in. On stepping over the threshold, his heart contracted convulsively,
but he minded it not, for the sight that presented itself was singular
and surprising. On several shelves glasses were standing, filled with
a transparent liquid, and each contained a heart. All were labelled
with names which Peter read with curiosity; there was the heart of
the bailiff in F., that of fat Hezekiel, that of the king of the
dancing-room, that of the ranger; there were the hearts of six usurious
corn merchants, of eight recruiting officers, of three money-brokers;
in short, it was a collection of the most respectable hearts twenty
leagues around.
'Look!' said Dutch Michel, 'all these have shaken off the anxieties
and cares of life; none of these hearts any longer beat anxiously and
uneasily, and their former owners feel happy now they have got rid of
the troublesome guest.'
'But what do they now carry in their breasts instead?' asked Peter,
whose head was nearly swimming at what he beheld.
'_This_,' replied he, taking out of a small drawer, and presenting to
him--a heart of stone.
'Indeed!' said Peter, who could not prevent a cold shuddering coming
over him. 'A heart of marble? But, tell me, Mr. Michel, such a heart
must be very cold in one's breast.'
'True, but very agreeably cool. Why should a heart be warm? For in
winter its warmth is of little use, and good strong Kirschwasser does
more than a warm heart, and in summer when all is hot and sultry, you
can't think how cooling such a heart is. And, as before said, such a
heart feels neither anxiety nor terror, neither foolish compassion nor
other grief.'
'And that is all you can offer me?' asked Peter indignantly; 'I looked
for money and you are going to give me a stone.'
'Well! an hundred thousand florins, methinks, would suffice you for the
present. If you employ it properly, you may soon make it a million.'
'An hundred thousand!' exclaimed the poor coal-burner, joyfully. 'Well,
don't beat so vehemently in my bosom, we shall soon have done with
one another. Agreed, Michel, give me the stone and the money, and the
alarum you may take out of its case.'
'I always thought you were a reasonable fellow,' replied Michel, with a
friendly smile; 'come, let us drink another glass, and then I will pay
you the money.'
They went back to the room and sat down again to the wine, drinking one
glass after another till Peter fell into a profound sleep.
He was awakened by the cheerful blast of a post-boy's bugle, and found
himself sitting in a handsome carriage, driving along on a wide road.
On putting his head out he saw in the airy distance the Schwarzwald
lying behind him. At first he could scarcely believe that it was his
own self sitting in the carriage, for even his clothes were different
from those he had worn the day before; but still he had such a distinct
recollection that, giving up at length all these reflections, he
exclaimed, 'I am Peter and no other, that is certain.'
He was astonished that he could not, in the slightest degree, feel
melancholy now that he for the first time departed from his quiet home
and the forests where he had lived so long. He could not even press a
tear out of his eyes or utter a sigh, when he thought of his mother,
who must now feel helpless and wretched; for he was indifferent to
everything: 'Well,' he said, 'tears and sighs, yearning for home and
sadness, proceed indeed from the heart, but thanks to Dutch Michel,
mine is of stone and cold.' Putting his hand upon his breast, he felt
all quiet and no emotion. 'If Michel,' said he, beginning to search the
carriage, 'keeps his word as well with respect to the hundred thousand
florins as he does with the heart, I shall be very glad.' In his search
he found articles of dress of every description he could wish, but
no money. At length, however, he discovered a pocket containing many
thousand thalers in gold, and bills on large houses in all the great
cities. 'Now I have what I want,' thought he, squeezed himself into the
corner of the carriage and went into the wide world.
For two years he travelled about in the world, looked from his carriage
to the right and left up the houses, but whenever he alighted he
looked at nothing except the sign of the hotel, and then ran about
the town to see the finest curiosities. But nothing gladdened him, no
pictures, no building, no music, no dancing, nor anything else had
any interest for, or excited his stone heart; his eyes and ears were
blunted for everything beautiful. No enjoyment was left him but that
which he felt in eating and drinking and sleep; and thus he lived
running through the world without any object, eating for amusement and
sleeping from _ennui_. From time to time he indeed remembered that
he had been more cheerful and happier, when he was poor and obliged
to work for a livelihood. Then he was delighted by every beautiful
prospect in the valley, by music and song, then he had for hours looked
in joyful expectation towards the frugal meal which his mother was to
bring him to the kiln.
