CARL BLUVEN AND THE STRANGE MARINER, by Henry David Inglis

(1833)

On that wild part of the coast of Norway that stretches between Bergen and Stavenger, there once lived a fisherman called Carl Bluven. Carl was one of the poorest of all the fisherman who dwelt on that shore. He had scarcely the means of buying materials wherewith to mend his net, which was scarcely in a condition to hold the fish in it; still less so was he is a condition to make himself master of a new boat, which he stood greatly in need of; for it was so battered and worn, that while other fishermen adventured out into the open sea, Carl was obliged to content himself with picking up what he could among the rocks and creeks that lay along the coast.

Notwithstanding his poverty, Carl was on the eve of marriage. His bride was a daughter of a woodcutter in the neighboring forest, who contrived, partly with his hatchet, and partly with his gun, to eke out his livelihood; so that the match was pretty equal on both sides. But Carl was in a sad dilemma on one account; he had nothing to present to the minister on his marriage—not a keg of butter, nor a pot of sausages, nor a quarter of a sheep, nay not even a barrel of dried fish; and as he had been accustomed to boast to his father-in-law of his thriving trade, he knew not in what way to keep up appearances. In short, the evening before his wedding day arrived, and Carl was still unprovided.

So dejected had Carl been all day, that he had never stirred out of his hut; and it was approaching nightfall. The wind had risen, and the hollow bellowing of the waves, as they rolled in among the huge caverned rocks, sounded dismally in Carl’s ear, for he knew he dared not launch his leaky boat in such a sea; and yet, if he caught no fish, there would be nothing for supper when he should bring his wife home. Carl rose, clapped his hat on his head, with the air of a man who is resolved to do something, and walked out upon the shore. Nothing could be more dismal than the prospect around Carl’s hut; no more desolate and dreary home than Carl’s could a man bring his bride to. Great black round-headed rocks, partly covered with seaweed, were thickly strewn along the coast for many miles; these, when the tide was back, were left dry, and when it flowed, their dark heads, now seen, now hidden, as the broad-backed waves rolled over them, seemed like the tumbling monsters of the deep.

When Carl left his hut, the rising tide had half-covered the rocks; and the waves, rushing through the narrow channels, broke in terrific violence on the shore, leaving a wide, restless bed of foam, as they retreated down the sloping beach. The sun, too, was just disappearing beneath the waves, and threw a bright and almost unnatural blaze upon the desolate coast. Carl wandered along, uncertain what to do. He might as well have swamped his boat at once, as have drawn it out of the creek where it lay secure; so, after wading in and out among the channels, in the hope of picking up some fish that might not have been able to find their way back with the wave that had thrown them on shore, he at length sat down upon a shelving rock, and looked out upon the sea, towards the great whirlpool called the Maelstroom, of which so many fearful things were recorded.

“What riches are buried there,” said Carl to himself half aloud. “Let me see—within my time, six great ships have been sucked down; and if the world be, as they say, thousands of years old, what a mine of wealth must be at the bottom of the Maelstroom be! What casks of butter and hams—to say nothing of gold and silver—and here am I, Carl Bluven, to be married tomorrow, and not a keg for the minister. If I had but one cask from the bottom of the Maelstroom, I would”—but Carl did not finish the sentence. Like all fisherman of that coast, Carl had his superstitions and his beliefs; and he looked round him rather uneasily, for he well knew that all in the Maelstroom belonged to Kahlbrannar, the tall old mariner of the whirlpool; and after having had the hardihood to entertain so bold a wish, Carl felt more uncomfortable than he cared to own; and seeing the night gathering in, and the tide rising to his feet, while the spray dashed in his face, he was just about to return to his solitary hut, when a high crested wave, rushing through the channel beside him, bore a cask along with it, and threw it among the great stones that lay beneath the rocks.

