Originally published in Reynolds's Miscellany of Romance, General Literature, Science, and Art (John Dicks) vol.8 #203 (29 May 1852).
The churchyard of Munich is one of the most beautiful in the world; but if you would see it in all its perfection, you must visit it on All Souls Day. On that festival the dead have their fete; every grave and tomb is ornamented with flowers and wax-candles; and by its side some dear friend or relative of the deceased is kneeling. The home of the dead, thus perfumed and illuminated, presents a striking picture. Last year, as I was wandering through this singular garden on the fete day, I suddenly found myself in face of a friend whom I had not seen for some years. His countenance was pale, his eyes were melancholy, and he was leaning against an urn, which being wholly undecorated, formed a singular contrast to the other tombs. On my speaking to him, he shuddered like a criminal. The recognition was brief, but cordial.
"What is the matter?" I asked him: "does your bride lie here?" He shook his head in a melancholy manner.
"Here," said he, "lies a young girl whom I have never even known, though she has robbed me of all my peace. Some years ago business brought me to this town, and on All Souls Day I came to the church-yard to see the fete of the dead. This tomb was then fresh, and as much decorated with flowers as it is now neglected. A mother's love had then ornamented the tomb, which contained the remains of an only daughter: but grief soon laid the parent by the side of her child, and now no one cared for the beautiful dead. I, as a stranger, had felt curious to see the grave of her whose loveliness was upon every tongue; and I was tempted to take, as a souvenir of early departed beauty, one of the roses which was flowering on the tomb. I secretly plucked the rose, and placed it next my heart. I then bent my steps towards the entrance of the churchyard, and just as I was about to open the gate, my eyes were struck by the simple inscription: 'Respect the property of the dead.' I shuddered, conscious of the robbery I had committed, and the pious belief of my childhood returned with such force to my mind, that I almost decided to take back the flower to the tomb. Why did I not do so?
"A sentiment of false shame proved stronger than my belief, and my philosophical arguments overpowered what I termed a childish feeling. I returned to my hotel, and delighted myself for some time with admiring the rare beauty and perfume of my rose. I then placed it carefully in a vase of water, and went out to spend the evening with some friends. I returned rather late to my hotel, and retired to bed in a most joyful humour. I had scarcely closed my eyes in sleep, when the spectacle of the fete of the dead passed before me. I again stood at the tomb so profusely covered with roses, plucked one, and fled away, pursued by an owl, rushed home, and threw myself exhausted on a couch. Suddenly the door opened, and gave entrance to a beautiful figure in grave-clothes. The figure advanced towards me, and I trembled in every limb. 'Where is my rose?' it cried in a lamenting tone. 'What have I done to you that you should rob me? Is it thus that you respect the property of the dead one? Give me my rose back! I now knew that my visitor was she whose tomb I had visited; and unable to utter a word, I pointed to the window where the rose was standing in water.
"She motioned me to rise, and with an awful and irresistible power she drew me towards the flower which I took, and then she carried me with her out of the window. We floated through the air, far from the town, to the churchyard, and rested at the place where her grave was. All around was calm and deserted, no human being perceptible; but from the tombs, radiant with lamps, many-coloured flowers were waving and exhaling their perfumes. Presently the inhabitants of all the tombs arose, bathed their heads in the light of the lamps, and inhaled the fragrance of the flowers. The girl's tomb alone was dark--it had neither flower nor lights. Obedient to a sign from the apparition, I opened the dry earth above her grave, and planted the rose, and in an instant the little hillock was like a tulip-bed. 'Now,' said the figure, in a sepulchral voice, you belong to me! The grave opened, and the body, waving down like a snow-flake, drew me with it, and a whole heap of earth fell upon me. Oppressed by the clods, and almost suffocated by the embrace of the spectre, I tried to disengage myself; and my efforts awakening me, I found myself in bed, and the bright morning sun streaming through the window. When I had reflected for a little time on my dream, every particular of which was clear and distinct in my mind, I rose and went to the window, to look at the rose and inhale its perfume. Judge my dismay--the rose had disappeared! The glass was empty--but the window was closed and the door locked up. Every inquiry I made about the flower was fruitless--no one had seen it, no one had taken it away. Moreover, I was obliged to keep my anxiety secret, that I might not he laughed at by the incredulous, nor reproached by the believing. Since that time I have never known peace, and I am waiting from hour to hour for the inexorable phantom, who will surely fetch me and punish me for the depredation I committed on her grave."
I made every effort to calm my melancholy friend, and to dissipate his fears. But deeply rooted prejudices or convictions are not very easily extirpated. Concerts, theatres, he refused to visit; society he would not mix with. He had given up every sort of diversion ever sine the fatal dream, and disappearance of the rose. I had much trouble to induce him to accompany me on a visit to one of our old friends--Werner--who a few days before had married a girl in an inferior condition. The bride was a most lovely creature; she tried every means to make my poor friend merry, and in her exuberance of happiness she showed him the beautiful garland of flowers which she had worn only a few days before; and she recommended a similar garland to my friend, as a certain cure for his melancholy. My quick eyes discovered, hidden under the orange blossom, a flower rather uncommon in a wedding garland--a faded rose. Werner laughed when I asked him the meaning of such a flower in such a garland. "That is merely a fancy of mine." he said: "That faded flower, which I have carefully preserved for three years, was the first pledge of our love, and for that reason I took it from my desk and insisted upon having it placed in the bridal garland."
My melancholy friend listened with the greatest attention, and I myself was quite struck on reflecting that a rose had at the same time caused the happiness of one friend and the unhappiness of another.
My friend, Werner, continued: "It is just three years since Anna entered into my shop to make a purchase. I had often seen the charming girl, who was simply a servant in a neighbouring house, but I had never told her how much I was attached to her. That evening she had a rose in her bosom, the most beautiful I had ever seen. On this rose I began my conversation, and at last I told her of my love, and had the satisfaction to find that it was reciprocated. The rose she gave me was a talisman; it bound us in fidelity, till we were united at the altar."
My melancholy friend started. "Where did you get the rose from?" he asked, in a harsh tone, which rather surprised our host.
The blood mantled on the cheeks of the bride as she confessed she had picked up the rose in the street, under the windows of the hotel facing the shop. "The wind," she added, had in all probability blown it from one of the hotel windows, and I appropriated it to myself."
My friend rose up joyfully. He appeared as if just awakened from a long, long terrible nightmare. Werner and his wife heard with surprise the other part of the rose's history, and we all passed the evening merrily together.
When in the following year I again visited Munich, and again went on the fete day to the churchyard, I found my friend with a wife, busily engaged in decorating with rare flowers, the tomb of the neglected dead.