# Leigh Hunt’s London Journal/Volume 2/26 September 1835/The Spirit’s Summons

Translation of "Der Geisterruf" from Gespensterbuch volume 3 (1811). The translator J. O. could be John Oxenford (1812–1877).
THE SPIRIT’S SUMMONS.
FROM THE GERMAN OF APEL.
(For the London Journal.)
A beautiful Spring day had tempted Julia and her friends to enter into the open air. “What a pity that our Antonia cannot accompany us!” cried she at every new discovered charm with which reviving Nature met her eye. “She is over careful of herself;” said Meta, “Who could be injured by the noble and refreshing breezes of Spring? As for myself, I regard Spring in the light of a cheerful youth, a kind of Cupid, but not so fantastical or so artful; on the contrary, fresh and joyous from the very depths of his heart. Tell me, would a violet, or even a humble crocus bloom, if it coddled itself up in this manner? I am right,—am I not, Grünewald?”
“One plant is earlier than another, Mamsell,” replied the gardener; “For example, were I to take an orange-tree from the conservatory before St Pancras or St Sewatius’ day, I should meet with sorry success. Even now, many a crocus is frozen by the coldness of the nights, while an adonis endures frost and snow, and blooms among them with increased vigour.”
The young ladies laughed. “There’s a lecture for you,” said Julia. “I will tell it to Antonia, who keeps her Adonis much too warm.”
“That is unnecessary,” continued the gardener, still misunderstanding; “it will soon wither, if it is too closely tended.”
“To speak seriously,” said Julia; as she walked on, “I think Antonia has rather stopped at home on account of her whimsical lover, than by reason of her head-ache, though she certainly does belong to the number of those tender flowers who cannot venture into the world without the special protection of two Saints. The gentleman may be gallant enough, but he does not understand the treatment of a being so delicate as Antonia.”
“He should not be my husband,” added Cecilia; “I cannot make out why Antonia cleaves to him in the manner she does.”
“They both cause me many an uneasy moment,” returned Julia. “I would wager that Antonia does not love him, and that her fanciful resignation is no more than an overstraining of her feelings. She forces herself to this love, and I can foresee no issue but a sorrowful one to such a connexion.”
“But who compels her?” asked Meta. “It is her own choice, is it not?”
“She is certainly not compelled by any one,” replied Julia with a sigh—“but does compulsion only take place when one is teased by a father or a guardian? You both know Antonia as well as I? She feels herself bound to Normann because she thinks she must love him, because she once loved him, or, perhaps rather, because she fancied so.”
“I thought,” said Cecilia, “that she had given a promise to that effect to a person on his death-bed.”
“And that was the case,” said Julia; “but as I well know, even this was unnecessary; for had it not been so, she would still have felt herself bound to Normann. She fancies that by her hasty inclination towards him, she committed a crime against her first love, which must now be atoned for by a lasting and patient attachment.”
“But you must confess,” interrupted Meta, impatiently, “that Antonia drives these fancies much too far. No man can desire such sacrifices as she makes. Who could wish that on account of a transient inclination which she has felt towards a man, she should resign herself to him, and thus waste away her youth, her gaiety, and, in short, her whole life? I could not remain in her situation. With a hearty resolution, I would soon free myself.”
“We could all do it, dear Meta,” returned Julia, “provided we could be in Antonia’s situation, without, at the same time, being Antonia herself. Besides, consider that it is probable that our situations are formed according to ourselves, and that, therefore, it might be impossible for us to be in Antonia’s situation, and to act according to our own characters and dispositions. What the gardener said just now, respecting the flowers, is the case also with us. ‘Were I a rose,’ perhaps the crocus thinks, ‘in the first days of spring I would rival the apple blossoms;’ yet, if it were a rose, it would act as a rose, and conceal its tender buds. I feel that I could not act like Antonia, but I can appreciate the tenderness of her disposition.—Yes, I know that if I called her extremely amiable, I should yet say far too little. Her character is the living tone of an harmonicon. I would not have every instrument an harmonicon; but, nevertheless, is not that instrument excellent to the highest degree—nay, almost unearthly?”
“This is the cause of Antonia playing the harmonicon in so heavenly a style,” said Alicia; “yet she plays it but seldom now. I think I have not heard a tune from her in a year.”
“Nor I, either,” remarked Julia; “nor, indeed, any one else. Since the death of her Ewald, it is in vain I ask her for the least song. She always puts me off with promises that I shall again hear her play, but yet she always defers it from one time to another. Lately, I wished her to play a passage which I could not master, but even that was refused.”
“Perchance it makes her too, melancholy,” said Cecilia. “I always avoid speaking to her of Ewald; notwithstanding, I am utterly unacquainted with the nature of that connexion. You can give us some explanation, Julia; at least, if it be no secret.”
“Ewald,” began Julia, “was, according to my views, a man as unfit for Antonia as Normann. He resembled her more in tenderness, but he wanted that firmness by which such an etherial being as Antonia should be supported, in order to be happy; and this very want caused the unhappy turn in her fate. They were enamoured of each other, I might say, not as human beings, but as spirits, and they carried their feelings and fancy to such a pitch, that Ewald, at least, to whom, perhaps, this exaltation was not so natural as to Antonia, at times seemed to become giddy. At this period, Normann, Ewald’s university friend, first knew Antonia, and this acquaintance was soon followed by the most ardent love on his part. Antonia, perhaps, might have felt a transient inclination towards Normann, while she lived, but too much, in Ewald; and I am convinced that what she felt for the former was no more than friendship and esteem, which, indeed, none can deny to his firm and decided character. Ewald soon became aware of Normann’s love; he even fancied that he could discern in Antonia a secret passion for the latter; and under the influence of exaggerated feelings, which were heightened by an illness, he resolved to renounce his beloved in favour of his friend. He wrote a most fantastical letter to both, then lost his senses, and probably hastened his end by the immoderate use of violent remedies. Both Antonia and Normann were present at his death, and on this occasion the expiring man, perhaps with consciousness, perhaps inspired by a delirious fancy, joined their hands, then asked Antonia for a song on the harmonicon, and while she was playing he breathed his last. Hence, from that time, ​she has been unwilling to play on the instrument, which reminds her of the death of her lover.”
