Read the fairy tale about princess elsa. Children's book: Frozen
In a country far, far away, beyond the seven seas, high mountains and snow-covered forests, a beautiful queen lived in a huge ice palace. Elsa, and that was the name of our heroine, about whom the fairy tale Frozen was written, was known to the whole world for her gloomy, but strong character and mysterious and unusual power to freeze everything around. It was because of such a power of the queen that everyone was afraid of her and tried to stay away. Yes, and Elsa herself, it seems, was happy with everything: she loved silence, peace and loneliness. Once upon a time, she adored the fairy tale about the Snow Queen, therefore, being in a huge palace surrounded by ice from everywhere, she often associated herself with her beloved childhood heroine.
Frozen Tale: Elsa and Anna and their new adventures
Due to Elsa's complex nature and constant desire to contain her powers, she had no friends. And only one person in the whole world understood how hard it really is to live a lonely queen in a huge castle. It was her own sister Anna, to whom Elsa transferred all the affairs of the kingdom before leaving again for her mountain ice palace.
Anna was worried about her sister and, despite the fact that she herself twice became a victim of her mighty power, she persuaded Elsa to stay among people. Only she knew how sensitive and kind the queen's icy and cold heart really was at first glance. Anna understood that her sister would be completely different if she managed to meet a sincere and kind person and create her own family. 
One day, the young beauty became aware that far away, in a secret kingdom, there lives a lonely prince who has a similar problem: fate rewarded him with an unusual powerful force that he cannot cope with, therefore, in order not to harm anyone, he moved to a separate palace on top the mountains. Anna knew immediately that she had to introduce this mysterious prince to her sister. That is why she sent her faithful friend, the cheerful snowman Olaf, on a long journey, ordering him not to return without the prince.
Frozen Tale: Will Elsa Find Love?
As always, cheerful and cheerful Olaf, without hesitation, sat on his magical ice cloud, and went in search of a secret prince. It should be said that he really liked Anna's task, because he loved travel, adventure and new experiences. 
Very soon he arrived in the domain of the prince. As it turned out, his country was in the north, among snowdrifts and glaciers, and its inhabitants were accustomed to severe frosts. However, it used to be so, and today the whole country suffered from a great misfortune: their prince had the power to melt the snow and once accidentally used it. From now on, the kingdom is suffering from unusual heat, and there is also a threat of collapse of a large glacier, which has already begun to melt. As the locals told Olaf, if the glacier collapsed, the entire country would be completely destroyed.
Olaf immediately realized who could help the unfortunate inhabitants of this kingdom, so he asked for a meeting with the prince. He was joyfully shown the way to the palace, but no one kept company because of fear of the power of the prince.
Olaf managed to find the prince and tell him everything about Elsa and her powerful power that can save his kingdom. The prince sincerely worried about his subjects, whom he accidentally exposed to such a terrible threat, so he immediately went with Olaf to the queen's castle. Of course, Elsa happily responded to the request for help, because, as we have already said, in fact she was kind and sincere. Also, she really liked the prince. Upon arrival in his country, the queen quickly froze the glacier and returned the kingdom to its previous form.
However, at that time, trouble happened: while freezing the glacier, Elsa accidentally hit a little girl with her ice lightning, who was watching with interest what was happening. But the prince melted the child without any consequences so quickly that no one noticed the little oversight of the queen.
It was then that Elsa and the prince realized that together they could use their powers for good deeds, confessed their love to each other and lived happily ever after after that. 
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Crosscoon
Frozen Iron Kingdoms
Abstract: The world, in which magic and technology intertwined, plunged into the chaos of war. And the dukedom of Arendelle fell first. Will the young Duchess Elsa, who by chance became the owner of a magical gift of great power and plunged the country into winter in the middle of summer, survive and protect her sister Anna? After all, many dream of seizing this power, and they are already on their way ...
Cold Heart of the Iron Kingdoms.
Elsa sat with her legs crossed and looked at the winter landscape running past the window. She was scared. It was scary from the speed with which the carriage raced along the road, bouncing on every bump. The creaking of the springs, which allowed her and the others to sit still, was frightening. Terrible from the unknown, into which four selected black horses carried her.
And she was especially afraid for Anna. For the little sister whom Elsa accidentally wounded in the head with her magic when they were playing in her father's castle. Once again, she reproached herself for not obeying the orders of her parents and the master arcanist, master Rouge-Foucault. Once again, she hid her hands in horror, afraid to freeze something again. Once again, she begged Morrow to save her sister, whose coppery-red hair was already streaked with white.
But salvation was far away. The master arcanist was powerless, as were the physicians, as were the priests of Morrow's temple in Laedri. Frost magic was a rarity in Llael. It took even the Duke of Arendelle six months to get a teacher from Meruin for his five-year-old daughter to help her harness her newfound talent. And now Maitre Rouge-Foucault, that aged master arcanist, was by his side, trying to keep Anna alive with his spells, while the four horses, constantly driven by the coachman, carried their carriage along the Anvil Road farther and farther into the winter land.
Ahead, to the northwest, was Korsk, a huge city, the capital of the kingdom of Hador, home to the magic of cold. There were legends about battle sorcerers who could turn entire regiments and even the most powerful war machines into ice statues with their spells. Only they could break the spell that was slowly killing Anna.
Neither father nor mother had any illusions. The Hadorians never concealed their contempt and hatred for the Llael, considering them cowards and traitors who caused the fall of the old empire. Wars broke out one after another, and even the wisest ruler could easily get confused in the intricacies of politics, intrigue and espionage.
Remembering all this, the duke was carrying a lot of gold with him. He hoped that greed could open the required doors. And for the sake of saving his daughter, he did not feel sorry for any money. They have already helped to cross the border, buy new horses to replace the driven ones, and find guides. There was very little time left.
The city grew on the horizon, first as a huge cloud of smog, and then as a huge rock of walls, roofs and pipes. And above all this mishmash towered the mountain of the royal palace, visible for miles around. Elsa could not even imagine that there are such cities in the world, the smoke of whose chimneys closes the sky, and the towers prop up the clouds. It was there, in this mighty citadel, that the most skilled cold sorcerers known to people lived.
After entering the city, the speed of movement decreased as sharply as the speed of distributing gold increased. Elsa was frightened by this huge, dirty city, frightened by the snow, turned gray from the ashes, frightened by the tarnished banners that adorned the streets. But these gloomy people, often in masks, who tried to get money from them for even the slightest help or service, were especially frightening. But the father was firm in his determination, polite in his words, and generous. And so they moved on until they were forced to leave the carriage near some alley.
There they were met by a group of especially gloomy men. Armed with long and wide knives, they most of all resembled robbers from fairy tales. Only one of them spoke, short, bald and plump as a ball. After a little bargaining, he finally gave a command to his subordinates, and they led the whole family, along with the most trusted servants, to the house, whose back door went into this very lane.
At the house they were met by three people who were sitting in the living room and drinking tea. Elsa did not immediately realize that there were real sorcerers in front of her. Only when they said that their strength and knowledge were not enough to save Anna. The mother was already on the verge of despair, when they said that only their mentor, the sorcerer lord, could help. The Duke spared neither words nor money. But even he had to long enough to persuade the trio to help arrange a meeting as quickly as possible.
The meeting was scheduled at the hotel in the evening of the same day. Junior sorcerers warned that their mentor would help only if he was seriously interested. Because this old man valued new mysteries and knowledge above gold and precious stones.
When this sorcerer-lord entered the hall, accompanied by a retinue of students and apprentices, Elsa could not hide her surprise at the sight of this gray-haired old man with a large full beard to the waist. Apart from the rune-painted armor and clothes, nothing betrayed the magical power in this man.
As is compassion. Neither the requests of the master arcanist, nor the proposals of the father, nor the pleas of the mother helped, the Old sorcerer only repeated the sentence passed by everyone before him - Anna is dying. And the magic of master Rouge-Foucault is not able to stop this process, only to slow it down.
Elsa was scared. She did not know how to be and what to do. The father, who until then seemed almost all-powerful at home, was completely helpless here, in a foreign country. And realizing that she would never forgive herself for inaction, in desperation Elsa rushed to the sorcerer.
She broke all the rules of behavior and decency, but she didn't care. Her sister's life was more important to her than anyone's opinion. Especially after what she did.
Not! You can't just leave! She will die without your help! You are her only chance!
And with this cry, Elsa ran up to the sorcerer and grabbed him by the beard. And she herself did not expect that this touch would once again release her power. The beard almost immediately became covered with frost, and after a few moments, up to half turned into one large icicle. And only at that moment did the duchess manage to pick up her eldest daughter in her arms and tear the sorcerer-lord from the beard.
There was a lot of noise in the room. Neither apprentices, nor apprentices, nor junior sorcerers could contain their emotions. Many did not understand whether it was an attempt, an accident, a coincidence, or malicious intent. But they were all interrupted by the voice of the old sorcerer.
So that's how you hurt your sister?
Elsa herself was even more frightened by what had happened than those around her, but still found the strength to answer.
No, we were playing, and I slipped, and instead of a snowdrift, I hit Anna in the head. And now she's dying. You must help her, no one can do it except you.
This will be very difficult. And it takes a lot of magic. But I will do my best to save her. But for this, you will show me what you can do. Deal?
Deal! Elsa replied without hesitation.
And yet, no one should ever know what you see in this room.
I give you the Duke of Arendelle's word that this secret will die with us. - without hesitation for a second said the father. Mother only nodded in confirmation of his words. Like the servants, like the master arcanist.
Okay, I'll try to help.
And then the sorcerer-lord set to work. Apprentices and apprentices were then taken to prepare the hall, and junior sorcerers to energize the auxiliary spells. Soon Anna was already lying on the table, surrounded by the glow of blue runes and flows of magic. The sorcerer-lord worked truly great charms, which, like a pump, pulled a spell from the girl's head.
To fully heal her, I would have to interfere with her thoughts and memories. All traces of magic must be erased, all traces of it. And about my colleague, the master arcanist, and about my older sister. Otherwise, traces of the spell may remain in her brain, and the disease will return.
Wilhelm Hauff
Anyone who happened to visit the Black Forest (in Russian this word means "Black Forest") will tell you that you will never see such tall and mighty fir trees anywhere else, you will never meet such tall and strong people anywhere else. It seems as if the very air, saturated with sun and resin, made the inhabitants of the Black Forest unlike their neighbors, the inhabitants of the surrounding plains. Even their clothes are not the same as others. The inhabitants of the mountainous side of the Black Forest dress up especially intricately. The men there wear black coats, wide, finely pleated bloomers, red stockings, and large-brimmed pointed hats. And I must admit that this outfit gives them a very impressive and respectable look.
All the inhabitants here are excellent glassworkers. Their fathers, grandfathers and great-grandfathers were engaged in this craft, and the fame of the Black Forest glassblowers has long been around the world.
On the other side of the forest, closer to the river, the same Schwarzwalders live, but they are engaged in a different craft, and their customs are also different. All of them, like their fathers, grandfathers and great-grandfathers, are lumberjacks and raftsmen. On long rafts they float the timber down the Neckar to the Rhine, and along the Rhine all the way to the sea.
They stop at every coastal town and wait for buyers, and the thickest and longest logs are driven to Holland, and the Dutch build their ships from this forest.
Rafters are accustomed to a harsh, wandering life. Therefore, their clothes are not at all like the clothes of glassmakers. They wear jackets of dark linen and black leather trousers over green, palm-wide, sashes. A copper ruler always sticks out of the deep pockets of their trousers - a sign of their craft. But most of all they are proud of their boots. Yes, and there is something to be proud of! Nobody in the world wears boots like that. They can be pulled above the knees and walked in them on water, as if on dry land.
Until recently, the inhabitants of the Black Forest believed in forest spirits. Now, of course, everyone knows that there are no spirits, but many legends about the Mysterious forest dwellers have passed from grandfathers to grandchildren.
It is said that these forest spirits wore a dress exactly the same as the people among whom they lived.
The Glass Man - a good friend of people - always appeared in a wide-brimmed pointed hat, in a black camisole and trousers, and on his feet he had red stockings and black shoes. He was as tall as a one-year-old child, but this did not in the least interfere with his power.
But Mikhel the Giant wore the clothes of rafters, and those who happened to see him assured him that a good fifty calfskins should have been used for his boots and that an adult could hide in these boots with his head. And they all swore that they weren't exaggerating in the slightest.
One Black Forest guy once had to get acquainted with these forest spirits.
About how it happened and what happened, you will now find out.
Many years ago there lived in the Black Forest a poor widow named and nicknamed Barbara Munch.
Her husband was a coal miner, and when he died, her sixteen-year-old son Peter had to take up the same craft. Until now, he only watched his father put out coal, and now he himself had a chance to sit days and nights near a smoking coal pit, and then drive around with a cart along the roads and streets, offering his black goods at all gates and scaring the children with his face and clothes darkened by coal dust.
- The coal-burner's craft is so good (or so bad) that it leaves a lot of time for reflection.
And Peter Munch, sitting alone by his fire, like many other coal miners, thought about everything in the world. The silence of the forest, the rustling of the wind in the treetops, the lonely cry of a bird - everything made him think about the people he met while wandering with his cart, about himself and about his sad fate.
"What a pitiful fate to be a black, dirty coal miner!" thought Peter. So, if it happens, Peter Munch comes out on a holiday on the street - cleanly washed, in his father's ceremonial caftan with silver buttons, in new red stockings and shoes with buckles ... Everyone, seeing him from afar, will say: "What a guy - well done! Who would it be?" And he will come closer, only wave his hand: "Oh, but it's just Peter Munch, the coal miner! .." And he will pass by.
