Peter. “Go and tell that tale elsewhere. Dost think I have not seen
dozens of such conjuring tricks on my travels? Those hearts in thy
chamber there are sham ones, made of wax. Thou art a rich fellow, I
allow; but thou art no sorcerer.”
Then the giant grew enraged, and threw open the chamber door.
“Come in and read all these labels--that one yonder, see, is Peter
Munk’s heart. Dost thou mark how it quivers? Can _that_, too, be done
with wax?”
“And yet it is of wax,” answered Peter. “A real heart does not throb
like that, and besides, I have mine still in my breast. Nay, thou art
no sorcerer!”
“But I will prove it to thee,” cried the other, more angrily still;
“thou shalt feel for thyself that it is thine own heart.”
He lifted it from the jar, tore open Peter’s jerkin, pulled the stone
from his breast, and held it before him. Then taking the real heart, he
breathed upon it, and put it carefully into its place--and immediately
Peter felt how it beat, and could rejoice that he had it once more.
[Illustration: He lifted it from the jar, tore open Peter’s jerkin,
pulled the stone from his breast, and held it before him.]
“How dost thou feel now?” asked Michael, smiling.
“In truth, thou wert right,” answered Peter, beginning carefully to
draw the cross from his pocket. “I would never have believed that any
one could do such a thing.”
--“No, indeed! And so thou seest that I am a sorcerer after all. But
come now, I will put the stone back again.”
“Gently, Master Michael,” cried Peter, stepping back and holding out
the cross towards him. “Mice are caught with lard, and this time ’tis
thou art the dupe.” And he straightway took to repeating all the
prayers he could think of.
Then Michael began to grow smaller and smaller, and dropped to the
ground, where he writhed to and fro like a worm, moaning and groaning.
And all the hearts round about began to quiver and to throb, so that it
sounded like a watchmaker’s workshop. But Peter was filled with dread,
and an awe-struck feeling crept over him; he ran as fast as he could
from the room and from the house, and, urged by fear, climbed rapidly
up the face of the cliff, for he could hear that Michael had risen
again, and was stamping and raging after him, sending out terrible
curses the while. As soon as he reached the top of the cliff, he
hurried towards the “Pine-thicket.” As he went, a fearful storm arose,
and the bolts of lightning fell to right and left of him, shattering
the trees; but he held on his way, and came in safety to the domain of
the little Glass-man.
His heart was beating joyfully, and that merely _because_ it beat. But
now he looked back with horror upon his past life--it seemed to him
as terrible as the thunderstorm, that had laid bare the noble woods
behind him. He thought of Mistress Lisbeth, his good and lovely wife,
whom he had murdered out of avarice, and he appeared to himself as the
very scum and offscouring of mankind. He was weeping bitterly when he
reached the little Glass-man’s mountain-top.
The Treasure-keeper was sitting under the fir-tree smoking a little
pipe, yet he looked more cheerful than before.
“Why art thou weeping, Coal-Peter?” he asked. “Hast thou not got thy
heart back again? Is the cold one still in thy breast?”
“Alas, sir!” sighed Peter, “while I yet carried the cold heart within
me, I never wept--mine eyes were as dry as the fields in August; but
now my own, old heart is like to break, because of what I have done.
I have driven out my debtors into want and misery--I have set my dogs
upon the sick and the poor--and you know yourself how my whip fell upon
_her_ fair forehead!”
“Thou hast been a great sinner, Peter,” said the little man. “Riches
and idleness corrupted thee, till thy heart turned to stone, and could
no longer be touched by joy or sorrow, pity or remorse. But repentance
makes amends, and if I could only be sure that thou dost truly grieve
over thy past life, I might very likely still be able to do something
for thee.”
“I want nothing more,” answered Peter, and his head sank sorrowfully
upon his breast. “It is all over with me; I can never be happy again
as long as I live. What shall I do all alone in the world? My mother
will never forgive me the great wrong I have done her, and perhaps,
indeed, I have already brought her to her grave, monster that I am!
