雙語(yǔ)·豪夫童話 施佩薩特林中客棧_冷酷的心（下）

The Inn in the Spessart_The Marble Heart (Second Part)

When Peter went to his glass-works on Monday morning, he found not only his workmen there, but also other people who do not make very pleasant visitors—the sheriff and three bailiffs. The sheriff bade Peter good morning, asked how he had slept, and then took out a long register, on which were inscribed the names of Peter's creditors. “Can you pay or not?” demanded the sheriff in a severe tone. “And be quick about the matter too, for I have not much time to spare, and the prison is a three hours ride from here.” Peter, in great despondency, confessed that he was unable to pay the claims, and left it to the sheriff to appraise his house, glass-works, stable, and horses and carriage. While the officials were conducting their examination, it occurred to Peter that the Tannenbuehl was not far away, and as the little man had not helped him, he would try the big man. He ran to the Tannenbuehl as fast as though the officers had been at his heels; and it seemed to him, as he rushed by the spot where he had first spoken to the Little Glass-Man, that an invisible hand seized him—but he tore himself out of its grasp, and ran on till he came to the boundary line, which he remembered well; and hardly had he shouted:“Dutch Michel! Dutch Michel!” when the giant raftsman, with his immense pole, stood before him.

“Have you come at last?” said the giant, laughing. “Do they want to strip you for the benefit of your creditors? Well, be quiet; your whole trouble comes, as I told you it would, from the Little Glass-Man—the hypocrite. When one gives, one should give generously, and not like this miser. But come,” continued he, turning towards the forest, “follow me to my house, and we will see whether we can make a trade.”

“Make a trade?” reflected Peter. “What can he want from me? How can I make a bargain with him? Does he want me to do him some service, or what is it he's after?” They walked over a steep forest path, and suddenly came upon a dark and deep ravine. Dutch Michel sprang down the rocks as if they were an easy marble stair-case; but Peter came near fainting with fright, when Dutch Michel on reaching the bottom, made himself as tall as a church steeple, and stretched out an arm as long as a weaver's beam, with a hand as broad as the table in the tavern, and shouted in a voice that echoed like a deep funeral bell: “Set down on my hand and hold fast to the fingers, and you will not fall.” Peter tremblingly obeyed him, taking a seat on the giant's hand, and holding on to his thumb.

They went down and down for a great distance, but still, to Peter's astonishment it did not grow darker; on the contrary, it seemed to be lighter in the ravine, so that for some time his eyes could not endure the light. The farther they descended, the smaller did Dutch Michel make himself, and he now, in his former stature, stood before a house neither better nor worse than those owned by wealthy peasants in the Black Forest. The room into which Peter was conducted did not differ from the rooms of other houses, except that an indescribable air of loneliness pervaded it. The wooden clock, the enormous Dutch tile stove, the utensils on the shelves, were the same as those in use every-where. Michel showed him to a seat behind the large table and then went out, returning soon with a pitcher of wine and glasses. He poured out the wine, and they talked at random, until Dutch Michel began to tell about the pleasures of the world, of strange lands, and of beautiful cities and rivers, so that Peter at last became possessed of a strong desire to travel also, and told the giant so openly.

“However desirous you might be of undertaking anything, a couple of quick beats of your silly heart would make you tremble; and as for injured reputation, for misfortune, why should a sensible fellow trouble himself with such matters? Did you feel the insult in your head when recently you were called a cheat and swindler? Did your stomach pain you when the sheriff came to turn you out of house and home? Tell me, where were you conscious of pain?”

“In my heart,” answered Peter, laying his hand on his breast; for it seemed to him as though his heart was swinging to and fro unsteadily.

“You have—don’t take it amiss—you have thrown away many hundred guldens on idle beggars and other low fellows; how did that benefit you? They blessed you, and wished you a long life; do you therefore expect to live the longer? For the half of that wasted money you could have employed physicians in your illness. Blessings?—Yes, it's a fine blessing to have your property seized and yourself put out of doors! And what was it that induced you to put your hand in your pocket whenever a beggar held out his tattered hat?—your heart, once more your heart; and neither your eyes nor your tongue, your arms nor your legs, but your heart. You took it—as the saying is—too much to heart.”

“But how can one train himself so that it would not be so any more? I am exerting myself now to control my heart, and still it beats and torments me.”

“Yes, no doubt you find that the case,” replied the giant, with a laugh.“You, poor fellow, can not manage it at all; but give me the little beating thing, and then you will see how much better off you will be.”

“Give you my heart?” shrieked Peter in terror. “I should certainly die on the spot! No, never!”

“Yes, if one of your learned surgeons was to perform the operation of removing the heart from your body, you would certainly die; but with me it would be quite another thing. Still, come this way, and satisfy yourself.”So saying, he got up, opened a chamber door, and took Peter inside. The young man's heart contracted spasmodically as he stepped over the sill, but he paid no attention to it, for the sight that met his eyes was strange and surprising. On a row of shelves stood glasses filled with a transparent fluid, and in each of these glasses was a human heart; the glasses were also labeled with names, written on paper slips, and Peter read them with great curiosity. Here was the heart of the magistrate at F., of the Stout Ezekiel, of the King of the Ball, of the head gamekeeper; there were the hearts of six corn factors, of eight recruiting officers, of three scriveners—in short, it was a collection of the most respectable hearts within a circumference of sixty miles.

“Look!” said Dutch Michel. “All these have thrown away the cares and sorrows of life. Not one of these hearts beats anxiously any longer, and their former possessors are glad to be well rid of their troublesome guests.”

“But what do they carry in the breast in place of them?” asked Peter, whose head began to swim at what he had seen.

“This,”answered the giant, handing him, from a drawer, a stone heart.

“What!” exclaimed Peter, as a chill crept over him. “A heart of marble? But look you, Dutch Michel, that must be very cold in the breast.”

