In a pleasant room in Frankfort, on a slight eminence1 which overlooked the river Maine, sat a young man, of about thirty years, in deep meditation2. His face showed traces of recent suffering; his broad, high brow was white as marble, and his hands, though large, were soft and delicate as a woman's. Near by sat a young girl, whose physiogomy showed close relationship to the invalid3. She was his sister, and was travelling with him, hoping that change of air and scenery might produce a beneficial effect on his health.
"I think you seem stronger than when we came, Ralph; don't you?" She had been watching the color flickering4 on his face and lips, the last half hour.
"Yes, the air of Frankfort has done me good, and the present fatigue5 is only the result of my journey."
"I am glad to hear you say so; it confirms my impression, which is, that you will recover."
"Heaven grant it may be so. Long suffering has robbed me of the buoyancy of hope. I think I have not enjoyed myself more at any time during my illness, than while we were at Heidelberg, among its castles."
"I hope you will enjoy your stay here as much. You know how long you have wished to see the birthplace of Goethe."
"I have, and expect to see his statue to-morrow, which will be pleasure enough for one day; at least for an invalid. Do you remember his 'Sorrows of Werter,' Marion? In what work has the depth of men's emotional nature been so sounded?"
"I remember you read it to me last winter, while I was working those slippers6 you have on."
"Ah, yes; delightful7 days they were, too. I wonder if I shall be able to see Dannecker's Ariadne the same day?"
"I have forgotten, Ralph, the figure."
"It is that of a beautiful female riding on a panther. The light is let in through a rosy8 curtain, and falling upon the form, is absorbed and incorporated into the marble."
"How beautiful; I wish we could go to-day."
"I shall be stronger to-morrow, and perhaps be able to sketch9 a little before I leave."
"Ah, if you could. What a pity that we had to come away from Heidelburg without your being able to add anything to your folio."
"It was; but if I recover my health, as you think I will, I shall go again, and see how that place of beauty looks to me in full vigor10."
"I wonder if there are many visitors at the hotel? Taking our meals as we do in our rooms, we see but little of them."
"There have been several arrivals to-day," she answered.
"And there are more coming. Sister, I feel strangely here. The feeling has deepened ever since I came. I feel a soul; some one near me; a being strong in soul and body, and more lovely than any one I have ever met."
Marion looked distressed11. She feared his mind was wandering. In vain she tried to hide her look of concern; he saw it, and relieved her fears by his words and manner.
"It is not mere12 fancy, nor mental illusion, my dear sister, but something real and tangible13. I feel it in my entire being: some one is coming to make me whole."
"A woman?"
"Yes; a woman such as you nor I have never looked upon."
"You are weary now, Ralph; will you not lie down?"
"I will to please you; but I am far from being weary."
She smoothed his pillow, and led him to the couch. At that instant a carriage drove to the door, and several persons alighted.
Marion turned her gaze from the strangers to her brother. Never in her life had she seen him look as he did then. His eyes glowed, not with excitement, but with new life. The color mounted to cheeks and forehead, while he kept pacing up and down the room, too full of joy and emotion to utter a single sentence.
"What is it, brother?"
This question, anxiously put, was all she could say, for she perceived, dimly, a sense of some approaching crisis.
Her anxious look touched him, and he threw himself on the couch, and permitted her to pass her hand gently over his brow.
"There; it's over now."
"What, Ralph?"
"The strange tremor14 of my being. Marion, some one has come to this hotel, who will strangely affect my future life."
"The woman,--the soul you felt in the air?" she inquired, now excited in turn.
"Yes, the soul has come; my soul. I shall look on her before to-morrow's sun has set. I feel an affiliation15, a quality of life which never entered my mental or physical organization before. And Marion, this quality is mine by all the laws of Heaven." He sank back upon the couch like a weary child, and soon passed into a sweet slumber16.
Marion watched the color as it came into his face. It was the flush of health, not the hectic17 tinge18 of disease; and his breath, once labored19 and short, was now easy and calm as an infant's.