And Lisbeth, my wife! Do thou rather strike me dead, too, Master
Treasure-keeper, and let my wretched life end at once.”
“So be it,” answered the little man; “if thou wilt not have it
otherwise, it shall be done. I have my axe here at hand.” He took his
pipe quietly from his mouth, knocked the ashes from it, and put it by.
Then he stood slowly up, and went behind the pine-trees. But Peter
flung himself down weeping upon the grass, and awaited the death-stroke
patiently, for his life was worth nothing more to him.
After a while he heard light footsteps behind him, and thought: “Now he
is coming.”
“Look up once more, Peter Munk,” called the little man.
He wiped the tears from his face, and turned round, and see! there were
his mother and Lisbeth, his wife, looking at him with kind and loving
eyes. Peter sprang to his feet, bewildered with joy.
“Art thou not dead, then, Lisbeth?” he gasped. “And thou art here too,
mother, and hast forgiven me?”
“They will both forgive thee,” said the little Glass-man, “because
thou dost truly repent--and all shall be forgotten. Go home now to thy
father’s hut, and be a charcoal-burner as before; if thou art kind and
honest, thou wilt honour thy calling, and thy neighbours will love and
respect thee more than if thou hadst ten coffers full of gold.”
So spoke the little Glass-man, and bade them farewell; and with thanks
and praise upon their lips, the three went home together.
The rich Peter’s fine house was no longer standing; the lightning had
struck it and burnt it to the ground, with all its treasures; but the
hut that had been his father’s was not far off. Thither they turned
their steps, and even this heavy loss did not trouble them much. But
what was their amazement when they reached the hut, and found in its
stead a comfortable peasant’s house! Everything in it was simple, but
good and clean.
“Our kind little Glass-man has done this!” cried Peter.
“How beautiful!” said Mistress Lisbeth; “and I feel much more at home
here than in that large house with all those servants.”
From this time forth Peter Munk became a worthy and industrious man.
He was content with what he had, and followed his calling cheerfully,
and so it came about that he gathered some wealth together by his own
efforts, and was respected and beloved throughout the forest. He no
longer found fault with his wife, he honoured his mother, and gave to
the needy who came to his door. When, after a year and a day, Mistress
Lisbeth became the mother of a fine little boy, Peter went once more
to the “Pine-thicket,” and repeated his charm. But no little Glass-man
appeared.
“Master Treasure-keeper,” cried Peter, “do but hear me! I have only
come to beg you to be my little son’s godfather. I want nothing else.”
There was no answer, only a puff of wind stirred the pine-trees above,
and cast one or two fir-cones down upon the grass.
“Well,” cried Peter again, “I will take these with me as a remembrance,
since thou wilt not show thyself.” And he put the fir-cones in his
pocket and went home; but when he took off his Sunday jerkin, and his
mother turned the pockets out before putting it away in the chest,
there fell from them four great rolls of money, which proved to be
good, new thalers of the realm, and there was not a single false one
among them. And this was baby Peter’s christening-gift from the little
man in the pine-forest.
So they lived on, quiet and contented; and many a time, when Peter
Munk’s hair was already turning white, he would be heard to say: “It
is better, after all, to be happy with little, than to have money and
goods, and a cold heart.”
THE END
_Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
_Edinburgh and London_
FOOTNOTES:
[1] No Rhine legends have been introduced, as they were considered to
be already so widely known.
[2] The _hora_ is a Roumanian dance, the dancers forming into circles
or rounds.
[3] Little sheep.
[4] Vijelia means “the storm-wind.”
[5] The hurricane.
[6] The bridal veil of Roumanian girls is composed of a shower of loose
golden threads.
[7] It was believed in Germany that children born on a Sunday were more
likely than others to see fairies and supernatural beings.
[8] Most of the supernatural apparitions in this part of the Hartz
district are called in the legends “Venetians.”
Transcriber's Note:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
possible. Some minor corrections of spelling and punctuation have
been made.
Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.