“Certainly; but it is an agreeable coolness. Why should a heart be warm? In winter the warmth of it is of no account; good cherry rum you would find a better protection against the cold than a warm heart, and in summer, when you are sweltering in the heat, you can not imagine how such a heart will cool you. And, as I said before, there will be no further anxiety or terror, neither any more silly pity, nor any sorrow, with such a heart in your breast.”

“And is that all you are able to give me?” asked Peter discontentedly.“I hope for money, and you offer me a stone!”

“Well, I think a hundred thousand guldens will do you to start with. If you handle that well, you can soon become a millionaire.”

“One hundred thousand!” shouted the poor charcoal burner joyfully.“There, don’t beat so violently in my breast, we will soon be through with one another. All right, Michel; give me the stone and the money, and you may take the restless thing out of its cage.”

“I thought you would show yourself to be a sensible fellow,” said Dutch Michel smiling. “Come, let us drink once more together, and then I will count out the money.”

So they sat down to the wine again, and drank until Peter fell into a deep sleep.

He was finally awakened by the ringing notes of a bugle horn, and behold, he sat in a beautiful carriage, driving over a broad highway, and as he turned to look out of the carriage, he saw the Black Forest lying far behind him in the blue distance. At first he could hardly realize that it was he himself who sat in the carriage; for even his clothes were not the same that he had worn yesterday. But he remembered every thing that had occurred so clearly, that he said: “I am Charcoal Pete, that is certain, and nobody else.”

He was surprised that he felt no sensation of sorrow, now that for the first time he was leaving behind him his home and the woods where he had lived so long. He could neither sigh nor shed a tear, as he thought of his mother whom he was leaving in want and sorrow; for all this was a matter of indifference to him now. “Tears and sighs,” thought he,“homesickness and melancholy, come from the heart, and—thanks to Dutch Michel—mine is cold and stony.”

He laid his hand on his breast, and it was perfectly quiet there. “If he has kept his word as well with the hundred thousand guldens as he has about the heart, I shall be happy,” said he, and at once began a search in his carriage; he found all manner of clothes, as fine as he could wish them, but no money. At last he came upon a pocket which contained many thousand thalers in gold, and drafts on bankers in all the large cities. “Now it's all just as I wanted it,” thought he; and settling himself comfortably in a corner of the carriage, he journeyed out into the wide world.

He traveled for two years about the world, looking out from his carriage to the right and left at the buildings he passed by; and when he entered a city he looked out only for the sign of the tavern. After dinner he would be driven about the town, and have the sights pointed out to him. But neither picture, house, music, dancing, nor any thing else, rejoiced him. His heart of stone could not feel an interest in any thing, and his eyes and ears were dulled to all that was beautiful. No pleasures remained to him but those of eating, drinking and sleeping. Now and then, it is true, he recalled the fact, that he had been happier when he was poor and worked for his own support. Then every beautiful view in the valley, the sound of music and song, had rejoiced him; then he had been satisfied with the simple fare that his mother had prepared and brought out to his fires. When he thus thought of the past, it seemed very singular to him that he could not laugh at all now, while then every little jest had amused him. When others laughed, he simply affected to do the same as a mere matter of politeness; but his heart did not join in the merriment. He felt then that although he was destitute of emotion, yet he was far from being contented. It was not homesickness or melancholy, but dullness, weariness, and a joyless life, that finally drove him back to his native place.

As he passed by Strasbourg and saw the dark forest in the distance, as he once more saw the strong forms and honest, faithful faces of the inhabitants of the Black Forest, as his ear caught the strong, deep, well-remembered tones of his countrymen's voices, he put his hand quickly to his heart, for his blood danced through his veins, and he thought he should both weep and rejoice; but—how could he be so foolish?—he had only a heart of stone, and stones are without feeling, and neither laugh nor weep.

His first visit was to Dutch Michel, who received him with much show of friendliness. “Michel,” said Peter, “I have travelled and have seen every thing, but experienced only weariness. Upon the whole, the stone I carry in my breast saves me from many things; I never get angry, am never sad, but at the same time I am never happy, and it seems to me as if I only half lived. Can not you make the stone heart a little more sensitive? or, give me back rather my old heart. I was accustomed to it for twenty-five years, and even if it did sometimes lead me into a foolish act, still it was a contented and happy heart.”

The Spirit of the Forest laughed scornfully. “When you are once dead, Peter Munk,” replied he, “your heart shall not be missing; then you shall have back your soft, sensitive heart, and then you will have an opportunity to feel whatever comes, joy or sorrow. But in this world it can never be yours again. Still, Peter, although you have travelled, it won’t do you any good to live in the way you have been doing. Settle down somewhere here in the forest, build a house, marry, double your wealth;you were only in want of some employment. Because you were idle, you experienced weariness; and now you would charge it all to this innocent heart.” Peter saw that Michel was right, so far as idleness was concerned, and resolved to devote his energies to acquiring more and more riches. Michel presented him with another hundred thousand guldens, and the two parted on the best of terms.