But most of all, Peter Munch envied the raftmen. When these forest giants came to them for a holiday, hanging half a pood of silver trinkets on themselves - all kinds of chains, buttons and buckles - and, legs wide apart, looked at the dances, puffing from arshin Cologne pipes, it seemed to Peter that there was no people are happier and more honorable. When these lucky ones put their hand into their pockets and pulled out handfuls of silver coins, Peter's breath spiraled, his head was troubled, and he, sad, returned to his hut. He could not see how these "wood-burning gentlemen" lost more in one evening than he himself earned in a whole year.
But three raftmen evoked in him special admiration and envy: Ezekiel the Fat, Schlyurker Skinny and Wilm the Handsome.
Ezekiel the Fat was considered the first rich man in the district.
He was unusually lucky. He always sold timber at exorbitant prices, the money itself flowed into his pockets.
Schlyurker Skinny was the most courageous person Peter knew. No one dared to argue with him, and he was not afraid to argue with anyone. In the tavern he ate and drank for three, and occupied a place for three, but no one dared to say a word to him when he, spreading his elbows, sat down at the table or stretched his long legs along the bench - he had a lot of money .
Wilm Handsome was a young, stately fellow, the best dancer among the raftsmen and glaziers. More recently, he was as poor as Peter, and served as a worker for timber merchants. And suddenly, for no reason, he got rich! Some said that he found a pot of silver in the forest under an old spruce. Others claimed that somewhere on the Rhine he hooked a bag of gold with a hook.
One way or another, he suddenly became rich, and the raftsmen began to revere him, as if he were not a simple raftsman, but a prince.
All three - Ezekiel the Fat, Shlyurker the Skinny and Wilm the Handsome - were completely different from each other, but all three equally loved money and were equally heartless towards people who had no money. And yet, although they were disliked for their greed, everything was forgiven for their wealth. Yes, and how not to forgive! Who, except for them, could scatter ringing thalers to the right and left, as if they got money for free, like fir cones ?!
“And where do they get so much money from,” thought Peter, returning somehow from a festive feast, where he did not drink, did not eat, but only watched how others ate and drank. Ezekiel Tolstoy drank and lost today!
Peter went over in his mind all the ways he knew how to get rich, but he could not think of a single one that was in the slightest degree correct.
Finally, he remembered stories about people who allegedly received whole mountains of gold from Michel the Giant or from the Glass Man.
Even when their father was alive, poor neighbors often gathered in their house to dream of wealth, and more than once they mentioned the little patron of glassblowers in their conversation.
Peter even remembered the rhymes that had to be said in the thicket of the forest, near the biggest spruce, in order to summon the Glass Man:
- Under a shaggy spruce,
In a dark dungeon
Where the spring is born -
An old man lives between the roots.
He's incredibly rich
He keeps a cherished treasure...
There were two more lines in these rhymes, but no matter how Peter puzzled, he could never remember them.
He often wanted to ask one of the old people if they remembered the end of this spell, but either shame or fear of betraying his secret thoughts held him back.
“Yes, they probably don’t know these words,” he consoled himself. - And if they knew, then why don't they go into the forest themselves and call the Glass Man! ..
In the end, he decided to start a conversation with his mother about it - maybe she will remember something.
But if Peter forgot the last two lines, then his mother remembered only the first two.
But he learned from her that the Glass Man is shown only to those who were lucky enough to be born on a Sunday between twelve and two o'clock in the afternoon.
“If you knew this spell from word to word, he would certainly appear to you,” said the mother, sighing. “You were born just on Sunday, at noon.
Hearing this, Peter completely lost his head.
"Come what may," he decided, "and I must try my luck."
And so, having sold all the coal prepared for buyers, he put on his father's holiday coat, new red stockings, a new Sunday hat, picked up a stick and said to his mother:
- I need to go to town. They say that soon there will be a recruitment for the soldiers, so, I think, you should remind the commander that you are a widow and that I am your only son.
His mother praised him for his prudence and wished him a happy journey. And Peter briskly walked along the road, but not into the city, but straight into the forest. He walked higher and higher along the slope of the mountain, overgrown with spruce, and finally reached the very top.
The place was quiet, deserted. There is no housing anywhere - no lumberjacks' hut, no hunting hut.
Rarely does anyone visit here. Among the surrounding residents it was rumored that these places were unclean, and everyone tried to bypass Spruce Mountain.
Here grew the tallest, strongest firs, but for a long time the sound of an ax had not been heard in this wilderness. And no wonder! As soon as some lumberjack looked here, disaster would inevitably happen to him: either the ax would jump off the ax handle and pierce his leg, or the cut tree would fall so quickly that the person did not have time to jump back and he was pounded to death, and the raft, into which at least one such a tree, certainly went to the bottom along with the raftsman. Finally, people completely stopped disturbing this forest, and it grew so violently and densely that even at noon it was as dark as night.
Peter was terrified when he entered the thicket. It was quiet all around, not a sound anywhere. He heard only the sound of his own footsteps. It seemed that even the birds did not fly into this dense forest twilight.
Near a huge spruce, for which the Dutch shipbuilders would not hesitate to give more than one hundred guilders, Peter stopped.
"This must be the biggest fir tree in the whole world!" he thought. "So this is where the Glass Man lives."
Peter removed his festive hat from his head, made a deep bow in front of the tree, cleared his throat, and said in a timid voice:
— Good evening, mister glass master! But no one answered him.
"Perhaps it would be better to say the rhymes first," thought Peter, and, stammering over every word, he muttered:
- Under a shaggy spruce,
In a dark dungeon
Where the spring is born -
An old man lives between the roots.
He's incredibly rich
He keeps a cherished treasure...
And then—Peter could hardly believe his eyes! Someone peeked out from behind a thick trunk. Peter managed to notice a pointed hat, a dark coat, bright red stockings... Someone's quick, keen eyes met Peter's for a moment.
Glass Man! It is he! It is, of course, he! But there was no one under the tree. Peter almost wept with grief.
- Mister glass master! he shouted. — Where are you? Mister glass master! If you think that I have not seen you, you are mistaken. I saw perfectly how you looked out from behind the tree.
Again, no one answered him. But it seemed to Peter that behind the Christmas tree someone laughed softly.
— Wait! shouted Peter. - I'll catch you! And in one leap he found himself behind a tree. But the Glass Man was not there. Only a small fluffy squirrel flew up the trunk with lightning.
“Ah, if I knew the rhymes to the end,” Peter thought sadly, “the Glass Man would probably come out to me. Not without reason I was born on Sunday! ..”
Wrinkling his brow, furrowing his brows, he tried his best to remember the forgotten words or even come up with them, but nothing came of it.
And while he was muttering the words of a spell under his breath, a squirrel appeared on the lower branches of the tree, right above his head. She was prettier, fluffing her red tail, and slyly looked at him, either laughing at him, or wanting to provoke him.
And suddenly Peter saw that the squirrel's head was not at all animal, but human, only very small - no larger than a squirrel's. And on his head is a wide-brimmed, pointed hat. Peter froze in amazement. And the squirrel was already again the most ordinary squirrel, and only on its hind legs it had red stockings and black shoes.
Here Peter could not stand it and rushed to run as fast as he could.
He ran without stopping and only then took a breath when he heard the barking of dogs and saw smoke in the distance rising above the roof of some hut. Coming closer, he realized that out of fear he had lost his way and was running not towards the house, but in the opposite direction. Lumberjacks and raftsmen lived here.
The owners of the hut greeted Peter cordially and, without asking what his name was or where he came from, they offered him a lodging for the night, roasted a large capercaillie for dinner - this is a favorite food of the locals - and brought him a mug of apple wine.
After dinner, the hostess and her daughters took the spinning wheels and sat down closer to the splinter. The children made sure that it did not go out, and watered it with fragrant spruce resin. The old host and his eldest son, smoking their long pipes, talked with the guest, and the younger sons began to carve spoons and forks out of wood.
By evening, a storm broke out in the forest. She howled outside the windows, bending hundred-year-old firs almost to the ground. Every now and then thunderclaps and a terrible crack were heard, as if trees were breaking and falling somewhere not far away.
“Yes, I would not advise anyone to leave the house at such a time,” said the old master, getting up from his seat and closing the door more firmly. Whoever goes out will never come back. This night Michel the Giant cuts wood for his raft.
Peter was immediately alert.
Who is this Michel? he asked the old man.
“He is the owner of this forest,” said the old man. “You must be from outside if you haven't heard of him. Well, I'll tell you what I know myself and what has come down to us from our fathers and grandfathers.
The old man settled himself comfortably, took a puff from his pipe, and began:
- A hundred years ago - so, at least, my grandfather told - there was no people on the whole earth more honest than the Schwarzwalders.
Now, when there is so much money in the world, people have lost their shame and conscience. There is nothing to say about young people - the only thing they have to do is dance, swear and overspend. And it wasn't like that before. And the blame for everything - I said this before and now I will repeat it, even if he himself looked into this window - Michel the Giant is to blame for everything. From him all the troubles and went.
So, it means that a rich lumber merchant lived in these places a hundred years ago. He traded with distant Rhenish cities, and his affairs went as well as possible, because he was an honest and industrious man.
And then one day a guy comes to hire him. No one knows him, but it is clear that the local one is dressed like a Black Forester. And almost two heads taller than everyone else. Our guys and the people themselves are not small, but this real giant.
The lumber merchant immediately realized how profitable it is to keep such a hefty worker. He gave him a good salary, and Mikhel (that was the name of this guy) stayed with him.
Needless to say, the lumber merchant did not lose.
When it was necessary to cut down the forest, Mikhel worked for three. And when the logs had to be dragged, the lumberjacks took six of them at one end of the log, and Mikhel lifted the other end.
After serving like this for half a year, Mikhel appeared to his master.
"That's enough," he says, "I've cut down the trees. Now I want to see where they're going. Let me go, master, once with the rafts down the river."
"Let it be your way," said the owner. "Although on rafts it is not so much strength that is needed as dexterity, and in the forest you would be more useful to me, but I do not want to prevent you from looking at the wide world. Get ready!"
The raft, on which Mikhel was supposed to go, was made up of eight links of selected timber. When the raft was already tied up, Michel brought eight more logs, but such large and thick ones as no one had ever seen. And he carried each log on his shoulder so easily, as if it were not a log, but a simple hook.
"Here I will swim on them," said Mikhel. "And your chips will not stand me."
And he began to knit a new link from his huge logs.
The raft was so wide that it barely fit between the two banks.
Everyone gasped when they saw such a colossus, and the owner of Mikhel was rubbing his hands and already wondering in his mind how much money could be gained this time from the sale of the forest.
To celebrate, they say, he wanted to give Mikhel a pair of the best boots that raftsmen wear, but Mikhel did not even look at them and brought his own boots from somewhere in the forest. My grandfather assured me that each boot was two pounds in weight and five feet in height.
And now everything was ready. The raft moved.
Up to this time, Michel, every day, surprised the lumberjacks, now it was the turn of the raftsmen to be surprised.
They thought that their heavy raft would barely float with the current. Nothing happened - the raft rushed along the river like a sailboat.
Everyone knows that rafters have the hardest time on turns: the raft must be kept in the middle of the river so that it does not run aground. But this time, no one noticed the turns. Mikhel, just a little, jumped into the water and with one push sent the raft to the right, then to the left, deftly skirting the shoals and pitfalls.
If there were no bends ahead, he ran across to the front link, stuck his huge hook into the bottom with a swing, pushed off - and the raft flew with such speed that it seemed that the coastal hills, trees and villages were rushing past.
The raftmen did not even have time to look back when they arrived in Cologne, where they usually sold their timber. But then Michel said to them:
"Well, you are smart merchants, how can I look at you! What do you think - the local residents themselves need as much timber as we float from our Black Forest? No matter how! They buy it from you at half price, and then resell it at exorbitant prices Let's put the small logs on sale here, and drive the big ones further to Holland, and we ourselves will sell them to the shipbuilders there. Whatever the owner follows at local prices, he will receive in full. And what we help out beyond that will be ours. "
He did not have to persuade the rafters for a long time. Everything was done exactly according to his word.
The raftmen drove the master's goods to Rotterdam and there they sold it four times more expensive than they were given in Cologne!
Mikhel set aside a quarter of the proceeds for the owner, and divided three-quarters among the rafters. And those in all their lives did not happen to see so much money. The guys' heads were spinning, and they had such fun, drunkenness, card games! From night to morning and from morning to night ... In a word, they did not return home until they had drunk and lost everything to the last coin.
From that time on, Dutch taverns and taverns began to seem like a real paradise to our guys, and Michel the Giant (after this trip they began to call him Michel the Dutchman) became the real king of raftsmen.
More than once he took our raftmen there, to Holland, and little by little drunkenness, gambling, strong words - in a word, all sorts of nasty things migrated to these parts.
The owners for a long time did not know anything about the tricks of the raftsmen. And when the whole story finally came out and they began to inquire who the main instigator here was, Michel the Dutchman disappeared. They searched for him, they searched - no! He disappeared - as if he had sunk into the water ...
- Died, maybe? Peter asked.
