It was on a sultry July evening that a joyous party of young men were
assembled in the principal room of a wine house, outside the Potsdam
gate of Berlin. One of their number, a Saxon painter, by name Carl
Solling, was about to take his departure for Italy. His place was
taken in the Halle mail, his luggage sent to the office, and the coach
was to call for him at midnight at the tavern, whither a number of his
most intimate friends had accompanied him, to drink a parting glass of
Rhenish wine to his prosperous journey.
Supper was over, and some magnificent melons, and peaches, and plates
of caviare, and other incentives to drinking, placed upon the table; a
row of empty bottles already graced the sideboard, while full ones of
that venerable cobweb-mantle appearance, so dear to the toper, were
forthcoming as rapidly as the thirstiest throats could desire. The
conviviality was at its height, and numerous toasts had been given,
among which the health of the traveller, the prosperity of the art
which he cultivated, and of the land of poetry and song to which he
was proceeding, had not been forgotten. Indeed, it was becoming
difficult to find any thing to toast, but the thirst of the party was
still unquenched, and apparently unquenchable.
Suddenly a young man started up, in dress and appearance the very
model of a German student--in short frock coat and loose sacklike
trousers, long curling hair hanging over his shoulders, pointed beard
and mustache, and the scars of one or two sabre cuts on his handsome
animated countenance.
"You want a toast, my friends!" cried he. "An excuse to drink, as
though drinking needed an excuse when the wine is good. I will give
you one, and a right worthy one too. Our noble selves here assembled;
all, so many as we are!" And he glanced round the table, counting the
number of the guests. "One, two, three, four--thirteen. We are
Thirteen. _Es lebe die Dreizehn!_"
He raised his glass, in which the golden liquor flashed and sparkled,
and set it down, drained to the last drop.
"_Thirteen!_" exclaimed a pale-faced, dark-eyed youth named Raphael,
starting from his seat, and in his turn counting the company. "'Tis
true. My friends, ill luck will attend us. We are Thirteen, seated at
a round table."
There was evidently an unpleasant impression made upon the guests by
this announcement. The toast-giver threw a scornful glance around
him--
"What!" cried he, "are we believers in such nursery tales and old
wives' superstitions? Pshaw! The charm shall soon be broken. Halls!
Franz! Winebutt! Thieving innkeeper! Rascally corkdrawer! where are
you hidden? Come forth! Appear!"
Thus invoked, there toddled into the room the master of the tavern--a
round-bellied, short-legged individual, whose rosy gills and
Bacchus-like appearance proved his devotion to the jolly god whose
high-priest he was.
"Sit down here!" cried the mad student, forcing him into a chair; "and
now, Raphael and gentlemen all, be pleased to shorten your faces
again, and drink your wine as if one with a three after it were an
unknown combination of numerals."
The conversation now took a direction naturally given to it by what
had just occurred, and the origin and causes of the popular prejudice
against the number Thirteen were discussed.
"It cannot be denied that there is something mysterious in the
connection and combination of numbers," observed a student in
philosophy; "and Pythagoras was right enough when he sought the
foundation of all human knowledge in the even and uneven. All over the
world the idea of something complete and perfect is associated with
even numbers, and of something imperfect and defective with uneven
ones. The ancients, too, considered even numbers of good omen, and
uneven ones as unpropitious."
"It is really a pity," cried the mad student, "that you philosophers
should not be allowed to invert and re-arrange history in the manner
you deem fitting. You would soon torture the crooked stream of time
into a straight line. I should like to know from what authors you
derive your very original ideas in favour of even numbers. As far as
my reading goes, I find that number three was considered a sacred and
a fortunate number by nearly all the sects of antiquity, not excepting
the Pythagoreans. And the early Romans had such a respect for the
uneven numbers, that they never allowed a flock of sheep to be of any
number divisible by two."
The philosopher did not seem immediately prepared with a reply to this
attack.
"You are all of you looking too far back for the origin of the curse
that attends the number Thirteen," interposed Raphael. "Think only of
the Lord's Supper, which is rather nearer to our time than Pythagoras
and the Roman shepherds. It is since then that Thirteen has been a
stigmatized and fatal number. Judas Iscariot was the Thirteenth at
that sacred table and believe me it is no childish superstition that
makes men shun so unblest a number."
"Here is Solling, who has not given his opinion yet," cried another of
the party, "and yet I am sure he has something to say on the subject.
How now, Carl, what ails thee, man? Why so sad and silent?"
The painter who, at the commencement of the evening, had entered
frankly and willingly into the joyous humour of his friends, had
become totally changed since the commencement of this discussion on
the number _Thirteen_. He sat silent and thoughtful in his chair, and
left his glass untasted before him, while his thoughts were evidently
occupied by some unpleasant subject. His companions pressed him for
the cause of this change, and after for some time evading their
questions, he at last confessed that the turn the conversation had
taken had brought painful recollections to his mind.