When thus reflecting on the past, it seemed very strange to him that
now he could not even laugh, while formerly he had laughed at the
slightest joke. When others laughed, he only distorted his mouth out of
politeness, but his heart did not sympathise with the smile. He felt he
was indeed exceedingly tranquil, but yet not contented. It was not a
yearning after home, nor was it sadness, but a void, desolate feeling,
satiety and a joyless life that at last urged him to his home.
When, after leaving Strasburg, he beheld the dark forest of his native
country; when for the first time he again saw the robust figures, the
friendly and open countenances of the Schwarzwälder; when the homely,
strong, and deep, but harmonious sounds struck upon his ear, he quickly
put his hand upon his heart, for his blood flowed faster, thinking he
must rejoice and weep at the same time; but how could he be so foolish?
he had a heart of stone, and stones are dead and can neither smile nor
weep.
His first walk was to Michel, who received him with his former
kindness. 'Michel,' said he, 'I have now travelled and seen everything,
but all is dull stuff and I have only found _ennui_. The stone I carry
about with me in my breast, protects me against many things; I never
get angry, am never sad, but neither do I ever feel joyful, and it
seems as if I were only half alive. Can you not infuse a little more
life into my stone heart, or rather, give me back my former heart?
During five-and-twenty years I had become quite accustomed to it, and
though it sometimes did a foolish thing, yet it was, after all, a merry
and cheerful heart.'
The sylvan spirit laughed grimly and sarcastically at this, answering,
'When once you are dead, Peter Munk, it shall not be withheld; then
you shall have back your soft, susceptible heart, and may then feel
whatever comes, whether joy or sorrow. But here, on this side of
the grave, it can never be yours again. Travelled you have indeed,
Peter, but in the way you lived, your travelling could afford you no
satisfaction. Settle now somewhere in the world, build a house, marry,
and employ your capital; you wanted nothing but occupation; being
idle, you felt _ennui_, and now you lay all the blame on this innocent
heart.' Peter saw that Michel was right with respect to idleness, and
therefore proposed to himself to become richer and richer. Michel gave
him another hundred thousand florins, and they parted good friends.
The report soon spread in the Schwarzwald that 'Coal Peter,' or
'gambling Peter,' had returned, and was much richer than before. It
was here as it is always. When he was a beggar he was kicked out of
the inn, but now he had come back wealthy, all shook him by the hand
when he entered on the Sunday afternoon, praised his horse, asked
about his journey, and when he began playing for hard dollars with
fat Hezekiel, he stood as high in their estimation as ever before. He
no longer followed the trade of glass manufacturer, but the timber
trade, though that only in appearance, his chief business being in
corn and money transactions. Half the people of the Schwarzwald became
by degrees his debtors, and he lent money only at 10 per cent, or
sold corn to the poor, who, not being able to pay ready money, had to
purchase it at three times its value. With the bailiff he now stood
on a footing of the closest friendship, and if any one failed paying
Mr. Peter Munk on the very day the money was due, the bailiff with his
beadles came, valued house and property, sold all instantly, and drove
father, mother, and child out into the forest. This became at first
rather troublesome to Peter, for the poor outcasts besieged his doors
in troops, the men imploring indulgence, the women trying to move his
stony heart, and the children moaning for a piece of bread. But getting
a couple of large mastiffs, he soon put an end to this cat's music, as
he used to call it, for he whistled and set them on the beggars, who
dispersed screaming. But the most troublesome person to him was 'the
old woman,' who, however, was no other than Frau Munk, Peter's mother.
She had been reduced to great poverty and distress, when her house and
all was sold, and her son, on returning wealthy, had troubled himself
no more about her. So she came sometimes before his house, supporting
herself on a stick, as she was aged, weak, and infirm; but she no
more ventured to go in, as he had on one occasion driven her out; and
she was much grieved at being obliged to prolong her existence by the
bounties of other people, while her own son might have prepared for
her a comfortable old age. But his cold heart never was moved by the
sight of the pale face and well-known features, by her imploring looks,
outstretched withered hands, and decaying frame. If on a Saturday she
knocked at the door, he put his hand grumbling into his pocket for a
six-batzen piece, wrapped it in a bit of paper, and sent it out by a
servant. He heard her tremulous voice when she thanked him, and wished
him a blessing in this world, he heard her crawl away coughing from
the door, but he thought of nothing except that he had again spent six
batzen for nothing.
