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 any thing 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 any body 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 the 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. Sympathising, 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 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 sunk 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 glass-mannikin, “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 than 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 any
thing, 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 befals 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 glass-mannikin 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 look
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
glass-mannikin. “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 his 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 any thing?”
“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.”
“But I assure you,” cried Michel, angrily, “you and Hezekiel and all
the rich people, who have sold themselves to me, have hearts as cold as
yours, and their real hearts I have here in my chamber.”
“Ah! how glibly you can tell lies,” said Peter, laughing, “you must
tell that to another to be believed; think you I have not seen such
tricks by dozens in my journeys? Your hearts in the chamber are made
of wax; you’re a rich fellow I grant, but you are no magician.”
Now the giant was enraged and burst open the chamber door, saying,
“Come in and read all the labels and look yonder is Peter Munk’s heart;
do you see how it writhes? Can that too be of wax?”
“For all that, it is of wax,” replied Peter. “A genuine heart does not
writhe like that. I have mine still in my breast. No! you are no
magician.”
“But I will prove it to you,” cried the former angrily. “You shall
feel that it is your heart.” He took it, opened Peter’s waistcoat,
took the stone from his breast, and held it up. Then taking the heart,
he breathed on it, and set it carefully in its proper place, and
immediately Peter felt how it beat, and could rejoice again. “How do
you feel now?” asked Michel, smiling.
“True enough, you were right,” replied Peter, taking carefully the
little cross from his pocket. “I should never have believed such
things could be done.”
“You see I know something of witchcraft, do I not? But, come, I will
now replace the stone again.”
“Gently, Herr Michel,” cried Peter, stepping backwards, and holding up
the cross, “mice are caught with bacon, and this time you have been
deceived;” and immediately he began to repeat the prayers that came
into his mind.
Now Michel became less and less, fell to the ground, and writhed like a
worm, groaning and moaning, and all the hearts round began to beat, and
became convulsed, so that it sounded like a clockmaker’s workshop.
Peter was terrified, his mind was quite disturbed; he ran from the
house, and, urged by the anguish of the moment, climbed up a steep
rock, for he heard Michel get up, stamping and raving, and denouncing
curses on him. When he reached the top, he ran towards the Tannenbühl;
a dreadful thunder-storm came on; lightning flashed around him,
splitting the trees, but he reached the precincts of the glass-mannikin
in safety.
His heart beat joyfully--only because it did beat; but now he looked
back with horror on his past life, as he did on the thunderstorm that
was destroying the beautiful forest on his right and left. He thought
of his wife, a beautiful, good woman, whom he had murdered from
avarice; he appeared to himself an outcast from mankind, and wept
bitterly as he reached the hill of the glass-mannikin.
The Schatzhauser was sitting under a pine-tree, and was smoking a small
pipe; but he looked more serene than before.
“Why do you weep, Peter?” asked he, “have you not recovered your heart?
Is the cold one still in your breast?”
“Alas! sir,” sighed Peter, “when I still carried about with me the cold
stony heart, I never wept, my eyes were as dry as the ground in July;
but now my old heart will almost break with what have done. I have
driven my debtors to misery, set the dogs on the sick and poor, and you
yourself know how my whip fell upon her beautiful forehead.”
“Peter, you were a great sinner,” said the little man. “Money and
idleness corrupted you, until your heart turned to stone, and no longer
knew joy, sorrow, repentance, or compassion. But repentance
reconciles; and if I only knew that you were truly sorry for your past
life, it might yet be in my power to do something for you.”
“I wish nothing more,” replied Peter, dropping his head sorrowfully.
“It is all over with me, I can no more rejoice in my lifetime; what
shall I do thus alone in the world? My mother will never pardon me for
what I have done to her, and I have perhaps brought her to the grave,
monster that I am! Elizabeth, my wife, too,--rather strike me dead,
Herr Schatzhauser, then my wretched life will end at once.”