- No, knowledgeable people say that he is still in charge of our forest. They also say that if you ask him properly, he will help anyone to get rich. And he has already helped some people ... Yes, only there is a rumor that he does not give money for nothing, but demands for them something more expensive than any money ... Well, I won’t say anything more about this. Who knows what is true in these tales, what is a fable? Only one thing, perhaps, is true: on such nights as this, Michel the Dutchman cuts and breaks old fir trees there, on the top of the mountain, where no one dares to cut. My father himself once saw how he, like a reed, broke a fir tree into four girths. Whose rafts these spruces then go to, I do not know. But I know that in the place of the Dutch, I would pay for them not with gold, but with grapeshot, because every ship into which such a log falls, will certainly go to the bottom. And the whole point here, you see, is that as soon as Mikhel breaks a new spruce on the mountain, an old log, hewn from the same mountain spruce, cracks or jumps out of the grooves, and the ship leaks. That is why we hear about shipwrecks so often. Believe my word: if not for Michel, people would wander on the water as on dry land.
The old man fell silent and began to knock out his pipe.
"Yes..." he said again, rising from his seat. - That's what our grandfathers told about Michel the Dutchman ... And no matter how you turn it, all our troubles came from him. Of course, he can give wealth, but I would not want to be in the shoes of such a rich man, whether it be Ezekiel the Fat himself, or Shlyurker Skinny, or Wilm the Handsome.
While the old man was talking, the storm subsided. The hosts gave Peter a bag of leaves instead of a pillow, wished him good night, and everyone went to bed. Peter settled down on a bench under the window and soon fell asleep.
Never before had coal miner Peter Munch had such terrible dreams as on that night.
It seemed to him that Michel the Giant was cracking open the window and holding out to him a huge sack of gold. Michel shakes the sack right over his head, and the gold tinkles, tinkles, loud and alluring.
Now it seemed to him that the Glass Man, riding a large green bottle, was riding all over the room, and Peter again heard the sly, quiet chuckle that had reached him in the morning from behind the big spruce.
And all night Peter was disturbed, as if arguing among themselves, by two voices. A hoarse thick voice hummed over the left ear:
- Gold, gold,
Pure - without deceit -
Full gold
Fill your pockets!
Don't work with a hammer
Plow and shovel!
Who owns the gold
He lives richly!
- Under a shaggy spruce,
In a dark dungeon
Where the spring is born -
An old man lives between the roots...
So what's next, Peter? How is it next? Oh, stupid, stupid collier Peter Munch! Can't remember such simple words! And he was also born on a Sunday, exactly at noon ... Just think of a rhyme for the word "Sunday", and the rest of the words will come by themselves! ..
Peter groaned and groaned in his sleep, trying to remember or invent forgotten lines. He tossed and turned from side to side, but since he had not composed a single rhyme in his entire life, he did not invent anything this time either.
The coal miner woke up as soon as it was light, sat down with his arms crossed over his chest, and began to think about the same thing: what word goes with the word "Sunday"?
He tapped his forehead with his fingers, rubbed the back of his head, but nothing helped.
And suddenly he heard the words of a cheerful song. Three guys passed under the window and sang at the top of their lungs:
- Across the river in the village ...
Wonderful honey is brewed...
Let's have a drink with you
On the first day of Sunday!
Peter was on fire. So here it is, this rhyme for the word "Sunday"! It's full, isn't it? Did he misheard?
Peter jumped up and rushed headlong to catch up with the guys.
- Hey buddies! Wait! he shouted.
But the guys didn't even look back.
Finally Peter caught up with them and grabbed one of them by the arm.
- Repeat what you sang! he shouted, panting.
- Yes, what's the matter with you! the guy answered. - What I want, then I sing. Let go of my hand now, or else...
— No, first tell me what you sang! Peter insisted and squeezed his hand even tighter.
Then two other guys, without thinking twice, pounced with their fists on poor Peter and beat him so badly that sparks fell from the poor fellow's eyes.
"Here's a snack for you!" - said one of them, rewarding him with a heavy cuff. “You will remember what it is like to offend respectable people! ..
- I don't want to remember! said Peter, groaning and rubbing his bruised spots. “Now, since you beat me up anyway, do yourself a favor and sing me that song you just sang.”
The guys burst out laughing. But then they still sang him a song from beginning to end.
After that, they said goodbye to Peter in a friendly way and went on their way.
And Peter returned to the lumberjack's hut, thanked the hosts for the shelter, and, taking his hat and stick, again went to the top of the mountain.
He walked and kept repeating to himself the cherished words "Sunday - wonderful, wonderful - Sunday" ... And suddenly, not knowing how it happened, he read the entire verse from the first to the last word.
Peter even jumped for joy and threw up his hat.
The hat flew up and disappeared into the thick branches of the spruce. Peter raised his head, looking for where it caught on, and froze in fear.
In front of him stood a huge man in the clothes of a raft-driver. On his shoulder he had a hook as long as a good mast, and in his hand he held Peter's hat.
Without saying a word, the giant tossed Peter his hat and walked beside him.
Peter timidly, askance looked at his terrible companion. He seemed to feel in his heart that this was Michel the Giant, about whom he had been told so much yesterday.
— Peter Munk, what are you doing in my forest? the giant suddenly said in a thunderous voice.
Peter's knees shook.
"Good morning, master," he said, trying not to show his fear. “I’m going through the woods to my house—that’s my whole business.
— Peter Munk! the giant thundered again and looked at Peter in such a way that he involuntarily closed his eyes. Does this road lead to your house? You deceive me, Peter Munch!
“Yes, of course, it doesn’t lead quite directly to my house,” Peter babbled, “but it’s such a hot day today ... So I thought that it would be cooler to go through the forest, even further!
“Don’t lie, collier Munch! shouted Mikhel the Giant so loudly that cones rained down from the fir trees. “Otherwise I’ll knock the spirit out of you with one click!”
Peter cringed all over and covered his head with his hands, expecting a terrible blow.
But Michel the Giant did not hit him. He only looked mockingly at Peter and burst out laughing.
- Oh, you're a fool! he said. - I found someone to bow to! .. You think I didn’t see how you crucified yourself in front of this pathetic old man, in front of this glass vial. Lucky for you that you didn't know the end of his stupid spell! He is a miser, gives little, and if he gives something, you will not be happy with life. I'm sorry for you, Peter, I'm sorry from the bottom of my heart! Such a nice, handsome guy could go far, and you are sitting near your smoky pit and burning coals. Others throw thalers and ducats right and left without hesitation, but you are afraid to spend a copper penny... What a miserable life!
- What's true is true. Life is unhappy.
- That's the same! .. - said the giant Mikhel. - Well, yes, it’s not the first time for me to help out your brother. Simply put, how many hundred thalers do you need to get started?
He patted his pocket, and the money rattled there as loudly as the gold that Peter had dreamed of at night.
But now this ringing for some reason did not seem tempting to Peter. His heart sank in fear. He remembered the words of the old man about the terrible retribution that Mikhel demands for his help.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, “but I don't want to do business with you. I know who you are!
And with these words, he rushed to run as fast as he could. But Michel the Giant did not lag behind him. He walked beside him with huge steps and muttered in a low voice:
“You will repent, Peter Munch!” I can see in your eyes that you will repent... It is written on your forehead. Don't run so fast, listen to what I'll tell you! This is the end of my domain...
Hearing these words, Peter rushed to run even faster. But getting away from Michel was not so easy. Peter's ten steps were shorter than Michel's one step. Having reached almost to the very ditch, Peter looked around and almost cried out - he saw that Mikhel had already raised his huge hook over his head.
Peter mustered the last of his strength and jumped over the ditch in one leap.
Michel stayed on the other side.
Cursing terribly, he swung and threw a heavy hook after Peter. But the smooth, apparently strong as iron, tree shattered into splinters, as if it had hit some invisible stone wall. And only one long chip flew over the ditch and fell near Peter's feet.
What, buddy, did you miss? Peter shouted and grabbed a piece of wood to throw at Mikhel the Giant.
But at that very moment he felt that the tree came to life in his hands.
It was no longer a sliver, but a slippery poisonous snake. He wanted to throw her away, but she managed to wrap herself tightly around his arm and, swaying from side to side, brought her terrible narrow head closer and closer to his face.
And suddenly large wings rustled in the air. A huge capercaillie hit the snake with its strong beak from the summer, grabbed it and soared into the sky. Mikhel the Giant gnashed his teeth, howled, shouted, and, shaking his fist at someone invisible, walked towards his lair.
And Peter, half-dead with fear, went on his way.
The path became steeper and steeper, the forest became thicker and more deaf, and finally Peter again found himself near a huge shaggy spruce on the top of the mountain.
He took off his hat, made three low bows almost to the ground in front of the spruce, and in a breaking voice uttered the cherished words:
- Under a shaggy spruce,
In a dark dungeon
Where the spring is born -
An old man lives between the roots.
He's incredibly rich
He keeps the cherished treasure.
Gets a wonderful treasure!
Before he had time to utter the last word, as someone's thin, sonorous, like crystal, voice said:
Hello, Peter Munch!
And at that very moment, under the roots of an old spruce, he saw a tiny old man in a black coat, in red stockings, with a large pointed hat on his head. The old man looked amiably at Peter and stroked his little beard, so light, as if it were made of cobwebs. He had a blue glass pipe in his mouth, and he puffed on it every now and then, releasing thick puffs of smoke.
Without ceasing to bow, Peter went up and, to his considerable surprise, saw that all the clothes on the old man: a coat, trousers, a hat, shoes - everything was made of multi-colored glass, but only this glass was very soft, as if it had not yet cooled down after melting. .
“That rude Michel seems to have given you a good fright,” said the old man. “But I taught him a good lesson and even took away his famous hook from him.
“Thank you, Mr. Glass Man,” said Peter. “I really got scared. And you, right, were that respectable capercaillie who pecked at the snake? You saved my life! I would be lost without you. But, if you are so kind to me, do me the favor of helping me in one more thing. I am a poor coal miner, and life is very difficult for me. You yourself understand that if you sit near a coal pit from morning to night, you won’t go far. And I'm still young, I would like to know something better in life. Here I look at others - all people are like people, they have honor, and respect, and wealth ... Take Ezekiel the Tolstoy or Wilm the Handsome, the king of dances - they have money like straw! ..
“Peter,” the Glass Man interrupted him sternly and, puffing on his pipe, blew a thick cloud of smoke, “never talk to me about these people. And don't think about them. Now it seems to you that there is no one in the whole world who would be happier than them, but a year or two will pass, and you will see that there is no one more unhappy in the world. And I will tell you again: do not despise your craft. Your father and grandfather were the most respectable people, and they were coal miners. Peter Munk, I don't want to think that it was your love of idleness and easy money that brought you to me.
While saying this, the Glass Man looked Peter straight in the eye.
Peter blushed.
“No, no,” he muttered, “I myself know that laziness is the mother of all vices, and all that sort of thing. But is it my fault that I don't like my trade? I am ready to be a glazier, a watchmaker, an alloyer - anything but a coal miner.
- You are a strange people - people! said the Glass Man, grinning. - Always dissatisfied with what is. If you were a glazier, you would want to become a rafter, if you were an rafter, you would want to become a glazier. Well, let it be your way. If you promise me to work honestly, without being lazy, I will help you. I have this custom: I fulfill three wishes of everyone who is born on Sunday between twelve and two o'clock in the afternoon and who can find me. I fulfill two desires, whatever they may be, even the most stupid ones. But the third wish comes true only if it is worth it. Well, Peter Munk, think carefully and tell me what you want.
But Peter didn't hesitate.
He tossed up his hat for joy and shouted:
“Long live the Glass Man, the kindest and most powerful of all forest spirits!.. If you, the wisest lord of the forest, really want to make me happy, I will tell you the most cherished desire of my heart. Firstly, I want to be able to dance better than the dancing king himself and always have as much money in my pocket as Ezekiel the Tolstoy himself has when he sits down at the gambling table ...
- Crazy! said the Glass Man, frowning. Couldn't you have come up with something smarter? Well, judge for yourself: what will be the use for you and your poor mother if you learn to throw out different knees and kick your legs like that slacker Wilm? And what is the use of money if you leave it at the gambling table, like that rogue Ezekiel the Fat? You ruin your own happiness, Peter Munch. But you can’t take back what has been said - your wish will be fulfilled. Tell me, what else would you like? But look, this time be smarter!
Peter thought. He wrinkled his forehead and rubbed the back of his head for a long time, trying to come up with something clever, and finally said:
“I want to be the owner of the best and biggest glass factory in the Black Forest. And, of course, I need money to put it into motion.
— Is that all? asked the Glass Man, looking searchingly at Peter. "Is that all?" Think carefully, what else do you need?
- Well, if you don't mind, add a couple more horses and a carriage to your second wish! That's enough...
“You stupid man, Peter Munch! exclaimed the Glass Man, and angrily threw his glass pipe so that it hit the spruce trunk and shattered into smithereens. - "Horses, carriage"! .. You need mind-reason, do you understand? Mind-reason, not horses and a stroller. Well, yes, after all, your second desire is smarter than the first. The glass factory is a worthwhile business. If you drive it wisely, you will have horses and a carriage, and you will have everything.
“Well, I still have one more desire,” said Peter, “and I can wish myself intelligence, if it is so necessary, as you say.
“Wait, save your third wish for a rainy day.” Who knows what else lies ahead of you! Now go home. Yes, take this for a start, - said the Glass Man and took out a purse full of money from his pocket. “There are exactly two thousand guilders here. Three days ago, old Winkfritz, owner of a large glass factory, died. Offer this money to his widow, and she will gladly sell you her factory. But remember: work feeds only those who love work. Yes, do not hang out with Ezekiel Tolstoy and go to the tavern less often. This will not lead to good. Well, goodbye. I will occasionally look to you to help with advice when you lack your mind-reason.