The news soon spread throughout the Black Forest that Charcoal Pete, or Gambler Pete, was back again, and richer than before. Things went on as they had done. When he had been reduced to beggary, he was kicked out of the tavern door; and when now, on one Sunday afternoon he drove up to the tavern, his old associates shook his hand, praised his horse, inquired about his journey; and when he began to play with the Stout Ezekiel again for silver thalers, he stood higher than ever in the esteem of the hangers-on. Instead of the glass business, he now went into the timber trade; but this was only for sake of appearance, as his chief business was that of a corn factor and money lender. Fully half of the inhabitants of the Black Forest gradually fell into his debt, as he only lent money at ten per cent interest, or sold corn to the poor, who could not pay cash for it, at three times what it was worth. He stood in intimate relations with the sheriff, and if one did not pay Mr. Peter Munk on the day his note fell due, the sheriff would ride over to the debtor's place, seize his house and land, sell it without delay, and drive father, mother and child into the forest. At first this course of action caused Peter some little trouble, for the people who had been driven out of their homes blockaded his gates,—the men pleading for time, the women attempting to soften his heart of stone, and the children crying for a piece of bread. But when he had provided himself with a couple of savage mastiffs, this charivari, as he called it, very soon ceased. He whistled to the dogs, and set them on the pack of beggars, who would scatter with screams in all directions. But the most trouble was given him by an old woman, who was none other than Peter's mother. She had been plunged into misery and want, since her house and lot had been sold, and her son, on his return, rich as he was, would not look after her wants. Therefore she occasionally appeared at his door, weak and old, leaning on a staff. She dared not enter the house, for he had once chased her out of the door; but it pained her to live on the charity of other people, when her own son was so well able to provide for her old age. But the cold heart was never disturbed by the sight of the pale, well-known features, by her pleading looks or by the withered, outstretched hand, or the tottering form. And when on a Saturday she knocked at his door, he would take out a sixpence, grumbling meanwhile, roll it up in a piece of paper, and send it out to her by a servant. He could hear her trembling voice as she returned thanks and wished that all happiness might be his; he heard her steal away from the door coughing, but gave her no further thought, except to reproach himself with having thrown away a good sixpence.

Finally, Peter began to think about getting married. He knew that there was not a father in the whole Black Forest who would not have been glad to give him his daughter; but he meant to be particular in his choice, for he wished that in this matter, too, his luck and his judgment should be recognized. Therefore he rode all through the forest, searching here and there, but not one of the beautiful Black Forest maidens seemed beautiful enough for him. Finally, after he had looked through all the ball rooms in a vain search for his ideal beauty, he one day heard that the daughter of a certain woodchopper was the most beautiful and virtuous of all the Black Forest maidens. She lived a very quiet life, kept her father's house in the neatest order, and never showed herself at a ball, not even on holidays. When Peter heard of this Black Forest beauty, he resolved to obtain her, and rode to the hut to which he was directed. The father of the beautiful Lisbeth received the gentleman in much surprise, but was still more astonished to hear that this was the wealthy Mr. Peter Munk, and that the gentleman wished to become his son-in-law. Believing that now all his cares and his poverty were at an end, the old man did not hesitate very long, but consented to the match without stopping to consult his daughter's inclinations, and the good child was so dutiful that she made no objections, and soon became Mrs. Peter Munk.

But things did not go as well with the poor girl as she had dreamed. She thought she had a perfect knowledge of how to manage a house; but she could not do any thing that seemed to please her husband. She had sympathy with poor people, and, as her husband was so rich, she thought it would be no sin to give a farthing to a poor beggar woman or to hand an old man a cup of tea. But when Peter saw her do this one day, he said, in a harsh voice and with angry looks: “Why do you waste my means on idlers and vagabonds? Did you bring anything into the house, that you can throw money away like a princess? If I catch you at this again, you shall feel my hand!” The beautiful Lisbeth wept in her chamber over the cruel disposition of her husband, and often did she feel that she would rather be back in her father's hut than to live with the rich but miserly and hard-hearted Peter. Alas, had she known that her husband had a marble heart,and could neither love her nor any one else, she would not have wondered so much at his actions. But whenever she sat at the door, and a beggar came up, took off his hat and began to speak, she now cast her eyes down that she might not see the poor fellow, and clasped her hands lighter lest she should involuntarily feel in her pocket for money. So it happened that the beautiful Lisbeth came to be badly spoken of throughout the entire Forest, and it was asserted that she was even more miserly than Peter himself.

But one day while Lisbeth was sitting before the house, spinning, and humming a song—for she felt in unusually good spirits, as the weather was fine and Peter had ridden off—a little old man came up the road, carrying a large, heavy sack. Lisbeth had heard him panting while he was still at some distance, and she looked at him sympathetically, thinking that so old and weak a man ought not to carry so heavy a burden.

In the meantime the man had staggered and panted up, and when he was opposite Lisbeth, he almost fell down under the sack. “Alas, take pity on me, madame, and hand me a glass of water,” said the little man; “I can not go another step, and I fear I shall faint.”

“But at your age you ought not to carry such a heavy load,” said Lisbeth.

“Yes, if I was not forced by poverty to serve as a messenger,”answered he. “Alas, a rich lady like you does not know how poverty pinches, and how refreshing a drink of water would be on such a hot day.”

On hearing this Lisbeth rushed into the house, took a pitcher from the shelf and filled it with water; but when she returned with it, and had come within a few feet of the man, she saw how miserable he appeared as he sat on the sack, and, remembering that her husband was not at home, she set the pitcher of water to one side, got a goblet and filled it with wine, laid a slice of rye bread on top of it, and brought it out to the old man. “There; a sip of wine, at your age, will do you more good than water,” said she. “But don’t drink it so hastily, and eat your bread with it.”

The little man looked at her in astonishment, while tears gathered in his eyes. He drank the wine and then said: “I have grown old, but I have seen few people who were so merciful, and who knew how to make gifts as handsomely and heartily as you do, Frau Lisbeth. And for this your life on earth shall be a happy one; such a heart will not remain without a reward.”

“No, and she shall have her reward on the spot!” shouted a terrible voice; and as they turned, there stood Peter with an angry face.

“So you were pouring out my best wine for beggars, and giving my own goblet to the lips of a vagrant? There, take your reward!”

Lisbeth threw herself at his feet and begged his forgiveness; but the heart of stone felt no pity; he turned the whip he held in his hand, and struck such a blow with the butt of it on her beautiful forehead, that she sank lifeless into the arms of the old man. When Peter saw this, he seemed to regret it on the instant, he bent down to see if there was still life in her, but the little man said to him in a well-known voice: “Don’t trouble yourself. Charcoal Peter! It was the sweetest and loveliest flower in the Black Forest; but you have destroyed it, and it will never bloom again.”