As parts of wrecks had often been thrown upon this dangerous shore, Carl was not greatly surprised; and circumstances having allayed the superstitious fears that were beginning to rise, he had soon his hands upon the cask, getting it out from among the rocks in the best way he was able; till, having reached the sand, he rolled it easily up to the door of his dwelling; and having shut to the door, and lighted his lamp, he fell to work in opening the cask to see what it contained. It proved the very thing he

Next morning betimes, Carl Bluven was on his way to his wedding, rolling the cask before him with the larger half of the butter in it for his marriage fee. With such a present as this, Carl was well received by the minister, as well as by his father-in-law, and by Uldewalls the bride, who, with her crown upon her head, the Norwegian emblem of purity, became the wife of the fisherman; and he, after spending a day or two in feasting with his new relations, returned with Uldewalls to his hut on the sea shore, carrying back with him a reasonable supply of sausages and brandiwine, and Gammel Orsk cheese, and such like dainties, as the dowry of his wife.

For some little time all went well with Carl. What with the provisions he had brought home, and the remains of his butter, the new married couple did not fare amiss; even though the fisherman rarely drew a net; for Carl wished to enjoy his honeymoon, and not be wading and splashing among the sea-green waves, when he might be looking into the blue eyes of Uldewalls. At length, however, the sausage pots stood empty, and even the Gammel Orsk cheese was reduced to a shell: as for the butter, Carl and his wife had found it so good, that the cask had been empty long since.

Carl left his hut, taking his net and his oars over his shoulders, leaving Uldewalls picking cloudberries; and unmooring his boat, paddled out of the creek, and began throwing his nets; but not a fish could he take: still he continued to try his fortune, in an out among the creeks, til the sun set, and dusk began to creep over the shore. The tide had retired, so that Carl’s boat was left dry a long way within water-mark, and he had to walk a dreary mile or more, over the shingle and sand, among the black dripping rocks that lay between him and his own dwelling. But there was no help for it: so, mooring his boat the best way he could, he turned towards the coast, in somewhat of a dejected mood, at his want of success.

As Carl turned away, he noticed at a little distance, close to the water, a small boat, that well he knew belonged to no fisherman of that coast; it was the very least boat he had ever seen, such as no seaman of Bergenhuus could keep afloat on such a sea; and the build of it, too, was the queerest he had ever beheld. But Carl, seeing from the solitary light that shone in the window of his hut, that Uldewalls expected him, kept his direct course homeward, resolved next day to return and examine the boat, which he had no doubt, had been thrown ashore from some foreign wreck. But Carl had soon still greater cause for wonder: raising his eyes from the pools of water, in which he hoped to find some floundering fish, he observed a tall figure advancing from the shore, in the direction of the little boat he had seen, and nearly in the same line which he was pursuing. Now Carl was no coward; yet he would rather have avoided this rencontre. He knew well that no fisherman would walk out among the rocks towards the sea, at the fall of night, and, besides, Carl knew all the fishermen within six leagues; and this was none of them; but he disdained to turn out of his way, which ,indeed, he could only have done by wading through some deep channels that lay on either side of him; and so he continued to walk straight on, his wonder, however, and perhaps his uneasiness, every moment increasing, as the lessening distance showed him more distinctly a face he was sure he had never seen on that coast, and which was of that singular character, which involuntarily raised in the mind of Carl certain uncomfortable sensations.

“A dreary night this, Carl Bluven,” said the strange mariner to our fisherman, “and likely for a storm.”

“I hope not,” said Carl, not a little surprised that he should be addressed by his name; “I hope not, for the sake of the ships and the poor mariners.”

“You hope not,” said the other, with an ugly sneer; “and who, I wonder, likes better than Carl Bluven to roll a cast-a-way cask to his cabin door?”

“Why,” returned Carl, apologetically, and still more suspicious of his company, from the knowledge he displayed, “what Providence kindly sends, ’tis not for a poor fisherman to refuse.”

“You liked the butter I sent you, then!” said the strange mariner.

“You sent me!” said Carl.

But Carl’s rejoinder remained without further explanation. “Ah ha!” said the tall mariner, pointing out to sea in the direction of the Maelstroom, “she bears right upon it—the Frou, of Drontheim, deeply laden. We’ll meet again, Carl Bluven.” And without further parley, the tall strange mariner brushed past Carl, and strode hastily towards the sea. Carl remained for some time rooted to the spot, looking after him through the deepening dusk, which, however, just enabled Carl to see him reach the little boat, and push off through the surf—but farther he was unable to follow him.