With these words, the little man pulled out of his pocket a new pipe made of the best frosted glass and stuffed it with dry spruce needles.
Then, biting it hard with his small, sharp teeth like a squirrel's, he took out a huge magnifying glass from another pocket, caught a ray of sunshine in it, and lit a cigarette.
A light smoke rose from the glass cup. Peter smelled of sun-warmed resin, fresh spruce shoots, honey, and for some reason the best Dutch tobacco. The smoke grew thicker and thicker and finally turned into a whole cloud, which, swirling and curling, slowly melted in the tops of the fir trees. And the Glass Man disappeared with him.
Peter stood in front of the old spruce for a long time, rubbing his eyes and peering into the thick, almost black needles, but he did not see anyone. Just in case, he bowed low to the big tree and went home.
He found his old mother in tears and anxiety. The poor woman thought that her Peter had been taken to the soldiers and she would not have to see him soon.
What was her joy when her son returned home, and even with a wallet full of money! Peter did not tell his mother about what really happened to him. He said that he had met a good friend in the city, who had loaned him two thousand guilders so that Peter could start a glass business.
Peter's mother had lived all her life among the coal miners and was accustomed to seeing everything around as black from soot, as a miller's wife gets used to seeing everything around as white from flour. So at first she was not very happy about the upcoming change. But in the end, she herself dreamed of a new, well-fed and calm life.
“Yes, whatever you say,” she thought, “but being the mother of a glass manufacturer is more honorable than being the mother of a simple coal miner. Greta and Beta are no match for me now. no one sees, but on the front benches, next to the wife of the burgomaster, the mother of the pastor and the aunt of the judge ... "
The next day Peter went to the widow of old Winkfritz at dawn.
They quickly got along, and the plant with all the workers passed to a new owner.
At first, Peter liked glasswork very much.
Whole days, from morning to evening, he spent at his factory. He used to come slowly, and, with his hands behind his back, as old Winkfritz did, he importantly walks around his possessions, looking into all corners and making comments first to one worker, then to another. He did not hear how behind his back the workers laughed at the advice of an inexperienced owner.
Peter's favorite thing was to watch the glassblowers work. Sometimes he himself took a long pipe and blew out of a soft, warm mass a pot-bellied bottle or some intricate, unlike anything figure.
But soon he got tired of it all. He began to come to the factory for just an hour, then every other day, every two, and finally no more than once a week.
The workers were very happy and did what they wanted. In a word, there was no order at the plant. Everything went upside down.
And it all started with the fact that Peter took it into his head to look into the tavern.
He went there on the very first Sunday after buying the plant.
The tavern was fun. Music played, and in the middle of the hall, to the surprise of all those gathered, the king of dances, Wilm the Handsome, famously danced.
And in front of a mug of beer, Ezekiel Tolstoy sat and played dice, throwing hard coins on the table without looking.
Peter hurriedly reached into his pocket to see if the Glass Man had kept his word. Yes, I did! His pockets were full of silver and gold.
"Well, that's right, and he didn't let me down about dancing," thought Peter.
And as soon as the music began to play a new dance, he picked up some girl and paired up with her against Wilm the Handsome.
Well, it was a dance! Wilm jumped three-quarters and Peter four-quarters, Wilm whirled and Peter wheeled, Wilm arched his legs with a pretzel, and Peter twisted with a corkscrew.
Since this inn stood, no one had ever seen anything like it.
Peter shouted "Hurrah!" and unanimously proclaimed him king over all the dancing kings.
When all the tavern patrons learned that Peter had just bought himself a glass factory, when they noticed that every time he passed the musicians in the dance, he tossed them a gold coin, there was no end to the general surprise.
Some said that he found a treasure in the forest, others that he received an inheritance, but everyone agreed that Peter Munch was the nicest guy in the whole area.
Having danced to his heart's content, Peter sat down next to Ezekiel Tolstoy and volunteered to play a game or two with him. He immediately bet twenty guilders and immediately lost them. But that didn't bother him at all. As soon as Ezekiel put his winnings in his pocket, Peter also added exactly twenty guilders to his pocket.
In a word, everything turned out exactly as Peter wanted. He wanted to always have as much money in his pocket as Ezekiel the Fat, and the Glass Man granted his wish. Therefore, the more money passed from his pocket into the pocket of fat Ezekiel, the more money became in his own pocket.
And since he was a very bad player and lost all the time, it is not surprising that he was constantly on the winning side.
Since then, Peter began to spend all days at the gambling table, both holidays and weekdays.
People got so used to it that they no longer called him the king of all dance kings, but simply Peter the Player.
But although he was now a reckless reveler, his heart was still kind. He distributed money to the poor without an account, just as he drank and lost without an account.
And suddenly Peter began to notice with surprise that he had less and less money. And there was nothing to be surprised. Since he began to visit the tavern, he completely abandoned the glass business, and now the factory brought him not income, but losses. Customers stopped turning to Peter, and soon he had to sell all the goods at half price to itinerant merchants just to pay off his masters and apprentices.
One evening Peter was walking home from the tavern. He drank a fair amount of wine, but this time the wine did not cheer him up at all.
He thought with horror of his imminent ruin. And suddenly Peter noticed that someone was walking beside him with short, quick steps. He looked back and saw the Glass Man.
“Oh, it’s you, sir! Peter said through gritted teeth. Have you come to admire my misfortune? Yes, there is nothing to say, you generously rewarded me! .. I would not wish such a patron to my enemy! Well, what do you want me to do now? Just look, the head of the district himself will come and let all my property go for debts at a public auction. Indeed, when I was a miserable coal miner, I had fewer sorrows and worries ...
“So,” said the Glass Man, “so!” So you think I'm the one to blame for all your misfortunes? And in my opinion, you yourself are to blame for not being able to wish for anything worthwhile. In order to become the master of the glass business, my dear, you must first of all be an intelligent person and know the skill. I told you before and now I will tell you: you lack intelligence, Peter Munch, intelligence and ingenuity!
“What else is there mind! ..” Peter shouted, choking with resentment and anger. “I am no more stupid than anyone else and I will prove it to you in practice, fir cone!”
With these words, Peter grabbed the Glass Man by the collar and began to shake him with all his might.
“Yeah, got it, lord of the forests?” Come on, fulfill my third wish! So that right now in this very place there would be a bag of gold, a new house, and... Ah-ah!
The Glass Man seemed to burst into flame in his hands and lit up with a dazzling white flame. All his glass clothes became red-hot, and hot, prickly sparks splashed in all directions.
Peter involuntarily unclenched his fingers and waved his burned hand in the air.
At that very moment, a laughter sounded in his ear, light as the sound of glass, and everything was silent.
The Glass Man is gone.
For several days Peter could not forget this unpleasant meeting.
He would have been glad not to think about her, but his swollen hand constantly reminded him of his stupidity and ingratitude.
But little by little his hand healed, and his soul felt better.
“Even if they sell my factory,” he reassured himself, “I will still have fat Ezekiel. As long as he has money in his pocket, and I will not be lost.
That's how it is, Peter Munch, but if Ezekiel doesn't have money, what then? But that didn't even cross Peter's mind.
In the meantime, exactly what he did not foresee happened, and one fine day a very strange story took place, which cannot be explained by the laws of arithmetic.
One Sunday, Peter, as usual, came to the tavern.
"Good evening, master," he said from the doorway. “What, fat Ezekiel is already here?”
“Come in, come in, Peter,” said Ezekiel himself. - A place has been reserved for you.
Peter walked over to the table and put his hand in his pocket to see if fat Ezekiel was a winner or a loser. It turned out to be a big win. Peter could judge this by his own well-filled pocket.
He sat down with the players and so spent the time until the very evening, now winning the game, now losing. But no matter how much he lost, the money in his pocket did not decrease, because Ezekiel Tolstoy was lucky all the time.
When it got dark outside, the players began to go home one by one. Fat Ezekiel also got up. But Peter so persuaded him to stay and play another game or two that he finally agreed.
“All right,” said Ezekiel. “But first I’ll count my money. Let's roll the dice. The stake is five guilders. It makes no sense less: child's play! .. - He pulled out his wallet and began to count the money. “Exactly one hundred guilders!” he said, putting the purse in his pocket.
Now Peter knew how much money he had: exactly one hundred guilders. And I didn't have to count.
And so the game began. Ezekiel threw the dice first - eight points! Peter threw the dice - ten points!
And so it went: no matter how many times Ezekiel the Fat threw the dice, Peter always had exactly two points more.
Finally the fat man laid out his last five guilders on the table.
- Well, throw it again! he shouted. “But you know, I will not give up, even if I lose now. You will lend me some coins from your winnings. A decent person always helps out a friend in difficulty.
— Yes, what is there to talk about! Peter said. My wallet is always at your service.
Fat Ezekiel shook the bones and threw them on the table.
- Fifteen! he said. Now let's see what you have.
Peter threw the dice without looking.
- I took it! Seventeen! .. - he shouted and even laughed with pleasure.
At that very moment, a muffled, hoarse voice rang out behind him:
This was your last game!
Peter looked around in horror and saw behind his chair the huge figure of Michiel the Dutchman. Not daring to move, Peter froze in place.
But fat Ezekiel didn't see anyone or anything.
“Hurry, give me ten guilders, and we will continue the game!” he said impatiently.
Peter put his hand in his pocket as if in a dream. Empty! He fumbled in another pocket - and there is no more.
Understanding nothing, Peter turned both pockets inside out, but did not find even the smallest coin in them.
Then he remembered with horror about his first desire. The damned Glass Man kept his word to the end: Peter wanted him to have as much money as Ezekiel Tolstoy had in his pocket, and here Ezekiel Tolstoy did not have a penny, and Peter had exactly the same amount in his pocket!
The owner of the inn and Ezekiel the Fat looked at Peter, wide-eyed. They could not understand in any way what he did with the money he won. And since Peter could not answer anything worthwhile to all their questions, they decided that he simply did not want to pay off the innkeeper and was afraid to believe in a debt to Ezekiel Tolstoy.
This made them so furious that the two of them attacked Peter, beat him, tore off his caftan and pushed him out the door.
Not a single star was visible in the sky when Peter made his way to his home.
The darkness was such that even an eye was gouged out, and yet he discerned some huge figure next to him, which was darker than the darkness.
- Well, Peter Munch, your song is sung! said a familiar hoarse voice. “Now you see what it is like for those who do not want to listen to my advice. And it's his own fault! You were free to hang out with this stingy old man, with this miserable glass vial! .. Well, all is not lost yet. I'm not vindictive. Listen, I'll be on my mountain all day tomorrow. Come and call me Do not repent!
Peter's heart went cold when he realized who Michel the Giant was talking to him! Again Michel the Giant! .. Headlong, Peter rushed to run, not knowing where.
When on Monday morning Peter came to his glass factory, he found uninvited guests there - the head of the district and three judges.
The chief politely greeted Peter, asked if he had slept well and how his health was, and then pulled out a long list from his pocket, in which were the names of everyone to whom Peter owed money.
“Are you going to pay all these people, sir?” the boss asked, looking sternly at Peter. "If you're going, please hurry up." I don't have much time, and it's a good three hours to jail.
Peter had to admit that he had nothing to pay, and the judges, without much discussion, began to inventory his property.
They described the house and outbuildings, the factory and the stable, the carriage and the horses. They described the glassware that stood in the storerooms, and the broom with which they sweep the yard ... In a word, everything that caught their eye.
While they were walking around the yard, examining everything, feeling and evaluating everything, Peter stood aside and whistled, trying to show that this did not bother him in the least. And suddenly Michel's words sounded in his ears: "Well, Peter Munch, your song is sung! .."
His heart skipped a beat and his blood pounded in his temples.
"But it's not so far to Spruce Mountain, closer than to the prison," he thought. "If the little one doesn't want to help, well, I'll go and ask the big one..."
And without waiting for the judges to finish their business, he stealthily went out of the gate and ran into the forest at a run.
He ran fast - faster than a hare from hounds - and did not notice how he found himself on top of Spruce Mountain.
When he ran past the big old spruce, under which he had spoken to the Glass Man for the first time, it seemed to him that some invisible hands were trying to catch and hold him. But he broke free and ran on recklessly ... Here is the ditch, beyond which the possessions of Mikhel the Giant begin! ..
With one leap, Peter jumped over to the other side and, barely catching his breath, shouted:
— Mister Michel! Michel the Giant!
And before the echo had time to respond to his cry, a familiar, terrible figure, almost as tall as a pine tree, in the clothes of a raft-driver, with a huge hook on his shoulder, appeared in front of him, as if from under the ground...
Michel the Giant came to the call.
- Yeah, it's here! he said, laughing. “Well, have you been completely peeled off?” Is the skin still intact, or maybe it was torn off and sold for debts? Yes, full, full, do not worry! Let's better come to me, we'll talk... Maybe we'll come to an agreement...
And he walked with sazhen steps uphill along the narrow stone path.
"Let's make a deal?" thought Peter, trying to keep up with him. "What does he want from me? He himself knows that I don't have a penny to my name... Will he make me work for himself, or what?"
The forest path got steeper and steeper and finally broke off. They found themselves in front of a deep dark gorge.
Michel the Giant, without hesitation, ran down a steep cliff, as if it were a gentle staircase. And Peter stopped at the very edge, looking down with fear and not understanding what to do next. The gorge was so deep that from above even Michel the Giant seemed small, like a Glass Man.
And suddenly - Peter could hardly believe his eyes - Michel began to grow. He grew, grew, until he became the height of the Cologne bell tower. Then he extended his hand to Peter, as long as a hook, held out his palm, which was larger than the table in the tavern, and said in a voice booming like a funeral bell:
- Sit on my hand and hold on tight to my finger! Don't be afraid, you won't fall!
