It was a chilly November afternoon. I had just consummated an
unusually hearty dinner, of which the dyspeptic _truffe_ formed not
the least important item, and was sitting alone in the dining-room
with my feet upon the fender and at my elbow a small table which
I had rolled up to the fire, and upon which were some apologies
for dessert, with some miscellaneous bottles of wine, spirit, and
_liqueur_. In the morning I had been reading Glover’s _Leonidas_,
Wilkie’s _Epigoniad_, Lamartine’s _Pilgrimage_, Barlow’s
_Columbiad_, Tuckerman’s _Sicily_, and Griswold’s _Curiosities_, I
am willing to confess, therefore, that I now felt a little stupid.
I made effort to arouse myself by frequent aid of Lafitte, and all
failing, I betook myself to a stray newspaper in despair. Having
carefully perused the column of “Houses to let,” and the column
of “Dogs lost,” and then the columns of “Wives and apprentices
runaway,” I attacked with great resolution the editorial matter,
and reading it from beginning to end without understanding a
syllable, conceived the possibility of its being Chinese, and
so re-read it from the end to the beginning, but with no more
satisfactory result. I was about throwing away in disgust
This folio of four pages, happy work
Which not even critics criticise,
when I felt my attention somewhat aroused by the paragraph which
follows:
“The avenues to death are numerous and strange. A London paper
mentions the decease of a person from a singular cause. He was
playing at ‘puff the dart,’ which is played with a long needle
inserted in some worsted, and blown at a target through a tin tube.
He placed the needle at the wrong end of the tube, and drawing
his breath strongly to puff the dart forward with force, drew the
needle into his throat. It entered the lungs, and in a few days
killed him.”
Upon seeing this I fell into a great rage, without exactly knowing
why. “This thing,” I exclaimed, “is a contemptible falsehood—a poor
hoax—the lees of the invention of some pitiable penny-a-liner, of
some wretched concocter of accidents in Cocaigne. These fellows
knowing the extravagant gullibility of the age set their wits
to work in the imagination of improbable possibilities, of odd
accidents as they term them, but to a reflecting intellect (like
mine, I added, in parenthesis, putting my forefinger unconsciously
to the side of my nose), to a contemplative understanding such
as I myself possess, it seems evident at once that the marvelous
increase of late in these ‘odd accidents’ is by far the oddest
accident of all. For my own part, I intend to believe nothing
henceforward that has anything of the ‘singular’ about it.”
“Mein Gott, den, vat a vool you bees for dat!” replied one of
the most remarkable voices I ever heard. At first I took it for
a rumbling in my ears—such as a man sometimes experiences when
getting very drunk—but upon second thought, I considered the sound
as more nearly resembling that which proceeds from an empty barrel
beaten with a big stick; and, in fact, this I should have concluded
it to be, but for the articulation of the syllables and words.
I am by no means naturally nervous, and the very few glasses of
Lafitte which I had sipped served to embolden me a little, so that
I felt nothing of trepidation, but merely uplifted my eyes with a
leisurely movement and looked carefully around the room for the
intruder. I could not, however, perceive any one at all.
“Humph!” resumed the voice as I continued my survey, “you mus pe so
dronk as de pig den for not zee me as I zit here at your zide.”
Hereupon I bethought me of looking immediately before my nose, and
there, sure enough, confronting me at the table sat a personage
nondescript, although not altogether indescribable. His body was a
wine-pipe or a rum puncheon, or something of that character, and
had a truly Falstaffian air. In its nether extremity were inserted
two kegs, which seemed to answer all the purposes of legs. For arms
there dangled from the upper portion of the carcass two tolerably
long bottles with the necks outward for hands. All the head that
I saw the monster possessed of was one of those Hessian canteens
which resemble a large snuff-box with a hole in the middle of the
lid. This canteen (with a funnel on its top like a cavalier cap
slouched over the eyes) was set on edge upon the puncheon, with the
hole toward myself; and through this hole, which seemed puckered
up like the mouth of a very precise old maid, the creature was
emitting certain rumbling and grumbling noises which he evidently
intended for intelligible talk.
