the summit of a mountain. A soft breeze circled around her. Infinity lay stretched out before her eyes. Beautiful colors gleamed in the splendor of the sun, Man was lost unto himself. . . .
Women’s tears. . . . Reader, they are a salutary property of Eve’s daughters in this world. There is not a sorrow of a woman, not a grief, burden, memory, not one shadow, that cannot be washed away by a few salty, bitter tears! Once again, her soul is changed and free, playing like the many-colored butterfly that flits about in the golden light over a flowery meadow. . . .
Lucy was sitting at the spinet. The old lady placed a sheet of music before her.
“Here is the song of which my deceased husband used to be very fond. It is a German song,—yet he was a patriot and a good Bohemian. As a student he used to frequent Jungmann’s[1] house! My child,
- ↑ Josef Jungmann (1773–1847) was the most prominent of the founders of a New-Bohemian literature.