Some wondrous20 change seemed to have been wrought21 upon him. What was it? By what subtle process had his life blood been warmed, and his being so strongly affiliated22 with another life? and where was the being whose life had entered into his? Beneath the same roof, reading the beautiful story of "Evangeline."
The next morning Ralph arose, strong and refreshed, having slept much better than he had for many months.
"Such rest, Marion," he said, "will soon restore me to health," and his looks confirmed the truth of his statement.
"I should think you had found life's elixir23, or the philosopher's stone, whose fabled24 virtues25 were buried with the alchemists of old. But who is the fairy, Ralph, and when shall we behold26 her face?"
"Before the sun has set to-day," he answered, confidently.
Marion smiled, looked slightly incredulous, and sat down to her books and work.
Towards the close of the day, her attention was attracted by a graceful27 figure approaching the river bank. Her hat had fallen from her head, displaying its beautiful contour, and in her hair were wild flowers, so charmingly placed, that they seemed as though they had grown there. She watched her with the deepest interest, and turned to beckon28 her brother to the window, when lo! he was directly behind her, and had seen the fair maiden29 all the while. He had been drawn30 there by an irresistible31 power, and in the single glance he felt the assurance that she was the being who was to bless his life. He would have given much, then, to have seen her face, and having watched her till out of sight, went to his couch for rest.
Marion looked on his placid32 features, and hope sprung up in her breast. She felt that her brother was, by some mysterious power, improving, and knew that he would fully33 recover his health. The flood-tides of affection flowed to the surface, and she wept tears of joy.
Towards sunset they walked out together. Even the mental excitement caused by looking upon Goethe's statue, and the beautiful Ariadne had not exhausted34 him as formerly35, and he was able to go into the evening air for the first time for many months.
They returned to their rooms, and talked of the stranger.
"Is she not lovely?" asked Marion, after long silence.
But in that dreamy silence, Ralph had, in spirit, been absent from his sister and present with her of whom she inquired. The sound of her voice brought him back; he started and said,--
"Who?"
"Why the stranger, of whom we were speaking."
"Lovely?" he replied; "she is more than that, she is holy, heavenly, pure. But let us talk no more tonight, dear; I am weary."
The link was broken; her words had called him from the sphere of the beautiful stranger, and he needed rest.
"Just what I feared," she said to herself, "he is mentally excited, and to-morrow will droop36."
Contrary to her fears, however, he awoke fresh and bright on the morrow, and able to visit with her, many places of interest. He did not see the stranger that day, nor the one succeeding.
"I fear they have gone," said his sister, as Ralph walked nervously37 through the room. "I saw several go last evening, and she may have been among the number."
"No, no; she has not gone. I should feel her absence were she away. I should have no strength, but lose what I have gained, and droop. I feel her here under this roof. I am approaching her, and shall, within a few hours, look on her face, and hear her voice."
"Ah, Ralph, don't get too much excited, for I want you to look well when father and mother join us at Paris. They will be overjoyed to see how much you have improved."
He made a hasty gesture, which she did not see, and then, ashamed at his feeling of impatience38, went and sat beside her, and arranged the silks in her basket. Engaged in this light pastime, he did not hear a low rap at the door.
"Come in," rose to the lips of Marion; then the thought flashed on her mind that the caller might be a stranger, and she arose and opened the door.
"Have you a guide-book you can loan me?"
The voice thrilled Ralph's being to its centre. He raised his eyes and said,--
"Come in; we will find the book for you."
To Marion's surprise she entered and seated herself by the window, but never for a moment took her eyes from the features of Ralph.
His hands trembled violently as he searched for the book among a pile on the table, and Marion had to find it at last, and pass it to the stranger, who took it, but moved not. Her eyes seemed transfixed, her feet fastened to the floor.
"This is the person who has drawn my life so since I came here. He is ill, but will recover," she said, stepping towards him, and placing her soft, white hand upon his brow.
