money, and you offer me a stone.”
“Well, I should think a hundred thousand guldens would be enough to
begin with, would it not? If thou dost only manage it well, thou canst
soon be a rich man.”
“A hundred thousand!” cried the poor charcoal-burner joyfully. “Well,
do not leap so wildly in my breast, unruly heart! we shall soon have
done with one another! So be it, Michael, give me the money and
the stone, and thou hast leave to take away the unrest from this
dwelling-place.”
“I was sure thou wert a sensible lad,” replied the Dutchman, smiling
pleasantly; “come, let us have one more drink together, and then I will
count out the money.”
They sat down to their wine again, and drank and drank, until Peter
fell into a deep slumber.
* * * * *
Coal-Munk Peter was awakened by the cheery ring of a post-boy’s horn,
and found himself sitting in a fine carriage, rolling along a broad
road; and as he leaned from the door and looked back, he could see the
Black Forest lying far behind him in the distance. At first he could
not believe that it was really himself sitting in this post-chaise,
for even his clothes were not the same as he had worn yesterday, but
he remembered everything that had happened so clearly, that at last he
gave up puzzling, and cried: “Well, I am Coal-Munk Peter at any rate,
and no other; that much is certain.”
He was surprised that he felt no melancholy, no home-sickness, on thus
leaving his quiet village, and the silent woods where he had lived so
long, for the first time. Even when he thought of his mother, whom he
must have left behind in penury and distress, he could not squeeze a
tear out of his eye, or even heave a sigh at the thought of her, for he
felt indifferent to everything.
“But of course,” he thought to himself, “tears and sighs, melancholy
and home-sickness, all come from the heart, and, thanks to Dutch
Michael, mine is cold and of stone.” He laid his hand on his breast,
and all was quiet and motionless within. “If he has kept his word as
well about the hundred thousand, I may think myself lucky indeed,” he
said, and began to search the carriage.
At first he only found clothes, of every description that he could
want, yet no money; but finally he hit on a bag filled with golden
thalers, and bills upon various merchants in all the great cities. “Now
everything is as I wish,” he thought, and settling himself comfortably
in a corner of the carriage, he journeyed forth into the world.
He travelled about for two years, gazing right and left out of his
carriage at the houses and lands as he went by; and the first thing he
looked for, when he stopped anywhere, was the sign of the tavern. Then
he would wander about in the cities, and let all their rarest treasures
and most beautiful sights be displayed to him. But nothing gave him
pleasure--no picture, no house, no music, no merrymaking; his stone
heart could take no interest in anything, and his eyes and ears were
deadened to all that was lovely. He had nothing left but the pleasures
of eating and drinking, and of sleep; and so he lived, wandering about
the world without object, eating for his amusement, and sleeping
because he was dull. Now and then he remembered, indeed, that he had
been happier and merrier when he was still poor, and had to work for
his livelihood. Then every beautiful outlook into the valley, all music
and song, still delighted him, and he had even looked forward for hours
to the simple meal that his mother was to bring up to the charcoal-kiln
for him. It seemed quite strange, as he looked back over the past, and
called to mind how he had been wont to laugh at the slightest jest,
to think that he could no longer laugh now. When others did so, he
drew his mouth, out of politeness, into a wry smile, but his heart had
no smile within. Then he knew that, though he was very calm, he was
not happy. It was not melancholy or home-sickness, but merely want of
interest, and the weariness of his empty, joyless life, that at last
sent him home again.
When he drove from Strasbourg and caught sight of the dark woods of his
home--when he saw again, for the first time, the powerful forms and the
kind, honest faces of the Black Forest folk--when the tones of that
familiar speech, deep and loud, yet pleasant withal, fell upon his ear,
he hastily put his hand to his heart, for he felt a stir in his blood,
and thought that now he must surely both rejoice and weep--but how
could he have been so foolish? Had he not a heart of stone? Stones are
dead, and neither laugh nor weep.
His first visit was to Dutch Michael, who welcomed him with his old
kindness.
“Michael,” Peter said to him, “I have travelled and seen everything
now, but it is all foolish stuff, and I only bored myself. This stone
thing of yours, to be sure, saves me a great deal. I never get angry
and am never sad, but then I am never merry either, and I seem to
myself to be only half alive. Could you not make the stone heart a bit
livelier? Or--why not give me back my old heart? I would rather have
it back; I had got used to it in five-and-twenty years, and if it did
sometimes play me a foolish trick, yet it was merry, and a blithe sort
of heart.”
