the well country-seat of the Margrave in the neighborhood of Beireuth.  It attracted her attention.  Beireuth, Richard Wagner.  So she read:  “Among the pictures in the ‘Hermitage’ let us mention one more, which not because of its beauty, but because of its age and the person it represents, may well claim our interest.  It is a woman’s portrait, which has grown dark with age.  The head is small, the face has harsh, rather uncanny features, and she wears a ruff which seems to support her head.  Some think it is an old margravine from the end of the 15th century, others are of the opinion that it is the Countess of Orlamunde.  All are agreed that it is the picture of the Lady who since that time has achieved a certain notoriety in the history of the Hohenzollern dynasty under the name of the ‘Lady in white.’”

“That was a lucky accident!” said Effi, as she shoved the book aside.  “I seek to quiet my nerves, and the first thing I run into is the story of the ‘Lady in white,’ of whom I have been afraid as long as I can remember.  But inasmuch as I already have a creepy feeling I might as well finish the story.”

She opened the book again and read further:  “This old portrait itself, the original of which plays such a role in Hohenzollern history, has likewise a significance as a picture in the special history of the Hermitage.  No doubt, one circumstance that has something to do with this is the fact that the picture hangs on a papered door, which is invisible to the stranger and behind which there is a stairway leading down into the cellar.  It is said that when Napoleon spent the night here the ‘Lady in white’ stepped out of the frame and walked up to his bed.  The Emperor, starting with fright, the story continues, called for his adjutant, and to the end of his life always spoke with exasperation of this ‘cursed palace.’”

“I must give up trying to calm myself by reading,” said Effi.  “If I read further, I shall certainly come to a vaulted cellar that the devil once rode out of on a wine cask.  There are several of these in Germany, I believe, and in a tourist’s handbook all such things have to be collected; that goes without saying.  So I will close my eyes, rather, and recall my wedding-eve celebration as well as I can,—­how the twins could not get any farther because of their tears, and how, when everybody looked at everybody else with embarrassment, Cousin von Briest declared that such tears opened the gate to Paradise.  He was truly charming and always in such exuberant spirits.  And look at me now!  Here, of all places!  Oh, I am not at all suited to be a grand Lady.  Now mama, she would have fitted this position, she would have sounded the key-note, as behooves the wife of a district councillor, and Sidonie Grasenabb would have been all homage toward her and would not have been greatly disturbed about her belief or unbelief.  But I—­I am a child and shall probably remain one, too.  I once heard that it is a good fortune.  But I don’t know whether that is true.  Obviously a wife ought always to adapt herself to the position in which she is placed.”