"It is a matter I love not to speak about," said he; "but it is no
secret, and least of all could I have any wish to conceal it from you,
my good and kind friends. We have yet an hour before the arrival of
the mail, and if you are disposed to listen, I will relate to you the
strange incidents, the recollection of which has saddened me."
The painter's offer was eagerly accepted; the young men drew their
chairs round the table, and Solling commenced as follows:--
"I am a native of the small town of Geyer, in Saxony, of the tin mines
of which place my father was inspector. I was the twelfth child of my
parents and half an hour after I saw the light my mother give birth to
a Thirteenth, also a boy. Death, however, was busy in this numerous
family. Several had died while yet infants, and there now survive only
three besides myself, and perhaps my twin brother.
"The latter, who was christened Bernard, gave indications at a very
early age of an eccentric and violent disposition. Precocious in
growth and strength, wild as a young foal, headstrong and passionate,
full of spiteful tricks and breakneck pranks, he was the terror of the
family and the neighbours. In spite of his unamiable qualities, he was
the pet of his father, who pardoned or laughed at all his mischief,
and the consequence was, that he became an object of fear and hatred
to his brothers and sisters. Our hatred, however, was unjust; for
Bernard's heart was good, and he would have gone through fire and
water for any of us. But he was rough and violent in whatever he did,
and we dreaded the fits of affection he sometimes took for us, almost
as much as his less amiable humours.
"As far back as I can remember, Bernard received not only from his
brothers, but also from all our playfellows, the nickname of the
Thirteenth, in allusion, of course, to his being my mother's
thirteenth child. At first this offended him grievously, and many were
the sound thrashings he inflicted in his endeavours to get rid of the
obnoxious title. Finally he succeeded, but scarcely had he done so
when, from some strange perversity of character, he adopted as an
honourable distinction the very name he had taken such pains to
suppress.
"We were playing one Sunday afternoon in the large court of our house;
several of the neighbours' children were there, and it chanced that we
were exactly twelve in number. We had wooden swords, and were having
a sort of tournament, from which, however, we had managed to exclude
Bernard, who, in such games, was accustomed to hit rather too hard.
Suddenly he bounded over a wall, and fell amongst us like a
thunderbolt. He had painted his face in red and black stripes, and
made himself a pair of wings out of an old leathern apron; and thus
equipped and armed with the largest broomstick he had been able to
find, he showered his blows around him, driving us right and left, and
shouting out, 'Room, room for the mad Thirteenth!'
"Soon after this incident my father died. Bernard, who had been his
favourite, was as violent in his grief as he had already shown himself
to be in every thing else. He wept and screamed like a mad creature,
tore his hair, bit his hands till they bled, and struck his head
against the wall; raved and flew at every body who came near him, and
was obliged to be shut up when his father's coffin was carried out of
the house, or he would inevitably have done himself or somebody else a
mischief.
"My mother had an unmarried brother in the town of Marienberg, a
wealthy man, and who was Bernard's godfather. On learning my father's
death he came to Geyer, and invited his sister and her children to go
and take up their abode with him. But the worthy man little knew the
plague he was receiving into his house in the person of his godson.
Himself of a mild, quiet disposition, he was greatly scandalized by
the wild pranks of his nephew, and made vain attempts to restrain him
within some bounds; but by so doing he became the aversion of my
brother, who showed his dislike in every possible way. He gave him
nicknames, broke his china cups and saucers, by which the old
gentleman set great store, splashed his white silk stockings with mud
as he went to church, put the house clock an hour forward or back, and
tormented his kind godfather in every way he could devise.
"Bernard had not forgotten his title of the Thirteenth; but it was
probable he would soon have got tired of it, for it was not his custom
to adhere long to any thing, had not my uncle, who was a little
superstitious, strictly forbidden him to adopt it. This opposition was
all that was wanting to make my brother bring forward the unlucky
number upon every possible occasion. When any body mentioned the
number twelve before him, or called any thing the twelfth, Bernard
would immediately cry out, 'And I am the Thirteenth!'
"No matter when it was, or before whom; time, place, and persons were
to him alike indifferent. For instance, one Sunday in church, when the
clergyman in the course of the service said, 'Let us sing a portion of
such a psalm, beginning at the twelfth verse,' Bernard immediately
screamed out, 'And I am the Thirteenth!'
"This was a grievous scandal to my uncle, and Bernard was called that
evening before a tribunal, composed of his godfather, my mother, and
the old clergyman whom he had so gracelessly interrupted, and who was
also teacher of Latin and theology at the school to which Bernard and
I went. But all their reproaches and remonstrances were lost upon my
brother, who had evidently much difficulty to keep himself from
laughing in their faces. My mother wept, my uncle paced the room in
great perplexity, and the worthy old dominie clasped his hands
together, and exclaimed, 'My child! I fear me, God's chastisement will
be needed to amend you.' The event proved that he was right.
"It was on the Friday before Christmas-day, and we were assembled in
school. The near approach of the holidays had made the boys somewhat
turbulent, and the poor old dominie had had much to suffer during the
whole day from their tricks and unruliness. My brother, of course, had
contributed largely to the disorder, much to the delight of his bosom
friend and companion, the only son of the master. This boy, whose name
was Albert, was a blue-eyed, fair haired lad, gentle as a girl.