During this time Ralph was speechless, and felt as though he was struck dumb. He trembled in every limb, as she gently led him to the couch and motioned him to lie down. Then his limbs relaxed, his breath became calm, the face lost all trace of weariness, and he passed into a deep, mesmeric sleep. "Fold on fold of sleep was o'er him," and the fair one stood silently there, her eyes dreamy and far off, until his being was fully enrapt in that delicious state which but few on earth have experienced.
Then silently she withdrew, while Marion whispered in her ear, "Come again; please do, for this is so new and strange to me."
"I will," she said, and quietly departed.
An hour passed, and he did not awake; another, and still he slumbered39. "Can it be? O, is it the sleep which precedes death? I fear it may be," and the anxious sister, musing40 thus, suppressed a rising sigh. He moved uneasily. She had disturbed the delicate state by her agitated41 thoughts.
"O, if she would come," said Marion, "I should have no fear."
At that instant the door opened, and the wished for visitor glided42 in.
"Has she read my thought?"
"Fear not," whispered the stranger, in a voice and manner not her own, "thy brother but sleepeth. All is well; disease will have left him when he awakes. I will stay awhile."
A volume of thanks beamed from Marion's face at these words, as she took her seat close by the side of the fair girl.
At the end of the third hour he awoke. The stranger glided from the room just as his eyes were opening, and Marion closed the door, and went and sat beside him.
"What was it like, Ralph? O! how strange it all seems to me."
"Like? sister mine; like dew to the parched43 earth; strength to the languished44; light unto darkness. What was it like? Mortal cannot compare it to anything under the heavens. It was as though my being soared on downy clouds-the old passing out, weariness falling as I ascended45, and all sense of pain laid aside as one would a garment too heavy to be worn. I knew I slept. I was inspired with currents of a new life. I was lulled46 by undulating waves of light; each motion giving deeper rest, followed by a delicious sense of enjoyment47 without demand of action; a balancing of all the being. O! rest, such rest, comes to man but once in a lifetime. But where is the fair one to whom I am so much indebted for all this?" He glanced around the room.
"Gone. She left just as you were waking. But tell me, Ralph, is it the mesmeric sleep that has so strengthened you, and with which you are so charmed?"
"It must be. What wondrous power that being has; Marion, I am as strong and well as ever; look at me, and see if my appearance does not verify my assertion."
She looked and believed. The past hour had developed a wonder greater than could be found among all the works of art in that great city; for Christ, the Lord, had been there and disease had fled.
Ralph and Marion met the strangers quite often, and passed many happy hours in her society. Marion rallied her brother on his long tarry at Frankfort, at which he smiled, saying, "I cannot go while she remains48." No more was said concerning his departure, it being her pleasure to go or stay, as he wished.
One bright morning, they sat under the trees. Ralph was sketching49, while Marion and the young lady who had so entranced him, were amusing themselves with some portraits which he had drawn a long time previous, when a servant delivered a letter to Marion. She opened it eagerly, and said, "It's from mother, Ralph, and we must meet her in Paris by the twentieth; it's now the seventh."
A look of disappointment passed over his face, which was soon chased away by smiles, at the words of their companion who said:
"How singular. Father and myself are going there. We leave to-morrow."
Marion excused herself, and ran to her room to answer her mother's letter. The two thus left alone, sat silent for some time, until Ralph broke the calm with these words, "I long to know the name of one who has so long benefited me. I only know you as Miss Lyman. I should like to treasure your christian50 name, which I am sure is bright, like your nature."
"My surname is Wyman, not Lyman, and my christian name, Dawn."
"How strange! How beautiful!" almost involuntarily exclaimed Ralph.
"Will you allow me, Dawn," he said, after a brief silence, "to sketch your profile?"
"Certainly, when will you do it?"
"Now, if you have no objection."
"I have not the slightest, provided I can have a duplicate, in case I like it."
He complied readily, and she took a position requisite51 for the work.
"Look away over the river, if you please."
He did not know how much these words implied. Her gaze was far away, and would ever be, for her real home was beyond.