As Carl walked towards his own house, as fast as the huge stones and pools of back-water would permit him, he felt next thing to sure, that the tall mariner he had encountered was no other than Kahlbranner; and a feeling of satisfaction entered his heart, that he had made so important and useful an acquaintance, who not only could, but had already shown, his willingness to do him a kindness; and just as Carl had come to this conclusion, he reached the water-mark opposite to his own house, and, at the same time, his foot struck against a cask, lying high and dry, on the very spot where the other cask had drifted. Carl guessed where it came from; and was right merry at so reasonable a present; and rolling the cask to his own door, he was soon busy staving it, and drawing out, one after another, some of the choicest white puddings, and dried hams, that ever left the harbor of Bergen. “Here’s to Kahlbrannar’s health,” said Carl, after supper, taking his cup of corn brandy in his hand, and offering to hobernob (ed.: to toast) with his wife. But Uldewalls shook her head, and refused to hobernob, or to drink, and Carl fancied, and no doubt it was but fancy, that he heard a strange laugh outside the hut, and that as he raised his eyes, he saw the face of the tall mariner draw back from the window. Carl, however, tossed off his cup; feeling rather proud of the friendship of Kahlbranner.

* * * *

Carl Bluven had a singular dream that night. He thought, that, looking out of the door of his hut, he saw the little boat he had noticed that evening, lying beyond the rocks at low tide, and that he walked out to examine it; and being curious to know whether he could steer so very small a boat, he stepped into it; and leaning forward, hoisted the little sail at the bow, the only one it had; and when he turned round to take the helm, he saw the tall mariner sitting as a steersman. Away shot the boat, Carl, nothing daunted at the company he was in, or the frailty of the vessel, for the helmsman steered with wonderful dexterity, and the boat flew along like a sea-bird skimming the waves. Not a word was spoken, till after a little while, the steersman, pointing forward, said, “There she is, as I told you, the Frou, of Drontheim, bearing right upon the Maelstroom, as my name is Kahlbranner; she’ll be down to the bottom before us.” Carl now looked out ahead, and saw a fearful sight: the sea, a league across, was like a boiling cauldron, whirling round and round and round, and gradually, as it were, shelving down to the centre, where there appeared a huge hole, round which the water wheeled with an awful swirl, strong enough to suck in all the fleets that ever sailed the seas. A gallant three-masted ship was within the whirlpool; she no longer answered the helm, but flew round and round the cauldron, gradually nearing the centre, which she soon reached, and, stern foremost, rushed down the gulph, that swallowed her up. But notwithstanding the terrors of the Maelstroom, and the horror of this spectacle, Carl did not yet awake from his dream. The little boat, piloted by the tall mariner, flew directly across the whirlpool to its centre—down, down, down they sunk; and the next moment Carl found himself walking with his companion on the ribbed sea-sand at the bottom of the Maelstroom. What a sight met the eyes of Carl! Mountains of wealth; piles of all that ships have carried, or nations trafficked in from the beginning of time; wrecks of a thousand vessels, great and small, scattered here and there, and the white bones of the mariners, thicker strewn than gravestones in a churchyard. But what mainly attracted the eye of Carl, was the gold and the silver that lay about as plentiful as pebble-stones; all bright and fresh, though ever so old; for Carl could read upon some of the coins which he picked up the name of Cluff Kyrre, the first king of Norway.

“Now,” said Kahlbranner, after Carl had feasted his eyes awhile upon all he saw, “what would you give, Carl Bluven, to be master of all this?”

“Faith,” said Carl, “it’s of little use lying here; but, save and except the silver and gold, that which has lain in the salt water so long can be worth little.”

“There you’re wrong,” said Kahlbranner, taking up a large pebble stone, and beating out the end of a cask, out of which rolled as fine fresh sausages as ever were beaten, grated, and mixed by any Frou of Bergenhuus; “just taste them, friend; and, besides, have ye forgotten the casks I sent?”

Carl tasted, and found them much to his liking. “You know,” said he, “I am but a poor fisherman; you ask me what I would give for all I see here; and you know I have nothing to give.”