The blood left Peter's cheeks, as he said: “It is you then, Herr Schatzhauser? Well, what is done, is done, and must have come to pass. I hope, however, that you won’t charge me with being her murderer before the magistrate.”

“Wretch!” exclaimed the Little Glass-Man, “how would it console me to bring your mortal frame to the gallows? It is not earthly judges whom you have to fear, but other and severer ones, for you have sold your soul to the evil one.”

“And if I have sold my heart,” shrieked Peter, “you and your miserable treasures are to blame for it! You, malicious spirit, have led me to perdition, driven me to seek help of another, and you are answerable for it all.”

But hardly had Peter said this, when the Little Glass-Man swelled and grew, and became both tall and broad, while his eyes were as large as soup plates, and his mouth was like a heated oven from which flames darted forth. Peter threw himself on his knees, and his marble heart did not prevent his limbs from trembling like an aspen tree. The Spirit of the Forest seized him by the neck with the talons of a hawk, and whirled him about as a whirlwind sweeps up the dead leaves, and then threw him to the ground with such force that all his ribs cracked. “Earth-worm!” cried he, in a voice like a roll of thunder, “I could dash you to pieces if I chose, for you have insulted the Master of the Forest. But for this dead woman's sake, who has given me food and drink, you shall have an eight days’ reprieve. If you don’t mend your ways by that time, I will come and grind your limbs to powder, and you shall die in all your sins!”

Night had come on, when some men who were passing saw the rich Peter Munk lying on the ground. They turned him over, and searched for signs of life; but for some time their efforts to restore him were in vain. Finally one of them went into the house and brought out some water, with which they sprinkled his face. Thereupon Peter drew a long breath, groaned, and opened his eyes, looked about him, and inquired after Lisbeth; but none of them had seen her. He thanked the men for the assistance they had rendered him, slipped into his house and searched every-where; but Lisbeth was nowhere to be found, and what he had taken for a horrible dream was the bitter truth.

While he was sitting there quite alone, some strange thoughts came into his mind; he was not afraid of anything, for his heart was cold; but when he thought of his wife's death, the thought of his own death came to him and he reflected how heavily he should be weighted on leaving the world—burdened with the tears of the poor, with thousands of their curses, with the agony of the poor wretches on whom he had set his dogs, with the silent despair of his mother, with the blood of the good and beautiful Lisbeth; and if he could not give an account to the old man, her father, if he should come and ask, “Where is my daughter?” how should he respond to the question of Another, to whom all forests, all seas, all mountains, and the lives of all mortals, belong?

His sleep was disturbed by dreams, and every few moments he was awakened by a sweet voice calling to him: “Peter, get a warmer heart!”And when he woke he quickly closed his eyes again; for the voice that gave him this warning was the voice of Lisbeth, his wife.

The following day he went to the tavern to drown his reflections in drink, and there he met the Stout Ezekiel. He sat down by him; they talked about this and that, of the fine weather, of the war, of the taxes, and finally came to talk about death, and how this and that one had died suddenly. Peter asked Ezekiel what he thought about death and a future life. Ezekiel replied that the body was buried, but that the soul either rose to heaven or descended to hell.

“But do they bury one's heart also?” asked Peter, all attention,

“Why, certainly, that is also buried.”

“But how would it be if one did not have his heart any longer?”continued Peter.

Ezekiel looked at him sharply as he spoke those words. “What do you mean by that? Do you imagine that I haven’t a heart?”

“Oh, you have heart enough, and as firm as a rock,” replied Peter.

Ezekiel stared at him in astonishment, looked about him to see if any one had overheard Peter, and then said:

“Where do you get this knowledge? Or perhaps yours does not beat any more?”

“It does not beat any more, at least not here in my breast!” answered Peter Munk. “But tell me—now that you know what I mean—how will it be with our hearts!”

“Why should that trouble you, comrade?” asked Ezekiel laughing.“We have a pleasant course to run on earth, and that's enough. It is certainly one of the best things about our cold hearts, that we experience no fear in the face of such thoughts.”

“Very true; but still one will think on these subjects, and although I do not know what fear is, yet I can remember how much I feared hell when I was a small and innocent boy.”

“Well, it certainly won’t go very easy with us,” said Ezekiel. “I once questioned a school-master on that point, and he told me that after death the hearts were weighed, to find out how heavily they had sinned. The light ones then ascended, the heavy ones sank down; and I think that our stones will have a pretty good weight.”

“Alas, yes,” replied Peter; “and I often feel uncomfortable, that my heart is so unsympathetic and indifferent, when I think on such subjects.”

On the next night, Peter heard the well-known voice whisper in his ear, five or six times: “Peter, get a warmer heart!” He experienced no remorse at having killed his wife, but when he told the domestics that she had gone off on a journey, the thought had instantly occurred to him:“Where has she probably journeyed to?”

For six days he had lived on in this manner, haunted by these reflections, and every night he heard this voice, which brought back to his recollection the terrible threat of the Little Glass-Man; but on the seventh morning he sprang up from his couch crying: “Now, then, I will see whether I can procure a warmer heart, for this emotionless stone in my breast makes my life weary and desolate.” He quickly drew on his Sunday attire, mounted his horse, and rode to the Tannenbuehl.

In the Tannenbuehl the trees stood too closely together to permit of his riding further, so he tied his horse to a tree, and with hasty steps went up to the highest point of the hill and when he reached the largest pine he spoke the verse that had once caused him so much trouble to learn:

Keeper of green woods of pine,

All its lands are only your;

You are many centuries old;

Sunday-born children you behold.

Thereupon the Little Glass-Man appeared, but not with a pleasant greeting as before; his expression was sad and stern. He wore a coat of black glass, and a long piece of crape fluttered down from his hat. Peter well knew for whom the Spirit of the Wood sorrowed.

“What do you want of me, Peter Munk?” asked the Little Glass-Man in a hollow voice.

