“It will readily be believed that my brother-in-law’s portrait, beautiful as it was, had now become an object of superstition, almost of aversion, in the family: it was therefore removed from the dining-room, and carefully hung in a large hall filled with family pictures, which we call ‘the gallery.’ My husband had selected a place for it over the entrance-door, where it was partly hidden, as he wished to spare his poor mother as much as possible the painful reminiscences which the sight of the fatal picture was sure to awaken.
“Many years elapsed—indeed, it is but ten years ago since my much regretted father-in-law died; my poor husband was, as you all know, deeply afflicted at his loss: he tended his poor father through his last illness with the most devoted affection and tenderness, and after the last sad parting, when we women, overcome with sorrow and fatigue, had retired to our rooms, he still remained sitting by his father’s corpse. After some time he became uneasy, and could no longer bear the dread silence of the chamber of death: he got up, paced to and fro, and almost unconsciously bent his steps towards the Gallery: he endeavoured to enter, but some impediment closed the way: he pushed the door with force, and in so doing removed his brother’s picture, which had again fallen to the floor!
“Since that time no death in the family has occurred, but we are of course all convinced that the same thing will happen when any one of us is called to his or her last account.”
This lady’s story was told with so much simplicity and good feeling that all present were impressed with the conviction of its truthfulness, the more so that the narrator bears the highest character for veracity and straightforwardness.
Another tale related on this occasion is to be found in many old German books, but except to readers well versed in the lore of ancient German legend it is probably quite unknown. It was told me by a near and dear friend of mine, a member of the family to whom this tradition belongs, and a person in whose veracity I place the greatest possible confidence. Thus, then, runs the tale:
“In olden times there lived a most beautiful, pious, and amiable Frau von Alvensleben, who was respected and beloved by her friends and the high and mighty of the land, and looked up to and adored by her dependants and the poor, who for many miles around felt the benefit of her loving charities. This favourite of fortune and nature had, however, one drop of gall mixed in her cup of happiness, which had well nigh embittered the whole of her precious gifts. She was childless, and it was no small grief to her beloved lord as well as to herself to be denied an heir to their noble name and vast possessions. Frequently, when more than usually oppressed by sad thoughts, she would wander forth and seek in assuaging the sorrows of others a relief to her own painful reflections. On one occasion, as in pensive mood she was returning from one of these charitable visits to the sick and poor of her villages, her way led through a long avenue of well-grown trees bordering the banks of the Elbe. Slowly she walked with eyes cast on the ground, when her steps were suddenly arrested by a little dwarf, who stood respectfully before her. She was startled at first, but, seeing him look smilingly at her, she soon regained her composure, and in a kind manner asked him what he wanted.
“‘Most gracious lady,’ quoth the dwarf, ‘all I wish is to give you brighter hopes, and to foretel that your future will be as happy as you deserve. Within a year from this time you will be blest with three sons at a birth [drillinge]. I pray you to accept this ring,’ continued he, handing her a large gold ring most curiously wrought; ‘have it divided into three equal parts, and when your sons are of an age to understand the trust, give one piece to each of them to keep as a talisman against evil. As long as it remains in the family the Alvenslebens will prosper.’
“With these words the kind little man disappeared; but his prophecy was realised, and his injunctions were carefully obeyed. The three sons lived to form the source of three distinct lines of the Alvensleben family, and are distinguished by the names of the Black, the White, and the Red line.
“Years—nay, centuries—rolled by, but the three pieces of the ring were carefully preserved by the descendants of the three brothers. The age of superstition had now passed away. Frederick the Great was mighty, and he scoffed at all things: Voltaire, his friend and teacher, sneered at every species of belief, and the courtiers thought it becoming to imitate their master and his favourite.
“A gay party was seated on the balcony of the Castle of Randau, which overhangs the muddy-coloured, shallow, and yet sometimes treacherous, river Elbe. Amongst the company were several gay young officers of the Royal Hussars, then stationed at Magdeburg, who had ridden over to pay their devoirs to the fair lady of the manor, the Frau von Alvensleben of the Red line, a famous beauty at Frederick’s court. Although the mother of three fine boys, her beauty was at its zenith, and her sharp, ready wit and satirical, sceptical turn of mind had won for her as many admirers as her rare personal attractions.
“‘I never believe in anything that I do not see or feel,’ said the lady with a bright laugh, continuing an animated conversation about second-sight and ghost-seers; ‘nor do I care just now to believe in anything but that these strawberries are delicious,’ added she, holding up a ruddy berry; ‘that the air is pure and balmy, my companions most agreeable, and life altogether very charming and enjoyable.’
“‘Would that life were made up of such moments,’ sighed her nearest neighbour, with an ardent glance; ‘but, alas! we must bend to so many influences beyond our own control!’
“‘Not a whit,’ retorted the lively lady, “Jeder ist seines Glückes Schmied” (every one forges his own happiness), saith the proverb.
“‘How can you say that, fairest of chatelaines, when you know that the happiness of each of us is dependant upon your goodwill,’ responded one of the gallants.
“‘And,’ added the Major von Eulenberg, a somewhat more sedate admirer, ‘you yourself,