The wood-spirit laughed a bitter, grim laugh.
“When once thou art dead, Peter Munk,” he replied, “thou shalt have it
fast enough. Yes, then thou shalt have thy soft, easily moved heart
again, and be able to feel all that comes, whether joy or pain. But
above ground it can never be thine again. Yet, Peter, if thou hast
travelled, and reaped no pleasure from it, this was only because of thy
foolish way of life. Now settle somewhere in the forest, build a house,
marry, use thy money so as to increase thy wealth. Lack of work is all
that is amiss with thee; thou wert only dull because thou wert idle,
and now thou wouldst put all the blame on this innocent heart?”
Peter admitted that, as far as the idleness was concerned, Michael was
right; and he made up his mind to set to work at getting richer and
richer. Michael again made him a present of a hundred thousand guldens,
and bade him farewell as the best of friends.
The story soon got spread about that Coal-Munk Peter, or “gambling
Peter,” had returned, and far richer than before. And thereupon things
went as they always do--at the time he had been reduced to beggary,
they had turned him out of the Sun Inn, but now when he made his first
appearance there on a Sunday afternoon, every one shook him by the
hand, praised his horse, and asked about his travels; and when he began
to play again for hard coin with fat Ezekiel, he stood as high as ever
in the public esteem.
He no longer made glass now, but took up the wood-business, and even
that only as a pretence. His real business was that of a corn-broker
and money-lender. By-and-by half the Black Forest was in debt to him,
but he only lent out money at ten per cent., or sold corn at treble
the usual price, to poor people who could not pay at once. He was now
fast friends with the sheriff; and if any one failed to pay what he
owed Master Peter Munk, punctually and to the very day, out would come
the sheriff with his men, and having hastily valued the poor debtor’s
goods, they would sell all he had, and turn him out, with wife and
child, into the forest.
At first this caused the rich Peter some inconvenience, for the poor
sold-up wretches would besiege his house in swarms, the men begging for
a little respite, the women trying to soften the heart of stone, and
the little children crying for a crust of bread. But he soon provided
himself with a couple of fierce bloodhounds, and then the “cats’
music,” as he called it, stopped at once.
The person who gave him the most trouble was “the old wife,” as he
called her, and who was she but Mistress Munk, his own mother. She
had fallen into misery and want, at the time their house and goods
had been sold up, and since her son had come home a rich man, he had
never troubled himself about her. Now she would sometimes hobble up
to the house, leaning on her stick, old, broken-down, and feeble. She
did not dare go in, for he had once driven her away; but it cut her
to the heart to be obliged to live on the charity of others, when her
own son could have made her old age comfortable and free from care.
But the cold heart was never moved by the sight of the well-known form
and features, now so pale and wasted, or of the outstretched hand and
imploring gaze. When she knocked at the door on Saturday evenings,
he grudgingly drew forth a sixpenny-piece, wrapped it in paper, and
sent it out to her by a serving-man. He could hear her trembling voice
uttering thanks, and wishes for his prosperity--he could hear her cough
as she crept from the door, but he thought no more of it, except that
he had been obliged to spend another sixpence uselessly.
At last he bethought himself of marrying. He knew that any father in
the district would gladly give him his daughter, but he was particular
in his choice, for he desired men to praise his luck and his wisdom in
this matter too. So he rode about through all the forest, looking here
and there, yet none of the handsome Black Forest girls seemed handsome
enough for him. At last, after having sought in vain among all the
pretty girls at the various dances and meeting-places, he heard that
the fairest and best girl in the whole country was the daughter of a
poor wood-cutter. She was said to live very quietly, in the strictest
seclusion, managing her father’s house diligently and well, and never
showing herself at a dance, not even on the greatest holidays. When
Peter heard of this wonder of the forest, he determined to woo her,
and rode off to the hut that had been pointed out to him.
The father of beautiful Lisbeth received this fine gentleman with much
surprise, and was even more surprised to learn that he was the rich
Master Peter Munk, and was anxious to become his son-in-law. The old
man was not long in making up his mind, for he fancied all his care
and poverty would now be at an end; he even gave his consent without
consulting Lisbeth, and the good child was so obedient that she made no
objection to becoming Mistress Peter Munk.
