After my aunt Benicia's death I found in her little desk a bundle of letters, which threw light upon the romance of her life, and on the reason perhaps of her refusing many offers which were known to have been made her by honoured Californians of the last generation. The letters are curious and interesting to me, and were written to my uncle by his chum, and enclosed many sketches.

The letters are in Spanish, but for your better understanding I have translated them with all their strange expressions as best I can.

At first I thought that I would destroy them, but as most of my friends who read them now, have long known my aunt Benicia, I feel sure that they will be, even in these practical days, interested and touched by the revelation they so suggest of a life-long love which filled the heart of the good, little woman, who is at last at rest.

GrÜnen Markt.
WÜrzburg, 20th October, 18—.

Dear JosÉ:

How dull life here is, I cannot bear to look forward to the time so far ahead when I shall have done with the University, not that I shall be at all unhappy to leave and return to my dear California, but the twelve or sixteen months between now and then, make me shudder to think of.

My time is quite free now and I make many pleasure walks to Zell and the Hochberg, while almost every day finds me at some time on the Nicholaus Berg enjoying its ever lovely views of the green Maine valley, which however is now taking on its first autumnal tints.

Today I come from the stone quarry, which lies on the road to the Hochberg, where I have been chatting with the workmen and making a few sketches to send home to Benicia; the day has been one of the pleasantest I have known, just one of those mild autumn days we love so much in Santa Clara when her hills are clothed in their warmest colours and the big leaves are first falling from the fig trees. Ah, I did wish to be back again to walk with you along the dry Francisquito and gather the first golden poppies for Benicia's black hair. Yes, of course, I should be contented with these world-known beauties which I have about me, nevertheless, it is a pleasure to recall those happy days now that I am here alone on the continent of Europe. The warmth of our Californian sun must have entered our very hearts, for nowhere in all the world but there are found no strangers.

The grapes are not all picked as yet, and the vineyards are lively indeed with gaily dressed peasant girls, cutting and tying up the vines for the winter. There is a great difference between Catholic and Lutheran Germany in this one regard of dress; in all the Protestant districts the prevailing colour is a dull blue, while in Catholic parts the dress seems to have no end of colour and brilliant adornment; for an artist the latter is more pleasing, but for such a thoughtful moralist as yourself, I know the peasant girls in blue frocks would be preferable.

There are very few students in the city now and scarcely a traveller is to be seen, except now and then a stray one may be noticed wandering about the old cathedral or counting the restored statues on the river bridge. I always feel a longing to speak to these late birds of passage for they look so forlorn without their mates, that they make me think of my own sad plight so far away from you all; when the lectures begin I hope that I will be more satisfied than I am now.

Every day I go to Vespers at one of the churches, and I enjoy this bit of the day more than you could believe. It is beautiful just at dusk to enter the church in the Market Place, which is near my hotel, and there in the gloom, lighted only by the tapers at the shrines and where some of the worshipers are kneeling, each with a small wax light to illumine the Prayer Books, to bow with them and receive the blessing from the priest and to be touched by the Holy Water; then the Ave Maria, how I love to hear it chanted with such heartfelt praise by the old and trembling men and women, who throw their whole spirit into the melody. The melody, I know, could not bear cold criticism, but when I kneel there beneath the great, gray vault and see their breath ascending in the cold air, bearing like incense their prayers to Heaven, and hear the subdued strains of the organ, I feel that it is not the music of this world, and my heart is moved and I join in the grand hymn, mingling my soft Latin words with their glorious German.

The priest has passed down the aisle and sprinkled the Holy Water over us with the aspergil, the boys bearing the censers, preceding him have passed from sight with him behind the dark curtain at the Chancel door; there is a shuffling noise of the departing worshipers and I am alone.

