Only a Girl: or, A Physician for the Soul.

by Wilhelmine von Hillern

"No, no! that is not so," the peasant obstinately maintained. "She does not wish to be reminded of prayer, or she would have loved the clear sound of the bell, as we did, and would have left it hanging where it had rung out comfort and religion for a hundred years. She might have built her star-chamber upon the old tower all the same, if she had wanted to,--but she did not want to,--and so we hated her from the first."

Johannes and Hilsborn looked grave.

"Books she has in plenty; she brought whole chestsfull with her, but never a hymn-book or prayer-book, Kunigunda, who dusts them, says, and, search as she may, she has never seen a Bible there yet. And the Hartwich never mentions the name of God; and if any one does it before her, she talks of something else instantly. But the worst of all is that she has a room there that no one, except her uncle and herself, is allowed to enter, and she always locks the door when she is there with her uncle. What they do there no living soul knows, but Kunigunda tells all sorts of strange stories about it, for she has often listened at the door, and sometimes got a peep inside when the Fräulein was going in or coming out. She says there are all kinds of strange things in there, such as no honest man knows anything about,--black tablets, with eyes and ears painted on them, and burning flames, and bellows, and Heaven only knows what beside! And she has heard dreadful noises, that were not of this world,--sometimes sounds as sweet as the organ plays in the church, and then a rustle and roar as of a mighty wind, although not a breeze is stirring outside, or blasts of a trumpet like the trumpet of Jericho, so that she ran away in deadly fright."

"Those were experiments in sound," said Johannes, greatly amused, to Hilsborn.

"And Kunigunda says that it is often so light in that room that the rays through the keyhole dazzle her just like sunlight, although the sun has long been set outside. Kunigunda declares that it is not common light,--it burns quite blue, and she had to shut her eye quickly not to be blinded by it. Now, what sort of light is that? What business has she with fire and flames? And Kunigunda says she is almost always up until morning, and scarcely sleeps at all. Oh, she leads a godless life,--for, if God had not intended men to wake in the daytime and sleep at night, He would not have made night dark and day light; and if she were doing any good, why should she shun the daylight when she does it? Kunigunda says, too, that she tortures poor dumb animals just for pleasure, for she has often seen how she and her uncle carry rabbits and such creatures into their secret chamber, and they never bring them out again. Now, what do they do with the poor things? They cannot eat the rabbits. And Kunigunda will swear that there are a couple of skulls in the book-room, tumbling about among the old books. Now, I ask, what Christian would take the head away from a dead man and spoil his rest in the grave? Is it not just dishonouring a corpse out of devilish wantonness?"

"There certainly is a whole mountain of charges towering between Fräulein Hartwich and her neighbours," whispered Johannes to his friend, "and I see clearly that the curse of singularity has pursued her even hither, and that this rare creature is repulsed and isolated here as she was as a child. It is high time that some strong arm should bear her hence into the purer atmosphere of a warm, healthy existence, from which her eccentricity has hitherto excluded her."

"Do you see that green balcony there?" said the peasant, when they were quite near the house. "There she has hanging a kind of cittern that plays of itself. I would not believe Kunigunda, when she told me of it, at first; but then I hid myself here once, and heard it with my own ears, the music softer and sweeter than any that human hands can make. I could feel it beginning to bewitch me."

"Indeed! and how did it feel?"

"Oh, my heart grew so soft, so different from usual,--just--just as if I had been drinking linden-blossom tea. I could not help thinking of the girl I loved, who is dead, and I could have listened forever. Suddenly I bethought me that there was a spell weaving around me, and I ran away as fast as I could."

"That was an Æolian harp, my good friend," Johannes explained; "its strings were stirred by no spirit hand, but by the wind. The spell that you perceived was only the effect of the beautiful tones upon your ear and heart; and if you had examined yourself, you would have found that, when you were thinking of your dead sweet-heart, you were better than when you are sitting in the village inn abusing the Hartwich. Consider for a moment whether an evil spirit could inspire such good, tender sensations. And listen as often as you can to the Æolian harp; it will not bewitch you,--it will only do good to you."