But the poor girl was far from having as pleasant a life as she
had expected. She had thought she understood housekeeping, but she
could never please Master Peter; she had compassion on the poor and
suffering, and as her husband was so rich, she thought it no sin to
give a penny to a poor beggar-woman, or a dram to an old man; but when
Master Peter one day discovered this, he growled out with rough voice
and angry looks:
“What is this thou art after, wasting my substance on vagabonds and
ragamuffins? Didst thou bring anything into the house, that thou
shouldst have the right to give anything away? Thy father’s beggar’s
staff will warm no soup, and yet thou canst throw money about like a
queen. Let me catch thee at it again, and thou shalt feel my hand!”
Beautiful Lisbeth wept alone in her room over her husband’s hard heart,
and often wished herself home again in her father’s poor hut, rather
than in the house of rich, but niggardly, stony-hearted Peter. Ah! if
she had only known that he had a heart of marble, that could neither
love her nor any one else, she would no longer have wondered at him.
Now, when she sat at her door, and a beggar came up, and took off his
hat and began his little speech, she would close her eyes, so as not to
see his misery, and clench her hand tightly, lest it should slip into
her pocket and fetch out a coin.
Therefore it came to pass that beautiful Lisbeth fell into bad repute
through all the forest, and people said she was even more of a miser
than her husband.
But one day she was sitting at her door, spinning and singing a little
song, for she was light of heart, because the weather was fine, and
Master Peter had ridden far afield; and presently a little man came
down the road, carrying a large, heavy sack; she could hear him a long
way off, panting for breath. Mistress Lisbeth looked at him pityingly,
and thought to herself that such an old man should not be so heavily
laden.
Now the little man staggered up, gasping, and when he got opposite
Mistress Lisbeth’s door, he broke down altogether beneath his load.
“Oh, have pity on me, and give me a drink of water, mistress!” he
panted. “I can go no farther, and am fainting for misery.”
“But you should not carry such heavy loads at your age,” said Mistress
Lisbeth.
“Ay, ’tis all very well, but what if I must do errands, because I am
poor and have to earn my bread?” he answered. “Ah! a rich woman like
you does not know how bitter poverty is, or how welcome a cool drink in
such hot weather.”
When Lisbeth heard this, she hurried into the house and filled a glass
with water, but as she was coming back, and saw how wretched and
careworn he looked, crouching upon his sack, a deeper compassion welled
up within her; she remembered her husband was not at home, and turning
again, she put the water aside, and brought out a beaker full of wine,
with a good loaf of rye-bread, to the old man.
“There, a draught of wine will do thee more good than water, as thou
art so old,” she said; “but do not drink so hastily, and eat some bread
with it.”
The old man gazed at her in astonishment, till great tears gathered in
his eyes. He drank again, and then said:
“I am old, but I have met with few people so compassionate as thou,
or who gave their gifts with so sweet and heartfelt a grace, Mistress
Lisbeth. But thou wilt surely have a happy life in return, for such a
heart does not go unrewarded.”
“Nay, and she shall reap the reward this very moment!” shouted a
furious voice--and looking round, they saw Master Peter, crimson with
anger, standing behind them. “And I see thou dost give my choicest
wine, too, to beggars, and my own tankard to the lips of vagabonds!
There is thy reward!”
Mistress Lisbeth fell at his feet and begged for forgiveness, but the
stone heart knew no pity; he turned the whip he held in his hand, and
brought down its ebony handle with such force upon her fair forehead,
that she sank lifeless into the old man’s arms.
When he saw this, Peter at once seemed to feel remorseful, for he bent
down to see if there were any life left in her; but the little old man
said, in well-known tones:
“Trouble thyself no further, Coal-Peter; here was the fairest and
sweetest blossom in all the forest, but thou hast trodden it under
foot, and it will never bloom again.”
Every drop of blood left Peter’s cheeks, and he stammered: “It is you,
then, Master Treasure-keeper? Well, what is done is done, and doubtless
it had to be. But I trust you will not denounce me to justice as a
murderer?”
“Miserable wretch!” said the little Glass-man sternly. “What good would
it do me to bring thy perishable body to the gallows? Not earthly
judgments hast thou to fear, but other and more terrible ones; for thou
hast sold thy soul to the Evil One.”