“But you must play us something,” said both her friends, “and that to-night. There is an harmonicon in the house—besides, the evening air will soon become too damp and cold for the garden.”
Julia promised to grant their request, and the three friends, after wandering a few times more through the garden, hastened into the parlour, which was enlivened and warmed by a blazing fire.
“No lights, no lights,” cried Meta, as the servant brought in candles—“the fire is enough, and the harmonicon sounds best in the dark.”
Upon this the two girls seated themselves on a sofa, at some distance, and pressed close to each other in the darkness, while Julia opened her instrument, and made the necessary preparations for playing.
“Optical illusions should be introduced with the sound of an harmonicon,” said Cecilia; “the very preparations before one hears a tone, make one fearful—the rustling of the sponge upon the glasses, the faint glimmer of these, if a light is reflected on them, all seems a kind of annunciation that something strange is about to enter.”
Julia struck the first tone. She made it slowly swell, and gradually united it with full harmonising tones. At this moment both the girls sprang from the sofa with a loud scream.
Julia looked round, and would have reproved them, but cousin Arnold, who had walked in lightly not to disturb her, appeased her rising anger, and both the girls, who had taken him for a ghost, were well laughed at.
“Now,” said Arnold, “they will say the same of you, fair Julia, as they do of Antonia, that your praying on the harmonicon raises spirits. Fortunately, the spirits which you charm are not of so ghostly a nature as Antonia’s.”
“Antonia’s?” repeated Julia, “what do you mean?”
“I will not vouch for it,” said Arnold, “but it is whispered that when Antonia plays on the harmonicon, a shade comes up to her and sighs.”
“Ewald’s shade, certainly!” cried Meta.
“That I do not know,” answered he; “probably no more Ewald’s than any one else’s. However, the story tells well; a power to attract spirits can be easily ascribed to the spiritual harmonicon.”
“Especially as played by Antonia,” added Julia. “Her tone is more spiritual than the mere tone of the spiritual harmonicon. It is, one may say, quite incorporeal, and seems like a sound from another world. I, at least, have heard such a tone from none but her.”
“So say all,” returned Arnold with gallantry, “who have never been so happy as to hear the fair Julia. May I entreat you?”
He pointed to the open harmonicon.
“Not this evening,” said Julia. “You have frightened me with your story of the shadow raised by Antonia’s harmonicon; and it is strange that Antonia has not been induced to play for some time past.”
“Indeed!” ejaculated Arnold. “I heard that this very evening she promised this treat to a circle of Normann’s friends.”
“Impossible!” cried Julia, “or else the unfeeling man has tormented the poor yielding creature with his wilfulness. Poor Antonia! he does not even spare her to-day, when she already feels pain enough without this.”
Arnold and the girls again conducted Julia to the harmonicon, and entreated her to play.
“You annoy me,” said she; “it is, indeed, with fear that I place myself at the instrument, as if I myself should invoke spirits; and when I think that, perhaps at this very moment, Antonia is sitting at the harmonicon with a heart full of anguish, and is in vain begging to be spared her pains, this causes a feeling to come over me that makes my hands tremble, and cramps my feet. You will be badly entertained by my playing.”
She began a serious passage with long sustained tones, which strangely echoed in the wide and empty room. She then wished to turn it into a choral song, but it seemed as if she could not hit upon the right air; for she played melodies which were indeed similar, but she could not sustain the proper one.
Cecilia reminded her of this.
“I know it well,” said Julia; “this chorus has often been played by Antonia, but to-day I feel as if afraid of the melody, though it is always sounding in my ears from the first of the morning. However, it must do for the present.”
She ended with loud notes, and then arose.
“What a beautiful sound there is in the room!” cried Cecilia.
“What is that?” asked Julia shuddering.
The glasses still trembled and gave a sound. It was as a tone raised by the breath of the wind; it swelled lightly, and melted away into whispers.
“God in Heaven!” cried Julia aloud, “Antonia’s tones, her choral song! the harmonicon is playing of itself.”
The echo dissolved itself into a light and passing melody. Julia fainted away into the arms of her friends. She maintained, when she again became conscious, that the harmonicon had of itself played Antonia’s favourite air, which had been heard by Ewald in his last moments. The others had certainly heard a strange vibration from the glasses, and even a sort of melody; but in the confusion excited by Julia’s cry, they were rendered incapable of closely distinguishing the singular tones. Arnold maintained that an Eolian harp which stood on the floor above, had given the sounds; but, on examination, they found that its strings were broken.
In an uneasy mood they went to the town. Julia, though faint and terror, hastened to Antonia, found and that the warning had not deceived her. Antonia had been unable to resist the urgent entreaties; she had played the fatal air, which Julia so carefully shunned. At the second verse she had fallen back with a faint screem, and no endeavours could recall her to life.
It was said that Normann, a few minutes previously, had been seen gazing at an adjacent door with eyes fixed with terror; but before the company could interrogate him, Antonia’s fate diverted their attention, and they only thought of the dying one. Afterwards he avoided all questions; but still it was supposed that the strange power which had summoned Antonia from this life, had not been unperceived by him. J. O.
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