"You need not be so proud, Maria. I shall of course return it, but not unless you promise me to do no more to it just now."
"Not just now. But I made believe to be ill on purpose that I might have a day's leisure. I must also copy it out."
"Maria, you never made believe, for if you could tell a lie, it would not be for yourself. You have been ill, and I suspect much that I know how. If you will tell me, I will fetch the score,—that is, if it is good for you to have it. But I would rather burn it than that it should hurt you; and I tell you, it all depends upon that."
"I will tell you, Carl, and more, because it is over now, and cannot happen again. I was lying in my bed, and heard the clock strike ten. I thought also that I had heard it rain; so I got up and looked out. There was no rain, but there were stars; and seeing them, my thoughts grew bright,—bright as when I imagined that music; and being in the same mood,—that is, quiet and yet excited, if you can believe in both together,—I went to my writing. It was all there ready for me; and Josephine, who always disturbs me, because she talks, was very fast asleep. It may sound proud, Carlino, but I am certain the Chevalier was with me,—that he stood behind my chair, and I could not look round for fear of seeing him. He guided my hand; he thrust out my ideas,—all grew clear; and I was not afraid, even of a ghost companion."
"But the Chevalier is alive and well."
"And yet, I tell you, his ghost was with me. Well, Carl, I had written until I could not see, for my lamp went out, and it was not yet light. I suppose I then fell asleep, for I certainly had a vision."
"What was that, Maria?"
"Countless crowds, Carl, first, and then a most horrible whirl and rush. Then a serene place, gray as morning before the sun, with great golden organ-pipes, that shot up into and cut through the sky; for although it was gray beneath, and I seemed to stand upon clouds, it was all blue over me, and when I looked up, it seemed to return my gaze. I heard a sound under me, like an orchestra, such as we have often heard. But above, there was another music, and the golden pipes quivered as if with its trembling; yet it was not the organ that seemed to speak, and no instrument was there besides. This music did not interfere with the music of the orchestra,—still playing onwards,—but it swelled through and through it, and seemed to stretch like a sky into the sky. Oh, Carl, that I could describe it to you! It was like all we feel of music,—beyond all we hear, given to us in hearing."
She paused. Now a light, quenched in thrilling tears, arose, and glittered from her eyes. She looked overwrought, seraphic; for though her hand, which I still held, was not changed or cold, her countenance told unutterable wonder,—the terrors of the heavenliest enthusiasm, I knew not how to account for.
"Maria, dear! I have had quite as strange dreams, and almost as sweet. It was very natural, but you were very, very naughty all the same. What did you do when you awoke?"