Bernard had conceived a violent friendship for him, and had taken him
under his protection. Albert's father, as may be supposed, was little
pleased at this intimacy, but yet, out of consideration for my uncle,
he did not entirely forbid it; and the more so as he perceived that
his son in no respect imitated his wild playmate, but contented
himself with admiring him beyond all created beings, and repaying with
the warmest affection Bernard's watchful and jealous guardianship.
"On the afternoon in question, my brother surpassed himself in wayward
conceits and mischievous tricks, to the infinite delight of Albert,
who rocked with laughter at each new prank. The good dominie, who was
indulgence itself, was instructing us in Bible history, and had to
interrupt himself every moment to repress the unruliness of his
pupils, and especially of Bernard.
"It seemed pre-ordained that the lesson should be an unlucky one.
Every thing concurred to make it so. Our instructor had occasion to
speak of the twelve tribes of Israel, of the twelve patriarchs, of the
twelve gates of the holy city. Each of these served as a cue to my
brother, who immediately shouted out, 'And I am the Thirteenth!' and
each time Albert threw himself back shrieking with laughter, thus
encouraging Bernard to give full scope to his mad humour. The poor
dominie remonstrated, menaced, supplicated, but all in vain. I saw the
blood rising into his pale face, and at last his bald head, in spite
of the powder which sprinkled it, became red all over. He contained
himself, however, and proceeded to the account of the Lord's Supper.
He began, 'And when the hour was come, he sat down, and the twelve
apostles with him.'
"'And I am the Thirteenth!' yelled Bernard.
"Scarcely were the words uttered, when a Bible flew across the school,
the noise of a blow, and a cry of anguish followed, and the old man
fell senseless to the ground. The heavy Bible, the corners of which
were bound with silver, and that he had hurled in a moment of
uncontrollable passion at my brother, had missed its mark, and struck
his own son on the head. Albert lay bleeding on the floor, while
Bernard hung over him like one beside himself, weeping, and kissing
his wounds.
"The boys ran, one and all, out of the school-room, shrieking for
assistance. Our cries soon brought the servants to the spot, who, on
learning what had happened, hastened with us back to the school, and
lifted up the old master, who was still lying on the ground near his
desk. He had been struck with apoplexy, and survived but a few hours.
Albert was wounded in two places, one of the sharp corners of the
Bible having cut open his forehead, while another had injured his left
eye. After much suffering he recovered, but the sight of the eye was
gone.
"Bernard, however, had disappeared. When we re-entered the
school-room, a window which looked into the playground was open, and
there were marks of footsteps on the snow without. A short distance
further were traces of blood, where the fugitive had apparently washed
his face and hands in the snow. We have never seen him since that
day."
The painter paused, and his friends remained some moments silent,
musing on the tragical history they had heard.
"And do you know nothing whatever of your brother's fate?" enquired
Raphael at last.
"Next to nothing. My uncle caused enquiries to be made in every
direction, but without success. Once only a neighbour at Marienberg,
who had been travelling on the Bohemian frontier, told us that he had
met at a village inn a wandering clarinet-player, who bore so strong a
resemblance to my brother that he accosted him by his name. The
musician seemed confused, and muttering some unintelligible reply,
left the house in haste. What renders it probable that this was
Bernard is, that he had a great natural talent for music, and at the
time he left home, had already attained considerable proficiency on
the clarinet."
"How old was your brother when he so strangely disappeared?" asked one
of the party.
"Fifteen, but he looked at least two years older, for he was stout and
manly in person beyond his age."
At this moment the rattling of wheels, and sound of a postilion's
horn, was heard. The Halle mail drove up to the door, the guard
bawling out for his passenger. The young painter took a hasty leave of
his friends, and sprang into the vehicle, which the next instant
disappeared in the darkness.
There was an overplus of travellers by the mail that night, and the
carriage in which Solling had got, was not the mail itself, but a
caleche, holding four persons, which was used as a sort of
supplement, and followed close to the other carriage. Two of the
places were occupied by a Jew horse-dealer and a sergeant of hussars,
who were engaged in an animated, and to them most interesting
conversation, on the subject of horse-flesh, to which the painter paid
little attention; but leaning back in his corner, remained absorbed in
the painful reflections which the incidents he had been narrating had
called up in his mind. In spite of his brother's eccentricities, he
was truly attached to him; and although eight years had elapsed since
his disappearance, he had not yet given up hopes of finding him, if
still alive. The enquiries that he and his uncle had unceasingly made
after their lost relative, had put them, about three years previous to
this time, upon the trace of a clarinet-player who had been seen at
Venice and Trieste, and went by the name of Voltojo. This might have
been a name adopted by Bernard, as being nearly the Italian equivalent
of Geyer, or hawk, the name of his native town; and Solling was not
without a faint hope, that in the course of his journey to Rome he
might obtain some tidings of his brother.
