little old man, in black jerkin and red stockings, with the broad,
pointed hat on his head. He had a kind, delicately cut face, and a
little beard, as soft as a spider’s web; he was smoking, strange to
say, a blue glass pipe, and as Peter went nearer, he saw that all his
clothes too, and his hat, and his shoes, were made of coloured glass,
but it was pliable, as though it were still warm, and fitted like cloth
to every turn and movement of the little man’s body.
“Thou hast met that scoundrel, Dutch Michael, then?” said the little
man, making an odd, hoarse sound in his throat between almost every
word. “He tried to frighten thee badly, but I got his magic whip away
from him, and he shall never have it back again!”
“Yea, Master Treasure-keeper,” answered Peter, with a deep bow, “I was
dreadfully frightened. But doubtless you were his lordship the hawk,
who killed the snake for me. I am very much obliged to you. But I was
coming to get some advice from you, for things are going very poorly
with me. A charcoal-burner does not get on very well in life, and as I
am still young, I thought I might manage to better myself. Specially
when I look at others, who seem to have got on so easily. Take fat
Ezekiel, or the ‘dancers’ king,’ for instance; with them money is as
plentiful as hay.”
“Peter,” said the little man very gravely, and as he spoke he blew the
smoke from his pipe far out before him--“Peter, never speak to me of
them. What does it advantage them to _seem_ happy here for a few years,
and then to be all the more miserable afterwards? Thou must not despise
thy calling. Thy father and grandfather were honest folk, and yet they
followed the same. Peter Munk, I hope it is not love of idleness that
has brought thee to me.”
Peter was alarmed at the little man’s serious tone, and reddened as he
answered: “Nay, Master Treasure-keeper, idleness, I know full well, is
the beginning of all evil; but you cannot blame me if another calling
pleases me better than my own. A charcoal-burner is so very low, you
see, and glass-blowers, and raftsmen, and watchmakers are all of more
consequence.”
“Pride often goes before a fall,” answered the little master of the
forest, rather more kindly. “Ye are a strange race, ye sons of men.
You are scarcely ever quite content with the state of life to which
you are born and brought up! And what is the use of wishing? Wert thou
a glass-maker, thou wouldst wish to be a master woodman; and if that
were granted thee, thou wouldst covet the forester’s place, or the
Mayor’s house! But let be; if thou wilt promise to work diligently,
I will help thee to something better, Peter. I am wont to give every
Sunday child that finds its way to me three wishes. The first two are
granted without question; the third I can deny if it is a foolish one.
So now thou mayst wish for something--but let it be something good and
useful, Peter.”
“Hurrah! you are a capital little Glass-man!” shouted Peter, “rightly
called the Treasure-keeper, for you have treasures indeed in your hand.
And so I may wish for whatever my heart desires? Then I will begin
by wishing to dance better than the ‘king of the dancing-floor,’ and
always to have as much money in my pocket as fat Ezekiel.”
“Thou fool!” exclaimed the little man angrily. “What a miserable wish
is this! To dance well, and to have money for gambling! Art thou not
ashamed, foolish Peter, of being so blind to thine own welfare? What
use is it to thyself, or thy poor mother, that thou shouldst be able
to dance? What use is money, when by thine own wish, it is but to be
spent in the tavern, and will stay there, like that of the miserable
‘dancers’ king’? So all the week long thou wilt still have nought, and
starve as before. I will give thee one more free wish, but be careful
to choose something more sensible.”
Peter scratched his head, and resumed after some hesitation: “Well,
then, I will wish for the finest and richest glass-hut in all the Black
Forest, with its belongings, and all the money that is needed to carry
on the work.”
“Nothing else?” said the little man anxiously. “Oh, Peter, nothing
else?”
“Well, you might add a horse and a little cart.”
“Oh thou foolish Coal-Munk Peter!” cried the little fellow, and threw
his glass pipe in a rage against a neighbouring tree, so that it broke
into a hundred pieces.
“Horses, carts!” he continued. “Wisdom, I tell thee, wisdom and plain
common sense, and insight--these thou shouldst have wished for, not
horses and carts! Well, do not look so downcast; we will try and see
that thou dost not come to harm, even so, for the second wish was not
altogether foolish. A good glass-hut keeps master and man alive; only
thou shouldst have wished for knowledge and sense to carry it on, then
horses and carts would have followed of themselves.”
“But, Master Treasure-keeper,” said Peter, “I have still a wish left. I
can wish for wisdom with that, if it is really as indispensable as you
think.”
