Visions—A Phantasy :: :: University of Virginia Library

What is it now below me? What is that park with its avenues of trimmed lindens, its firs standing singly and cut fan-shaped, its summer-houses à la Pompadour, its statues of nymphs and satyrs after Bernini's school; its rococo tritons in winding artificial lakes which are kept within their borders by a marble rim? Can it be Versailles? No, Versailles it is not. A tiny palace, also rococo, is half hidden behind a group of gnarled oaks. The moon, covered with light clouds, shines but dimly, and a thin mist spreads over the ground; the eye cannot distinguish if it is moonlight or vapor. Swans are asleep in the basins, their long backs gleam frostily, and glowworms glitter like diamonds in the blue shadow at the statues' bases.

"We are at Mannheim," Ellis said; "that is the park of Schwetzingen."

"In Germany then," I thought, and listened for some sound. Silence; only that from somewhere came the dull murmur of a waterfall. It seemed to be repeating one strain; "Yes, yes, yes; forever yes." All at once I believed that I saw in one of the avenues between the formal hedge rows, a cavalier in red-heeled shoes with gold-embroidered coat, lace ruffles, and poignard; on his arm hung a dame with powdered hair and many-colored silken gown. Wondrous pale faces which I am eager to scrutinize closely, but they fade, and only the water murmurs as before.

"Those are ghosts that are walking," Ellis whispered. "Yesterday you could have seen many more of them. But to-day they shun mortal eyes. Let us go on."

We ascended and flew on. So still and even was our flight, that I could hardly persuade myself that it was we who moved, and not the earth which sped beneath us. Dark and billowy, some forest-clad mountains came in sight; they loomed up before us, swept toward us. Already they are passed with all their curves, their ravines, the glimmering lights in the sleep-bound villages, the rushing brooks in the valleys, and before us yet other hills swell and sink behind. We are in the midst of a wilderness.

Mountains and yet more mountains appear: and forests, beautiful, old far-reaching. The night is so clear that I can distinguish easily the different trees; the silver firs, with their straight, shining stems, are the loveliest of all. Now and again deer peep out of their covert, slender and alert they stand and listen, turning their delicate ears from side to side continually. On the summit of a naked rock an old castle rears its dismal, shattered walls; how peacefully the stars shine above the ruins. >From a small dark lake rises like a lamentation the croak of frogs; it seems to me that I can hear yet other long-drawn tones, mournful as those of an Æolian harp. It is the land of romance. The same fine, moonlit mist that had charmed me in Schwetzingen covers everything here, and the more remote the mountains the thicker their veil. I can count five or six distinct gradations of shadow on the mountain-slopes, and over all this soundless variety the moon reigns in melancholy splendor. The wind is soft and light. My mood is also equable and gently melancholy.

"Ellis, is not this place dear to you?"

"Nothing is dear to me."

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"Indeed? And I—?"

"You—yes;" is her tranquil answer.

I fancy that her arm clasps me more closely than before.

"On! on!" she says with a kind of cold exaltation.

"On!" I repeat.