He was roused from his reverie by the postilion shouting out to the
guard of the mail, which was just before them on the road, to know
when they were to take up the passenger who was to occupy the
remaining seat in the caleche.
"Where will the Thirteenth meet us?" asked the man.
"At the inn at Schoneber," replied the guard.
_The Thirteenth!_ The word made the painter's blood run cold. The
horse-dealer and the sergeant, who had begun to doze in their
respective corners, were also disturbed by the ill-omened sound.
"The Thirteenth! The Thirteenth!" muttered the Jew in his beard, still
half asleep. "God forbid! Let's have no thirteenth!"
A company of travelling comedians, who occupied the mail, took up the
word. "The Thirteenth is coming," said one.
"Somebody will die," cried another.
"Or we shall be upset and break our necks," exclaimed a third.
"No Thirteenth!" cried they all in chorus. "Drive on! drive on! he
sha'n't get in!"
This was addressed to the postilion, who just then pulled up at the
door of a village inn, and giving a blast with his horn, shouted
loudly for his remaining passenger to appear.
The door of the public-house opened, and a tall figure, with a small
knap-sack on his shoulder and a knotty stick in his hand, stepped out
and approached the mail. But when he heard the cries of the comedians,
who were still protesting against the admission of a Thirteenth
traveller, he started suddenly back, swinging his cudgel in the air.
"To the devil with you all, vagabonds that ye are!" vociferated he.
"Drive on, postilion, with your cage of monkeys. I shall walk."
At the sound of the stranger's voice, Solling sprang up in the
carriage and seized the handle of the door. But as he did so, a strong
arm grasped him by the collar, and pulled him back into his seat. At
the same moment the carriage drove on.
"The man is drunk," said the sergeant, who had misinterpreted his
fellow-passenger's intentions. "It is not worth while dirtying your
hands, and perhaps getting an ugly blow, in a scuffle with such a
fellow."
"Stop, postilion, stop!" shouted Solling. But the postilion either did
not or would not hear, and some time elapsed before the painter could
persuade his well-meaning companion of his peaceable intentions. At
length he did so, and the carriage, which had meanwhile been going at
full speed, was stopped.
"You will leave my luggage at the first post-house," said Solling,
jumping out and beginning to retrace his steps to the village, which
they had now left some distance behind them.
The night was pitch-dark, so dark that the painter was compelled to
feel his way, and guide himself by the line of trees that bordered the
road. He reached the village without meeting a living creature, and
strode down the narrow street amid the baying of the dogs, disturbed
by his footfall at that silent hour of the night. The inn door was
shut, but there was a light glimmering in one of the casements. He
knocked several times without any body answering. At length a woman's
head was put out of an upper window.
"Go your ways," cried a shrill voice, "and don't come disturbing
honest folk at this time o' night. Do you think we have nought to do
but to open the door for such raff as you? Be off with you, you
vagabond, and blow your clarinet elsewhere."
"You are mistaken, madam," said Solling; "I am no vagabond, but a
passenger by the Halle mail, and"--
"What brings you here, then?" interrupted the virago; "the Halle mail
is far enough off by this."
"My good madam," replied the painter in his softest tone, "for God's
sake tell me who and where is the person who was waiting for the mail
at your hotel."
"Ha! ha!" laughed the hostess, considerably mollified by the _madam_
and the _hotel_. "The mad Italian musician, the clarinet fellow? Why,
I took you for him at first, and wondered what brought him back, for
he started as soon as the mail left the door. He'd have done better to
have got into it, with a dark night and a long road before him. Ha!
ha! He's mad, to be sure."
"His name! His name!" cried Solling, impatiently.
"His name? How can I recollect his outlandish name? Fol--Vol----"
"Voltojo!" cried the painter.
"Voltojo! yes, that's it. Ha! ha! What a name!"
"It is he!" cried Solling, and without another word dashed off full
speed along the road he had just come. He kept in the middle of the
causeway, straining his eyes to see into the darkness on either side
of him, and wondering how it was he had not met the object of his
search as he came to the village. He ran on, occasionally taking trees
and fingerposts for men, and cursing his ill luck when he saw his
mistake. The sweat poured down his face in streams, and his knees
began to knock together with fatigue. Suddenly he struck his foot
against a stone lying in the road, and fell, cutting his forehead
severely upon some pebbles. The sharp pain drew a cry from him, and a
man who had been lying on the grass at the roadside, sprang up and
hastened to his assistance. At that moment a flash of summer lightning
lit up the road.
"Bernard! Bernard!" cried the painter, throwing his arms round the
stranger's neck. It was his brother.
Bernard started back with a cry of horror.
"Albert!" he exclaimed in a hollow voice, "Cannot your spirit rest? Do
you rise from the grave to persecute me?"
"In God's name, my dear brother, what mean you? I am Carl--Carl, your
twin brother."
"Carl? No! Albert! I see that horrid wound on your brow. It still
bleeds!"
The painter grasped his brother's hand.