“I zay,” said he, “you mos pe dronk as de pig, vor zit dare and not
zee me zit ere; and I zay, doo, you mos pe pigger vool as de goose,
vor to dispelief vat iz print in de print. ’Tiz de troof—dat it
iz—ebery vord ob it.”
“Who are you, pray?” said I with much dignity, although somewhat
puzzled; “how did you get here? and what is it you are talking
about?”
“As vor ow I com’d ere,” replied the figure, “dat iz none of your
pizziness; and as vor vat I be talking apout, I be talk apout vat
I tink proper; and as vor who I be, vy dat is de very ting I com’d
here for to let you zee for yourself.”
“You are a drunken vagabond,” said I, “and I shall ring the bell
and order my footman to kick you into the street.”
“He! he! he!” said the fellow, “hu! hu! hu! dat you can’t do.”
“Can’t do!” said I, “what do you mean? I can’t do what?”
“Ring de pell,” he replied, attempting a grin with his little
villainous mouth.
Upon this I made an effort to get up in order to put my threat
into execution, but the ruffian just reached across the table very
deliberately, and hitting me a tap on the forehead with the neck
of one of the long bottles, knocked me back into the armchair from
which I had half arisen. I was utterly astounded, and for a moment
was quite at a loss what to do. In the meantime he continued his
talk.
“You zee,” said he, “it iz te bess vor zit still; and now you shall
know who I pe. Look at me! zee! I am te _Angel ov te Odd_.”
“And odd enough, too,” I ventured to reply; “but I was always under
the impression that an angel had wings.”
“Te wing!” he cried, highly incensed, “vat I pe do mit te wing?
Mein Gott! do you take me for a shicken?”
“No—oh, no!” I replied, much alarmed; “you are no chicken—certainly
not.”
“Well, den, zit still and pehabe yourself, or I’ll rap you again
mid me vist. It iz te shicken ab te wing, und te owl ab te wing,
und te imp ab te wing, und te head-teuffel ab te wing. Te angel ab
_not_ te wing, and I am te _Angel ov te Odd_.”
“And your business with me at present is—is——”
“My pizziness!” ejaculated the thing, “vy vat a low-bred puppy you
mos pe vor to ask a gentleman und an angel apout his pizziness!”
This language was rather more than I could bear, even from an
angel; so, plucking up courage, I seized a salt-cellar which lay
within reach, and hurled it at the head of the intruder. Either he
dodged, however, or my aim was inaccurate; for all I accomplished
was the demolition of the crystal which protected the dial of the
clock upon the mantelpiece. As for the Angel, he evinced his sense
of my assault by giving me two or three hard, consecutive raps upon
the forehead as before. These reduced me at once to submission,
and I am almost ashamed to confess that, either through pain or
vexation, there came a few tears into my eyes.
“Mein Gott!” said the Angel of the Odd, apparently much softened at
my distress; “mein Gott, te man is eder ferry dronk or ferry zorry.
You mos not trink it so strong—you mos put te water in te wine.
Here, trink dis, like a good veller, and don’t gry now—don’t!”
Hereupon the Angel of the Odd replenished my goblet (which was
about a third full of port) with a colorless fluid that he poured
from one of his hand-bottles. I observed that these bottles had
labels about their necks, and that these labels were inscribed
“Kirschenwässer.”
The considerate kindness of the Angel mollified me in no little
measure; and, aided by the water with which he diluted my port more
than once, I at length regained sufficient temper to listen to his
very extraordinary discourse. I cannot pretend to recount all that
he told me, but I gleaned from what he said that he was a genius
who presided over the _contretemps_ of mankind, and whose business
it was to bring about the _odd accidents_ which are continually
astonishing the skeptic. Once or twice, upon my venturing to
express my total incredulity in respect to his pretensions, he grew
very angry indeed, so that at length I considered it the wiser
policy to say nothing at all, and let him have his own way. He
talked on, therefore, at great length, while I merely leaned back
in my chair with my eyes shut, and amused myself with munching
raisins and filiping the stems about the room. But, by and by,
the Angel suddenly construed this behavior of mine into contempt.
He arose in a terrible passion, slouched his funnel down over his
eyes, swore a vast oath, uttered a threat of some character, which
I did not precisely comprehend, and finally made me a low bow and
departed, wishing me, in the language of the archbishop in “Gil
Bias,” _beaucoup de bonheur et un peu plus de bon sens_.
