then, after a brief pause:

"So you are living here now. It is a pretty place, is it not? I, too,
lived here until I could do so no longer. But of that we will not
speak. Each one has his own destiny; and to each that destiny
comes, out of his own heart."

We were silent then for a little. The visit seemed still more strange
to me; and though there was sense and reason in all that she said, it
flashed through my mind again, -- she is not quite right.

"Will you not step into the arbor, Fr�ulein?" I said at length. But
she waved her refusal with a hasty movement of the hand. "No,
no!" she whispered. "Within there is a host of memories -- it is not
good to waken them. Some time that will be different, when I shall
not have to sit there alone any more; and I shall laugh and cry in
the beautiful twilight within. For it cannot last much longer; it has
already lasted far too long, and sometimes I think I may have
waited in vain. But you too believe, do you not, that fidelity is no
mere empty fancy? One can practice it through life; and if I have
practiced it, why should another grow tired of it? Ah, yes! tired;
that I too am, often enough, as one grows tired of long sleep and
sad dreams. If you will permit me, I will sit down here for a
moment; then I must go away directly."

The chair which upon the previous night had stood in front of the
arbor, stood yet in the same place. The young figure sank down
upon it, crossed her little feet, which in their white satin shoes,
peeped out from beneath the tucks of her short muslin gown, and
drew a deep breath, as though her walk had exhausted her. As she
did so, she seemed completely to forget my presence; for she
busied herself with her toilet -- took off her hat, pushed up her
sleeves to the shoulders, and between whiles inhaled the fragrance
of the rose with an expression of yearning desire.

For the sake of saying something, for the stillness oppressed me, I
asked whether the flower-pieces in the garden- house were her
work. She nodded abstractedly, and suddenly looked up at me and
inquired: "Were you ever in Russia?"

I replied in the negative. "It's a pity!" she said. "I should like to
know whether it is really as cold there as people say. Oh! warmth,
warmth! Everyone longs to be back in the warmth, does he not?
and to nestle close against a warm heart -- but this is no
conversation for a young girl who ought to be coldly dignified in
her behavior. Well, it is all indifferent to me. I am old enough to
allow myself to be governed by no one. You too, sir, I can easily
see, find my dress peculiar. Of what consequence is it how a
person dresses, if only he can conceal his inmost thoughts. No, do
not question me! If someone returns, as he has surely promised
me, then I step out before the jealous and incredulous people and
put them all to shame. And now -- Dieu vous b�nisse!"

She rose quietly, saluted me with a gentle inclination of the head,
and made as though she would go.

"May I ask a favor of you?" I cried. "Give me the flowers which
you have in your hand. I would like to keep them in memory of
this delightful acquaintance."

A swift look of suspicion flashed at me from the black eyes. "I
regret," she said, "that I cannot grant you that. The giving of a rose
is not without significance. Do you understand the language of
flowers? No matter; one should give heed to one's self. For so it
begins, and who knows where it may end. First the flower, then the
wreath. And even though you should not tell anyone about it, he
would find it out; for I could hide nothing from him, if he should
come. And you, too, think he will come, don't you, however long
the way may be?"

"Certainly," I assured her, now fully convinced that my suspicion
had been correct. I was overcome by a painful feeling of sympathy
for the poor young creature, whose face gleamed brightly with
sudden joy as I affirmed thus positively my belief in the return of a
vanished happiness.

"I thank you," she said heartily; "you have done me much good.
The others shun me; they think there is something wrong with my
brain. But it is only the fever of longing. I must cool my forehead,
and then I shall be quite reasonable again. Farewell!"

"No!" she added quickly, as I made a move to accompany her.
"You must not walk with me. If they should see us they might
think ill of me. Shall you stay here for some time longer? Perhaps I
can come back again about this time, if I am allowed. Oh, the
world is fair for those who are happy! But I shall be so again,
sometime; I have no fear of that. They who endure shall be
crowned."