Far away, before the golden Altar hangs a taper which throws a red glow into all the darkness, it is the Sacred Heart of Jesus, ever burning amid the gloom of sin. As my eyes become accustomed to the dim light, I can discern a female figure robed in gray, standing before the shrine of the Virgin, I cannot see the face though I often try, but whenever she becomes aware of my presence, she leaves the cathedral by the little door to the right which opens into the small court. This occurs every night, and though I have often tried to meet her by going out by the other door and around the front, I have as yet, not succeeded.

But enough of that now; today as I returned from my walk, I saw as I was crossing the bridge one of the first Californian women I have seen for a long time; I know that she was Californian or Mexican for there was more life in the eye than we see in the quiet, expressionless beauties of the rest of the world. I do not know why I must ever have this face in my mind since I met the fair one on the bridge; she looked at me directly in the eyes, and I feel sure that I have met her sometime before. I know the face; there is a strange drooping about the eyelids, which to me adds a charm to the whole appearance. I do wish I could think where in the world I have seen her. I am going to search the hotel books to-morrow for I will not rest until I find out her name. It was almost dark, however, when we met, and she was going toward the opposite side of the Maine where there are no foreign hotels.

I surmise, and suppose, and guess, but all to no purpose, while that one look seems to be planted indelibly upon my mind. I would give anything to see her again; I can think of nothing now, for the strange, inexpressible fascination of those eyelids has me entirely captive. Where have we met? Try and think, my dear boy, of some one of our acquaintance who tallies with my description; about my height, black hair, a white, unusually white face, finely marked eyebrows and the drooping lids, which when raised, disclose large, brilliant, yet languid, blue eyes,—I cannot give the picture to suit me, but you note the strange paleness and the eyes, and you must remember if you have ever met her.

I often go to the little opera house, where the music is of the best, yet I cannot enjoy myself, for, as ever I am alone; all I can do is just to think and think and imagine things to interest me through the dreary time. What strange fantasies I have brought up in my life! You know some of them, and it is quite true as you wrote in your last that translation from Hawthorne, "His caprices had their origin in a mind that lacked the support of an engrossing purpose and feelings that preyed upon themselves for lack of other food."

I try to interest myself in the things about me, but I am a dreamer. I wonder often what my life will come to in the end, of what use I shall be. No, it is not good that I should be alone; now, however, since I have seen the unknown beauty, I will not have to search my mind for subjects to keep it occupied, for SeÑorita California is quite a solid damsel and far from ethereal, and not at all ghostly, only that look about the eyes when the lids are drooping, and the complexion.

Don't forget my usual token to Benicia and give her the sketches, but of course no word of the girl; women never understand such things properly.

B. L. M.

Joaquin.

On the Nicholaus Berg.
22nd October, 18—.

Dear JosÉ:

This morning early, I took my walk as usual to the Chapel on the hill; the day was as fine as the last three have been and I began to feel better contented with so much Californian weather to help me.

Yesterday I did not think so much of the bridge beauty but today her strange features have come to me with double vividness, and it was to escape from this that I took the walk so very early this morning. I brought my sketch-book with me and expected to pass the whole day on the hill and in the woods just beyond.

The little, old woman who sweeps away the dry leaves from the steps so ruthlessly, smiled more than usual when I gave her the customary two pfennigs. I can never understand how the poor creature wages such a heartless war against these dying leaves of Autumn; it seems that she should have a sisterly feeling for them, knowing that she is herself so near to her own December.

The Stations of the Cross are arranged in little shrines on the many terraces which adorn the castle side of the hill; it is a pretty thought, bordering the path to the chapel with these stone pictures, most of them representing Christ's long, weary journey up Mount Calvary. There are always to be found before these shrines, people, mostly the peasantry, praying aloud, and here and there many a time I have seen them ascending the toilsome road on their knees.

What a grand view one has from the summit; the wide Valley of the Maine not yet brown, but smiling as it always does in its green beauty, far into December. The lumber rafts are floating lazily down, as it were in a dream, little thinking that in a few more hours they will have reached their journey's end, there to be broken. They are like myself somewhat, who am just as lazily, uselessly and alone wandering through life to the ending sooner or later; it is hard to go against the stream and the river is long and lovely, so I will float on just a little farther.