“I have still one wish left, Herr Schatzhauser,” answered Peter, with downcast eyes.

“Can hearts of stone have any wishes?” said the Glass-Man. “You have every thing needful for your wicked course of life, and it is doubtful whether I should grant your wish.”

“But you promised me three wishes; and I have one left yet.”

“Still, I have the right to refuse it if it should prove a foolish one,”continued the Glass-Man. “But proceed, I will hear what it is you want.”

“I want you to take this lifeless stone out of my breast, and give me in its place my living heart,” said Peter.

“Did I make that bargain with you? Am I Dutch Michel, who gives riches and cold hearts? You must look to him for your heart.”

“Alas, he will nevermore give it back to me,” replied Peter.

“Wicked as you are, I pity you,” said the Little Glass-Man after a pause. “But as your wish is not a foolish one, I can not refuse you my assistance at least. So listen. You can not recover your heart by force, but possibly you may do so by stratagem; and this may not prove such a hard matter after all, for Michel, although he thinks himself uncommonly wise, is really a very stupid fellow. So go directly to him, and do just as I shall tell you.” The Little Glass-Man then instructed Peter in what he was to do, and gave him a small cross of clear crystal. “He can not harm you while you live, and he will let you go free if you hold this up before him and pray at the same time. And if you should get back your heart, then return to this place, where I shall be awaiting you.”

Peter Munk took the cross, impressed on his memory all the words he was to say, and went to Dutch Michel's ravine. He called him three times by name, and immediately the giant stood before him.

“Have you killed your wife?” asked the giant, with a fiendish laugh. “I should have done it in your place, for she was giving away your wealth to the beggars. But you had better leave the country for a while, for an alarm will be given if she is not found. You will need money, and have probably come after it.”

“You have guessed rightly,” said Peter, “and make it a large amount this time, for America is far away.”

Michel preceded Peter into the hut, where he opened a chest in which was piled a large amount of money, and took out whole rolls of gold. While he was counting them out on the table, Peter said: “You are a frivolous fellow, Michel, to cheat me into thinking that I had a stone in the breast and that you had my heart!”

“And is that not so?” asked Michel, surprised. “Can you feel your heart? Is it not as cold as ice? Can you experience fear or sorrow, or can any thing cause you remorse?”

“You have only made my heart stand still, but I have it just the same as ever in my breast, and Ezekiel, too, says that you have lied to us. You are not the man who can tear a heart from another's breast without his knowing it, and without endangering his life; you would have to be a sorcerer to do that.”

“But I assure you,” cried Michel indignantly, “that you and Ezekiel, and all the rich people who have had dealings with me, have hearts as cold as your own, and I have their true hearts here in my chamber.”

“Why, how the lies slip over your tongue!” laughed Peter. “You may tell that to some body else. Do you suppose that I haven’t seen dozens of just such imitations on my travels? The hearts in your chamber are fashioned from wax! You are a rich fellow, I admit, but no sorcerer.”

The giant, in a rage, flung open the chamber door. “Come in here, and read all these labels; and look! That glass there holds Peter Munk's heart. Do you see how it beats? Can one imitate that too in wax?”

“Nevertheless, it is made of wax;” exclaimed Peter. “A real heart doesn’t beat in that way; and besides, I still have my own in my breast. No indeed, you are not a sorcerer!”

“But I will prove it to you!” cried the giant, angrily. “You shall feel it yourself, and acknowledge that it is your heart.” He took it out, tore Peter's jacket open, and took a stone from the young man's breast and held it up to him. Then taking up the beating heart, he breathed on it, and placed it carefully in its place, and at once Peter felt it beating in his breast, and he could once more rejoice thereat.

“How is it with you now?” asked Michel smiling.

“Verily, you were right,” answered Peter, meanwhile drawing the little crystal cross from his pocket. “I would not have believed that one could do such a thing!”

“Is it not so? And I can practice magic, as you see; but come, I will put the stone back again now.”

“Gently, Herr Michel!” cried Peter, taking a step backward, and holding up the cross between them. “One catches mice with cheese, and this time you are trapped.” And forthwith, Peter began to pray, speaking whatever words came readily to his mind.

Thereupon, Michel became smaller and smaller, sank down to the floor, writhed and twisted about like a worm, and gasped and groaned, while all the hearts began to beat and knock against their glass cages, until it sounded like the workshop of a clock-maker. Peter was very much frightened, and ran out of the house, and, driven on by terror, scaled the cliffs; for he heard Michel get up from the floor, stamp and rage, and shout after him the most terrible curses. On arriving at the top of the ravine, Peter ran towards the Tannenbuehl. A terrible thunderstorm came up; lightning flashed to the right and left, and shattered many trees, but he reached the Little Glass-Man's territory unharmed.

His heart beat joyfully, because of the very pleasure it seemed to take in beating. But soon he looked back at his past life with horror, as at the thunder storm that had shattered the trees behind him. He thought of Lisbeth, his good and beautiful wife, whom he had murdered in his avarice. He looked upon himself as an outcast from mankind, and wept violently as he came to the Glass-Man's hill.

Herr Schatzhauser sat under the pine tree, smoking a small pipe, but looking more cheerful than before.

“Why do you weep, Charcoal Pete?” asked he. “Did you not get your heart? Does the cold one still lie in your breast?”

“Alas, Master!” sighed Peter, “when I had the cold stone heart, I never wept. My eyes were as dry as the earth in July; but now the old heart is nearly broken in thinking of what I have done. I drove my debtors into misery and want, set my dogs on the poor and sick, and—you yourself saw how my whip fell on her beautiful forehead!”

“Peter, you were a great sinner!” said the Little Glass-Man. “Money and idleness ruined you, until your heart, turned to stone, knew neither joy nor sorrow, remorse nor pity. But repentance brings pardon, and if I were only sure that you were very sorry for your past life, I might do something for you.”