She gave me a friendly nod, put on her hat again, and went softly
away down the tangled paths between the flower-beds. I saw her
white neck gleam above the tall rose-bushes, and would have
followed her in spite of her prohibition, but some unaccountable
force chained me to the spot. For an instant my attention was
diverted by a noise that sounded close to the arbor in the hollow
alley between my garden and the inn.

When I turned my eyes toward the spot where the strange Fr�ulein
had disappeared between the rose-bushes, there was nothing to be
seen of her bright figure. Only, the tall lilies swayed, as if a
passing bird had brushed them lightly with his wings.

I cannot describe the peculiar mood which was on me. I suddenly
felt as lonely as if I had lost something dearly loved. The gentle
voice continued to sound in my ears; wherever I looked I fancied I
should meet the glance of the soft, dark eyes, turned shyly, yet
trustfully, upon me. I seated myself in the chair which she had left,
and gazed upon the spot where she had vanished from my sight.
Little by little I ceased thinking even, and lapsed into a condition
of waking dreaminess which was indescribably blissful.

A firm, manly step upon the gravel path roused me from my
abstraction. My young friend, the landlord, stood before me. 

"Good day, Herr Professor!" he cried, and stretched out his hand to
me. "I only wanted to inquire how you are coming one. Are your
board, lodging, and service satisfactory -- has the heavy fragrance
of the flowers given you a headache -- or did any ghostly
appearance disturb your sleep? My wife would have paid you a
call before this, but she could not get away from the housekeeping
and the child. After dinner she will allow herself to wait upon
you."

I assured him that things were going on admirably with me, and I
could wish nothing better than to dream away a couple of weeks in
this blossoming hermitage. Of what had just occurred, I said not a
word.

"Do you see now that I was right?" exclaimed the simple-hearted
man, with a pleased laugh. "All they tell about the ghost is nothing
but an old-wife's fable. It is true, when she was yet alive, poor
Aunt Blandine! she may easily have seemed to timid people like a
departed soul that still hovers about awhile before it finds its
everlasting rest. Even in her happier days there was a sort of
isolation about her. She did not appear like other fresh, young
girls; though she was never ill, and could be noisy with the rest,
and loved to sing and to dance. But my grandmother, who lived to
a great age -- the woman with the infant whom you have seen in
the painting over yonder, and who was her aunt, for I am only Aunt
Blandine's grandnephew -- well, she has often told me about her.
She had always been a peculiar child, and as she grew up, liked to
do nothing better than to read, or paint flowers, or sing at the
clavichord; and every one was fond of her. Well, of course, there
was not wanting to her any number of suitors; but when she
arrived at the age of nineteen, she gave ear to one of them, a young
officer; and as he had some property, and she came of a well-to-do
family, there was nothing to prevent their marrying. Then the war
of the Emperor Napoleon against Russian came athwart their
purposes. It was evening, they say, when the young girl had just
arrayed herself for a ball, and was waiting for her betrothed to
come and escort her to the dance. Instead, he came with the
intelligence that he was obliged to go away very early the next
morning with his regiment, which was to join the French army.
That this put an end to playing and dancing you may easily
imagine. Instead of going to the ball, the young lovers went across
into this garden, and here they spent their last evening alone
together. One could see them until midnight, walking, with their
arms around each other, up and down between the flower-beds;
and there, in the arbor, the young soldier took a heart-breaking
farewell; for the parents, when they at length came to look after
their daughter, found the poor thing sunk upon a bench as though
in a swoon, and had great trouble in bringing her to again."

"Upon the second day, however, she had a great longing to be
allowed to go into the garden; and as she had such a way with her
that they could refuse her nothing, the parents could not prevent
her fitting up the little garden-house as a dwelling; and though they
might entreat or command, she could not be induced to go into
society again. Up here she would stay and await her lover's return.

