fault. The piano, quite simply, was out of tune, although a very
clever tuner had only just tuned it. It was like a piano bewitched,
enchanted.

He seized his violin; he had to tune it, of course. But when he
wanted to tighten the E string, the screw refused to work. It had
dried up; and when the conductor tried to use force, the string
snapped with a sharp sound, and rolled itself up like a dried
eel-skin.

It was bewitched!

But the fact that her photograph had faded was really the worst
blow, and therefore he threw a veil over the altar.

In doing this, he threw a veil over all that was most beautiful
in his life; and he became depressed, began to mope, and stopped
going out in the evening.

It would be Midsummer soon. The nights were shorter than the days,
but since the Venetian blinds kept his bedroom dark, the conductor
did not notice it.

At last, one night--it was Midsummer night--he awoke, because the
clock in the sitting-room struck thirteen. There was something
uncanny about this, firstly, because thirteen is an unlucky number,
and secondly, because no well-behaved clock can strike thirteen.
He did not fall asleep again, but he lay in his bed, listening.
There was a peculiar ticking noise in the sitting-room, and then
a loud bang, as if a piece of furniture had cracked. Directly