He succeeded at the first effort, and asked her judgment52 upon it.
"Truthful53 and correct," she said. "Now another for me, if you please."
"This is yours. I shall idealize mine, and in it I shall sketch you as you appear to me. Mine would not please you, I know."
"You judge me correctly. I wish my portrait to be exactly like myself."
"Yet if you sketched54, you would want to draw your friends profiles as they appeared to you, would you not?"
"Certainly. Is this your speciality, heads, or do you go to nature and reproduce her wonderous moods and shades with your pencil?"
"My great ideal is Nature. You, too, are an artist."
"I have no talent whatever, but the deepest sympathy with Nature, and an appreciation55 of her harmonies."
"Do you not paint flowers, or sketch home scenes?"
"I have never used pencil or brush, and yet I feel at times such longings56 within me to give expression to my states, I think I must have, at least, some latent power in that direction."
"As all have. I could teach you in a very short time, to sketch woods, hills, and skies."
"I think I should never copy. You don't know how foreign it is to my nature to copy anything. I should respect artists more if they did not copy so much. I reverence57 the past; I honor and admire the pure lives and noble works of those who are gone; but where are the new saints and the new masters? Was genius buried with Michael Angelo and Raphael? The same God who inspired their lives, inspires ours. We can make ourselves illustrious in our own way. We may not all paint, but whatever our work is, that should we do as individuals. If we copy, we shall have no genius to transmit to future generations."
Dawn wished to be pardoned if she had wearied her listener, but she saw at once, as she looked on his face, that the thoughts she had expressed were accepted, and that her words had not fallen on unappreciative ears.
"You have spoken my own views, and if my health remains, I shall give the world my best efforts in my own way. Nature shall be my study. I will not fall a worshipper, like Correggio, to light and shade, but use them as adjuncts to the great idea which must ever dwell in the soul of the faithful artist, to give the whole of nature."
"I would not have spoken so much upon a theme even so dear to me as this, had I not felt that you would accept my thoughts, and therefore knew that I should not weary you."
"I shall see you before you go," he said, retaining her hand which she extended, as she arose to leave.
"I should be very sorry not to bid you good-bye. Have you my portrait?" He handed it to her, and walked with her to the hotel.
"To-morrow she will depart, I may never see her again. Never! No, it cannot be. I shall see her, live near her, feel her life flowing into mine each day. It must be, I shall droop and fade without her, as the flower without dew or water." He went in and found the letter written, sealed and directed to Paris. He loved the word, since she was going there.
Dawn went to her room and wrote her last letter from the land of music, flowers, legends and art.
"Dear Ones at Home:-To-morrow we bid good-bye to this land of beauty, which so accords with my feelings. We shall bid adieu to its mountains, its castles, and its works of art. When you receive this we shall have visited Paris, thence to London to embark58 for home. 'Home,' dear word. All my roamings will only make me love home better, and those whose lives are so woven in with mine. Tell Herbert he must come here to have his inspiration aroused. When he has walked upon Mont Blanc; when he has sailed on the Rhine, stood by Lakes Geneva and Lucerne, and by the blue Moselle, then he will feel that his whole life has been a fitting prelude59 to a rapturous burst of immortal60 song. He must come to Germany before he can fathom61 the sea of sound, or understand in fullness what the rippling62 waves of sweet music are saying. Florence, Herbert! do not let old age come on you, before you see this land, if none other. It is growing dark, or I would write more. Were I to sing a song to-night it would be, 'Do they miss me at home?' Three years have passed; I could stay as many more and not see half of that which would interest and instruct me, yet I feel ready to leave, for I know it to be my duty to do so. May the waves bear us safely to the arms of those who love us. Yours ever, DAWN."
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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affiliation
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| n.联系，联合 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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affiliated
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| adj. 附属的, 有关连的 | |
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elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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beckon
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| v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意，召唤 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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exhausted
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formerly
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droop
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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impatience
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slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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musing
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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58
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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59
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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60
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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61
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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62
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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