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.’