“I do not want any thing more,” replied Peter, with drooping head.“It is all over with me. I shall never know happiness again. What can I do, now that I am alone in the world? My mother will never pardon my behavior toward her; and perhaps I, monster that I am, have already brought her to the grave. And Lisbeth, my wife! No; rather kill me, Herr Schatzhauser, and make an end of my miserable life at once.”

“Very well,” replied the little man, “if you will have it so; my ax is close by.” He took his pipe quietly from his mouth, knocked out the ashes, and stuck it in his pocket. Then he rose slowly and went behind the tree. Peter sat weeping on the grass, caring nothing for his life, and waiting patiently for the death-blow. After some time he heard light steps behind him, and thought: “Now he is coming.”

“Look round once more, Peter Munk!” shouted the little man. Peter wiped the tears from his eyes and looked about him, and saw—his mother, and Lisbeth, his wife, who both looked at him pleasantly.

He sprang up joyfully saying:

“Then you are not dead, Lisbeth? And you too, mother, have you forgiven me?”

“They will forgive you,” said the Little Glass-Man, “because you feel true repentance, and every thing shall be forgotten. Return home now to your father's hut, and be a charcoal burner as before, and if you are honest and just you will honor your trade, and your neighbors will love and esteem you more highly than if you had ten tons of gold.” Thus spake the Little Glass-Man, and bade them farewell.

The three praised and blessed him, and then started home.

The splendid house of the rich Peter Munk had vanished. The lightning had struck and consumed it, together with all its treasures. But it was not far to his mother's hut; thence they took their way, untroubled by the loss of Peter's palace.

But how astonished were they on coming to the hut to find that it had been changed into a large house, like those occupied by the well-to-do peasants, and every thing inside was simple, was good and substantial.

“The good Little Glass-Man has done this!” exclaimed Peter.

“How beautiful!” cried Lisbeth; “and here I shall feel much more at home than in the great house with so many servants.”

From this time forth, Peter Munk was a brave and industrious man. He was contented with what he had, carried on his trade cheerfully, and so it came to pass that through his own efforts he became well-to-do and was well thought of throughout the Black Forest. He never quarreled again with his wife, honored his mother, and gave to the poor who passed his door. When, in due course of time, a beautiful boy was born to him, Peter went to the Tannenbuehl and spoke his verse. But the Little Glass-Man did not respond. “Herr Schatzhauser,” cried Peter, “hear me this time; I only want to ask you to stand as godfather to my little boy!” But there was no reply; only a puff of wind blew through the pines and threw some cones down into the grass. “I will take these with me as a memento, since you will not show yourself,” said Peter. He put the cones in his pocket, and went home; but when he took off his Sunday jacket and gave it to his mother to put away, four large rolls of coin fell from the pockets, and when they were opened they proved to be good, new Baden thalers, with not a counterfeit among them. And this was the godfather's gift from the little man in the Tannenbuehl to the little Peter.

Thus they lived on, quietly and contentedly; and often afterwards, when the gray hairs began to show on Peter's head, he would say:

“It is better to be contented with a little than to have gold and estates with a marble heart.”

Some five days had now passed, and Felix, the huntsman and the student were still the prisoners of the robbers. They were well treated by the chief and his men, but still they longed for their freedom, for each day that passed added to their fear of discovery. On the evening of the fifth day, the huntsman declared to his companions in misfortune that he was fully resolved to escape that night or die in the attempt. He incited his companions to the same resolve, and showed them how they should set about the attempt. “The guard who is posted nearest to us, I will look after,” said he. “It is a case of necessity, and necessity knows no law;—he must die!”

“Die!” repeated Felix in horror; “you would kill him?”

“I am firmly resolved to do it, when it comes to the question of saving two human lives. You must know that I overheard the robbers whispering, in an anxious manner, that the woods were being scoured for them; and the old women, in their anger, let out the wicked designs of the band; they cursed about us, and it is an understood thing that if the robbers are attacked we shall die without mercy.”

“God in Heaven!” exclaimed the young man, hiding his face in his hands.

“Still, they have not put the knives to our throats as yet,” continued the huntsman, “therefore, let us get the start of them. When it gets dark I will steal up to the nearest guard; he will challenge me; I shall whisper to him that the countess has been suddenly taken very sick, and while he is off his guard I will stab him. Then I will return for you, and the second guard will not escape us any more easily; and between us three the third sentinel will not stand much of a show.”

The huntsman, as he spoke, looked so terrible that Felix was actually in fear of him. He was about to beg of him to give up these bloody designs, when the door of the hut opened softly, and a man's form stole in quickly. It was the robber chief. He closed the door carefully behind him, and motioned to the prisoners to keep quiet. He then sat down near Felix, and said:

“Lady countess, your situation is a desperate one. Your husband has not kept faith with us; not only has he failed to send the ransom, but he has also aroused the government against us, and the militia are scouring the forest in all directions to capture me and my men. I have threatened your husband with your death, if an attempt was made to seize us; still either your life must be of very little account to him, or else he does not think we are in earnest. Your life is in our hands, and is forfeited under our laws. Have you any thing to say on the subject?”

The prisoners looked down in great perplexity; they knew not what to answer, for Felix felt sure that a confession of his disguise would only increase their danger.

“It is impossible for me,” continued the robber, “to place a lady, for whom I have the utmost esteem, in danger. Therefore I will make a proposition for your rescue;it is the only way out that is left you:I will fly with you.”

Surprised, astonished beyond measure, they all looked at him while he continued:

“The majority of my comrades have decided to go to Italy, and join a band of brigands there; but for my part it would not suit me to serve under another, and therefore I shall make no common cause with them. If, now, you will give me your word, lady countess, to speak a good word for me, to use your influence, with your powerful connections, for my protection, then I will set you free before it is too late.”