--“Nay, stop there! Thou wilt find thyself in many a scrape yet, that
will make thee glad thou hast a wish still left. Now go home; and
here,” continued the little spirit of the pine-wood, drawing a purse
out of his pocket, “here are two thousand gulden, and let that suffice;
do not come asking me for money again, or I should be obliged to hang
thee from the highest fir-tree. That has been my rule since I have
dwelt in this forest. Three days ago old Winkfritz died, who owned the
large glass-hut in the lower forest. Go there to-morrow morning, and
make a proper bid for the business. Look to thyself, be diligent, and I
will pay thee a visit now and again, and give thee a helping hand, and
wise counsel, since thou didst not ask for wisdom thyself. But I tell
thee again, and I am in earnest, thy first wish was bad. Beware of the
ale-house, Peter; it has never yet done any one good for long!”
As he spoke, the little man had drawn a new pipe of fine glass from his
pocket, and stuffed it with dry pine-needles. He now put it between
his little toothless gums, and producing a large burning-glass, he
stepped into the sun and lit his pipe. Having done this, he shook Peter
kindly by the hand, and after giving him a few more good counsels, as
they went along, he began to puff and blow so rapidly at his pipe, that
he ended by completely disappearing in a cloud of smoke, which smelt
of real Dutch tobacco, and faded slowly away among the tops of the
fir-trees.
When Peter got home, he found his mother very anxious about him, for
the good woman had quite made up her mind that her son had been drawn
for a soldier, and already carried off. But he was in high spirits, and
told her that he had met a kind friend in the forest, who had procured
him money to start a new business, instead of the charcoal-burning. And
though his mother had lived for thirty years in a charcoal-burner’s
hut, and had been as used to blackened faces as a miller’s wife is to
floury ones, still she was foolish and proud enough to despise her
former condition as soon as Peter promised her a more prosperous one,
and said “that now, as the mother of a man who owned a glass-hut, she
was something above the neighbours, Betty and Grete, and should take a
front seat in church, among the respectable people.”
Peter soon struck a bargain with the inheritors of the glass-hut the
little man had told him of; he kept on the workmen he found there, and
let the glass-making go on night and day. At first the work pleased
him. He went down to the workshop at his convenience, and walked about
it with an important air, his hands in his pockets, looking to right
and left, and making this and that remark, over which his work-people
often laughed not a little. His greatest pleasure was to see the glass
blown, and he would often set to work himself, and form the strangest
figures out of the soft, warm mass. But after a while he tired of it,
and went to the hut, first only an hour each day, then only every two
days, and at last only once a week, while his workmen did as they
pleased. Now his fondness for the tavern was to blame for all this.
The Sunday after his return from the “Pine-thicket,” he went there
as usual, and there was the “king” already bounding about upon the
dancing-floor; and there sat fat Ezekiel, too, his tankard before him,
rattling the dice and casting for crown thalers. Peter’s hands jumped
to his pockets, that he might see if the little Glass-man had kept
his word; and lo! they were bulging with silver and gold coins. His
legs, too, twitched and itched, as though they were fain to jump and
dance; and when the first dance was over, he stood up with his partner
opposite the “dancing-king,” and when the latter sprang three feet
into the air, Peter leaped four, and when his opponent cut all sorts
of nimble and dainty steps, Peter twisted and turned his feet about so
much more rapidly, that the beholders could hardly contain themselves
for wonder and admiration. But when people heard that Peter had bought
a glass-hut, and saw how he scattered sixpences among the musicians
whenever he went by, there was no end to the general astonishment.
Some said he had found a treasure in the forest, others that he had
come into an inheritance, but one and all honoured him, and looked up
to him, only because he had money. He played away as much as twenty
guldens that evening, and yet the coins rattled in his pocket, as
though there were at least a hundred thalers left there. When Peter
saw how much he was respected, he was beside himself with pride and
joy. He threw his money about with both hands, and gave generously of
it to the poor. Did he not know by experience how bitter is the sting
of poverty? The “dancing king” was cast quite into the shade by Peter’s
superhuman talents, and Peter was now called “the dancers’ emperor.”