I made a sketch of WÜrzburg with its many spires and domes, which I enclose for Benicia, and then turned my attention to the Chapel with which I am always delighted; the frescoes in the dome are good and I never tire of sitting and looking up at them while I listen to the dull chanting of the Capuzin monks behind the iron grating to the right.

I have often had conversation with these monks whom I meet walking in the garden, and find them pleasant and entertaining, and far from being the gloomy mortals some people think them to be.

Nicholaus Berg.
Night.

Dear JosÉ:

Before I had finished my letter, Brother Andreas, with whom I am better acquainted than with the others, came to me and asked me to walk with him; he is not a German, but is from Spain, so you see I find use for my mother tongue where I little expected to need it. Brother Andreas speaks German of course, as he has been here some twenty years, and tells me he is quite contented with his life, never having a desire for sunny Spain, saying that all the home he has is beyond this world; I wish that I might feel as contented as the old Capuzin.

But you are curious to know why I am here at this time, and I will hasten to tell you what the strange cause is.

We walked about the Chapel and through parts of the garden where I had never been before, Brother Andreas relating to me the history of the city and the little Chapel. By this time we had wandered to the front of the building, and Brother Andreas raising his arm pointed to the face of the church over the door and repeated, "Refugium Peccatorum, Consolatrix Afflictorum, Sancta Maria, Ora Pro Nobis."

I did not look up at first, my attention at the time being directed to a company of peasants in the neighbouring vineyard, but at the words "Sancta Maria," I raised my eyes to the face of the church, and, oh my God, what did I see!

"Ora pro nobis," broke unintentionally from my lips, I clung convulsively to the arm of the good, old priest, my eyes were riveted upon the niche above the door, for there looking down on me, her eyes strangely drooping, her hands folded across her breast, stood the woman whom day before yesterday I met on the bridge; I say stood the woman, but it was only a statue carved in gray stone, an image of the Virgin, such as we see every day in the churches; this, however, was somewhat different, as it held no infant Christ in its arms, and then the face, that was not the face which should be given to Mary, the Mother of our Saviour.

No, the more I see those eyes, which I at first so much admired, the more I hate their look, but also strange to say, the more I am fascinated.

In a few moments I had recovered my usual composure enough to assure Brother Andreas that the cause of my strange behaviour was a sudden illness to which I was often subject, when tired, but the good man shook his head sadly and said, "No, my child, you have seen something supernatural, which has disturbed you; it is well that I am here." With that, he immediately made the Sign of the Cross and drew me into the chapel where he made some use of the Holy Water which I did not understand, nor did I care, for the sudden fright which had stopped my heart in its beating, now that all was over, sent the blood rushing through my veins with frightful rapidity making my head ache so terribly that I thought that I must die.

It was dark, the next I knew, the room was strange to me; A Crucifix hung on the wall, before which a single, dim oil lamp was burning, before this was a monk at prayer;—it seemed like a dream to me, it could not be real.

After awhile I moved, and the monk rose and came to me, showing, in the flickering light, the fatherly features of Brother Andreas.

"My child," he said, taking my hand in his, "I am happy that you are of our flock, for I can help you; I know your thoughts; it is well to think now when all is still. I will not urge you, but Christ is ever seeking for your soul; come to the true light of the Church where he may find you."

I made confession and received absolution, and he, making the Sign of the Cross, went from the room.

Presently I heard the monotonous chant of the monks in the Chapel and knew it was midnight. I have written this to you hurriedly on paper I have in my portfolio. The chanting is over and Brother Andreas' step is audible in the echoing corridor. Good Night.

Besa la mano,

Joaquin.

Nicholaus Berg.
30th October, 18—.

Dear JosÉ:

I am still at the cloister, though I have done nothing it seems to me during the past week but sleep, and am hardly strong enough now to carry the pen over the paper as I write to you.

