The child smilingly reclines upon the bosom of the rider, over whom the
descending sun sheds its red parting beams.
Like a phantom flies he onward, like a phantom he disappears there on
the border of the forest. Was it only a delusive appearance, a _fata
morgana_ of the desert?
No, again and again the evening breeze raises the mantle of the rider,
and the charming angelic brow is still seen resting upon the bosom of
the count.
No, it is no dream, it is truth and reality!
Like a storm-wind flies the count over hill and heath, and on his bosom
reposes Natalie, _the daughter of the empress_!
THE CHARMED GARDEN
One must be very happy or very unhappy to love Solitude, to lean upon
her silent breast, and, fleeing mankind, to seek in its arms what is so
seldom found among men, repose for happiness or consolation for sorrow!
For the happy, solitude provides the most delightful festival, as it
allows one in the most enjoyable resignation to repose in himself, to
breathe out himself, to participate in himself! But it also provides
a festival for the unhappy--a festival of the memory, of living in the
past, of reflection upon those long-since vanished joys, the loss of
which has caused the sorrow! For the children of the world, for the
striving, for the seeker of inordinate enjoyments, for the ambitious,
for the sensual, solitude is but ill-adapted--only for the happy, for
the sorrow-laden, and also for the innocent, who yet know nothing of the
world, of neither its pleasures nor torments, of neither its loves nor
hatreds!
So thought and spoke the curious Romans when passing the high walls
surrounding the beautiful garden formerly belonging to the Count
Appiani.
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