His departure afforded me relief. The _very_ few glasses of Lafitte
that I had sipped had the effect of rendering me drowsy, and I felt
inclined to take a nap of some fifteen or twenty minutes, as is my
custom after dinner. At six I had an appointment of consequence,
which it was quite indispensable that I should keep. The policy of
insurance for my dwelling-house had expired the day before; and
some dispute having arisen it was agreed that, at six, I should
meet the board of directors of the company and settle the terms
of a renewal. Glancing upward at the clock on the mantelpiece
(for I felt too drowsy to take out my watch), I had the pleasure
to find that I had still twenty-five minutes to spare. It was
half-past five; I could easily walk to the insurance office in
five minutes; and my usual siestas had never been known to exceed
five-and-twenty. I felt sufficiently safe, therefore, and composed
myself to my slumbers forthwith.
Having completed them to my satisfaction, I again looked toward the
timepiece, and was half inclined to believe in the possibility of
odd accidents when I found that, instead of my ordinary fifteen or
twenty minutes, I had been dozing only three; for it still wanted
seven-and-twenty of the appointed hour. I betook myself again
to my nap, and at length a second time awoke, when, to my utter
amazement, it still wanted twenty-seven minutes of six. I jumped
up to examine the clock, and found that it had ceased running. My
watch informed me that it was half-past seven; and, of course,
having slept two hours, I was too late for my appointment. “It
will make no difference,” I said: “I can call at the office in the
morning and apologize; in the meantime what can be the matter with
the clock?” Upon examining it I discovered that one of the raisin
stems which I had been filiping about the room during the discourse
of the Angel of the Odd had flown through the fractured crystal,
and lodging, singularly enough, in the keyhole, with an end
projecting outward, had thus arrested the revolution of the minute
hand.
“Ah!” said I, “I see how it is. This thing speaks for itself. A
natural accident, such as will happen now and then!”
I gave the matter no further consideration, and at my usual hour
retired to bed. Here, having placed a candle upon a reading stand
at the bed head, and having made an attempt to peruse some pages
of the _Omnipresence of the Deity_, I unfortunately fell asleep in
less than twenty seconds, leaving the light burning as it was.
My dreams were terrifically disturbed by visions of the Angel
of the Odd. Methought he stood at the foot of the couch, drew
aside the curtains, and in the hollow, detestable tones of a rum
puncheon, menaced me with the bitterest vengeance for the contempt
with which I had treated him. He concluded a long harangue by
taking off his funnel-cap, inserting the tube into my gullet, and
thus deluging me with an ocean of Kirschenwässer, which he poured
in a continuous flood, from one of the long-necked bottles that
stood him instead of an arm. My agony was at length insufferable,
and I awoke just in time to perceive that a rat had run off with
the lighted candle from the stand, but _not_ in season to prevent
his making his escape with it through the hole, Very soon a strong,
suffocating odor assailed my nostrils; the house, I clearly
perceived, was on fire. In a few minutes the blaze broke forth with
violence, and in an incredibly brief period the entire building
was wrapped in flames. All egress from my chamber, except through
a window, was cut off. The crowd, however, quickly procured and
raised a long ladder. By means of this I was descending rapidly,
and in apparent safety, when a huge hog, about whose rotund
stomach, and indeed about whose whole air and physiognomy, there
was something which reminded me of the Angel of the Odd—when
this hog, I say, which hitherto had been quietly slumbering in
the mud, took it suddenly into his head that his left shoulder
needed scratching, and could find no more convenient rubbing-post
than that afforded by the foot of the ladder. In an instant I was
precipitated, and had the misfortune to fracture my arm.
This accident, with the loss of my insurance, and with the more
serious loss of my hair, the whole of which had been singed off by
the fire, predisposed me to serious impressions, so that finally I
made up my mind to take a wife. There was a rich widow disconsolate
for the loss of her seventh husband, and to her wounded spirit I
offered the balm of my vows. She yielded a reluctant consent to
my prayers. I knelt at her feet in gratitude and adoration. She
blushed and bowed her luxuriant tresses into close contact with
those supplied me temporarily by Grandjean. I know not how the
entanglement took place but so it was. I arose with a shining pate,
wigless; she in disdain and wrath, half-buried in alien hair. Thus
ended my hopes of the widow by an accident which could not have
been anticipated, to be sure, but which the natural sequence of
events had brought about.