"I am flesh and blood," said he, "and no spirit. Albert still lives."
"He lives!" exclaimed Bernard, and clasped his brother in his arms.
Explanations followed, and the brothers took the road to Berlin. When
the painter had replied to Bernard's questions concerning their
family, he in his turn begged his brother to relate his adventures
since they parted, and above all to give his reasons for remaining so
long severed from his friends and home.
"Although I fully believed Albert killed by the blow he received,"
replied Bernard, "it was no fear of punishment for my indirect share
in his death, that induced me to fly. But when I saw the father
senseless on the ground, and the son expiring before my eyes, I felt
as if I was accursed, as if the brand of Cain were on my brow, and
that it was my fate to roam through the world an isolated and
wretched being. When you all ran out of the school to fetch
assistance, it seemed to me as though each chair and bench and table
in the room received the power of speech, and yelled and bellowed in
my ears the fatal number which has been the cause of all my
misfortunes--'Thirteen! Thirteen! Thou art the Thirteenth, the
Accursed One!'
"I fled, and since that day no rest or peace has been mine. Like my
shadow has this unholy number clung to me. Wherever I went, in all the
many lands I have wandered through, I carried with me the curse of my
birth. At every turn it met me, aggravating my numerous hardships,
embittering my rare moments of joy. If I entered a room where a
cheerful party was assembled, all rose and shrunk from me as from one
plague-tainted. They were twelve--I was the Thirteenth. If I sat down
at a dinner-table, my neighbour left his chair, and the others would
say, 'He fears to sit by you. You are the Thirteenth.' If I slept at
an inn--there were sure to be twelve persons sleeping there; my bed
was the Thirteenth, or my room would be number Thirteen, and I was
told that the former landlord had shot or hung himself in it.
"At length I left Germany, in the vain hope that the spell would not
extend beyond the land of my birth. I took ship at Trieste for Venice.
Scarcely were we out of port when a violent storm arose, and we were
driven rapidly towards a rocky and dangerous coast. The steersman
counted the seamen and passengers, and crossed himself. We were
_thirteen_.
"Lots were drawn who should be sacrificed for the salvation of the
others. I drew number thirteen, and they put me ashore on a barren
rock, where I passed a day and night half dead with cold and drenched
with sea water. At length an Illyrian fisherman espied me, and took me
off in his boat.
"It is unnecessary to relate to you in detail my wanderings during the
last eight years, or if I do, it shall be at some future time. My
clarinet enables me to live in the humble manner I have always done.
You remember, probably, that I had some skill in it, which I have
since much improved. When travelling, my music was generally taken as
payment for my bed and supper at the petty hostelries at which I put
up; and when I came to a large town, I remained a few days, and
usually gained more than my expenses.
"About a year since, I made some stay at Copenhagen, and at last,
getting wearied of that city, I put myself on board a ship, without
enquiring whither it was bound. It took me to Stralsund.
"The day of my arrival, there was a shooting-match in the suburb
beyond the Knieper, and I hastened thither with my clarinet. It was a
sort of fair, and I wandered from one booth to the other, playing the
joyous mountain melodies which I had not once played since my
departure from Marienberg. God knows what brought them into my head
again; but it did my heart good to play them, and a feeling came over
me, that I should like once more to have a home, and to leave the
weary rambling life I had so long led.
"I had great success that day, and the people thronged to hear the
wandering Italian musician. Many were the jugs of beer and glasses of
wine offered to me, and my plate was soon full of shillings. As I left
off playing, an old greyheaded man pressed through the crowd, and
gazed earnestly at me. His eyes filled with tears, and he was
evidently much moved.
"'What a likeness!' he exclaimed. 'He is the very picture of my
Amadeus. I could fancy he had risen out of the sea. The same features,
the sane voice and manner.'
"He came up to me and took my hand. 'If you do not fear a high
staircase,' said he with a kindly smile, 'come and visit me. I live on
the tower of St Nicholas's Church. Your clarinet will sound well in
the free fresh air, and you will find those there who will gladly
listen.' So saying, he left me.
"The old man's name was Elias Kranhelm, better known in Stralsund as
the old Swede; he was the town musician, and had the care of the bells
of St Nicholas. The next day was Sunday, and I hastened to visit him.
His kind manner had touched me, unaccustomed as I was to kindness or
sympathy from the strangers amongst whom I always lived. When I was
halfway up the stairs leading to the tower, the organ began to play
below me, and I recognised a psalm tune which we used often to sing
for our old schoolmaster at Marienberg. I stopped a moment to listen,
and thoughts of rest and home again came over me.
"I was met at the tower door by old Kranhelm, in his Sunday suit of
black; large silver buckles at his knees and shoes, and a round black
velvet cap over his long white hair. His clear grey eyes smiled so
kindly upon me, his voice was so mild, and his greeting so cordial,
that I thought I had never seen a more pleasing old man. He welcomed
me as though I had been an old friend, and without further preface,
asked me if I should like to become his substitute, and perform the
duties for which his great age had begun to unfit him. His only son,
on whom he had reckoned to take his place, had left him some time
previously, to become a sailor on board a Norwegian ship, and had been
drowned in his very first voyage. It was my extraordinary likeness to
this son that had made him notice me; and the good, simple-hearted old
man seemed to think that resemblance a sufficient guarantee against
any risk in admitting a perfect stranger into his house and intimacy.