“And if I have sold my heart,” screamed Peter, “it is thou who art
to blame, thou and thy deceitful treasures! Thou, malicious spirit,
hast been my undoing--’tis thou hast driven me to ask help from
another--thou hast to answer for it all!”
But hardly had he spoken these words, when the little Glass-man began
to grow larger and taller, till he towered above him, and his eyes,
they declare, were as large as soup-plates, and his mouth was like a
heated oven, and breathed forth fiery flames. Peter fell on his knees,
and his stone heart did not prevent him from trembling like an aspen
leaf. The wood-spirit seized him by the neck with its hawk-like talons,
whirled him round as the storm-wind does a dry leaf, and then cast him
to the ground again, so that all his bones rattled.
“Earth-worm!” he cried with a voice of thunder, “I could shatter thee
to atoms if I would, for thou hast blasphemed against the Lord of the
Forest. But, for this dead woman’s sake, who gave me food and drink, I
will grant thee eight days’ respite. If thou dost not turn and repent
thee in that time, I will come and grind thy bones to powder, and thou
shalt go hence in thy sins!”
It was already evening, when some men who were going by saw rich Peter
Munk lying on the ground. They turned him this way and that, and sought
if there was still any breath in him, but for a time they sought in
vain. Presently one fetched water from the house and sprinkled some
over him, and at that Peter gave a deep sigh, moaned, and opened his
eyes. He looked about him, and asked where Mistress Lisbeth was, but no
one had seen her. Then he thanked the men for their help, and crawled
into his house, where he began seeking in every corner from roof to
cellar, but Mistress Lisbeth was nowhere to be found. So he knew that
what he had taken for a hideous dream was the awful reality.
Now that he was quite alone, strange thoughts visited him; not that he
was afraid of anything, for was not his heart of stone? But when he
thought of his wife’s death, pictures of his own end came unbidden into
his mind, and he saw himself going hence, so heavily laden with the
tears of the poor and their curses--which had alike been unavailing to
soften his heart--with the misery of all the wretched folk on whom he
had set his dogs, with the silent despair of his mother, and with the
blood of good and beautiful Lisbeth. What account should he give to the
old man, her father, when he came and asked, “Where is my daughter,
whom I gave thee to wife?” How could he answer the questions of that
Being, to whom belong all the forests, the seas, the mountains, and the
lives of men?
These thoughts even tormented him at night in his dreams, and he kept
on being awakened by a sweet voice that called to him, “Peter, get thee
a warmer heart.” But when he was awake, he made haste to shut his eyes
again, for the voice that spoke this warning sounded like that of
Mistress Lisbeth.
One day he went to the ale-house to distract his thoughts, and there he
fell in with fat Ezekiel. They sat down together and talked of this and
that, the weather, the taxes, the war, and lastly of death, and of how
many people here and there had died suddenly. Then Peter asked the fat
man what he thought about death, and what was to come after it. Ezekiel
replied that the body was buried, but that the soul would go to its
appointed place.
“And the heart?” asked Peter anxiously, “do they bury that too?”
“To be sure,” answered Ezekiel.
“But if one has no heart?” Peter went on.
Ezekiel looked at him with a dreadful expression. “What dost thou mean
by that?” he asked. “Art thou mocking me? Dost mean to say I have no
heart?”
“Yes, a heart sure enough, as hard as a stone,” replied Peter.
Ezekiel stared at him in amazement, looked cautiously round to see if
he could be overheard, and then said: “How comest thou to know that? Or
does thine own heart beat no longer, perhaps?”
“It beats no longer,” rejoined Peter, “at least not here in my breast.
But tell me, since now thou hast taken my meaning, what will happen to
_our_ hearts?”
“Why trouble about that, comrade?” asked Ezekiel, laughing. “Hast thou
not all thou canst need for a jolly life on earth, and is not that
enough? That is just the comfort of having these cold hearts, that such
thoughts cannot terrify us.”
“True; yet we think such thoughts, and though I may no longer feel any
dread now, yet I remember how I felt when I was still an innocent boy.”
“Well, I don’t suppose our lot will be of the best,” said Ezekiel.
“I asked a schoolmaster once, and he told me that after death all
hearts were weighed, to see how heavily they were laden with sins. The
lightest rise up, but the heavy ones sink down, and methinks our stones
will be of tolerable weight.”
“Yes, truly,” replied Peter; “and even now it often makes me uneasy to
feel my heart so careless and indifferent when I think of such matters.”