“Well,” replied the little man, “if you wish nothing else, you can have
it, so my axe is at hand.” He quietly took his pipe from his mouth,
knocked the ashes out, and put it into his pocket. Then rising slowly,
he went behind the pines. But Peter sat down weeping in the grass, his
life had no longer any value for him, and he patiently awaited the
deadly blow. After a short time, he heard gentle steps behind him, and
thought, “Now he is coming.”
“Look up once more, Peter Munk,” cried the little man. He wiped the
tears from his eyes and looked up, and beheld his mother, and Elizabeth
his wife, who kindly gazed on him. Then he jumped up joyfully, saying,
“You are not dead, then, Elizabeth, nor you, mother; and have you
forgiven me?”
“They will forgive you,” said the glass-mannikin, “because you feel
true repentance, and all shall be forgotten. Go home now, to your
father’s hut, and be a charcoal-burner as before; if you are active and
honest, you will do credit to your trade, and your neighbours will love
and esteem you more than if you possessed ten tons of gold.” Thus
saying, the glass-mannikin left them. The three praised and blessed
him, and went home.
The splendid house of wealthy Peter stood no longer; it was struck by
lightning, and burnt to the ground, with all its treasures. But they
were not far from his father’s hut, and thither they went, without
caring much for their great loss. But what was their surprise when
they reached the hut; it was changed into a handsome farm-house, and
all in it was simple, but good and cleanly.
“This is the glass-mannikin’s doing,” cried Peter.
“How beautiful!” said Frau Elizabeth; “and here I feel more at home
than in the larger house, with many servants.”
Henceforth Peter Munk became an industrious and honest man. He was
content with what he had, carried on his trade cheerfully, and thus it
was that he became wealthy by his own energy, and respected and beloved
in the whole forest. He no longer quarrelled with his wife, but
honoured his mother, and relieved the poor who came to his door. When,
after twelvemonths, Fran Elizabeth presented him with a beautiful
little boy, Peter went to the Tannenbühl, and repeated the verse as
before. But the glass-mannikin did not show himself.
“Mr. Schatzhauser,” he cried loudly, “only listen to me. I wish
nothing but to ask you to stand godfather to my little son.” But he
received no answer, and only a short gust of wind rushed through the
pines, and cast a few cones on the grass.
“Then I will take these as a remembrance, as you will not show
yourself,” cried Peter, and he put them in his pocket, and returned
home. But when he took off his jacket, and his mother turned out the
pockets before putting it away, four large rolls of money fell out; and
when they opened them, they found them all good and new Baden dollars,
and not one counterfeit, and these were the intended godfather’s gift
for little Peter, from the little man in the Tannenbühl. Thus they
lived on, quietly and cheerfully; and many a time Peter Munk, when
gray-headed, would say, “It is indeed better to be content with little,
than to have wealth and a cold heart.”
C. A. F.
[1] The Black Forest.
[2] A great festival in German villages, general during the months of
October and November.
THE WONDERS IN THE SPESSART.
BY KARL IMMERMANN.
[This tale occurs in the novel of “Münchhausen,” the narrator telling
it to the object of his affections. It is necessary to state this to
render the opening intelligible. The story is probably intended to
satirize the speculative tendency of the Germans, and old Albertus
Magnus seems a sort of representative of Hegel, whom Immermann openly
attacks in the course of the “Münchhausen.” To me the expression
“dialectic thought,” which occurs in the Hegelian sense at p. 85, is
conclusive in this respect.--J. O.]
“Did you ever, Lisbeth, on a clear sunny day, go through a beautiful
wood, in which the blue sky peered through the green diadems above you,
where the exhalation of the trees was like a breath of God, and when
thy foot scattered a thousand glittering pearls from the pointed grass?”