“There you’re wrong again,” said Kahlbranner; “sit down upon that chest of gold, friend, and listen to what I am going to propose. You shall be the richest butter-merchant, and ham-merchant, and spirit-merchant, in all Bergenhuus, and have more gold and silver in your coffers than King Christian has in his treasury; and in return you shall marry your daughter to my son.”

Carl having no daughter, and not knowing whether he might ever have one, tempted by the things about him, and the prospects set before him, and half thinking the offer a jest, said, “a bargain be it, then;” at the same time grasping the hand of the tall mariner; and just as he thought he had pronounced these words, he fancied that the water in which he had up to this time breathed as freely as if he had been on shore, began to choke him; and so, gasping for breath, while Kahlbrannar’s laugh rung in his ears, Carl awoke, and found himself lying beside Uldewalls.

Carl told Uldewalls all that he had dreamed; how that he had walked with the strange mariner at the bottom of the Maelstroom, and seen all the wealth, and gold and silver; and of the offer Kahlbranner had made, and how that he thought he had closed a bargain with him.

“Thank God, Carl, it is but a dream!” said Uldewalls, throwing her milk-white arms about his neck: “have nothing to do with the tall mariner, as he is called; no good will come of the connection;” and it was this morning, for the first time, that Carl learned his prospect of being by-and-bye made a father. Carl thought more of his dream than he cared to tell his wife; he could not help fancying that all he had seen in his dream was real; and having already had substantial proof of Kahlbranner’s good disposition towards him, he saw nothing incredible in the idea, that he might become all that riches could make him.

* * * *

It was the morning after this, that Carl, awakening just at daybreak, sprung out of bed, and telling Uldewalls that he was going to draw a net that morning, left his hut, and walked towards the rocks. Perhaps he had dreamed the same dream that had visited him the night before; or perhaps he could not dismiss his old dream from his mind; or it might be, that he really intended trying his fortune with his nets that morning. It is certain, however, that Carl left his hut in the early twilight; and that Uldewalls, feeling uneasy in her mind, rose and looked out through the small window, and saw her husband, in the grey of the morning, walk out among the black rocks (for the tide was back); and, although her eye was unable to follow all his turnings out and in among the channels, she could see him afterwards standing close to the low water line, and another of taller stature standing by him. Uldewalls’ eyes filled with tears; and when she wiped away the dimness, she could perceive neither her husband nor his companion.

Carl, however, was not long absent; a terrific storm soon after arose, and in the midst of it he arrived, rolling a huge cask up to the door.

“It is singular,” said Uldewalls, “that fortune should so often throw prizes in your way, Carl: for my part, I would rather eat some fish of your own catching, than the stores of poor shipwrecked mariners.” But Carl laughed, and jested, and drank, and feasted, and was right merry; and swore that fishing was a poor trade; and that he thought of leaving it, and setting up for merchant in Bergen. Uldewalls thought he was making merry in his cups, and that he only jested; but she was mistaken. Next day Carl told her he was discontented with his manner of living—that he was resolved to be a rich man, and that the very next morning they should depart for Bergen. Uldewalls was not sorry to leave the neighborhood, for more reason than one; and besides, being a dutiful wife, she offered no opposition to her husband’s will.

The same evening Carl walked out along the coast for the last time, that he might consider all that had passed, and all that was to come; and as he slowly paced along, he thus summed up the advantages of his agreement:—“It’s a good bargain I’ve made anyhow,” said he; “I may never have a daughter at all; and if I have, ’tis seventeen or eighteen good years before Kalhbranner can say aught about the matter; and long before that time, who knows what may happen, or what plan I may hit upon to slide out of my bargain.” But Carl little knew with whom he had to deal, or he would scarcely have talked about sliding out of his bargain.