Felix was at a loss what to say. His honest heart was opposed to willfully exposing a man, who was offering to save his life, to a danger from which he might not afterwards be able to protect him. As he still remained silent, the robber continued: “At the present time, soldiers are wanted every-where; I will be satisfied with the most common position. I know that you have great influence, but I will not ask for any thing further than your promise to do something for me in this case.”

“Well, then,” replied Felix, with eyes cast down, “I promise you to do what I can, whatever is in my power, to be of use to you. There is some consolation for me in the fact that of your own free will you are anxious to give up this life of a brigand.”

The robber chief kissed his hand with much emotion, and added, in a whisper, that the countess must be ready to go two hours after night had set in; and then left the hut with as much caution as he had entered it. The prisoners breathed freer, when he had gone.

“Verily,” exclaimed the huntsman, “God has softened his heart. How wonderful our means of escape! Did I ever dream that any thing like this could happen in the world, and that I should fall in with such an adventure?”

“Wonderful, certainly!” said Felix; “but have I done right in deceiving this man? What will my protection amount to? Shall I not be luring him to the gallows, if I do not confess to him who I am?”

“Why, how is it possible you can have such scruples, dear boy?”exclaimed the student; “and after you have played your part to such perfection, too! No, you needn’t feel anxious on that score at all; that is nothing but a lawful subterfuge. Did he not attempt the outrage of kidnapping a noble lady? No, you have not done wrong; moreover I believe he will win favor with the authorities, when he, the head of the band, voluntarily surrenders himself.”

This last reflection comforted the young goldsmith. In joyful anticipations alternating with uneasy apprehensions over the success of the plan of escape, they passed the succeeding hours. It was already dark when the chief returned, laid down a bundle of clothes, and said:

“Lady countess, in order to facilitate our flight, it is necessary for you to put on this suit of men's clothes. Get all ready. In an hour we shall begin our march.”

With these words, he left the prisoners; and the huntsman had great difficulty in refraining from laughter.

“This will be the second disguise,” cried he, “and I am sure that this will be better suited to you than the first one was!”

They opened the bundle and found a handsome hunting costume, with all its belongings, which fitted Felix well. After he had put it on, the huntsman was about to throw the countess's clothes into a corner of the hut; but Felix would not consent to leave them there; he made a small bundle of them, and hinted that he meant to ask the countess to present them to him, and that he would preserve them all his life as a memento of these eventful days.

Finally the robber chief came. He was fully armed, and brought the huntsman the rifle that had been taken away from him, and a powder-horn as well. He also gave the student a musket, and handed Felix a hunting knife, with the request that he would carry it and use it in case of necessity. It was fortunate for the three men that it was so dark, for the eager air with which Felix received this weapon might have betrayed his sex to the robber. As they stole carefully out of the hut, the huntsman noticed that the post near their hut was not guarded, so that it was possible for them to slip away from the huts unnoticed; yet the leader did not take the path that led up out of the ravine, but brought them all to a cliff that was so nearly perpendicular as to seem quite impassible. Arriving there, their guide showed them a rope-ladder secured to the rocks above. He swung his rifle on his back, and climbed up a little way, telling the countess to follow him, and offering his hand to assist her. The huntsman was the last to climb up. Arriving at the top of the cliff, they soon struck a foot-path, and walked away at a fast pace.

“This foot-path,” said their guide, “leads to the Aschaffenburg road. We will go to that place, as I have received information that your husband, the count, is stopping there now.”

They walked on in silence, the robber chief keeping the lead, and the others following close at his heels. After a three hours’ walk, they stopped. The robber recommended Felix to sit down and rest. He then brought out some bread, and a flask of old wine, and offered this refreshment to the weary ones. “I believe that within an hour we shall strike some of the outposts established by the militia all around the forest. In that case I beg you to bespeak good treatment for me of the commanding officer.”

Felix assented, although he expected but little good to result from his interference. They rested for half an hour, and then continued their walk. They had gone on for about an hour, and had nearly reached the highway;the day was just breaking, and the shadows of night were disappearing from the forest, when their steps were suddenly arrested by a loud “Halt!”Five soldiers surrounded them, and told them that they must be taken before the commanding officer, and give an account of their presence in the forest. When they had gone fifty paces further, under the escort of the soldiers, they saw weapons gleaming in the thicket to the right and left of them; a whole army seemed to have taken possession of the forest.

The mayor sat, with several other officers, under an oak tree. When the prisoners were brought before him, and just as he was about to question them as to whence they came and whither they were bound, one of the men sprang up exclaiming: “Good Heaven! What do I see? That is surely Godfried, our forester!”

“You are right, Mr. Magistrate!” answered the huntsman, in a joyful voice. “It is I, and I have had a wonderful rescue from the hands of those wretches.”

The officers were astonished to see him; and the huntsman asked the mayor and the magistrate to step aside with him, when he related to them, in a few words, how they had escaped, and who the fourth man that accompanied them was.

Rejoiced at this news, the mayor at once made preparations to have this important prisoner conveyed to another point; and then he led the young goldsmith to his comrades, and introduced him as the heroic youth that had, by his courage and presence of mind, saved the countess; and they all took Felix by the hand, praised him, and could not hear enough from him and the huntsman about their adventures.

In the meantime it had become broad daylight. The mayor decided to accompany the rescued ones to the town. He went with them to the nearest village, where a wagon stood, and invited Felix to take a seat with him in the wagon; while the student, the huntsman, the magistrate, and many other people, rode before and after them; and thus they entered the city in triumph. Reports of the attack on the forest inn, and of the sacrifice of the young goldsmith, had spread over the country like wildfire; and just as rapidly did the news of their rescue now pass from mouth to mouth. It was, therefore, not to be wondered at, that they found the streets of the city crowded with people who were eager to catch a glimpse of the young hero. Everybody pressed forward, as the wagon rolled slowly through the streets. “There he is!” shouted the crowd. “Do you see him there in the wagon beside the officer! Long live the brave young goldsmith!” And the cheers of a thousand voices rent the air.

