“Now I have everything I can possibly want,” he said, and settling himself comfortably in the corner of his carriage drove away out into the world.
For two years he drove about the country, peering right and left from the windows of his carriage at the houses and villages he passed. When he came into a town he put up at an inn, then went round with a courier, who showed him all the beautiful and interesting sights, not one of which afforded him the least delight, for his heart of stone prevented him taking pleasure in anything. Nothing, however beautiful, appealed to his senses any longer. Nothing was left to him but to eat and drink and sleep—and so he lived without interest or aim in life; to amuse himself he ate and drank, and to prevent his being bored he slept.
Now and again he thought of the days when he had been happy and gay, although he had been obliged to work hard for a livelihood. In those days every beautiful view had delighted him, music and singing had enchanted him, and the simple food his mother cooked for him and brought to him as he sat beside his kiln had been more appetising than all the dainty dishes he partook of now. As he thought of the past it struck him as very singular that he no longer desired to smile even, whereas formerly the smallest joke had served as an excuse for laughter. When other folks laughed he drew his lips into the form of a grin out of politeness; but his heart no longer laughed. It is true he was never upset over anything, but then he was not really satisfied.
It was not home-sickness or grief; but a sense of blankness, weariness and friendlessness that at length drove him back home.
As he drove out of Strassburg and saw again the beautiful dark pine-trees of his native forest, and looked upon the honest faces of his countrymen, and heard the homely, well-remembered tones of their speech, he placed his hand quickly to his heart, for his blood was coursing wildly through his veins and he felt as though he must both weep and laugh together. But—how foolish! His heart was of stone, and stones are dead and can neither laugh nor weep.
His first visit was to Dutch Michael, who received him with friendliness as he had formerly done. “Michael,” said Peter, “I have travelled all over the world and taken pleasure in nothing; I was only bored. It is true that the stone thing I carry in my breast shielded me from a great deal of unpleasantness, I am never angry or sad, but then I am never glad either and I feel only half alive. Could you not put a little life into the stone heart, or even give me back my old heart? I had it for five-and-twenty years and had become accustomed to it, and even if it makes me commit some foolishness occasionally, still it was a merry, happy heart.”
For two years Peter drove about the country. (P. [251].)
The giant laughed a grim and bitter laugh. “When you are dead, Peter Munk,” he replied, “you shall have your soft, feeling heart back again, and experience all the sensations you knew before. But as long as you are alive you cannot have it. It would have been of little service to you either, in the life of idleness you have been living lately. Why don’t you settle down now, marry, build a house, make money? All you require is work; because you were idle you were bored and then you blame your innocent stone heart.”
Peter saw that there was sense in what Michael said and made up his mind to devote his time to money-making. Michael gave him another hundred thousand dollars and they parted good friends.