At length Peter took it into his head to marry. He knew that every
father in the Schwarzwald would gladly give him his daughter, but he
was fastidious in his choice, for he wished that everybody should
praise his good fortune and understanding in matrimony as well as
in other matters. He therefore rode about the whole forest, looking
out in every direction, but none of the pretty Schwarzwälder girls
seemed beautiful enough for him. Having finally looked out in vain
for the most beautiful at all the dancing-rooms, he was one day told
the most beautiful and most virtuous girl in the whole forest was the
daughter of a poor wood-cutter. He heard she lived quiet and retired,
was industrious and managed her father's household well, and that
she was never seen at a dancing-room, not even at Whitsuntide or the
Kirchweihfest.[2] When Peter heard of this wonder of the Schwarzwald,
he determined to court her, and, having inquired where the hut was,
rode there. The father of the beautiful Elizabeth received the great
gentleman with astonishment, but was still more amazed when he heard
it was the rich Herr Peter who wished to become his son-in-law.
Thinking all his cares and poverty would now be at an end, he did not
hesitate long in giving his consent, without even asking the beautiful
Elizabeth, and the good child was so dutiful that she became Frau Peter
Munk without opposition.
[Footnote 2: A great festival in German villages, which comes
in October or November.]
But the poor girl did not find the happiness she had dreamt of. She
believed she understood the management of a house well, but she could
never give satisfaction to Herr Peter; she had compassion on poor
people, and, as her husband was wealthy, thought it no sin to give a
poor woman a penny, or a dram to a poor aged man. This being one day
found out by Peter, he said to her, with angry look and gruff voice,
'Why do you waste my property upon ragamuffins and vagabonds? Have you
brought anything of your own to the house that you can give away?
With your father's beggar's staff you could not warm a soup, and you
lavish my money like a princess. Once more let me find you out, and
you shall feel my hand.' The beautiful Elizabeth wept in her chamber
over the hard heart of her husband, and often wished herself at home
in her father's poor hut rather than with the rich, but avaricious and
sinful Peter. Alas! had she known that he had a heart of marble and
could neither love her nor anybody else, she would not, perhaps, have
wondered. But as often as a beggar now passed while she was sitting
before the door, and drawing his hat off, asked for alms, she shut her
eyes that she might not behold his distress, and closed her hand tight
that she might not put it involuntarily in her pocket and take out a
kreutzer. This caused a report and obtained an ill name for Elizabeth
in the whole forest, and she was said to be even more miserly than
Peter Munk. But one day Frau Elizabeth was again sitting before the
door spinning and humming an air, for she was cheerful because it was
fine weather, and Peter was taking a ride in the country, when a little
old man came along the road, carrying a large heavy bag, and she heard
him panting at a great distance. Sympathisingly she looked at him and
thought how cruel it was to place such a heavy burden upon an aged man.
In the meanwhile the little man came near, tottering and panting, and
sank under the weight of his bag almost down on the ground just as he
came opposite Frau Elizabeth.
'Oh, have compassion on me, good woman, and give me a drink of water,'
said the little man; 'I can go no farther, and must perish from
exhaustion.'
'But you ought not to carry such heavy loads at your age,' said she.
'No more I should if I were not obliged to work as carrier from poverty
and to prolong my life,' replied he. 'Ah, such rich ladies as you know
not how painful poverty is, and how strengthening a fresh draught would
be in this hot weather.'
On hearing this she immediately ran into the house, took a pitcher from
the shelf and filled it with water; but she had only gone a few paces
back to take it to him, when, seeing the little man sit on his bag
miserable and wretched, she felt pity for him, and recollecting that
her husband was from home, she put down the pitcher, took a cup, filled
it with wine, put a loaf of rye bread on it, and gave it to the poor
old man. 'There,' she said, 'a draught of wine will do you more good
than water, as you are very old; but do not drink so hastily, and eat
some bread with it.'
The little man looked at her in astonishment till the big tears came
into his eyes; he drank and said, 'I have grown old, but have seen few
people who were so compassionate and knew how to spend their gifts so
handsomely and cordially as you do, Frau Elizabeth. But you will be
blessed for it on earth; such a heart will not remain unrequited.'