Felix was deeply moved by the hearty welcome of the crowd. But a still more affecting reception awaited him at the court-house. A middle-aged man met him on the steps, and embraced him with tears in his eyes.“How can I reward you, my son?” cried he. “You have saved me my wife, and my children their mother; for the shock of such an imprisonment her gentle frame could not have survived.”

Strongly as Felix insisted that he would not accept of any reward for what he had done, the more did the count seem resolved that he should. At last the unfortunate fate of the robber chief occurred to the youth's mind, and he related to the count how this man had rescued him, thinking that he was the countess, and that therefore the robber was really entitled to the count's gratitude. The count, moved not so much by the action of the robber chief as by this fresh display of unselfishness on Felix's part, promised to do his best to save the robber from the punishment due his crimes.

On the same day, the count took the young goldsmith, accompanied by the stout-hearted huntsman, to his palace, where the countess, still anxious for the fate of the young man, was waiting for news from the forest. Who could describe her joy when her husband entered her room, holding her deliverer by the hand? She was never through questioning and thanking him; she brought her children and showed to them the noble-hearted youth to whom their mother owed so much, and the little ones seized his hands, and the child-like way in which they spoke their thanks and their assurances that, next to their father and mother, they loved him better than any one else in the whole world, were to him a most blessed recompense for many sorrows, and for the sleepless nights he had passed in the robbers’ camp.

After the first moments of rejoicing were over, the countess beckoned to a servant, who presently brought the clothes and the knapsack that Felix had turned over to the countess in the forest inn. “Here is every thing,”said she, with a kindly smile, “that you gave me on that terrible night; they enveloped me with a glamour that blinded my pursuers. They are once more at your service; still I will make you an offer for these clothes, that I may have some mementoes of you. And I ask you to take in exchange the sum which the robbers demanded for my ransom.”

Felix was confounded by the munificence of this present; his nobler self revolted against accepting a reward for what he had done voluntarily.

“Gracious countess,” said he, deeply moved, “I can not consent to this. The clothes shall be yours as you wished; but the money of which you spoke I can not take. Still, as I know that you are desirous of rewarding me in some way, instead of any other reward, let me continue to be blessed with your best wishes, and should I ever happen to be in need of assistance, you may be sure that I will call on you.” In vain did the countess and her husband seek to change the young man's resolution;and the servant was about to carry the clothes and knapsack out again, when Felix remembered the ornament, which the occurrence of these happy scenes had put out of his mind.

“Wait,” cried he; “there is one thing in my knapsack, gracious lady, that you must permit me to take; every thing else shall be wholly and entirely yours.”

“Just as you please,” said she; “although I should like, to keep every thing just as it is, to remember you by; so please take only what you can not do without. Yet, if I may be permitted to ask, what is it that lies so near to your heart that you don’t wish to give it to me?”

While she was speaking, the young man had opened the knapsack, and now produced a small red morocco case. “Every thing that belongs to me, you are welcome to,” replied he, smiling; “but this belongs to my dear lady godmother. I did the work on it myself, and must carry it to her with my own hands. It is a piece of jewelry, gracious lady,” continued he as he opened the case and held it out to her, “an ornament that I myself prepared.”

She took the case, but hardly had she looked at the ornament when she started back in surprise.

“Did you say that these stones were intended for your godmother?”exclaimed she.

“Yes, to be sure,” answered Felix, “my lady godmother sent me the stones, I set them, and am now on the way to deliver them to her myself.”

The countess looked at him with deep emotion; the tears started from her eyes. “Then you are Felix Perner of Nuremberg?” said she.

“Yes! But by what means did you find out my name so quickly?”asked the youth, in great perplexity.

“O wonderful dispensation of heaven!” exclaimed she, turning to her astonished husband. “This is Felix, our little godson, the son of our maid, Sabine! Felix! I am the one whom you were on your way to see; and you saved your godmother from the robbers without knowing it.”

“What? Are you then the Countess Sandau, who did so much for me and my mother? And is this the Castle Maienburg, to which I was bound! How grateful I am to the kind fate that brought us together so strangely;thus I have been able to prove indeed, even if in small measure, my great thankfulness to you.”

“You did more for me than I shall ever be able to do for you; still while I live I shall try to show you how deeply indebted to you we all feel. My husband shall be to you a father, my children shall be as sisters, while I will be your true mother; and this ornament, that led you to me in the hour of my greatest need, shall be my most precious souvenir, for it will always remind me of you and of your noble spirit.”

Thus spake the countess, and well did she keep her word. She gave the fortunate Felix abundant support on his wanderings, and when he returned as a clever master of his art she bought a house for him in Nuremberg and fitted it up completely. Not the least striking among the appointments of his parlor were finely painted pictures, representing the scenes in the inn, and Felix's life among the robbers.

There, Felix lived as a clever goldsmith. The fame of his work, together with the wonderful story of his heroism, brought him customers from all parts of the realm. Many strangers, on coming to the beautiful city of Nuremberg, found their way to the shop of the famous Master Felix, in order to have a look at him, also to order an ornament made by him. But his most welcome visitors were the forester, the compass-maker, the student, and the wagoner. Whenever the latter travelled from Wuerzburg to Fuerth, he stopped to speak with Felix. The huntsman brought him presents from the countess nearly every year; while the compass-maker, after wandering about in all lands, settled down with Felix. One day, they were visited by the student. He had grown to be an important man in the country, but was not ashamed to drop in now and then and take supper with Felix and the compass-maker. They lived over again all the scenes in the forest inn, and the former student related that he had seen the robber chief in Italy; he had improved very much for the better, and served as a brave soldier under the King of Naples.

Felix was rejoiced to hear this. Without this man, it is true, he might never have been placed in so dangerous a situation as in those days of his captivity; but neither could he have escaped from the robber band without his aid. And thus it was that the brave master goldsmith had only peaceful and agreeable recollections of the Inn in the Spessart.