The Marvellous History of the Shadowless Man, and The Cold Heart

by Adelbert von Chamisso; Wilhelm Hauff

He fell to wondering why it was that he could feel no regret, considering that, for the first time in his life, he had left the peaceful homestead and the forest where he had lived so long. Even when the thought of his mother occurred to him, helpless and wretched as she must be now, no tear came to his eyes, not a sigh escaped him--he felt so absolutely indifferent to everything. "Truly," he muttered, "tears and sighs, homesickness and melancholy, all come from the heart; thanks to Dutch Michael, mine is cold and made of stone."

He laid his hand on his breast; all was still within; there was no movement whatever. "If he has kept his word as to the hundred thousand guilders as he has with regard to my heart, I shall be quite content," he cried, beginning to examine everything in the coach. He found wearing apparel in such quantity and of such variety as he could possibly desire, but no money. At last he came upon a pocket in which he found many thousands of thalers in gold, besides bills drawn on business houses in all the great cities. "Now I have got what I want," he thought, and he settled himself comfortably in a corner of the coach, as it drove onward into the wide world.

For two years Peter drove about everywhere, gazing to left and right from his coach at the houses as he passed them, and at the signboards of the inns at which he stopped, afterwards wandering about the towns, where everything that was worthy of note was shown to him. But he found pleasure in nought;--no picture, no building, no music, no dance,--nothing could move his heart of stone; his eyes and ears could no longer convey to him any sense of the beautiful. Nothing remained for him but to take what joy he could in eating, drinking, and sleeping; and thus he lived; travelling aimlessly about the world, eating, drinking for his sole entertainment, and sleeping his only escape from ennui. Now and then he would recollect how he had been happier when he was poor and had to work for his living. Then every beautiful vista over hill and vale had enchanted him, music and song had always delighted him, and he had found lasting enjoyment in the simple fare brought him by his mother as he sat by the charcoal pile. And as he pondered on the fact, he thought it very strange that now he could laugh at nothing, whereas, formerly, he had been wont to roar over the smallest joke. Now, when others laughed, he, for politeness' sake, distended his mouth, but there was no laughter in his heart. He perceived then that this outward tranquility of his brought no contentment. In the end it was not homesickness or melancholy which drove him homeward, but a depressing sense of solitude and joylessness.

As he drove over from Strasburg and came within view of the dark forest which was his home; when he saw for the first time since his departure the powerful frames, the friendly, trusty faces of the Black Foresters; as his ears caught the old familiar homely sounds, he put his hand to his heart, for his pulse beat more quickly, and he was sure that in another moment he must either rejoice or weep--but, how was it possible for him to be so foolish; had he not a heart of stone?

His first visit was to Dutch Michael, who welcomed him with all his old friendliness.

"Michael," he said to the latter, "I've been on my travels, and have seen everything; but it is all trash and humbug, and has only succeeded in boring me. Certainly, this stony thing of yours, which I bear in my bosom, saves me from much. I am never angry, and never sorrowful; but then I am never glad, and I feel as if I were only half alive. Cannot you put a little life into this stone heart? or, better still, give me back my old heart? It was my companion for five and twenty years, and if at times it did play me a bad turn, yet on the whole it was a merry and brave heart."

The forest spirit laughed grimly and bitterly.

"When you are dead, Peter Munk," he replied, "it will not fail you; then, indeed, will that soft, emotional heart be yours once more, and you will be able to feel whatever happens to you, joy or sorrow. But here on this earth it can never return to you! Yes, Peter, you have certainly been on your travels, but the way in which you lived was too aimless to be of any use to you. Settle down somewhere in the forest, build yourself a house, marry; set up in business--it is occupation of which you are in need; you were bored because you were idle, and yet you blamed it all upon this unoffending heart!"

Peter perceived that Michael was right in so far as his idleness was concerned, and determined to amass riches for himself. Michael gave him another hundred thousand guilders, and they parted good friends.

The story was soon spread throughout the Black-Forest that Charcoal-Peter Munk, or Gambling-Peter, had returned, this time richer than before. And it was the same as it is always: when he was reduced to beggary, they had thrust him from the door in broad daylight; but now, when he once more visited the inn one fine Sunday afternoon, they held out their hands to him, praised his horse, asked him about his travels, and when he sat down to play with Fat Ezekiel with thalers for points, he stood as high in their esteem as ever. He no longer engaged in glass-making, but in timber dealing, though this was merely a blind. His real business was corn-selling and money-lending. By degrees nearly half the Black Forest was in his debt; he lent money only at a ruinously high rate of interest, and sold corn only to the poor, to those who could not pay him cash down for it, at three times its value. He and the bailiff were now on the friendliest terms, and when anybody failed to pay Master Peter Munk to the very day, the bailiff and his myrmidons rode over, made an inventory of all the debtor's belongings and sold him up, driving father, mother and child out into the forest. At first, these proceedings caused the wealthy Peter some trouble; for the poor outcasts besieged his door, the men begging for time to pay, while their wives sought to move his stony heart by drawing his attention to their children, who were crying for bread. But after he had provided himself with one or two big and savage dogs, there was soon an end to these "cat's concerts," as he termed them. He had but to whistle and call his dogs, and the beggars fled, crying and screaming, in all directions.