Peter Schlemihl,
quite correctly written. On the slab, and under my name, were two lines of letters, but I was
too weak to connect them, and closed my eyes again.
I heard something of which Peter Schlemihl was the subject, loudly and distinctly uttered, but I could not collect the meaning. I saw a friendly man and a beautiful woman in black apparel, standing before my bed. Their forms were not strangers to me, though I could not recognize them.
Some time passed by, and I gradually gathered strength. I was called No. 12, and No. 12, by virtue of his long beard, passed off for a Jew, but was not the less attended to on that account. Nobody seemed to notice that he had no shadow. My boots were, as I was assured, to be found, with everything else that had been discovered with me, in good and safe keeping, and ready to be delivered to me on my recovery. The place in which I lay ill was called the Schlemihlium; and there was a daily exhortation to pray for Peter Schlemihl, as the founder and benefactor of the hospital. The friendly man whom I had seen at my bedside was Bendel; the lovely woman was Mina.
I lived peaceably in the Schlemihlium, quite unknown; but I discovered that I was in Bendel’s native place, and that he had built this hospital with the remainder of my once-unhallowed
gold. The unfortunate blessed me daily, for he had built it in my name, and conducted it wholly under his own inspection. Mina was a widow: an unlucky criminal process had cost Mr. Rascal his life, and taken from her the greater part of her property. Her parents were no more. She dwelt here like a pious widow, and dedicated herself to works of charity.
She was once conversing with Mr. Bendel near the bed No. 12.—“Why, noble woman, expose yourself to the bad air which is so prevalent here? Is your fate then so dreary that you long for death?”—“No, Mr. Bendel; since I have dreamt out my long dreams, and my inner self was awakened, all is well—death is the object of neither my hopes nor my fears. Since then, I think calmly of the past and of the future. And you—do you not yet serve your master and friend in this godlike manner, with sweet and silent satisfaction?”—“Yes, noble woman—God be praised! Ours has been a marvellous destiny. From our full cup we have thoughtlessly drunk much joy and much bitter sorrow: ’tis empty now. Hitherto we have had only a trial; now, with prudent solicitude, we wait for the real introduction to substantial things. Far different is the true beginning; but who would
play over again the early game of life, though it is a blessing, on the whole, to have lived? I am supported by the conviction that our old friend is better provided for now than then.”—“I feel it too,” answered the lovely widow, and they left me.
This conversation had produced a deep impression within me; but I doubted in my mind if I should discover myself, or set out unknown from the place. I decided, however; I ordered paper and pencil to be brought to me, and wrote these words:—