Without despairing, however, I undertook the siege of a less
implacable heart. The fates were again propitious for a brief
period, but again a trivial incident interfered. Meeting my
betrothed in an avenue thronged with the elite of the city, I was
hastening to greet her with one of my best considered bows, when
a small particle of some foreign matter lodging in the corner of
my eye rendered me for the moment completely blind. Before I could
recover my sight, the lady of my love had disappeared—irreparably
affronted at what she chose to consider my premeditated rudeness
in passing her by ungreeted. While I stood bewildered at
the suddenness of this accident (which might have happened,
nevertheless, to any one under the sun), and while I still
continued incapable of sight, I was accosted by the Angel of the
Odd, who proffered me his aid with a civility which I had no reason
to expect. He examined my disordered eye with much gentleness and
skill, informed me that I had a drop in it, and (whatever a “drop”
was) took it out, and afforded me relief.
I now considered it high time to die (since fortune had so
determined to persecute me), and accordingly made my way to
the nearest river. Here, divesting myself of my clothes (for
there is no reason why we cannot die as we were born), I threw
myself headlong into the current; the sole witness of my fate
being a solitary crow that had been seduced into the eating of
brandy-saturated corn, and so had staggered away from his fellows.
No sooner had I entered the water than this bird took it into his
head to fly away with the most indispensable portion of my apparel.
Postponing, therefore, for the present, my suicidal design, I just
slipped my nether extremities into the sleeves of my coat, and
betook myself to a pursuit of the felon with all the nimbleness
which the case required and its circumstances would admit. But my
evil destiny attended me still. As I ran at full speed, with my
nose up in the atmosphere, and intent only upon the purloiner of my
property, I suddenly perceived that my feet rested no longer upon
_terra firma_; the fact is, I had thrown myself over a precipice,
and should inevitably have been dashed to pieces but for my good
fortune in grasping the end of a long guide-rope, which depended
from a passing balloon.
As soon as I sufficiently recovered my senses to comprehend the
terrific predicament in which I stood, or rather hung, I exerted
all the power of my lungs to make that predicament known to the
aeronaut overhead. But for a long time I exerted myself in vain.
Either the fool could not, or the villain would not perceive me.
Meanwhile the machine rapidly soared, while my strength even more
rapidly failed. I was soon upon the point of resigning myself to
my fate, and dropping quietly into the sea, when my spirits were
suddenly revived by hearing a hollow voice from above, which seemed
to be lazily humming an opera air. Looking up, I perceived the
Angel of the Odd. He was leaning, with his arms folded, over the
rim of the car; and with a pipe in his mouth, at which he puffed
leisurely, seemed to be upon excellent terms with himself and the
universe. I was too much exhausted to speak, so I merely regarded
him with an imploring air.
For several minutes, although he looked me full in the face, he
said nothing. At length, removing carefully his meerschaum from the
right to the left corner of his mouth, he condescended to speak.
“Who pe you,” he asked, “und what der teuffel you pe do dare?”
To this piece of impudence, cruelty, and affectation, I could reply
only by ejaculating the monosyllable “Help!”
“Elp!” echoed the ruffian, “not I. Dare iz te pottle—elp yourself,
und pe tam’d!”
With these words he let fall a heavy bottle of Kirschenwässer,
which, dropping precisely upon the crown of my head, caused me to
imagine that my brains were entirely knocked out. Impressed with
this idea I was about to relinquish my hold and give up the ghost
with a good grace, when I was arrested by the cry of the Angel, who
bade me hold on.
“’Old on!” he said: “don’t pe in te ’urry—don’t. Will you pe take
de odder pottle, or ’ave you pe got zober yet, and come to your
zenzes?”
I made haste, hereupon, to nod my head twice—once in the negative,
meaning thereby that I would prefer not taking the other bottle
at present; and once in the affirmative, intending thus to imply
that I _was_ sober and _had_ positively come to my senses. By these
means I somewhat softened the Angel.
“Und you pelief, ten,” he inquired, “at te last? You pelief, ten,
in te possibility of te odd?”