The most reckless of the Sunday gamblers did not make such wagers as he
did, but neither did they lose so much. But, then, the more he lost,
the more he won, and this happened just as he had begged the little
Glass-man that it might. He had wished “always to have as much money in
his pocket as fat Ezekiel,” and it was to this very man that he always
lost his money; so when he lost twenty or thirty gulden at a stroke,
there they were in his pocket again, the very moment Ezekiel swept them
into his own. Presently he went further in betting and gambling than
the most daring ne’er-do-weels in all the forest, and he was oftener
called “gambling Peter” than “the dancers’ emperor,” for he played on
most work-days as well as Sundays now. Hence his business began to go
badly, and this was the fault of Peter’s lack of wisdom. He had as much
glass made as there possibly could be, but with the business, he had
not bought the secret of disposing of his wares to the best advantage.
At last he did not know what to do with all his unsold glass, and got
rid of it half-price, to pedlars, only that he might have enough to pay
his workmen their wage.
One evening, as he was coming home from the ale-house, and thinking
with shame and distress--despite all the wine he had drunk to cheer
himself up--of the failure of his fortunes, he perceived that some one
was walking beside him, and when he looked round, behold, it was the
little Glass-man!
Then Peter broke out in anger against him, and with boastful, daring
words, swore that the little man was to blame for all his troubles.
“What use are my horse and cart to me now?” he cried. “What use are my
hut and all my glass? Even when I was only a poor charcoal-burner’s
lad, I had a happier life and fewer cares. Now I do not even know at
what hour the sheriff will come and value my goods, and sell me up
because of my debts!”
“So,” answered the little man, “so! I am to blame if thou art unhappy?
Are these the thanks I get for all my benefits? Was it I who told thee
to make such foolish wishes? Thou wouldst be a glass-maker, and didst
not even know whither to sell thy wares! Did I not warn thee to frame
thy wishes carefully? Common sense, Peter, common sense and knowledge
were lacking to thee.”
“Sense and knowledge, indeed!” shouted Peter. “I am as sensible a
lad as any, and I will prove it to thee, little Glass-man!” And with
these words he seized the little man by the collar, and yelled: “I
have thee now, have I not, thou Treasure-keeper! And now I will wish
my third wish, and thou shalt grant it. I wish, then, this moment, for
two hundred thousand hard thalers, and a house, and--ah!” he screamed,
for the little man of the woods had changed into burning glass, and
was scorching Peter’s hand like a flaming fire. But of the little man
himself no trace was to be seen.
For several days Peter’s swollen hand reminded him unpleasantly of
his ingratitude and folly. But after a time he stifled the voice of
conscience, and said to himself: “What matter though they should sell
my glass-hut, and all I have? I still have fat Ezekiel, and as long as
he has money on Sundays, I cannot want for it.”
Yea, Peter, but if he should have none?
And so it happened one day, as a strange and wonderful judgment upon
them both. For one Sunday he drove up to the inn, and the people
stretched their heads out of window, and said: “There goes gambling
Peter--there goes the ‘dancers’ emperor,’ the rich glass-man!” And
others rejoined: “Who knows about the riches? They do say his debts are
many, and that it will not be long before the sheriff appears to seize
his goods!”
But meanwhile Peter dismounted, and greeted them all pompously, and
called out to the host: “Good-evening, mine host of the Sun Inn! Is fat
Ezekiel here?” And a voice from within replied: “Here we are, Peter, at
the cards already, and thy place is kept for thee.”
So Peter Munk went in, feeling his pockets, and saw directly that
Ezekiel must be well off that night, for they were brimming over with
gold and silver. He sat down to the table, and played with one and
another, and won and lost, and won again, till it grew late, and the
steadier heads among them said it was enough, and they must go home
to wife and child. So one and another went, till gambling Peter and
Ezekiel were left alone. Peter begged the latter to stop on a while,
but he was loth, and resisted for a long time. At last he cried: “Well,
I will count what I have left, and then we will play one last bout,
five gulden a throw, for it is childish to keep on for less.”
He counted his money, and found he had just a hundred guldens; and now
Peter did not need to count his, for he knew how much he had, too.
But if Ezekiel had won before, he lost now, one throw after another,
swearing fearfully the while. At last he put his only remaining five
gulden on the table, and said: “Now, even if I lose this time, I will
yet not leave off, for thou wilt lend me some of thy winnings, Peter;
one good fellow helps another.”
“To be sure I will, and were it a hundred guldens!” cried the other,
proud of his winnings; and fat Ezekiel threw the dice--fifteen. “Now
let us see!” he cried.
Peter rattled the box, and threw--eighteen; and as he did so, a hoarse,
well-known voice behind him said: “So, that was _the last_!”
