summer’s evening breeze, is seen to have the semblance of a comely youth, but strangely garbed in rose leaves of crimson-purple hue. It is, indeed, the spectre of the fallen rose, the embodiment of the young girl’s sentimental impulses and imaginings. An image more material would be too gross for maiden meditations so innocent and youthful: it needs must be fantastically that the gentle sleeper’s dream takes shape before our eyes.
It would be as vain to describe the movements of the phantom visitant, as to seek to convey the sound of language without regard for the meaning it expresses. Movements may have an intrinsic grace and beauty, as words that utter no meaning may possess a splendour of sound. But the dance is to movement what language is to words: it implies selection and co-ordination for the purpose of expressing something—in this case the very essence of the sentimental emotions which the vibrant music of the strings evokes. Never was the ecstasy of the valse so irresistibly expressed. Leaping, swaying, its whole being abandoned to the intoxicating rhythm, the dancing phantom seems to draw the very power which animates it from the music’s throbbing pulse.
Deep in her romantic dream the young girl slumbers passive in her chair, till presently the spectral visitant pauses by her side. It leans towards her, while its hands make gentle passes that subdue her utterly to the magic rhythm. Obedient to the spell she rises to her feet and, yielding herself to the tender guidance proffered, she joins her phantom partner in the dance.
It is a scene of exquisite beauty, this vision of a young girl’s innocent dream of love and joy. Abandoning herself to the allurement of the moment, she dances long and joyously until, at length exhausted, she sinks once more upon her cushions, with her fantastic ideal—climax of ecstasy—prostrate at her feet. She has but to stretch forth her hand.
But the throbbing rhythm has died away: the dream is nearing an end. Swiftly the phantom rises, and makes as if to go. Tenderly it stoops over the fair face of the sleeper, and imprints a single kiss upon her brow. The music draws to a close, the appointed hour inexorably approaches. Longingly the phantom lingers, till a fear assails one, lest it tarry too long. But at the last moment it turns, and with a swift run, a magic leap through the open window, vanishes—is gone at the very instant when the music ends.