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"Oh, but he was married in Russia," said another; "but just as he sent his wife the money to come over, she died." "And yet you call him a Schlemihl!" cried Moshelé, the cynic. "Ah, but her family stuck to the money!" retorted the narrator, and captured the laugh. It was true.
"Well, well," he exclaimed, "you detest me, and I know it; but I bear you no malice on that account. We must part that is clear; also I must say that you begin to be very tiresome to me. Once more let me advise you to free yourself entirely from my troublesome presence by the purchase of your shadow." I held out the purse to him. "No, Mr. Schlemihl; not at that price."
"Who are you, after all?" at length I asked him. "What does it matter?" he replied. "And is it not plainly written on me? A poor devil, a sort of learned man and doctor, who, in return for precious arts, receives from his friends poor thanks, and, for himself, has no other amusement on earth but to make his little experiments. But, however, sign. To the right there PETER SCHLEMIHL."
Underneath were two rows of letters in smaller characters, which I was too feeble to connect together, and closed my eyes again. I now heard something read aloud, in which I distinctly noted the words, "Peter Schlemihl," but could not collect the full meaning.
"You must think me an awful Schlemihl, putting my foot into it so often. Anyhow I hope I shall meet you again somewhere." "The world is very small," she reminded him. "I wish I knew your husband," he said ruefully. "Why?" said Hannah, innocently. "Because I could call on him," he replied, smiling. "Well, you do know him," she could not help saying. "Do I? Who is it?
You, who forget nobody, must surely remember one Peter Schlemihl, whom you used to meet occasionally at my house a long-legged youth, who was considered stupid and lazy, on account of his awkward and careless air. I was sincerely attached to him. You cannot have forgotten him, Edward.
The reader, no doubt, remembers the awful passage in "Peter Schlemihl," where the little gentleman purchases the shadow of that hero "Have the kindness, noble sir, to examine and try this bag." "He put his hand into his pocket, and drew thence a tolerably large bag of Cordovan leather, to which a couple of thongs were fixed.
*Peter Schlemihl, the shadowless man. In the evening he went out again on the balcony. He had placed the light directly behind him, for he knew that the shadow would always have its master for a screen, but he could not entice it. He made himself little; he made himself great: but no shadow came again. He said, "Hem! hem!" but it was of no use.
Chamisso's well-known tale of Peter Schlemihl belongs to a widely diffused family of legends, which show that a man's shadow has been generally regarded not only as an entity, but as a sort of spiritual attendant of the body, which under certain circumstances it may permanently forsake.
"Count Peter, do you know one Peter Schlemihl?" I was silent. "A man," he continued, "of excellent character and extraordinary endowments." He paused for an answer. "And supposing I myself were that very man?" "You!" he exclaimed, passionately; "he has lost his shadow!" "Oh, my suspicion is true!" cried Minna; "I have long known it he has no shadow!"
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