"'My post is a profitable one,' said he; 'and, in consideration of my
long services, the worshipful burgomaster has given me leave to seek
an assistant, now that I am getting too old for my office. Consider
then, my son, if the offer suits you. You please me, and I mean you
well. But here comes my Elizabeth, who will soon learn to like you if
you are a good lad.'
"As he spoke, a young girl entered the room, with a psalm-book in her
hand, and attired in an old-fashioned dress, which was not able,
however, to conceal the elegance of her figure, and the charms of her
blooming countenance.
"'How think you, Elizabeth?' said her father. 'Is he not as like our
poor Amadeus as one egg is to another?'
"'I do not see the likeness, my dear father,' replied Elizabeth,
looking timidly at me, and then casting down her eyes, and blushing.
"I accepted the old man's offer with joy, and took up my dwelling in
the other turret of the church tower. My occupation was to keep the
clock wound up, to play the evening hymn on the balcony of the tower,
and to strike the hours upon the great bell with a heavy hammer.
"I soon felt the good effect of repose, and of the happy, tranquil
life I now led; my spirits improved, and I began to forget the curse
which hung over me--to forget, in short, that I was the unlucky
Thirteenth. Old Kranhelm's liking for me increased rapidly, and, in
less than three months, I was Elizabeth's accepted lover. Time flew
on; the wedding-day was fixed, and the bridal-chamber prepared.
"It was on Friday evening, exactly eight days ago, that I went out
with Elizabeth, and walked down to the port to look at a large Swedish
ship that had just arrived. The passengers were landing, and one
amongst them immediately attracted our attention.
"This was a tall, lean, raw-boned woman, apparently about forty years
of age, who held in her hand a long, smooth staff, which she waved
about her, nodding her head, and muttering, as she went, in some
strange, unintelligible dialect. Her dress consisted of a huge black
fur cloak, and a cape of the same colour fringed with red. Her whole
manner and appearance were so strange, that a crowd assembled round
her as soon as she set foot on shore.
"'Hallo! comrade,' cried one of the sailors of the vessel that had
brought her, to a boatman who was passing. 'Hallo! comrade, do you
want a job? Here's a witch to take to Hiddensee.'
"We asked the sailor what he meant; and he told us that this strange
woman was a Lapland witch, who every year, in the dog-days, made a
journey to the island of Hiddensee, to gather an herb which only grew
there, and was essential in her incantations.
"Meantime, the witch was calling for a boat, but no one understood her
language, or else they did not choose to come. My unfortunate
propensity to all that is supernatural or fantastic impelled me, with
irresistible force, towards her. In vain Elizabeth held me back. I
pushed my way through the crowd, until we found ourselves close to the
Lapland woman, who measured us from head to foot with her bright and
glittering eyes. Slipping a florin into her hand, I gave her to
understand, as well as I could, that we wished to have our fortunes
told. She took my hand, and, after examining it, made a sign that she
either could or would tell me nothing. She then took the hand of
Elizabeth, who hung upon my arm, trembling like an aspen leaf, and
gazing intently upon it, muttered a few words in broken Swedish. I did
not understand them, but Elizabeth did, and, starting back, drew me
hastily out of the crowd.
"'What did she say?' enquired I, as soon as we were clear of the
throng.
"Elizabeth seemed much agitated, and had evidently to make a strong
effort before she could reply.
"'Nothing,' answered she, at last; 'nothing, at least, worth
repeating. And yet 'tis strange; it tallies exactly with a prediction
made to my mother when I was an infant, that I should one day be in
peril from the number Thirteen. This strange woman cautioned me
against the same number, and bade me beware of you, for that you were
the Thirteenth!'
"Had the earth opened under my feet, or the lightning from heaven
fallen on my head, I could not have felt a greater shock than was
communicated to me by these words. I know not what I said in reply, or
how I got home. Elizabeth, doubtless, observed my agitation, but she
made no remark on it. I felt her arm tremble upon mine as we walked
along, and by a furtive glance at her face saw that she was pale as
death. Not a word passed between us during our walk back to the tower,
on reaching which she shut herself up in her room. I pleaded a severe
headach and wish to lie down; and, begging the old man to strike the
hours for me, retired to my chamber.
"It would be impossible to give an idea of the agony of mind I
suffered during that evening. I thought at times I was going mad, and
there were moments when I felt disposed to put an end to my existence
by a leap from the tower window. Again, then, this curse that hung
over me was in full force. Again had that fatal number raised itself
before me like an iron wall, interposed between me and all earthly
happiness. Wearied out at length by the storm within me, I fell
asleep.