He turned round, and saw the giant form of Dutch Michael. He let the
money he had won fall in terror. But fat Ezekiel saw no one, and only
begged Peter to lend him ten guldens, that he might go on playing.
Half dreaming, Peter thrust his hand into one pocket--it was empty.
He tried the other--it was the same. He turned his coat inside out,
but not a penny-piece was to be found; and now he thought of his own
wish--that he might always have as much money as fat Ezekiel. It had
all disappeared like smoke.
The host and Ezekiel gazed at him in surprise as he went on hunting,
and still found none of his money. They would not believe he had no
more; but when they themselves felt in his pockets, and were obliged to
confess it was the truth they became very wroth, and swore gambling
Peter was a wicked conjurer and had “wished” all Ezekiel’s money, and
his own, away into his coffers at home. He defended himself as best he
could, but appearances were against him. Ezekiel swore he would spread
the shameful tale through all the Black Forest, and the host declared
he would go to the town at dawn and denounce Peter as a sorcerer,
adding that he believed he would come to be burnt as one yet. Then they
set upon him in a rage, tore his jerkin from his back, and thrust him
out of doors.
No star lit up the dark sky as Peter slunk dejectedly homewards, yet he
could make out a dusky form that strode along beside him, and at last
spoke as follows:
“Thou art done for now, Peter Munk; all thy grandeur is at an end.
And I could have told thee as much before, but thou wouldst have
naught to do with me, and wert set upon running to that foolish
little glass-dwarf. Now thou seest what happens to those who scorn my
counsels. But try me again, for I have pity upon thy miserable plight.
No one ever repented it yet who turned to me, and if thou dost not fear
the way, I am to be found all day to-morrow in the ‘Pine-thicket,’ and
will come forth to speak with thee, if thou dost but call.”
Peter was well aware who it was that spoke thus to him, but a sense
of dread crept over him. He made no answer, but hurried on upon his
homeward way.
The Little Glassman Part II
[Illustration]
THE COLD HEART
When Peter went down to his glass-hut on Monday morning, he found not
only his workmen there, but other and more unwelcome occupants, namely,
the sheriff and three of his officers. The former wished him good-day,
asked how he had slept, and then drew out a long list of Peter’s
creditors.
“Canst thou pay--yes or no?” asked the sheriff, with a stern look.
“Answer me quickly, for I have not much time to lose, and it will take
me three hours to get back to the town.”
Peter’s heart sank; he was obliged to own that his last penny was gone,
and to suffer the sheriff to begin valuing his goods.
As he and his officers went about, examining and valuing the house, the
workshop, the stable, the horse, cart, and all, Peter said to himself
that it was not far to the “Pine-thicket,” and that, as the little man
had not helped him, he would now try what the big one could do.
He hurried to the “Pine-thicket” as fast as if the sheriff’s officers
had been at his heels; and though, as he ran by the spot where he had
first spoken to the little Glass-man, he fancied that an invisible hand
was laid upon him, trying to hold him back, still he broke away, and
hastened on, till he came to the boundary-line, of which he had taken
good care to note the position before.
He had scarcely had time to call out in a breathless voice: “Dutch
Michael! Master Dutch Michael!” ere the giant raftsman, with his long
pole, stood before him.
“So thou art come!” said he, with a laugh. “Would they fain have
skinned thee and sold thee to thy creditors? Well, make thy mind easy.
All thy troubles, as I said before, come from the little Glass-man,
that canting bit of piety, who is too good to mix with other folk. If
one gives at all, one should give freely, and not like yon miser. But
come,” he continued, turning toward the forest, “follow me to my house,
and we will see whether we can strike a bargain.”
“A bargain!” thought Peter. “What can he ask of me, or what have I to
barter? Am I to be his servant, or what?”
They went for a bit down a steep woodland path, that led suddenly to
the brink of a dark, deep, and precipitous ravine. Dutch Michael swung
himself down the cliff as though it had been a flight of smooth marble
steps; but Peter nearly lost his senses for terror when the giant,
having reached the bottom, suddenly grew up as tall as a steeple, and
reaching out an arm as long as a weaver’s beam, with a hand at the end
of it as big as the table at the tavern, called up in tones as deep and
muffled as a funeral bell: “Sit thee down on my hand, and hold on by
one of the fingers, that thou mayst not fall.”