Terrified, Peter stepped onto the giant's hand and grabbed his thumb. The giant began to slowly lower his hand, and the lower he lowered it, the smaller he became.
When he finally put Peter on the ground, he was again the same height as always, much larger than a man, but a little smaller than a pine tree.
Peter looked around. At the bottom of the gorge it was as light as above, only the light here was somehow inanimate - cold, sharp. It hurt his eyes.
There was no tree, no bush, no flower to be seen around. On the stone platform stood a large house, an ordinary house no worse and no better than those in which rich Black Forest raftmen live, only bigger, but otherwise nothing special.
Mikhel, without saying a word, opened the door, and they entered the room. And here everything was like everyone else: a wooden wall clock - the work of Black Forest watchmakers - a painted tiled stove, wide benches, all kinds of household utensils on shelves along the walls.
Only for some reason it seemed that no one lived here - the stove blew cold, the clock was silent.
“Well, sit down, buddy,” Michel said. - Let's have a glass of wine.
He went into another room and soon returned with a large jug and two pot-bellied glass glasses - exactly the same as those made at Peter's factory.
Having poured wine for himself and his guest, he started talking about all sorts of things, about foreign lands where he had happened to visit more than once, about beautiful cities and rivers, about large ships crossing the seas, and finally provoked Peter so much that he wanted to die to travel around white light and look at all its curiosities.
“Yes, this is life!” he said. “And we, fools, sit all our lives in one place and see nothing but fir-trees and pines.
“Well,” said Michel the Giant, slyly narrowing his eyes. - And you are not booked. You can travel and do business. Everything is possible - if only you have enough courage, firmness, common sense ... If only a stupid heart does not interfere! .. And how it interferes, damn it! and your heart will suddenly tremble, pound, and you will chicken out for no reason at all. And if someone offends you, and even for no reason at all? It seems that there is nothing to think about, but your heart aches, it aches ... Well, tell me yourself: when they called you a deceiver last night and pushed you out of the tavern, did your head hurt, or what? And when the judges described your factory and house, did your stomach hurt? Well, tell me straight, what's wrong with you?
"Heart," said Peter.
And, as if confirming his words, his heart clenched anxiously in his chest and beat often, often.
“So,” said Michel the Giant, and shook his head. “Someone told me that, as long as you had money, you did not spare it to all sorts of beggars and beggars. Is this true?
"True," said Peter in a whisper.
Michel nodded his head.
“Yes,” he repeated again. “Tell me, why did you do it?” What good is this to you? What did you get for your money? Wishing you all the best and good health! So what, did you become healthier from this? Yes, half of this money thrown away would be enough to keep a good doctor with you. And this would be much more beneficial for your health than all the wishes put together. Did you know it? Knew. What made you put your hand in your pocket every time some dirty beggar offered you his crumpled hat? The heart, again the heart, not the eyes, not the tongue, not the arms and not the legs. You, as they say, took everything too close to your heart.
But how can you do it so that it doesn't happen? Peter asked. “You can’t command your heart! .. And now, I would so much like it to stop trembling and hurting. And it trembles and hurts.
Michel laughed.
- Well, still! he said. "Where can you deal with him?" Stronger people and those can not cope with all his whims and quirks. You know what, brother, you better give it to me. See how I handle it.
— What? Peter screamed in horror. - Give you my heart? .. But I'll die on the spot. No, no, no way!
- Empty! Michel said. “That is, if one of your gentlemen surgeons had taken it into his head to take your heart out of you, then, of course, you would not have lived even a minute. Well, I'm different. And you will be alive and healthy as never before. Yes, come here, look with your own eyes ... You will see for yourself that there is nothing to be afraid of.
He got up, opened the door to the next room, and beckoned to Peter with his hand:
"Come in here, buddy, don't be afraid!" There is something to see here.
Peter crossed the threshold and involuntarily stopped, not daring to believe his eyes.
His heart clenched so hard in his chest that he could barely catch his breath.
Along the walls on long wooden shelves stood rows of glass jars filled to the very brim with some kind of transparent liquid.
And in each jar was a human heart. On top of the label, glued to the glass, was written the name and nickname of the one in whose chest it used to beat.
Peter walked slowly along the shelves, reading label after label. On one was written: "the heart of the head of the district," on the other - "the heart of the chief forester." On the third, simply - "Ezekiel the Fat", on the fifth - "king of dances."
In a word, there are many hearts and many respectable names known throughout the region.
“You see,” said Mikhel the Giant, “not one of these hearts shrinks anymore either from fear or from grief. Their former owners got rid of all worries, anxieties, troubles once and for all and feel great since they evicted the restless tenant from their chest.
“Yes, but what do they have in their chest instead of a heart now?” stammered Peter, whose head was spinning from everything he had seen and heard.
“That’s it,” Michel replied calmly. He opened a drawer and pulled out a stone heart.
— This? Peter repeated, gasping for breath, and a cold shiver ran down his back. “Marble heart?.. But it must be very cold in the chest, isn’t it?”
“Of course, it’s a little cold,” Mikhel said, “but it’s a very pleasant coolness. And why, in fact, the heart must certainly be hot? In winter, when it's cold, cherry liqueur warms much better than the warmest heart. And in the summer, when it’s already stuffy and hot, you won’t believe how nicely such a marble heart refreshes. And the main thing is that it won’t beat in you either from fear, or from anxiety, or from stupid pity. Very comfortably!
Peter shrugged.
"And that's all, why did you call me?" he asked the giant. “To be honest, this is not what I expected from you. I need money, and you offer me a stone.
“Well, I think a hundred thousand guilders will be enough for you for the first time,” said Michel. “If you manage to profitably put them into circulation, you can become a real rich man.
“A hundred thousand!” shouted the poor collier, in disbelief, and his heart began to beat so violently that he involuntarily held it with his hand. “Don’t stab yourself, you restless one! Soon I'll be done with you forever... Mr. Michel, I agree to everything! Give me the money and your stone, and you can keep this stupid drummer.
“I knew that you were a guy with a head,” Michel said with a friendly smile. - On this occasion, you should drink. And then we'll get down to business.
They sat down at the table and drank a glass of strong, thick, like blood, wine, then another glass, another glass, and so on until the large jug was completely empty.
There was a roaring in Peter's ears and, dropping his head into his hands, he fell into a dead sleep.
Peter was awakened by the cheerful sounds of a mail horn. He sat in a beautiful carriage. The horses thumped their hooves, and the carriage rolled quickly. Looking out of the window, he saw far behind the mountains of the Black Forest in a haze of blue fog.
At first he could not believe that it was himself, coal miner Peter Munch, sitting on soft cushions in a rich lordly carriage. Yes, and the dress. he had something he had never dreamed of... And yet it was him, coal miner Peter Munch! ..
Peter thought for a moment. Here he is, for the first time in his life, leaving these mountains and valleys, overgrown with spruce forests. But for some reason, he is not at all sorry to leave his native places. And the thought that he had left his old mother alone, in need and anxiety, without saying a single word to her in parting, also did not sadden him at all.
“Oh, yes,” he suddenly remembered, “because now I have a heart of stone! .. Thanks to Michel the Dutchman - he saved me from all these tears, sighs, regrets ...”
He put his hand to his chest and felt only a slight chill. The stone heart did not beat.
Well, he kept his word about his heart, Peter thought. But what about money?
He began to inspect the carriage, and among the heap of all sorts of traveling things he found a large leather bag, tightly stuffed with gold and checks for trading houses in all large cities.
"Well, it's all right now," thought Peter, and settled himself comfortably among the soft leather cushions.
Thus began the new life of Mr. Peter Munch.
For two years he traveled around the wide world, saw a lot, but did not notice anything, except for postal stations, signs on houses and hotels in which he stayed.
However, Peter always hired a person who showed him the sights of each city.
His eyes looked at beautiful buildings, pictures and gardens, his ears listened to music, merry laughter, intelligent conversations, but nothing interested or pleased him, because his heart always remained cold.
His only pleasure was that he could eat well and sleep sweetly.
However, for some reason, all the dishes soon became boring to him, and sleep began to flee from him. And at night, tossing and turning from side to side, he often recalled how well he slept in the forest near the coal pit and how delicious the miserable dinner his mother brought from home was.
He was never sad now, but he was never happy either.
If others laughed in front of him, he only stretched his lips out of politeness.
It even seemed to him sometimes that he had simply forgotten how to laugh, and after all, before, it used to be that any trifle could make him laugh.
In the end, he became so bored that he decided to return home. Does it matter where you get bored?
When he again saw the dark forests of the Black Forest and the good-natured faces of his countrymen, the blood rushed to his heart for a moment, and it even seemed to him that he would now be delighted. Not! The stone heart remained as cold as it was. A stone is a stone.
Returning to his native places, Peter first of all went to see Michel the Dutchman. He received him in a friendly manner.
- Hello, buddy! he said. - Well, did you have a good trip? Did you see the white light?
“But how can I tell you ...” Peter answered. “Of course, I saw a lot, but all this is nonsense, sheer boredom ... In general, I must tell you, Mikhel, that this stone with which you awarded me is not such a find. Of course, it saves me a lot of trouble. I'm never angry, I'm not sad, but I'm never happy either. It's like I'm half-living... Can't you make him a little more alive? Better yet, give me back my old heart. In twenty-five years I had grown quite accustomed to it, and although it sometimes played pranks, it still had a cheerful, glorious heart.
Michel the Giant laughed.
“Well, you are a fool, Peter Munch, as I see it,” he said. - I traveled, I traveled, but I didn’t pick up my mind. Do you know why you're bored? From idleness. And you bring down everything on the heart. The heart has absolutely nothing to do with it. You better listen to me: build yourself a house, get married, put money into circulation. When every guilder turns into ten, you will have as much fun as ever. Even a stone will be happy with money.
Peter agreed with him without much argument. Michel the Dutchman immediately gave him another hundred thousand guilders, and they parted on friendly terms...
Soon a rumor spread throughout the Black Forest that the coal miner Peter Munch had returned home even richer than he had been before his departure.
And then something happened that usually happens in such cases. He again became a welcome guest in the tavern, everyone bowed to him, hurried to shake hands, everyone was glad to call him their friend.
He left the glass business and began to trade in timber. But that was just for show.
In fact, he traded not in timber, but in money: he lent them and received them back with interest.
Little by little, half of the Black Forest was in his debt.
With the head of the district, he was now familiar. And as soon as Peter hinted that someone had not paid him the money on time, the judges instantly flew into the house of the unfortunate debtor, described everything, evaluated and sold it under the hammer. Thus every gulden that Peter received from Michiel the Dutchman very soon turned into ten.
True, at first, Mr. Peter Munch was a little bothered by pleas, tears and reproaches. Entire crowds of debtors day and night besieged its doors. The men begged for a delay, the women tried to soften his stony heart with tears, the children asked for bread...
However, all this was settled as well as possible when Peter acquired two huge sheep dogs. As soon as they were released from the chain, all this, in Peter's words, "cat music" stopped in an instant.
But most of all he was annoyed by the "old woman" (as he called his mother, Mrs. Munch).
When Peter returned from his wanderings, rich again and respected by everyone, he did not even go into her poor hut. Old, half-starved, sick, she came to his yard, leaning on a stick, and timidly stopped at the threshold.
She did not dare to ask strangers, so as not to disgrace her rich son, and every Saturday she came to his door, waiting for alms and not daring to enter the house, from where she had already been kicked out once.
Seeing the old woman from the window, Peter, frowning angrily, took out several copper coins from his pocket, wrapped them in a piece of paper, and, calling the servant, sent them to his mother. He heard how she thanked him in a trembling voice and wished him every well-being, he heard how, coughing and tapping with a stick, she made her way past his windows, but he only thought that he had again wasted a few pennies.
Needless to say, now it was no longer the same Peter Munch, a reckless merry fellow who threw money to wandering musicians without counting and was always ready to help the first poor person he met. The current Peter Munch knew the value of money well and did not want to know anything else.
Every day he became richer and richer, but he did not become more cheerful.
And so, remembering the advice of Michel the Giant, he decided to marry.
Peter knew that any respectable person in the Black Forest would gladly give his daughter for him, but he was picky. He wanted everyone to praise his choice and envy his happiness. He traveled the whole region, looked into all the nooks and crannies, looked at all the brides, but not one of them seemed to him worthy of becoming the wife of Mr. Munch.
Finally, at a party, he was told that the most beautiful and modest girl in all the Black Forest was Lisbeth, the daughter of a poor woodcutter. But she never goes to dances, sits at home, sews, runs the house and takes care of her old father. There is no better bride not only in these places, but in the whole world.
Without putting things off, Peter got ready and went to the beauty's father. The poor woodcutter was very surprised to see such an important gentleman. But he was even more surprised when he learned that this important gentleman wanted to woo his daughter.
How was it not to seize such happiness!
The old man decided that his sorrows and worries had come to an end, and without thinking twice gave Peter his consent, without even asking the beautiful Lizbeth.
And the beautiful Lisbeth was a submissive daughter. She unquestioningly fulfilled the will of her father and became Mrs. Munch.
But the poor thing had a sad life in the rich house of her husband. All the neighbors considered her an exemplary hostess, and she could not please Mr. Peter in any way.
She had a good heart, and, knowing that the chests in the house were bursting with all sorts of good things, she did not consider it a sin to feed some poor old woman, to take out a mug of kvass to a passerby old man, or to give a few small coins to the neighbor's children for sweets.