"As may be supposed, I was followed in my troubled slumbers by the
recollection of my misery. Each hour that struck awoke me out of the
most hideous dreams to a scarce less hideous reality. When midnight
came, and the hammer clanged upon the great bell, a strange fancy took
possession of my mind that it would this night strike Thirteen, and
that at the thirteenth stroke the clock, the tower, the city, and the
whole world, would crumble into atoms. Again I fell asleep and dreamt.
I thought that my head was changed into a mighty bronze bell, and that
I hung in the tower and heard the clock beside me strike Thirteen.
Then came the old schoolmaster, who yet, at the same time, had the
features of Elizabeth's father; and, as he drew near me, I saw that
the hammer he held in his hand was no hammer, but a large silver-bound
Bible. In my despair I made frightful efforts to cry out and to tell
him that I was no bell, but a man, and that he should not strike me;
but my voice refused its service and my tongue clove to my palate. The
greyhaired old man came up to me, and struck thirteen times on my
forehead, till my brains gushed out at my eyes.
"By daybreak the next morning I was two leagues from Stralsund, having
left a few hurried ill-written lines in my room, pleading I know not
what urgent family affairs, and a dislike to leave-taking, as excuses
for my sudden departure. Over field and meadow, through rivers and
forests, on I went, as though hell were at my heels, flying from my
destiny. But the further I got from Stralsund the more did I regret
all I left there--my beautiful and affectionate mistress, her
kind-hearted father, the peaceful happy life I led on the top of the
old tower. The vow I had made to fly from the haunts of men, and seek
in some desert the repose which my evil fate denied me among my
fellows, that vow became daily more difficult to keep. And yet I went
on, dreading to depart from my determination, lest I should encounter
some of those bitter deceptions and cruel disappointments that had
hitherto been my lot in life. Shame, too, at the manner in which I had
left the tower, withheld me, or else I think I should already be on my
road back to Stralsund. But now I have met you, brother, and that my
mind is relieved by the knowledge that I have not, even indirectly,
Albert's death to reproach myself with, I must hasten to my Elizabeth
to relieve her anxiety, and dry the tears which I am well assured each
moment of my absence causes her to shed. Come with me, dearest Carl,
and you shall see her, my beautiful Elizabeth, and her good old
father, and the tower and the bell. Ho! the bell, the jolly old bell!"
The painter looked kindly but anxiously in his brother's face. There
was a mildness in his manner that startled him, accustomed as he had
been to his eccentricities when a boy.
"You are tired, brother," said he. "You need repose after the emotions
and fatigues of the last week. I, too, shall not be sorry to sleep.
Let us to bed for a few hours, and then we will have post-horses and
be off to Stralsund."
"I have no need of rest," replied Bernard, "and each moment seems to
me an eternity till I can again clasp my Elizabeth to my heart. Let us
delay, then, as little as may be."
As he spoke they entered the gates of Berlin. The sun was risen, and
the hotels and taverns were beginning to open their doors. Seeing
Bernard's anxiety to depart, the painter abandoned his intention of
taking some repose, and after hasty breakfast, a post-chaise was
brought to the door, and the brothers stepping in, were whirled off on
their road northwards.
The sun was about to set when the travellers came in sight of the
spires of Stralsund, among which the church of St Nicholas reared its
double-headed tower. Bernard had enlivened the journey by his wild
sallies, and merry but extravagant humour. Now, however, that the goal
was almost reached, he became silent and anxious. The hours appeared
to go too slowly for him, and his restlessness was extreme.
"Faster! postilion," cried Carl, observing his brother's impatience.
"Faster! You shall be paid double."
The man flogged his horses till they flew rather than galloped over
the broad level road. Suddenly, however, a strap broke, and the
postilion got off his seat to tie it up. Through the stillness of the
evening, no longer broken by the rattle of the wheels and clatter of
the horses' feet, a clock was heard striking the hour. Another
repeated it, and a third, of deeper tone than the two preceding ones,
took up the chime. Bernard started to his feet, and leaned so far out
of the carriage that his brother seized hold of him, expecting him to
lose his balance and fall out.
"It is she!" exclaimed Bernard. "'Tis the bell of St Nicholas. Listen,
Carl--my Elizabeth calls me. She strikes the bell. I come, dearest, I
come!"
And with these words he sprang out of the carriage, and set off at
full speed towards the town, leaving his brother thunderstruck at his
mad impatience and vehemence.
Running at the top of his speed, Bernard soon reached the city gate,
and proceeded rapidly through the streets in the direction of St
Nicholas's church. It seemed to him as though he had been absent for
years instead of a few days, and he felt quite surprised at finding no
change in the city since his departure. All was as he had left it; all
conspired to lull him into security. An old fruitwoman, of whom he had
bought cherries the very day of his last walk with Elizabeth, was in
her usual place, and, as he passed, extolled the beauty of her fruit,
and asked him to buy. A large rose-tree, at the door of a
silversmith's shop, which Elizabeth had often admired, was still in
full bloom; through the window of a house in the market-place, he saw
a young girl, Elizabeth's dearest friend, dressing her hair at a
looking-glass, and as he passed the churchyard, the old dumb sexton,
who appeared to be hunting about for a place for a grave, nodded his
head in mute recognition.