"Here she sat to an artist for the portrait which you saw, in her
ball-dress, which she had worn upon the evening of the parting.
Then he had made a copy of the picture in miniature; this she sent
to her dearest, as he had already honored her with his picture, --
you may have remarked it on the wall of the little house. And there
she sat and read, and sewed, and embroidered, living only upon the
few letters which he was able to send her while on the march.
They had a small stove put up in the room, and they carried her
food over to her. So she was quietly contented and complained
about nothing, living only from one letter to another. The last
came from Moscow, and then no more. But hard though it was for
the lonely little fianc�e,  they did not realize how she lived, day
and night, in anxiety and dread. Moreover, the parents comforted
her; the distance was so great, the mails were probably snowed
under, she knew that he would remain true to her and would return
as soon as the war was at an end, which indeed could not long be
postponed, for the capital of the enemy had already been taken by
the besiegers.

"The news of the frightful conflagration did not alarm her. She had
learned that the French army, with all the allied troops, had left
Moscow and started on the return march. And now, day after day,
she awaited the coming of her beloved, and every evening she put
on her white gown again. He should find her once more in the
same costume in which he had last seen her.

"And then, in the newspapers, came the shocking report of the
retreat through that icy, devastated land, and of the terrible
crossing of the Beresina. Of all this they suffered her to learn
nothing; and as she lived so apart from others, they were able to
keep it from her for a long while and leave her in the dark. 
** New para? But one day, as her mother came across to her -- as
she did twice daily -- she found the unhappy child stretched upon
the floor near her little work-table, and in her hand a fragment of
newspaper which had been wrapped around something. It
contained a description of how the Saxon regiment, to which her
lover belonged, had sunk in the raging stream and been swept
away by the ice-floes. It painted it in such vivid colors, all the
misery and despair of their death, at the end of the frightful
exhaustion and sufferings from hunger endured on the march, that
another than the tender-hearted bride might have been overcome
by horror.

"From the serious illness which followed upon this, she was
restored again to life, but it was no longer a natural life. She went
about like a shadow, would say nothing beyond yes and no, and
they never heard her laugh again. Of course they refrained from
telling her that her beloved was among those who had perished;
but she seemed to know it, nevertheless -- or perhaps she only
divined it from the fact that he never returned to her. For nights,
her mother would often hear her weeping piteously and calling his
name. Although she did not fully regain her reason, they allowed
her her liberty, and she would walk up and down in the garden
here for hours at a time, watering the flowers, cutting off the
withered blossoms, or would sit in the arbor and look out over the
river.

"So the summer passed. She seemed to be somewhat consoled, and
her parents began to hope that, in time, she would recover from the
severe shock and be quite well again. But they were disappointed.
In the following November, when there had been a heavy frost and
the Elbe was thick with floating ice, a singular unrest came over
the poor girl. Naturally, she was now living once more in the house
opposite. But one night, her mother, who was a light sleeper, heard
the house-door open and rose hastily, dressed, with a beating heart,
and ran down the stairs. She was just in time to see a white form
open the little grated door below and vanish down the steps.
"Blandine!" she screamed, almost fainting with fright; but
gathering herself, she rushed down the garden after her. She was
too late, however. The river, over which a horrible storm was
raging, had already swallowed up the poor life. The second day, at
noon, the body, which had drifted down under a cake of ice, was
drawn out at the bridge in Dresden. It had on the white gown and
other ballroom finery in which she had wished to receive her
beloved. His picture she had hung about her neck: its colors were
almost washed away by the water.

"You can fancy, Herr Professor, what a profound sensation this
pitiful story produced, and that there were not wanting
superstitious natures who thought they saw the good soul flitting
about up here is no wonder. But reasonable persons, like ourselves,
shrug their shoulders at such imaginings."

I took good care not to contradict him. Not for the world would I
have desecrated this wonderful experience by any vulgar chit-chat.
In secret, I cherished a hope that the visit would be repeated. But
on the evening of that day a heavy thunder-storm came on,
followed the next morning by a gray, settled rain; and when the air
cleared again, the weather continued raw and disagreeable. During
the fortnight which I spent in my garden-house, the midday vision
never appeared again.
(End)