But when Peter once found out about this, he turned purple with anger and said:
“How dare you throw my stuff left and right? Have you forgotten that you yourself are a beggar?.. See to it that this is the last time, or else ...
And he looked at her so that the heart of poor Lisbeth turned cold in her chest. She wept bitterly and went to her room.
Since then, whenever some poor person passed by their house, Lisbeth closed the window or turned away so as not to see someone else's poverty. But she never dared to disobey her harsh husband.
No one knew how many tears she shed at night, thinking about Peter's cold, pitiless heart, but everyone now knew that Madame Munch would not give a dying man a sip of water and a hungry crust of bread. She was known as the meanest housewife in the Black Forest.
One day Lisbeth was sitting in front of the house, spinning yarn and humming a song. Her heart was light and cheerful that day, because the weather was excellent, and Mr. Peter was away on business.
And suddenly she saw that some old old man was walking along the road. Bent over in three deaths, he dragged a large, tightly stuffed bag on his back.
The old man kept stopping to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his forehead.
"Poor man," thought Lisbeth, "how hard it is for him to bear such an unbearable burden!"
And the old man, going up to her, dropped his huge bag on the ground, sank heavily on it and said in a barely audible voice:
— Be merciful, mistress! Give me a sip of water. I was so exhausted that I just fell off my feet.
“How can you carry such weights at your age!” Lisbeth said.
- What can you do! Poverty! .. - answered the old man. “You have to live with something. Of course, for such a rich woman as you, this is difficult to understand. Here you, probably, except cream, and do not drink anything, and I will say thank you for a sip of water.
Without answering, Lisbeth ran into the house and poured a ladle full of water. She was about to take it to a passerby, but suddenly, having reached the threshold, she stopped and again returned to the room. Opening the cupboard, she took out a large patterned mug, filled it to the brim with wine, and, covering the top with fresh, freshly baked bread, brought the old man out.
“Here,” she said, “refresh yourself for the journey.”
The old man looked at Lisbeth with surprise with his faded, glassy eyes.
He drank the wine slowly, broke off a piece of bread, and said in a trembling voice:
“I am an old man, but in my lifetime I have seen few people with such a good heart as yours. And kindness never goes unrewarded...
And she will receive her reward now! boomed a terrible voice behind them.
They turned around and saw Mr. Peter.
“So that’s how you are!” he said through his teeth, clutching the whip in his hands and approaching Lisbeth. “You pour the best wine from my cellar into my favorite mug and treat some dirty tramps ... Here you are!” Get your reward!..
He swung and with all his strength hit his wife on the head with a heavy ebony whip.
Before she could even scream, Lisbeth fell into the old man's arms.
A stone heart knows neither regret nor repentance. But immediately Peter felt uneasy, and he rushed to Lisbeth to lift her up.
- Do not work, collier Munch! the old man suddenly said in a voice well known to Peter. “You broke the most beautiful flower in the Black Forest and it will never bloom again.
Peter involuntarily recoiled.
“So it’s you, Mr. Glass Man!” he whispered in horror. “Well, what’s done, you can’t turn it back. But I hope at least you don't denounce me to court...
- To court? The Glass Man chuckled bitterly. - No, I know your friends - the judges - too well ... Who could sell his heart, he will sell his conscience without hesitation. I will judge you myself!
Peter's eyes darkened at those words.
"Don't judge me, you old curmudgeon!" he shouted, shaking his fists. “It was you who ruined me!” Yes, yes, you, and no one else! By your grace, I went to bow to Michel the Dutchman. And now you yourself must answer to me, and not I to you! ..
And he swung his whip beside himself. But his hand remained frozen in the air.
Before his eyes, the Glass Man suddenly began to grow. It grew more and more until it blocked the house, the trees, even the sun. His eyes were sparkling and brighter than the brightest flame. He breathed, and a scorching heat pierced through Peter, so that even his stony heart warmed and trembled, as if beating again. No, even Michel the Giant had never seemed so scary to him!
Peter fell to the ground and covered his head with his hands to protect himself from the revenge of the angry Glass Man, but suddenly he felt that a huge hand, tenacious like the claws of a kite, grabbed him, lifted him high into the air and, whirling like the wind twists a dry blade of grass, threw him to the ground .
“Pitiful worm!” boomed a thunderous voice above him. “I could burn you on the spot!” But, so be it, for the sake of this poor, meek woman, I give you seven more days of life. If during these days you do not repent - beware! ..
It was as if a fiery whirlwind rushed over Peter - and everything was quiet.
In the evening, people passing by saw Peter lying on the ground at the threshold of his house.
He was as pale as a dead man, his heart was not beating, and the neighbors had already decided that he was dead (after all, they did not know that his heart was not beating, because it was made of stone). But then someone noticed that Peter was still breathing. They brought water, moistened his forehead, and he woke up...
— Lizbeth! Where is Lizbeth? he asked in a hoarse whisper.
But no one knew where she was.
He thanked the people for their help and entered the house. Lisbeth was not there either.
Peter was completely taken aback. What does this mean? Where did she disappear to? Dead or alive, she must be here.
So several days passed. From morning to night he wandered around the house, not knowing what to do. And at night, as soon as he closed his eyes, he was awakened by a quiet voice:
“Peter, get yourself a warm heart!” Get yourself a warm heart, Peter!
He told his neighbors that his wife had gone to visit her father for a few days. Of course they believed him. But sooner or later they will find out that this is not true. What to say then? And the days allotted to him, in order for him to repent, went on and on, and the hour of reckoning was approaching. But how could he repent when his stony heart knew no remorse? Oh, if only he could win a hotter heart!
And so, when the seventh day was already running out, Peter made up his mind. He put on a festive camisole, a hat, jumped on a horse and galloped to Spruce Mountain.
Where the frequent spruce forest began, he dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, and himself, clinging to thorny branches, climbed up.
He stopped near a large spruce, took off his hat, and, with difficulty remembering the words, said slowly:
- Under a shaggy spruce,
In a dark dungeon
Where the spring is born -
An old man lives between the roots.
He's incredibly rich
He keeps the cherished treasure.
Who was born on Sunday
Receives a wonderful treasure.
And the Glass Man appeared. But now he was all in black: a coat of black frosted glass, black pantaloons, black stockings... A black crystal ribbon wrapped around his hat.
He barely glanced at Peter and asked in an indifferent voice:
— What do you want from me, Peter Munch?
“I have one more wish left, Mr. Glass Man,” said Peter, not daring to raise his eyes. - I would like you to do it.
— How can a stone heart have desires! replied the Glass Man. “You already have everything that people like you need. And if you still lack something, ask your friend Michel. I can hardly help you.
“But you yourself promised me three wishes. One more thing is left for me!
“I promised to fulfill your third wish, only if it is not reckless. Well, tell me, what else did you come up with?
"I would like to... I would like to..." Peter began in a broken voice. "Mr. Glass Man!" Take this dead stone out of my chest and give me my living heart.
- Did you make this deal with me? said the Glass Man. “Am I Michel the Dutchman who distributes gold coins and hearts of stone?” Go to him, ask him for your heart!
Peter shook his head sadly.
“Oh, he won’t give it to me for anything.
The Glass Man was silent for a minute, then he took his glass pipe out of his pocket and lit it.
“Yes,” he said, blowing smoke rings, “of course, he will not want to give you your heart ... And although you are very guilty before people, before me and before yourself, your desire is not so stupid. I will help you. Listen: you won't get anything from Mikhel by force. But it is not so difficult to outwit him, even though he considers himself smarter than everyone in the world. Bend over to me, I'll tell you how to lure your heart out of him.
And the Glass Man said in Peter's ear everything that had to be done.
“Remember,” he added in parting, “if you again have a living, warm heart in your chest, and if it does not falter in the face of danger and is harder than stone, no one will overcome you, not even Michel the Giant himself. And now go and return to me with a living, beating heart, like all people. Or don't come back at all.
So said the Glass Man and hid under the roots of the spruce, and Peter with quick steps went to the gorge where Michel the Giant lived.
He called his name three times, and the giant appeared.
What, killed his wife? he said, laughing. - Well, okay, serve her right! Why didn’t you take care of your husband’s good! Only, perhaps, friend, you will have to leave our lands for a while, otherwise the good neighbors will notice that she is gone, raise a fuss, start all sorts of talk ... You will not be without trouble. Do you really need money?
“Yes,” Peter said, “and more this time. After all, America is far away.
“Well, it won’t be about money,” said Mikhel and led Peter to his house.
He opened a chest in the corner, pulled out several large bundles of gold coins, and spreading them out on the table, began to count.
Peter stood nearby and poured the counted coins into a bag.
- And what a clever deceiver you are, Michel! he said, looking slyly at the giant. “After all, I completely believed that you took out my heart and put a stone in its place.
- So how is it? Mikhel said and even opened his mouth in surprise. Do you doubt that you have a heart of stone? What, it beats with you, freezes? Or maybe you feel fear, grief, remorse?
“Yes, a little,” said Peter. “I understand perfectly well, friend, that you simply froze it, and now it is gradually thawing ... And how could you, without causing me the slightest harm, take out my heart and replace it with a stone one? To do this, you need to be a real magician! ..
“But I assure you,” Mikhel shouted, “that I did it!” Instead of a heart, you have a real stone, and your real heart lies in a glass jar, next to the heart of Ezekiel Tolstoy. You can see for yourself if you want.
Peter laughed.
- There is something to see! he said casually. “When I traveled in foreign countries, I saw many wonders purer than yours. The hearts you have in glass jars are made of wax. I have even seen wax people, let alone hearts! No, whatever you say, you don’t know how to do magic! ..
Mikhel stood up and threw back his chair with a crash.
- Come here! he called, opening the door to the next room. "Look what's written here!" Right here - on this bank! "Heart of Peter Munch"! Put your ear to the glass and listen to how it beats. Can wax beat and tremble like that?
“Of course it can. Wax people walk and talk at fairs. They have some kind of spring inside.
- A spring? And now you will find out from me what kind of spring it is! Fool! Can't tell a wax heart from his own!
Mikhel tore off Peter's camisole, pulled a stone out of his chest and, without saying a word, showed it to Peter. Then he took the heart out of the jar, breathed on it, and carefully placed it where it should have been.
Peter's chest felt hot and cheerful, and the blood ran faster through his veins.
He involuntarily put his hand to his heart, listening to its joyful knock.
Michel looked at him triumphantly.
Well, who was right? he asked.
“You,” said Peter. “I never thought to admit that you are such a sorcerer.
- That's the same! .. - answered Mikhel, grinning smugly. “Well, now come on—I’ll put it in its place.”
- It's right there! Peter said calmly. “This time you were fooled, Mr. Michel, even though you are a great sorcerer. I won't give you my heart anymore.
- It's not yours anymore! Michel shouted. — I bought it. Give me back my heart now, you miserable thief, or I will crush you on the spot!
And, clenching his huge fist, he raised it over Peter. But Peter didn't even bow his head. He looked Mikhel straight in the eyes and said firmly:
- I won't give up!
Mikhel must not have expected such an answer. He staggered away from Peter as if he had stumbled while running. And the hearts in the jars thumped as loudly as a watch in a workshop knocks out of its frames and cases.
Mikhel looked around them with his cold, deadening gaze - and they immediately fell silent.
Then he looked at Peter and said softly:
- That's what you are! Well, full, full, there is nothing to pose as a brave man. Someone, but I know your heart, was holding it in my hands... A pitiful heart - soft, weak... I suppose it's trembling with fear... Let it come here, it will be calmer in the bank.
- I won't! Peter said even louder.
— Let's see!
And suddenly, in the place where Mikhel had just stood, a huge slippery greenish-brown snake appeared. In an instant, she wrapped herself in rings around Peter and, squeezing his chest, as if with an iron hoop, looked into his eyes with the cold eyes of Michel.
- Will you give it up? the snake hissed.
- I won't give up! Peter said.
At that very moment, the rings that had been squeezing him disintegrated, the snake disappeared, and flames burst out from under the ground with smoky tongues and surrounded Peter from all sides.
Fiery tongues licked his clothes, hands, face...
- Will you give it back, will you give it back? .. - the flame rustled.
— No! Peter said.
He almost suffocated from the unbearable heat and sulfuric smoke, but his heart was firm.
The flame subsided, and streams of water, seething and raging, fell on Peter from all sides.
In the noise of the water, the same words were heard as in the hiss of the snake, and in the whistle of the flame: "Will you give it back? Will you give it back?"
Every minute the water rose higher and higher. Now she has come up to the very throat of Peter ...
- Will you give it up?
- I won't give up! Peter said.
His heart was harder than stone.
The water rose like a frothy crest before his eyes, and he almost choked.
But then some invisible force picked up Peter, lifted him above the water and carried him out of the gorge.
He did not even have time to wake up, as he was already standing on the other side of the ditch, which separated the possessions of Michel the Giant and the Glass Man.
But Michel the Giant has not yet given up. In pursuit of Peter, he sent a storm.
Like cut grass, century-old pines fell and ate. Lightning split the sky and fell to the ground like fiery arrows. One fell to the right of Peter, two steps away from him, the other to the left, even closer.
Peter involuntarily closed his eyes and grabbed the trunk of a tree.
- Thunder, thunder! he shouted, panting for breath. “I have my heart, and I won’t give it to you!”
And suddenly everything was silent. Peter lifted his head and opened his eyes.
