special public; you could see that it was adopted into several private collections.
As you made your way towards the well-known corner, you would often find the place occupied by a solitary person standing lost in contemplation. At different times, you would come upon all sorts of different people thus absorbed; but they all had the same peculiar expression before that picture, as if it cast a faded, yellowish reflection.
If you approached, the gazer would probably move away; it seemed as though only one person at a time could enjoy that work of art—as though one must be entirely alone with it.
In a corner of the garden, right against the high wall, stands an open summer-house. It is quite simply built of green lattice-work, which forms a large arch backed by the wall. The whole summer house is covered with a wild vine, which twines itself from the left side over the arched roof, and droops its slender branches on the right.
It is late autumn. The summer-house has already lost its thick roof of foliage. Only the youngest and most delicate tendrils of the wild vine have any leaves left. Before they fall, departing summer lavishes on them all the colour it has left; like light sprays of red and yellow flowers, they hang yet a while to enrich the garden with autumn's melancholy splendour.
The fallen leaves are scattered all around, and right before the summer-house the wind has with