Peter tremblingly did as he was told, and taking his seat upon the
giant’s hand, held firmly on by one of his thumbs. They went down a
long way, deeper and deeper; yet to Peter’s surprise it grew no darker,
but rather the daylight brightened as they descended into the chasm,
only his eyes could not endure that light for long together.
Dutch Michael’s size decreased the farther Peter got down, until he
had shrunk to his usual height, and they stood at the door of a house,
that was neither better nor worse than that of any rich peasant in
the forest. The sitting-room which Peter now entered was no different
from other people’s, except that it seemed very lonely; the tall
wooden clock, the great earthenware stove, the broad benches, and
the household utensils on the shelves, were just the same here as
elsewhere. Michael motioned him to a seat by the centre table, and then
went out, returning with a pitcher of wine and some glasses. He filled
them up, and began chatting with his guest, telling him so much about
the pleasures of the world, and the beauties of foreign countries,
towns, and rivers, that Peter at last confessed to a great desire to
see all these fine things.
“But,” said Dutch Michael, “though thy body might be full of strength
and courage, enough to venture upon any undertaking, yet one or two
throbs of thy foolish heart would be enough to make thee tremble and
grow weak! And then again, what you call sorrow, or wounded honour,
what are these, that a sensible lad should trouble about them? Was it
in thy head thou didst feel it, when a while ago some one called thee
an impostor and a scoundrel? When the sheriff came to turn thee out of
house and home, was it thy belly that pained thee? Nay, but where, tell
me, where didst thou feel the pain?”
“In my heart,” said Peter, as he pressed his hand to his throbbing
side, for he felt, indeed, as though his heart were leaping to and fro
in alarm.
“Well, in past days--do not take it amiss--but in past days, I say,
thou hast thrown away many hundred guldens to good-for-nothing beggars,
and other ragamuffins, and what use has it been to thee? They wished
thee health and every blessing--art thou any the healthier for it?
For half that wasted money thou couldst have paid for a doctor all to
thyself. Blessings! A fine blessing it is to be sold up and turned
adrift, eh? And what was it that made thee thrust thy hand in thy
pocket as often as a dirty beggar stretched out his ragged cap? Thy
heart, always thy heart; not thine eye, thy tongue, or thy leg, but thy
heart--thou didst always _take it_, as they rightly say, _too much to
heart_!”
“But how can a man get to feel differently? I am taking a deal of
trouble, this very moment, to keep my heart quiet, and yet it is
throbbing and aching.”
“_Thou!_” laughed the other. “Thou, poor wretch, canst do nothing to
prevent it, I know. Yet only give _me_ the feebly beating thing, and
thou shalt see what ease will be thine.”
“You?--my heart?” cried Peter in terror. “But then I should die on the
spot? Never!”
“Yes, if one of these gentlemen, the surgeons, were to try and cut the
heart out of thy body, thou wouldst die, sure enough; but it is not so
when I do it. Come hither and be convinced.”
With these words, he opened a door and led Peter into an adjoining room.
The lad’s heart sank, with a painful quiver, as he stepped over the
threshold; but he did not notice it, so startling and amazing was the
sight that met his eyes. On sundry wooden shelves stood glass jars,
filled with a transparent fluid, and in every one of these jars lay a
heart. Moreover, each jar was labelled and bore a name, which Peter
read with eager curiosity. Here was the heart of the sheriff of F.,
and there the heart of fat Ezekiel, and the heart of the “dancers’
king,” and of the head-forester; there were six hearts belonging to
corn-brokers, eight to recruiting officers, three to usurers--in fact,
it was a collection of the most respectable hearts for twenty miles
round.
“See!” said Dutch Michael, “all these have cast away the cares and
sorrows of life; not one of these hearts beats anxiously or heavily any
more, and their former owners feel all the better for having got this
restless guest out of their house.”
“But what do they carry in their breasts instead?” asked Peter, who
felt quite confused and giddy from all he had seen and heard.
“This,” answered the other, and reached out to him, from a drawer which
he had opened, a stone heart.
“This!” echoed Peter, and could not prevent a cold shiver from going
over him. “A heart of marble. But surely, Master Dutch Michael, such a
one must feel very cold in a man’s breast?”
“Certainly; but the coolness is really quite pleasant. Why should
a heart be warm, after all? In winter, a good dram will warm thee
better; and in summer, when all is sultry and hot, it’s past belief how
comfortably such a heart as this cools a fellow down. And, as I said
before, neither fear nor care, neither foolish pity nor other men’s
sorrow, can knock at the door of such a heart.”