The statue over the door stands there as it ever has, but it is too far away for me to see the awful eyes, so I can say nothing about them. But now my dear friend I have something more wonderful than ever to tell you.

Every night when the moon shines, this image of the Virgin comes down from her niche and wanders about the church; I have seen her four or five times, and she has often come under my window in these lone walks, and once I spoke to her, but the moment my voice sounded on the night air she was gone, and the same gray, stone image stood silent and dead in the niche.

What can I think of all this? I could not believe if any one should tell me of these things, but what I see with my own eyes I certainly cannot doubt.

The Brother Andreas is very good to me, and my box has been brought from the hotel to the cloister, so my room is as cheerful as possible with all your pictures around me.

How I wish that you were here, or I could hear from you, but never, my dear boy will that time come, I fear; I have given up the idea of ever having so great a pleasure in this world. I cannot write more now as I am too weak. Good night and greet Benicia for me.

31st October.

It is very late, but I must write now or never. To-night the image was stranger than ever, and for the first time I heard its voice, and oh, it sounded too sweetly to me as I sat by the window and looked out over the city as the moon rose above the hills to the east.

The Brothers were chanting at the time, and their deep base came in ever and ever so beautifully between the stanzas which the Virgin sung, and as she sung, she came down from her station slowly, as if there were steps in the air and she could tread upon them. The words were as weird as the scene.

Then the monks chanted in their low, measured tones,

And from the heights above the echo came,—"Roll—roll."

Then running lightly to the wall, which is on the river side, she leaned over and sung in a high, unearthly, wild voice, while her dark hair waved in the night wind,

Then running merrily to the other side nearer my window, she sung in the same wild key, as she turned her face to the forest,

The low chanting of the Monks ceased, and as I opened my window wider I could hear, like the higher notes of an organ, voices rising from the river and mingling in heavenly harmony; I could not at first catch the words, but the sweet, divinely sweet strains came nearer and nearer, and then with the same inexpressible gentleness, softly as if wafted from the angelic chorus came the rich, low notes from the forest, like the humming of bees, the sighing of hemlocks, or that sweet, strange sound we ever hear in the ocean shell. The voices came nearer and I could hear the wild, free words long before the singers were in the court.

Then from the river rose the song:

The singing now was in the very garden, but I could not see the singers, though I knew that they were there, for the strange creature-image whirled about the court, laughing and nodding on every side, while the music grew each moment louder and wilder, when suddenly all was still, and the image pausing in the middle of the court began with many odd gestures this weird song:

"Curse you!" I shrieked, leaning from the window, and all was gone; the statue was in its niche again, the Maria Virgo Sancta. I staggered back from the window and was received almost breathless from excitement in the arms of Brother Andreas who entered the room just then.

"My child, you should not sit by an open window; I fear that you have done yourself an injury already." He laid me down on the bed and when I awoke he was gone, and now I am writing off this scrap of a letter for you my dear friend. How I long to see you, and oh, why can I not have you here! Would to God that I had not met the woman on the bridge. My friend, my JosÉ, I dare not tell you what I fear; those eyes were upon me, those fatal eyes. No, no I will not keep it from you, I will tell you all and leave you the terrible duty of telling Benicia.

My dear boy, I am growing colder each moment; my hand trembles as I write this, my last letter; I pray that I may have strength to finish it. The river was not so long as I expected, and now my poor raft is breaking. Nor would I live, for now I know who has power over me, I know now whose were those drooping eyelids; it is better not to live, for I have not strength to conquer them.

It is autumn, the last leaves are falling, the cold winter is coming, but I shall not be here to dread its cold. My winter is on me now, and may God grant that through it I come to the eternal spring. All that I want is to see Benicia and you once more, but that cannot be. Now a last, long farewell to Benicia; I can write no more, I am too cold. The raft is broken; the journey was not long.

God bless you, good bye; I am going to lie down now. Give the ruby ring, which I wear, to dear Benicia as a memory of me; and tell Beni—

Here was the ending of the letter in the unfinished name of his loved one.

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