Bernard opened the tower door, and darted up the staircase. He was not
far from the top when he heard the voices of two men above him. They
were resting on one of the landing-places of the ladderlike stairs.
"It is a singular case, doctor," said one; "a strange and
incomprehensible case. It is evidently a disease more of the mind than
the body."
"Yes," replied the other, by his voice apparently an old man. "If we
could only get a clue to the cause, any thing to go upon, something
might be done, but at present it is a perfect riddle."
Bernard heard no more, for the men continued their ascent.
"The old father must be ill," said he to himself; but as he said it a
feeling of dread and anxiety, a presentiment of evil, came over him,
and he stood for a few moments unable to proceed. The door at the top
of the stairs was now opened, and shut with evident care to avoid
noise. "The old man must be very ill," said Bernard, as if trying to
persuade himself of it. He reached the door, and his hand shook as he
laid it upon the latch. At length he lifted it, and entered the room.
It was empty; but, just then, the door of Elizabeth's chamber opened,
and old Kranhelm stepped out. On beholding Bernard, he started back as
though he had seen a ghost. He said a word or two in a low voice to
somebody in the inner room, and then shutting the door, bolted it,
and placed his back against it, as if to prevent Bernard from going
in.
"Begone!" cried he in a tremulous voice; "in the name of God, begone!
thou evil spirit of my house;" and he stretched out his arms towards
Bernard as though to prohibit his approach. No longer master of
himself, the young man sprang towards him, and, grasping his arm,
thundered in his ear the question--
"Where is my Elizabeth?"
The words rang through the old tower, and the confused murmuring of
voices in the inner room was heard. Bernard listened, and thought he
distinguished the voice of Elizabeth repeating, in tones of agony, the
fatal number.
One of the physicians knocked, and begged to be let out. The old
tower-keeper opened the door cautiously, and, when the doctor had
passed through, carefully shut and barred it. But during the moment
that it had remained open, Bernard heard too plainly what his ears had
at first been unwilling to believe.
"Is that the man?" demanded the physician hastily. "In God's name, be
silent. You will kill the patient. She recognized your voice, and fell
immediately into the most fearful paroxysm. She has got back again to
the infernal number with which her delirium began, and she shrieks it
out perpetually. It is a frightful relapse. Begone! young man; yet
stay--I will go with you. You can, doubtless, give us a key to this
mystery."
The old physician took Bernard's arm to lead him away; but at that
very moment there was a shrill scream from the next room, and
Elizabeth's voice was heard calling upon Bernard by name. The
unfortunate young man could not restrain himself. Shaking off the
grasp of the physician, he pushed old Kranhelm aside, tore back the
bolts, and flung open the door. There lay Elizabeth on her deathbed,
her arms stretched out towards him, her mild countenance ashy pale and
frightfully distorted, her soft blue eyes straining from their orbits.
She made a violent effort to speak, but death was too near at hand;
the sound died away upon her lips, and her uplifted arms dropped
powerless upon the bed; her head fell back--a convulsive shudder came
over her: she was dead. Her unhappy lover fell senseless to the
ground.
When Bernard awoke out of a long and deathlike swoon, it was night,
and all around him was still and dark. He was lying on the stone floor
outside Kranhelm's dwelling. The physicians had removed him thither;
and, being occupied with the old tower-keeper and his daughter, they
had thought no more about him. On first recovering sensation, he had
but an indistinct idea of where he was, or what had happened. By
degrees his senses returned to a certain extent--he knew that
something horrible had occurred, but without remembering exactly what
it was.
He felt about him, and touched a railing. It was the balustrade round
the open turret where hung the great bell. He was lying under the bell
itself, and, as he gazed up into its brazen throat, the recollection
of the frightful dream which had persecuted him the night before his
flight from Stralsund came vividly to his mind; he appeared to himself
to be still dreaming, and yet his visions were mixed up with the
realities of his everyday occupations.
He had just stepped out, he thought, to strike the hour on the bell,
and rising with some difficulty from the hard couch which had
stiffened his limbs, he sought about for the hammer. He made no effort
to shake off the sort of dreaming semi-consciousness which seemed to
prevent him from feeling the horror and anguish of reality.
"Thirteen strokes," thought he; "thirteen strokes, and at the
Thirteenth the tower will fall, the city crumble to dust, the world be
at an end." Such had been his dream, and the moment of its
accomplishment was come.
He found the hammer, and struck with all his force upon the bell. He
repeated the blow; twelve times he struck, and each stroke rang with
deafening violence through his brain; but at the Thirteenth, as he
raised his arms high above his head, and leaning back against the
railing, threw his whole strength and energy into the blow, the frail
balustrade gave way under his weight, and he fell headlong from the
tower. The last stroke tolled out, sad and hollow as a funereal knell,
and the sound mingled with the death-cry of the luckless Thirteenth!