“Yes, lately, Oswald dear, I went through the mountains to collect the
rents. It is delightful to walk in a green fresh wood; I could ramble
about one for whole days without meeting a soul, and without being in
the least terrified. The turf is God’s mantle, and we are guarded by a
thousand angels, whether we sit or stand upon it. Now a hill--now a
rock! I ran and ran, because I always thought, ‘Behind, then, must be
flying the wonderful bird with its blue and red wings, its golden crown
upon its head.’ I grew hot and red with running, but not weary. One
does not get weary in a wood.”
“And when you did not see the wonderful bird behind the hill in the
hedge, you stood still hard-breathing, and you heard afar in the valley
of oaks the sound of the axe, which is the forest clock, and tells that
man’s hour is running even in such a lovely solitude.”
“Or farther, Oswald, the free prospect up the hill between the dark
round beeches, and still closer, the brow of the hill crowned with
lofty trunks! There red cows were feeding, and shook their bells,
there the dew on the grass gave a silvery hue to the sunlit valley, and
the shadows of the cows and the trees played at hide-and-seek with each
other.”
“Well, then, on such a sunny morning many hundred years ago, two young
men met one another in the wood. It was in the great woody ridge of
mountains, called Spessart, which forms the boundary between the joyous
districts of the Rhine and the fertile Fraconia. That is a wood, dear
Lisbeth, which is ten leagues broad and twenty long, covering plains
and mountains, clifts and valleys.
“On the great highway, which runs straight from the Rhine-land to
Würzburg and Bamberg, these young men met each other. One came from
the west, the other from the east. Their animals were as opposite as
their directions. The one from the east sat upon a bay horse, which
pranced merrily, and he looked right stately in his gay armour, and his
cap of red velvet, from which the heron’s plume descended; the one from
the west wore a black cap without any mark of distinction, a long
student’s cloak of the same colour, and rode on a humble mule.
“When the young knight had approached the travelling student, he
stopped his bay, saluted the other in a friendly way, and said: ‘Good
friend, I was just going to alight, and to take my morning snack, but
since two are required for love, gaming, and eating, if these three
pleasant affairs are to go off properly, I beg leave to ask you,
whether you will dismount and be my partner? A mouthfull of grass
would no less suit your gray, than my bay. The day will be hot, and
the beasts require some repose.’
“The travelling student was pleased with this offer. Both alighted and
seated themselves by the roadside on the wild thyme and lavender, from
which, as they sat down, a white cloud of perfumes ascended, and a
hundred bees that were disturbed in their labours arose humming. A
squire, who had followed the young knight with a heavy laden horse,
took charge of the two animals, gave his master a goblet and bottle,
together with bread and meat from the knapsack, unbridled the beasts,
and let them graze by the roadside.
“The travelling student felt the side-pocket of his cloak, drew back
his hand with an air of vexation, and cried: ‘Out upon my eternal
abstraction! This very morning, I had packed up my breakfast so neatly
in the inn, and then something else must needs come into my head, and
make me forget my provisions.’
“‘If that is all,’ cried the young knight, ‘here is enough for you and
me!’ He divided the bread and meat, filled the goblet, and gave the
other both liquid and solid. At the same time he examined him more
closely, while the other on his side examined him also, and then a cry
of astonishment was uttered by them both:
“‘Are you not?’--‘Nay, art _thou_ not?’ they cried.
“‘I am indeed Conrad of Aufsess!’ cried the young knight.
“‘And I Peter of Stellen,’ cried the other. They embraced each other,
and could hardly contain themselves for joy at this unexpected meeting.
“They were indeed playfellows, who had met by accident in the verdant
Spessart. Their fathers had been friends, and the sons had often
played at bat and ball together; had quarrelled a hundred times, and as
often made it up again. However, young Peter was always more quiet and
reflective than his playfellow, who thought about nothing but the names
of weapons and riding-equipage. At last Peter declared to his father
that he wished to become learned, and he went to Cologne to sit at the
feet of the celebrated Albertus Magnus, who was master of all the human
sciences then known, and of whom, report said, that he was also deeply
initiated in the occult arts.