Well, next morning saw Carl and Uldewalls on their way to Bergen. Uldewalls proposed that they should take their provisions with them, and such little articles as they possessed; but Carl said there was no occasion for such strict economy, as he had a well-stored warehouse, and everything comfortable at Bergen; and though Uldewalls wondered at all her husband told her, she resolved to say nothing more about it just then; and so Carl and his wife followed the path through the skirts of the forest, sometimes diving into the deep solitudes of the old pines, and sometimes emerging upon the sea-shore, till towards night they reached the side of a great Fiord that ran many, many leagues inland; and Uldewalls looked up in her husband’s face, as if to ask how they were to get over. But Carl pointed to a small creek just before them, where lay the very least boat, and the queerest shape, that Uldewalls had ever seen: and Carl helped her into it, and paddled her over. Uldewalls wished her husband to moor the boat, that the owner might find it again; but Carl, with a significant look, said, “Trust him for finding it;” and so the boat drifted down the Fiord towards the sea; and Carl and his wife pursuing their journey, arrived the same afternoon at Bergen.

Carl led Uldewalls to a good house, facing the harbor, where, as he had said, everything was prepared for their reception. A neighbor who lived hard by brought the key, telling them that a good fire was lighted, for a tall gentleman who engaged the house, had ordered everything to be got ready that evening; and adding,—“The quantity of goods brought into the warehouse this day, is the wonder of all Bergen: they’ve been carried in as fast as boats could land them, and boatmen carry them; and the boatmen, they say, were all as alike to each other, as one cask they carried was to another.”

Never, indeed, was a warehouse better stored than Carl Bluven’s; casks of butter, casks of rein-deer hams, casks of foreign spirits, jars of grated meat, and jars of potted fish, all ready for sale or for export, were piled in rows one above another; and besides all that, there a granary filled with as fine Dantzic corn as ever was seen in Bergen market. Carl drove all before him; and as everything that he sold was paid for in gold counted down, he was soon looked upon as the most considerable merchant, and the most monied man in Bergenhuus. It is true, indeed, that Carl had detractors. Some wondered where he came from; and other, where he had got his money; and to all who did business with Carl, it was a matter of surprise, that all his payments were made in old coin, or strange coin, and not in the current money of the country. But prosperity always raises up enemies, and there are whisperers in Bergen, as well as elsewhere. And Carl’s gold was good gold, and none the worse for its age; and his payments were punctual; and so he soon rose above these calumnies.

To Uldewalla all this was a mighty agreeable change; in place of being a poor fisherman’s wife, clad in the course stuff of Stavenger, she was the frou of the richest merchant in Bergenhaus; with her silks from France, and her muslins from England, and her furs, the richest that could be bought in the Hamburg market. And in good time Uldewalla became the mother of a girl so beautiful, that she was the admiration of her parents, and the wonder of all Bergen. About the time of this event, a cloud might be seen upon Carl’s brow; but it wore off; and he was as fond and as happy a father as any in all Bergenhuss; and as Uldewalla never gave him but this one, he was the prouder of the one he had.

Well might anyone be proud of the little Carintha. The purest of hearts was mirrored in the most beautiful of all faces. But there was a seriousness in the depth of her large mild blue eyes, that was remarked by all who looked upon her; and in her gentle and courteous speech, there was a sadness, that never failed to reach the hearts of those upon whose ears her accents fell. And Carintha grew into greater beauty, and more and more won the affection of all who knew her; and at length she reached the verge of womanhood, and grew lovelier still, every day disclosing new charms, or adding another grace to those that had accompanied her from infancy.

* * * *

For the first fifteen years after Carintha was born, Carl was not only a thriving, but a right merry merchant. His dealings grew more and more extensive; and in respect of wealth, he distanced all competition. Carl enjoyed himself also: he had his five meals every day; sour black bread was never seen in his house; he had his wheaten bread and his dainty rye bread, sprinkled with caraway seeds; and his soup with spiced balls in it; and his white puddings, and his black puddings, and his coffee, ay, and his wine and his cognac; and he hobernobbed with his neighbors; and sung Gamle Norge, and, in short, enjoyed himself as the first merchant in Bergen might. But as Carintha grew up, Carl grew less merry; and when she had passed her sixteenth summer, and when Uldewalla, some little time after this, spoke to her husband about settling Carintha in the world, anyone, to have looked at Carl’s face at that time, would have seen that something extraordinary was passing within.