Mikhel stood motionless at the border of his possessions. His arms dropped, his feet seemed to be rooted to the ground. It was evident that the magical power had left him. It was no longer the former giant, commanding earth, water, fire and air, but a decrepit, hunched-over old man in the tattered clothes of a raft-driver. He leaned on his hook as if on a crutch, buried his head in his shoulders, shrunk...
With every minute in front of Peter Michel became smaller and smaller. Here he became quieter than water, lower than grass, and finally pressed himself completely to the ground. Only by the rustle and vibration of the stems could one see how he crawled away like a worm into his lair.
Peter looked after him for a long time, and then slowly walked to the top of the mountain to the old spruce.
His heart beat in his chest, glad that it could beat again.
But the further he went, the sadder he became in his soul. He remembered everything that had happened to him over the years - he remembered his old mother, who came to him for miserable alms, he remembered the poor people whom he poisoned with dogs, he remembered Lisbeth ... And bitter tears rolled from his eyes.
When he came to the old spruce, the Glass Man was sitting on a mossy tussock under the branches, smoking his pipe. He looked at Peter with clear, glassy eyes and said:
“What are you crying about, collier Munch? Aren't you happy to have a living heart beating in your chest again?
"Ah, it doesn't beat, it's torn apart," said Peter. “It would be better for me not to live in the world than to remember how I lived until now. Mother will never forgive me, and I can't even ask poor Lisbeth for forgiveness. Better kill me, Mr. Glass Man - at least this shameful life will come to an end. Here it is, my last wish!
"Very well," said the Glass Man. “If you want it, let it be your way. Now I'll bring the axe.
He slowly knocked out the pipe and slipped it into his pocket.
Then he got up and, lifting the shaggy thorny branches, disappeared somewhere behind a spruce.
And Peter, crying, sank down on the grass. He did not regret life at all and patiently waited for his last minute.
And then there was a slight rustle behind him.
"He's coming!" thought Peter. "It's all over now!"
And, covering his face with his hands, he bowed his head even lower.
Peter raised his head and involuntarily cried out. Before him stood his mother and wife.
Lisbeth, you're alive! cried Peter, breathless with joy. - Mother! And you are here! .. How can I beg your forgiveness?!
“They already forgave you, Peter,” said the Glass Man. Yes, you did, because you repented from the bottom of your heart. But it's not stone now. Go back home and be still a coal miner. If you begin to respect your craft, then people will respect you, and everyone will gladly shake your blackened from coal, but clean hand, even if you do not have barrels of gold.
With these words, the Glass Man disappeared.
And Peter with his wife and mother went home.
There is no trace left of Mr. Peter Munch's rich estate. During the last storm, lightning struck directly into the house and burned it to the ground. But Peter did not at all regret his lost wealth.
It was not far from his father's old hut, and he merrily walked there, remembering that glorious time when he was a carefree and cheerful coal miner...
How surprised he was when he saw a beautiful new house instead of a poor, crooked hut. Flowers were blooming in the front garden, starched curtains were white in the windows, and inside everything was so tidy, as if someone was waiting for the owners. The fire crackled merrily in the stove, the table was set, and on the shelves along the walls multi-colored glassware shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow.
- This is all given to us by the Glass Man! exclaimed Peter.
And a new life began in a new house. From morning to evening, Peter worked at his coal pits and returned home tired, but cheerful - he knew that at home they were waiting for him with joy and impatience.
At the card table and in front of the tavern counter, he was never seen again. But he spent his Sunday evenings now more cheerfully than before. The doors of his house were wide open for guests, and the neighbors willingly entered the house of the collier Munch, because they were met by the hostesses, hospitable and friendly, and the owner, good-natured, always ready to rejoice with a friend of his joy or help him in trouble.
A year later, a big event took place in the new house: Peter and Lizbeth had a son, little Peter Munk.
- Who do you want to call as godfathers? the old woman asked Peter.
Peter didn't answer. He washed the coal dust from his face and hands, put on a festive caftan, took a festive hat and went to Spruce Mountain. Near the familiar old spruce, he stopped and, bowing low, uttered the cherished words:
- Under a shaggy spruce,
In a dark dungeon...
He never lost his way, did not forget anything, and said all the words as they should, in order, from the first to the last.
But the Glass Man did not show up.
"Mr. Glass Man!" cried Peter. “I don’t want anything from you, I don’t ask for anything and I came here only to call you as godfathers to my newborn son! .. Do you hear me, Mr. Glass Man?
But all around was quiet. The Glass Man did not respond even here.
Only a light wind ran over the tops of the fir trees and dropped a few cones at Peter's feet.
“Well, I’ll take at least these fir cones as a keepsake, if the owner of Spruce Mountain doesn’t want to show himself anymore,” Peter said to himself and, bowing goodbye to the big spruce, he went home.
In the evening, old mother Munch, putting away her son's festive caftan in the closet, noticed that his pockets were stuffed with something. She turned them inside out, and several large spruce cones fell out.
Having hit the floor, the cones scattered, and all their scales turned into brand new shiny thalers, among which there was not a single fake one.
It was a gift from the Glass Man to little Peter Munch.
For many more years, the family of the coal miner Munch lived in peace and harmony in the world. Little Peter has grown up, big Peter has grown old.
And when the youth surrounded the old man and asked him to tell something about the past days, he told them this story and always ended it like this:
- I knew in my lifetime both wealth and poverty. I was poor when I was rich, rich when I was poor. I used to have stone chambers, but then my heart was stone in my chest. And now I have only a house with a stove - but on the other hand, a human heart.
The verses in this tale were translated by S. Ya. Marshak.
Retelling from German by T. Gabbe and A. Lyubarskaya
Wilhelm Hauff
Part one
Whoever happens to be in Swabia, let him certainly look into the Black Forest - but not for the sake of the forest, although you will probably not find such a myriad of tall mighty firs in other places, but for the sake of the inhabitants there, who are surprisingly different from all other people in district. They are taller than usual, broad in the shoulders and possess remarkable strength, as if the life-giving aroma exuded in the morning by fir trees, from a young age endowed them with freer breathing, a sharper look and a firmer, albeit stern, spirit than the inhabitants of the river valleys and plains. Not only in height and build, but also in their customs and dress, they differ from those who live outside this mountainous region. The inhabitants of the Black Forest of Baden are especially smart: the men wear the full beard that nature has bestowed on them, and their black jackets, wide pleated trousers, red stockings and pointed hats with large flat brim give them a slightly bizarre, but impressive and dignified look. In those parts, most of the people are involved in the glass industry, they also make watches that are sold all over the world.
In another part of the Black Forest, people of the same tribe live, but a different occupation has given rise to different customs and habits from them than glassmakers. They hunt in the forest: they cut down and hew fir trees, float them along the Nagold to the upper reaches of the Neckar, and from the Neckar down the Rhine, to Holland itself; and those who live by the sea have become familiar with the Black Forest with their long rafts; they stop at all river piers and expect with dignity to buy logs and boards from them; but the thickest and longest logs they sell for good money to the "mingers" who build ships from them. These people are accustomed to the harsh nomadic life. To go down on rafts along the rivers is a true joy for them, to return along the shore on foot is a true torment. That is why their festive attire is so different from the attire of glassmakers from another part of the Black Forest. They wear jackets of dark canvas; on a broad chest - green halters the width of a palm, trousers of black leather, from the pocket of which, as a mark of distinction, sticks out a brass folding ruler; however, their beauty and pride are boots, - they must not be worn anywhere else in the world such huge boots, they can be pulled two spans above the knee, and raftsmen walk freely in these boots in water three feet deep without getting their feet wet.
Until quite recently, the inhabitants of these places believed in forest spirits, and only in recent years have they been able to turn them away from this stupid superstition. But it is curious that the forest spirits, who, according to legend, lived in the Black Forest, also differed in clothing. So, for example, they assured that the Glass Man, a good spirit three and a half feet tall, always appears to people in a pointed hat with large flat brim, in a jacket and trousers, and in red stockings. But Dutchman Michel, who wanders in another part of the forest, is said to be a huge broad-shouldered fellow in the clothes of a raft, and many people who allegedly saw him say that they would not want to pay out of their pocket for calves, whose skin went to his boots. “They are so tall that an ordinary person will go up to their throats in them,” they assured and swore that they were not exaggerating at all.
It is with these forest spirits, they say, that a story happened to a guy from the Black Forest that I want to tell you.
There once lived a widow in the Black Forest - Barbara Munkich; her husband was a collier, and after his death she gradually prepared their sixteen-year-old son for the same craft. Young Peter Munch, a tall, stately fellow, meekly sat all week by the smoking coal pit, because he saw that his father did the same; then, just as he was, grimy and sooty, a real scarecrow, he went down to the nearest town to sell his coal. But the coal-burner's occupation is such that he has much free time for thinking about himself and about others; and when Peter Munch sat at his fire, the gloomy trees around and the deep silence of the forest filled his heart with a vague longing, causing tears. Something saddened him, something angered him, but what, he himself did not really understand. Finally, he realized what angered him - his trade. “Lonely, grimy coal miner! he complained. “What kind of life is this! How respected are glassmakers, watchmakers, even musicians on holidays! And then Peter Munch appears, washed white, smart, in his father's holiday jacket with silver buttons and brand new red stockings - and what? Someone will follow me, think at first: “What a fine guy!”, Praise himself and stockings, and a valiant stature, but as soon as he overtakes me and looks into my face, he will immediately say: “Oh, yes, that’s all - just Peter Munch, the coal miner!”
And the raftsmen from the other part of the forest also aroused envy in him. When these forest giants came to visit them, richly dressed, hanging on themselves a good half a centner of silver in the form of buttons, buckles and chains; when, with their legs wide apart, they looked with an air of importance at the dancers, swore in Dutch, and, like noble mingers, smoked arshin Cologne pipes, Peter looked at them with delight; such a raftsman seemed to him a model of a happy man. And when these lucky ones, putting their hand in their pockets, pulled out handfuls of full-weight thalers from there and, having bet some penny, lost five or even ten guilders in dice, his head was in a turmoil, and in deep despondency he wandered into your hut; on one Sunday evening he happened to watch one or another of these "forest traders" lose more than poor father Munch earned in a whole year. Among these people, three stood out in particular, and Peter did not know which of them to admire more. The first was a red-faced tall fat man, he was reputed to be the richest man in the district. They called him Fat Ezekiel. Twice a year he carried timber to Amsterdam and was so lucky that he sold it much more expensive than the others, which is why he could afford to return home not on foot, like everyone else, but to sail on a ship like an important gentleman. The second was the tallest and thinnest man in all the Black Forest, he was nicknamed Lanky Schlurker. Munch was especially envious of his extraordinary courage: he contradicted the most respectable people, and even if the tavern was packed, Schlurker took up more space in it than four fat men - he either leaned on the table or laid one of his long legs on the bench - but no one dared to say a word to him, because he had an unheard-of amount of money. The third was a handsome young man who danced the best in the whole region, for which he received the nickname of the King of Dances. He was once a poor guy and served as an employee for one of the "forest traders", but suddenly he himself became immensely rich; some said that he found a pot of money under an old spruce tree, others claimed that with a spear, with which raftsmen fish, he fished a bag of gold from the Rhine, not far from Belingen, and this bag was part of the treasure of the Nibelungs buried there; in short, he became rich overnight, for which both old and young now revered him like a prince.
It was about these people that Peter Munch thought endlessly when he sat alone in a spruce forest. True, they were characterized by one vice, for which they were hated by everyone - that was their inhuman greed, their heartless attitude towards debtors and the poor; I must tell you that the Schwarzwalders are the most good-natured people. But we know how it happens in the world: although they were hated for their greed, they were still highly revered for their wealth, because who else, besides them, littered with thalers so much, as if money could simply be shaken from Christmas trees?
“It can’t go on like this,” Peter once decided, seized with sadness: the day before there was a holiday and all the people gathered in the tavern, “if I’m not lucky soon, I’ll lay hands on myself. Oh, if I were as respected and rich as Fat Ezekhil, or as bold and strong as Lanky Schlurker, or as famous as the Dance King, and could, like him, throw thalers to musicians, not kreuzers! Where did he get the money from? Peter went over in his mind all the ways of making money, but none of them appealed to him, and finally he remembered the legends about people who in ancient times got rich with the help of the Dutchman Michel or the Glass Man. While his father was still alive, they were often visited by other poor people, and they used to judge and dress for a long time about the rich and how wealth had come to them, they often remembered the Glass Man; yes, after careful thought, Peter was able to recall almost the entire rhyme that had to be said on Spruce Hillock, in the very heart of the forest, in order for the Little Man to appear. This poem began with the words:
But no matter how much he strained his memory, the last line did not come to his mind. He was already thinking about asking one of the old people what words the spell ends with, but he was always held back by the fear of betraying his thoughts; besides - so he believed - few people know the legend of the Glass Man, therefore, few people remember the spell; they have a lot of rich people in the forest, and why didn't his father and other poor people try their luck? Once he brought his mother to talk about Little Man, and she told him what he already knew himself, she also remembered only the first lines of the spell, but in the end she nevertheless told her son that the old forest man is shown only to those who were born on Sunday between eleven and two o'clock. Peter himself, if he knew the spell, could just be such a person, for he was born on a Sunday at half past eleven.