'No, and she shall have her reward on the spot,' cried a terrible
voice, and looking round they found it was Herr Peter, with a face as
red as scarlet. 'Even my choicest wine you waste upon beggars, and give
my own cup to the lips of vagabonds? There, take your reward.' His wife
fell prostrate before him and begged his forgiveness, but the heart of
stone knew no pity, and flourishing the whip he held in his hand, he
struck her with the ebony handle on her beautiful forehead with such
vehemence that she sank lifeless into the arms of the old man. When
he saw what he had done it was almost as if he repented of the deed
immediately; he stooped to see whether there was yet life in her, but
the little man said in a well-known voice, 'Spare your trouble, Peter;
she was the most beautiful and lovely flower in the Schwarzwald, but
you have crushed it and never again will see it bloom.'
Now the blood fled from Peter's cheek and he said, 'It is you, then,
Mr. Schatzhauser? well, what is done is done then, and I suppose this
was to happen. But I trust you will not inform against me.'
'Wretch,' replied the Little Glass Man, 'what would it profit me if I
brought your mortal part to the gallows? It is not earthly tribunals
you have to fear, but another and more severe one; for you have sold
your soul to the evil one.'
'And if I have sold my heart,' cried Peter, 'it is no one's fault but
yours and your deceitful treasures'; your malicious spirit brought me
to ruin; you forced me to seek help from another, and upon you lies the
whole responsibility.' He had scarcely uttered these words when the
little man grew enormously tall and broad, his eyes it is said became
as large as soup plates, and his mouth like a heated furnace vomiting
flames. Peter fell upon his knees, and his stone heart did not protect
his limbs from trembling like an aspen leaf. The sylvan spirit seized
him, as if with vultures' claws, by the nape of the neck, whirled him
round as the storm whirls the dry leaves, and dashed him to the ground
so that his ribs cracked within him. 'You worm of dust,' he cried, in
a voice roaring like thunder, 'I could crush you if I wished, for you
have trespassed against the lord of the forest; but for the sake of
this dead woman that fed and refreshed me, I give you a week's respite.
If you do not repent I shall return and crush your bones, and you will
go hence in your sins.'
It was already evening when some men passing by saw the wealthy Peter
Munk lying on the ground. They turned him over and over to see whether
there was still life in him, but for a long time looked in vain.
At length one of them went into the house, fetched some water and
sprinkled some on his face. Peter fetched a deep sigh and opened his
eyes, looked for a long time around, and asked for his wife Elizabeth,
but no one had seen her. He thanked the men for their assistance,
crawled into his house, searched everywhere, but in vain, and found
what he imagined to be a dream a sad reality. As he was now quite alone
strange thoughts came into his mind; he did not indeed fear anything,
for his heart was quite cold; but when he thought of the death of his
wife his own forcibly came to his mind, and he reflected how laden
he should go hence--heavily laden with the tears of the poor; with
thousands of the curses of those who could not soften his heart; with
the lamentations of the wretched on whom he had set his dogs; with the
silent despair of his mother; with the blood of the beautiful and good
Elizabeth; and yet he could not even so much as give an account of her
to her poor old father, should he come and ask, 'Where is my daughter,
your wife?' How then could he give an account to Him--to Him to whom
belong all woods, all lakes, all mountains, and the life of men?
This tormented him in his dreams at night, and he was awoke every
moment by a sweet voice crying to him, 'Peter, get a warmer heart!'
And when he was awoke he quickly closed his eyes again, for the
voice uttering this warning to him could be none other but that of
his Elizabeth. The following day he went into the inn to divert his
thoughts, and there met his friend, fat Hezekiel. He sat down by him
and they commenced talking on various topics, of the fine weather,
of war, of taxes, and lastly, also of death, and how such and such a
person had died suddenly. Now Peter asked him what he thought about
death, and how it would be after death. Hezekiel replied, 'That the
body was buried, but that the soul went either up to heaven or down to
hell.'
'Then the heart also is buried?' asked Peter, anxiously.
'To be sure that also is buried.'
'But supposing one has no longer a heart?' continued Peter.
Hezekiel gave him a terrible look at these words. 'What do you mean by
that? Do you wish to rally me? Think you I have no heart?'
'Oh, heart enough, as firm as stone,' replied Peter.
Hezekiel looked in astonishment at him, glancing round at the same time
to see whether they were overheard, and then said, 'Whence do you know
that? Or does your own perhaps no longer beat within your breast?'
'It beats no longer, at least, not in my breast,' replied Peter Munk.
'But tell me, as you know what I mean, how will it be with our hearts?'