It was about a year after this, that the son of the governor of Bergenhuus, Hamel Von Storgelven, cast his eyes upon Carintha, and became enamoured of her. She, on her part, did not rebuke his advances, except with that maidenly timidity that is becoming; and all Bergen said that there would be a wedding. The governor liked the marriage, though Carinthia was not a Froken (young lady of quality); calculating upon the wealth that would pass into his family: and as for Carl Bluven, rich as he was, he was elated at the thoughts of so high a connection; for Carintha having now passed her seventeenth year, and having heard nothing of a certain person, he began to treat all that had once passed as an old story; and seeing his money bags around him, and his warehouse full of goods—(goods as well as money all new and current—for he had long ago parted with his first stock, in the way of trade)—there was nothing to remind him of his hut on the seacoast, and what had happened there, and nothing but might well breed confidence in any man; so that when sitting in his substantial house, with his substantial dinner before him, and his substantial townsmen around him, he would have thought little matter of tossing a glass of corn brandy in Kahlbranner’s face, if that individual had made so free as to intrude upon him. But the fancied security of the merchant was soon to be disturbed.

It was now the day before that upon which Carintha was to espouse Hamel Von Storgelven. The affair engrossed all Bergen; for Carl Bergen was chief magistrate of the city, and never before were such preparations witnessed in Bergenhuus. Carl, above all, was in high spirits; for although the bargain he had once made would sometimes intrude upon his thoughts, he had taught himself the habit of getting quickly rid of the recollection; and, indeed, the multifarious business of the chief magistrate, and first merchant in Bergen, left him little leisure for entertaining the remembrance of old stories.

It was a fine sunshiny day—the day, as has been said, before the celebration of Carintha’s nuptials—and Carl Bluven was standing on the quay with the other merchants, looking at the cheerful sight of the ships passing in and out, and the bales of goods landing, and chatting about city matters, and trade, and such-like topics—everyone paying to Carl Bluven the deference that was due to one who was on the eve of being allied to the governor—when suddenly all eyes were directed towards the harbor; Carl’s eyes followed the rest, and sure enough he saw something that might well create wonder in others, and something more in him.

“Where does it come from?” said one.

“What a singular build!” said another.

“Never was such a boat seen in Bergen harbor,” said a third.

“And look at the helmsman,” said a fourth; “he’s taller than the mast.”

The seamen who were aboard the ships, hurried to the sides of their vessels, and looked down as the small boat glided by with the tall mariner at the helm; the porters laid down their burdens, and stared with wondering eyes; even the children gave over their play, to look at the strange boat and the strange helmsman. As for Carl, he said nothing, but remained standing with the group of merchants. Meanwhile, the boat touched the landing place, and the tall mariner stepped out and ascended the steps that led to the quay. There was something in his appearance that nobody liked; everyone made way and stood back; and he, with a singular sneer in his face, walked directly up to Carl Bluven, who had not fallen back like the rest, but manfully stood his ground, and was, therefore, a little apart from his companions. No one could distinctly hear what passed between the tall old strange mariner and the chief magistrate, though it may well be believed that the conference created a small wonder; it was evident, however, that angry words passed between the two; the countenance of the mariner grew darker and darker; Carl’s grew flushed and angry; and the bystanders thought things were about to proceed to extremities, when the mariner, darting a menacing scowl at his companion, turned away, and descended into his boat, which he paddled out of the harbor, while everyone looked after it, and asked of his neighbor the same question as before, “Where does it come from?” But no other than Carl Bluven could have answered that question.

“I served him right!” said the chief magistrate, as he walked homewards: “fulfill my bargain, indeed! No, no; if he was such a simpleton as to fill my warehouse with good and my coffers with cash, upon a mere promise, I’m not such a fool as to keep it. Let me but keep on dry land, and I may snap my fingers at him; and by the ghost of King Kyrre, if I catch him again on the quay of Bergen, I’ll clap him in the city gaol.”

So spoke the chief magistrate; and to do Carl Bluven justice, he had no small liking to his daughter Carintha; and if even he had no prospect of so high an alliance, he would never have entertained the thought of decoying his child into the power of Kahlbranner. He now, however, knew the worst. His promise could not bind Carintha in any way, who would be secure even against treachery, so soon as the wedding ring was placed upon her finger. But the mariner had told him, as plainly as words could, that having consented to her marriage to another, he had no mercy to expect; and bade him remember the white bones he had seen lying at the bottom of the Maelstroom.