So they talked; but on the following night Peter heard the well-known
voice whisper in his ear, five or six times: “Peter, get thee a warmer
heart.”
Still he felt no remorse at the thought of having killed Lisbeth;
but when he replied, in answer to the servants’ inquiries, that his
wife was away on a journey, he thought within himself: “What may that
journey be?”
He went on thus for six days, always hearing the voice by night, and by
day always thinking of the wood-spirit and his terrible threat; but on
the seventh morning he sprang from his bed, crying, “So be it, then; I
will try whether I can get me a warmer heart, for this unfeeling stone
in my breast makes life weary and desolate to me.” He hastily put on
his Sunday clothes, mounted his horse, and rode to the “Pine-thicket.”
On reaching the spot where the trees begin to stand closer together,
he dismounted, made fast his horse, and began, with a rapid step, to
ascend the hill. When he reached the top, and stood beneath the great
pine, he raised his voice and repeated:--
“O Treasure-Keeper in the forest green,
Thine age is many hundred years--this land
Is all thine own, wherever pine-trees stand;
By Sunday-children only art thou seen.”
Then the little Glass-man came forth, looking, not genial and friendly
as before, but sad and gloomy; he wore a coat all of black glass, and
a long mourning-band fluttered from his hat. Peter knew full well for
whom he was mourning.
“What wilt thou of me, Peter Munk?” he asked in a hollow voice.
“I have yet one wish left, Master Treasure-keeper,” said Peter, with
downcast eyes.
“Can hearts of stone still wish?” asked the other. “Thou hast all that
thy wicked mind can require, and it can hardly be that I may fulfil any
wish of thine.”
“Yet you promised me three wishes, and I still have one left.”
“But I can deny it, if it is a foolish one,” said the wood-spirit.
“However, let be; I will hear what it is.”
“Then take away this dead stone, and give me back my living heart,”
said Peter.
“Did I make the bargain with thee?” asked the little Glass-man. “Am I
Dutch Michael, who gives riches and cold hearts? Yonder, with him, must
thou go seek for thy heart.”
“Alas! he will never give it me back,” replied Peter sorrowfully.
“I pity thee, wicked though thou art,” said the little man after some
thought. “And since thy wish was not a foolish one, I cannot, at
least, deny thee my help. Listen, then. Thou canst never get back thy
heart by force, yet by cunning thou mayst, and without much difficulty
either, perhaps; for Michael is still only foolish Michael, after all,
though he thinks himself very clever. Therefore go straight to him, and
do as I bid thee.” And now he gave Peter full instructions, and handed
him a little cross of pure glass. “He cannot endanger thy life,” he
concluded, “and he will let thee go free directly thou shalt hold this
before him, if thou dost only pray the while. Then, if thou hast got
thy desire, come back to me here.”
Peter Munk took the cross, made sure that all the little man’s words
were thoroughly fixed in his mind, and went his way to Dutch Michael’s
dwelling-place. He called his name three times, and the giant stood
before him directly.
“Thou hast killed thy wife,” said he, with a dreadful laugh. “Well,
I should have done as much; she was giving all thy wealth away to
beggars. But thou wilt have to leave the country for a while, for there
will be a stir made when she is not to be found; and thou wilt need
money for the journey, and art come to fetch it?”
“Thou hast guessed rightly,” answered Peter; “only it must be a large
sum this time, for it is a long way to America.”
Michael went first, and brought him down to his house; there he opened
a chest full of gold, and took out roll after roll of it. While he was
counting it out on the table, Peter began:--
“Thou art a cunning trickster, Michael, to have taken me in with that
tale of my having a stone in my breast, and of thy having got my
heart!”
“And is it not the truth?” asked Michael in surprise; “dost thou feel
thy heart, then? Is it not like ice? Dost thou know fear, or sorrow, or
remorse?”
--“Thou hast stopped the beating of my heart, perhaps, but I have it
just as usual in my breast. And Ezekiel too; he told me that thou hadst
taken us both in. Thou art not the fellow to be able to tear a man’s
heart out of his breast like that, unnoticed and without danger. It
would take a sorcerer to do that.”
“I swear to thee,” cried Michael angrily, “that thou, and Ezekiel, and
all the rich folk who have made a bargain with me, have just such cold
hearts as I showed thee, and your real hearts are here in my closet.”