'Why does that concern you, my good fellow?' answered Hezekiel,
laughing. 'Why, you have plenty here upon earth, and that is
sufficient. Indeed, the comfort of our cold hearts is that no fear at
such thoughts befalls us.'
'Very true, but still one cannot help thinking of it, and though I know
no fear now, still I well remember how I was terrified at hell when yet
an innocent little boy.'
'Well, it will not exactly go well with us,' said Hezekiel; 'I once
asked a schoolmaster about it, who told me that the hearts are weighed
after death to ascertain the weight of their sins. The light ones rise,
the heavy sink, and methinks our stone hearts will weigh heavy enough.'
'Alas, true,' replied Peter; 'I often feel uncomfortable that my heart
is so devoid of sympathy, and so indifferent when I think of such
things.' So ended their conversation.
But the following night Peter again heard the well-known voice
whispering into his ear five or six times, 'Peter, get a warmer heart!'
He felt no repentance at having killed his wife, but when he told the
servants that she had gone on a journey, he always thought within
himself, where is she gone to? Six days had thus passed away, and he
still heard the voice at night, and still thought of the sylvan spirit
and his terrible menace; but on the seventh morning he jumped up from
his couch and cried, 'Well, then, I will see whether I can get a warmer
heart, for the cold stone in my breast makes my life only tedious and
desolate.' He quickly put on his best dress, mounted his horse, and
rode towards the Tannenbühl.
Having arrived at that part where the trees stand thickest, he
dismounted, and went with a quick pace towards the summit of the hill,
and as he stood before the thick pine he repeated the following verse:
'Keeper of wealth in the forest of pine,
Hundreds of years are surely thine:
Thine is the tall pine's dwelling-place--
Those born on Sunday see thy face.'
The Little Glass Man appeared, not looking friendly and kindly as
formerly, but gloomy and sad; he wore a little coat of black glass, and
a long glass crape hung floating from his hat, and Peter well knew for
whom he mourned.
'What do you want with me, Peter Munk?' asked he with a stern voice.
'I have one more wish, Mr. Schatzhauser,' replied Peter, with his eyes
cast down.
'Can hearts of stone still wish?' said the former. 'You have all your
corrupt mind can need, and I could scarcely fulfil your wish.'
'But you have promised to grant me three wishes, and one I have still
left.'
'I can refuse it if it is foolish,' continued the spirit; 'but come,
let me hear what you wish.'
'Well, take the dead stone out of me, and give me a living heart,' said
Peter.
'Have I made the bargain about the heart with you?' asked the Little
Glass Man. 'Am I the Dutch Michel, who gives wealth and cold hearts? It
is of him you must seek to regain your heart.'
'Alas! he will never give it back,' said Peter.
'Bad as you are, yet I feel pity for you,' continued the little man,
after some consideration; 'and as your wish is not foolish, I cannot
at least refuse my help. Hear then. You can never recover your heart
by force, only by stratagem, but probably you will find it without
difficulty; for Michel will ever be stupid Michel, although he fancies
himself very shrewd. Go straightway to him, and do as I tell you.' He
now instructed Peter fully, and gave him a small cross of pure glass,
saying, 'He cannot touch your life and will let you go when you hold
this before him and repeat a prayer. When you have obtained your wish
return to me.'
Peter took the cross, impressed all the words on his memory, and
started on his way to the Dutchman Michel's residence; there he called
his name three times and immediately the giant stood before him.
'You have slain your wife?' he asked, with a grim laugh. 'I should
have done the same; she wasted your property on beggars; but you will
be obliged to leave the country for some time; and I suppose you want
money and have come to get it?'
'You have hit it,' replied Peter; 'and pray let it be a large sum, for
it is a long way to America.'
Michel leading the way, they went into his cottage; there he opened a
chest containing much money and took out whole rolls of gold. While he
was counting it on the table Peter said, 'You're a wag, Michel. You
have told me a fib, saying that I had a stone in my breast, and that
you had my heart.'
'And is it not so then?' asked Michel, astonished. 'Do you feel your
heart? Is it not cold as ice? Have you any fear or sorrow? Do you
repent of anything?'
'You have only made my heart to cease beating, but I still have it in
my breast, and so has Hezekiel, who told me you had deceived us both.
You are not the man who, unperceived and without danger, could tear the
heart from the breast; it would require witchcraft on your part.'