It was Carintha’s marriage day; and a beautiful bride she went forth; her eyes were blue, and deep, and lustrous as the heavens that looked down upon her; her smile was like an earl sunbeam upon one of her own sweet valleys; her blush, like the evening rose-tint upon her snowy mountains; her bosom, tranquil and yet gently heaving, like the summer sea that girded her shores. Carintha went forth to her nuptials, having first recommended herself to God, who took her into his keeping; and the ring was placed upon her finger, and she was wed; and from that moment, the danger that hung over her from her birth being forever gone by, the seriousness that all used to remark passed away forever from her countenance and from her speech.

There is little doubt that if Carl Bluven had kept his promise to the strange mariner, and decoyed Carintha into his power, God would have saved the child, and punished the unnatural father, by delivering him early into the hands of him with whom he had made so sinful a bargain. But, although it was wicked in Carl to make such a bargain, it would have been more wicked still to fulfill it; and Carl’s refusal to do this, as well as the good use he made of his money, and the creditable way in which he discharged the duties of chief magistrate, had, no doubt, the effect of weakening the power of Kahlbranner over him, and of, therefore, preventing the success of the many stratagems resorted to for getting Carl into his power. And so for more than twenty years after the marriage of Carintha, Carl Bluven continued to enjoy his prosperity, and to exercise, at due intervals, the office of chief magistrate: and he saw his grandchildren grow up around him; and at length buried his wife Uldwalla. But the penalty of the rash promise had yet to be paid.

It chanced that Carl Bluven—who, by-the-by, was now Carl Von Bluven, having long ago received that dignity—was bidden to a feast at the house of a rich citizen, who lived just on the opposite side of the harbor. Although it was nearly half a league round the head of the harbor and across the drawbridge, Carl walked round, rather than trust himself across in a boat; a conveyance which, ever since his interview on the quay, he had studiously avoided. It was a great feast; many bowls of bishop (a kind of mulled wine) were emptied, and many a national song roared in chorus; so that Carl, as well as the rest of the guests, began to feel the effects of their potations. In the midst of their conviviality, and when it was nearly approached midnight, the merriment was suddenly interrupted by the hollow beat of the alarm drum; and all hastily arising and running to the window which looked out upon the harbor, Carl saw that his warehouse was in flames. Carl was not yet tired of being a rich man, and so with only some hasty expressions of dismay, he hurried from the banquet and ran at full speed towards the harbor. It was, as has been said, half a league round by the drawbridge: the merchant saw his well-stored warehouse within a stone’s throw of him, burning away, and—the fumes of wine were in his head—without further thought, he leaped into a boat that lay just below, and pushed across.

Scarcely had Carl Bluven done this, when he recollected his danger. Paddle as he would, the boat made no way: what exertions the merchant made, and what were his thoughts, no one can tell. Some seamen were awoken by loud cries for help; and some, who jumped out of their hammocks, told how they saw a boat drifting out of the harbor.

Two or three days after this event, the Tellemarke, free trader, arrived in Bergen from Iceland, and reported, “that but for a strong northerly breeze, she would have been sucked into the Maelstroom; that a little before sunset, when within two leagues of the whirlpool, a small boat was seen drifting, empty; and that soon after another, the smallest and strangest built boat that ever was seen passed close under their bows, to windward, paddling in the direction of the Maelstroom; that two mariners were in it; he at the helm of an exceedingly tall stature, and singular countenance; that the other cried out for help; upon which the ship lay to, and manned a boat with four rowers; but that with all their exertions they were unable to gain upon the little boat, which was worked by a single paddle; and that the boatmen, fearing they might be drawn into the whirlpool, returned to the ship; and that, just at sunset, they could descry the small boat, by the help of their glasses, steering right across the Maelstroom, as if it had been a small pond.” Of all which extraordinary facts, the master of the Tellemarke made a deposition before the chief magistrate who filled the chair after Carl Bluven had disappeared in so miraculous a manner.