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.”
“And is that all you can give me?” asked Peter angrily. “I hoped for 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.”
“Dear, dear! how the lies do slip from thy tongue, to be sure!” laughed 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.
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