As soon as Peter heard this, he almost went crazy with joy and impatience to carry out his plan as soon as possible. Enough, thought Peter, that he was born on a Sunday and knew part of the spell. The Glass Man will certainly appear to him. And then one day, having sold his coal, he did not start a new fire, but put on his father’s festive jacket, new red stockings and a Sunday hat, took a juniper staff five feet long and said in parting: “Mother, I have to go to the city, to district office, the time is coming to draw lots, which of us to go to the soldiers, so I want to remind the boss that you are a widow and I am your only son. His mother praised him for such an intention, but only Peter went straight to Spruce Hillock. This place is located on the highest of the Black Forest mountains, on its very peak, and in those days there was not only a village around for a two-hour journey - not a single hut, because superstitious people believed that it was unclean there. Yes, and the forest, although downright gigantic spruces grew on the Hill, was reluctant to fell in those places: for woodcutters, when they worked there, the ax sometimes jumped off the ax handle and stuck in the leg, or the trees fell so quickly that they carried people along and maimed them, or even killed them altogether, besides, the most beautiful trees of those that grew on Spruce Hillock could only be used for firewood - raftsmen would never take a single log from there into their raft, because there was a belief that both people and rafts perish if at least one log from Spruce Hillock floats with them. That is why the trees grew so thickly and so high in this accursed place that it was dark there during the day as at night, and Peter Munch began to tremble - he did not hear a human voice here, nor anyone else's steps, except his own, not the sound of an axe; it seemed that even the birds did not dare to fly into the dense darkness of this thicket.
But now Peter the coal-man had climbed to the very top of the mound and was now standing in front of a fir tree of monstrous thickness, for which any Dutch shipbuilder, without batting an eyelid, would lay out a hundred guilders. “This is probably where the Keeper of the Treasure lives,” thought Peter, took off his Sunday hat, made a low bow, cleared his throat, and said in a trembling voice:
- Good evening, mister glass master!
But there was no answer, the same silence reigned around as before. “Maybe I should still say a rhyme?” Peter thought and muttered:
Keeper of the Treasure in the dense forest!
Among the green firs lies your home.
I always called to you with hope ...
As he spoke these words, to his great horror, he noticed that some strange tiny figure was peeking out from behind a thick spruce; it seemed to him that this was the Glass Man, as he was described: a black jacket, red stockings and a hat, everything was exactly like that, it even seemed to Peter that he saw the thin and intelligent face that he happened to hear about. But alas! The Glass Man disappeared as quickly as he appeared.
- Mister glass master! - a little hesitant, called Peter Munch. - Be so kind as not to fool me! .. Mr. glassmaker, if you think that I have not seen you, then please be very mistaken, I noticed how you looked out from behind a tree.
But still there was no answer, only sometimes Peter heard a light hoarse laugh from behind the fir. Finally, impatience overcame the fear that had still held him back. "Wait, baby," he shouted, "I'll grab you in no time!" With one leap he reached a thick spruce, but there was no Keeper of the Treasure there at all, only a tiny, handsome squirrel ran up the trunk.
Peter Munch shook his head: he realized that he had almost succeeded, if only he could remember one more line of the spell, and the Glass Man would appear before him, but no matter how much he thought, no matter how hard he tried, it was all in vain. The squirrel reappeared on the lower branches of the spruce, and seemed to be teasing or laughing at him. She washed herself, wagged her luxurious tail and looked at him with intelligent eyes; but in the end he even became afraid to be alone with this animal, for the squirrel would suddenly have a human head in a three-cornered hat, then it would be just like an ordinary squirrel, only red stockings and black shoes could be seen on its hind legs. In short, it was a funny animal, but now Peter the Coal Miner's soul was completely gone to the heels - he realized that
it's not clean here.
Back Peter rushed even faster than he came here. The darkness in the forest seemed to grow more and more impenetrable, the trees grew thicker, and fear seized Peter with such force that he began to run as fast as he could. And only when he heard the barking of dogs in the distance, and soon after seeing the smoke of the first house among the trees, did he calm down a little. But when he came closer, he realized that he ran in the wrong direction out of fright and instead of coming to the glassmakers, he came to the raftsmen. Woodcutters lived in that house: an old man, his son - the head of the family, and several adult grandchildren. Peter the coal miner, who asked to stay with them for the night, they welcomed cordially, not inquiring either about his name or where he lives; they treated them to apple wine, and in the evening they put on the table fried capercaillie, a favorite dish of the Black Forest.
After supper, the hostess and her daughters sat down at the spinning wheels around a large splinter, which the sons kindled with excellent spruce resin; the grandfather, the guest and the owner of the house were smoking and looking at the working women, while the guys were engaged in carving spoons and forks from wood. In the meantime, a storm broke out in the forest, the wind howled and whistled among the fir trees, here and there strong blows were heard, at times it seemed as if whole trees were falling with a crash. The fearless young men wanted to run out to watch this formidably beautiful spectacle up close, but their grandfather stopped them with a stern look and a shout.
“I would not advise anyone to go out the door now,” he said, “as God is holy, whoever goes out will not come back, because this night Michel the Dutchman is cutting down trees for a new raft.
The younger grandchildren goggled: they had heard of the Dutchman Michel before, but now they asked their grandfather to tell him more about him; Yes, and Peter Munch added his voice to them - in his area they talked very vaguely about the Dutchman Michel - and asked the old man who this Michel was and where he lived.
- He is the owner of the local forest, and if you haven’t heard about it at your age, it means that you live beyond the Spruce Hillock, or even further. So be it, I will tell you about the Dutchman Michel, what I know myself and what the legend says. A hundred years ago, at least that's what my grandfather told me, in the whole world there was no people more honest than the Black Forest. Now that so much money has been brought into our region, people have become bad and unscrupulous. Young guys dance on Sundays, bawl songs and swear, so much so that they take aback; but in those days everything was different, and even if he himself looked now through that window, I will still say, as I have said more than once: Dutch Michel is to blame for all this damage. So, a hundred years ago, and perhaps even earlier, there lived a rich timber merchant who kept many workers; he rafted the timber to the very lower reaches of the Rhine, and the Lord helped him, because he was a pious man. One evening, some fellow knocked on his door - he had never seen such a thing. He was dressed like all Black Forest boys, only he was a head taller than them - it was even hard to believe that such a giant lived in the world. So, he asks the timber merchant to take him to work, and he, noticing that the fellow is extremely strong and can carry heavy loads, immediately agreed with him about the payment, and they shook hands. Mikhel turned out to be such a worker as the lumber merchant never dreamed of. When trees were cut down, he managed for three, and if six people lifted the load from one end, he alone took up the other. Half a year has passed since he cut down the forest, and then one fine day he comes to the owner and says: “Enough for me to cut the forest, I finally want to see where my logs are floating away - what if you release me once with rafts ?
The lumber merchant replied: “I will not interfere with you, Michel, if you want to see the world. Although I need strong people in logging, and agility is more important than strength on rafts, this time let it be your way.
On that they decided; the raft with which he was to sail was made up of eight knittings, and the last one was made of huge combat beams. And what's next? The night before, Mikhel brings eight more logs to the river - such thick and long logs as the world has never seen, and he carries them effortlessly, as if they were just poles - then they threw everyone into a shiver. Where he cut them down, no one knows to this day. The lumber merchant saw this, and his heart leaped: he quickly figured out in his mind how much he could get for these logs, and Mikhel said: “Well, I’ll go on these, I’m not going to swim on the same chips!” The owner wanted to give him a pair of boots, such as raftsmen wear, as a reward, but Mikhel threw them away and brought others, unknown from where; my grandfather assured me that they weighed a good hundred pounds and were five feet long.
The raft was lowered into the water, and if Michel used to surprise the woodcutters, now it was the turn of the raftsmen to marvel: they thought that their raft would go slowly because of the heavy logs, but as soon as he hit the Neckar, he rushed like an arrow; in the same place where the Neckar made a bend and the raftsmen usually with great difficulty kept the race on the rapid, preventing it from crashing into the coastal sand or pebbles, Michel every time jumped into the water, straightened the raft with one push to the right or left, so that he glided on without hindrance ; and where the river flowed straight, he ran forward to the first mating, ordered everyone to put down the oars, stuck his huge pole into the bottom of the river, and the raft flew forward with a swing - it seemed as if the trees and villages on the shore were swiftly rushing past. In this manner, they reached the city of Cologne on the Rhine twice as fast as usual, where they always sold their cargo, but now Michel said to them: “Well, merchants! Well, you understand your benefit! Do you really think that the Cologne people themselves consume all the wood that they bring from the Black Forest? No, they buy it from you at half price, and then resell it at a higher price to Holland. Let's sell the small logs here and take the big ones to Holland; whatever we get in excess of the regular price will go into our pocket.”
So spoke the insidious Michel, and the rest liked it: who wanted to see Holland, who wanted to take more money. There was one honest fellow among them who dissuaded them from risking the master's property or deceiving the owner in price, but they did not even listen to him and immediately forgot his words, only the Dutchman Michel did not forget. So they sailed with their forest further down the Rhine, Michel steered the raft and quickly delivered them to Rotterdam. There they offered them a price four times higher than before, and for the huge Mikhelev beams they paid a whole bunch of money. When the people of the Black Forest saw such a lot of gold, they went crazy with joy. Mikhel divided the proceeds - one quarter to the timber merchant, three quarters to the raftsmen. And then they went on a spree; with sailors and all sorts of other trash, they roamed day and night in taverns, drinking and losing their money, and the honest guy who kept them was sold by the Dutchman Michel to a dealer in human goods, and no one else heard of him. Since then, Holland has become the paradise of the Black Forest guys, and the Dutchman Michel - their master; for a long time the timber merchants knew nothing of this secret trade, and little by little money began to flow from Holland to the upper Rhine, and with it foul language, bad morals, gambling and drunkenness.
When the truth finally came out, the Dutchman Michel sank into the water; however, he is still alive. For a hundred years now he has been doing atrocities in the local forest and, they say, he helped many to get rich, but only at the cost of their sinful souls - I won’t say anything more. One thing is true: even to this day, on such stormy nights, he seeks out on Spruce Hillock, where no one cuts the forest, the finest firs, and my father saw with his own eyes how he broke a four-foot-thick trunk like a reed. He gives these logs to those who have gone astray and come into contact with him: at midnight they lower the rafts into the water, and he sails with them to Holland. If only I were a sovereign in Holland, I would order to smash it to pieces with buckshot, because all the ships, where there is at least one board from those that the Dutchman Michel put, will inevitably go to the bottom. That is why one hears about so many shipwrecks: why else would a beautiful, strong ship the height of a church suddenly sink? But every time the Dutchman Michel cuts a spruce in the Black Forest on such a stormy night, one of his former boards jumps out of the grooves of the ship, water flows into the slot, and the ship with people and goods goes to the bottom. Here is the legend about the Dutchman Michel, and that is the true truth - all the damage in the Black Forest came from him. Yes, he can give a man wealth, but I would not take anything from him, I would not want to be in the place of Fat Ezekhil or Lanky Schlurker for anything in the world, they say that the King of Dances surrendered to him!
While the old man was talking, the storm subsided; the frightened girls lit the lamps and went off to their rooms, while the men put a sack stuffed with leaves on the bench by the stove instead of a pillow for Peter Munch and wished him good night.
Never before had Peter had such terrible dreams as on that night: it seemed to him that the huge, terrible Dutchman Michel was throwing open the windows in the upper room and with his long arm thrusting a bag of money under his nose, shaking it gently, so that the coins rattled affectionately and loudly; then he dreamed that the kind Glass Man was galloping around the room on a huge green bottle, and again he heard a hoarse chuckle, as just before on Spruce Hillock; someone buzzed into his left ear:
For gold, for gold
Swim to Holland
Gold, gold
Feel free to take it!
Then a familiar song about the Keeper of the Treasure in the spruce forest poured into his right ear, and a gentle voice whispered: “Stupid Peter the coal miner, stupid Peter Munch, you can’t find a rhyme for“ called out ”, and he was also born on Sunday, at noon sharp. Look, stupid Peter, look for a rhyme!
He grunted and groaned in his sleep, trying to find a rhyme, but since he had not yet composed poetry, all his efforts were in vain. When, with the first rays of dawn, he woke up, this dream seemed to him very strange; he sat down at the table and, crossing his arms, began to think about the words that he heard in his dream - they still sounded in his ears. "Look, stupid Peter, look for a rhyme!" he repeated to himself and tapped his forehead with his finger, but the rhyme stubbornly did not go. When he was still sitting in the same position and looking gloomily in front of him, relentlessly thinking about the rhyme to "called", three guys passed the house into the depths of the forest, and one of them sang as he walked:
From the mountain to the valley I called
Looking for you, my light.
I saw a white handkerchief -
Your farewell greetings.
Then Peter, as if struck by lightning, jumped up and ran out into the street - it seemed to him that he had not heard. Having caught up with the guys, he quickly and tenaciously grabbed the singer by the hand.
- Stop, buddy! he shouted. - What is your rhyme for "called out"? Please, tell me the words to that song!
- What else did you think of! - objected the Schwartzwalder. I am free to sing what I want! Come on, let go of my hand...
- No, you tell me what you sang! Peter shouted in rage, squeezing the guy's hand even tighter.
Seeing this, the other two immediately rushed at Peter with their fists and bludgeoned him until he let go of the sleeve of the third from pain and, exhausted, collapsed to his knees.
- Well, serve you well! The guys said laughing. - And remember in advance - with people like us, jokes are bad!
“I will, of course, remember,” replied Peter the coal miner, sighing. “But now that you’ve thrashed me anyway, be so kind as to tell me what he sang!”
They laughed again and began to mock him; but the guy who sang the song said the words to him, after which they, laughing and singing, moved on.
“So I saw it,” muttered the poor fellow; all beaten up, he struggled to his feet. - "Called" rhymes with "saw." Now, Glass Man, let's have one more word with you!
He returned to the house, took his hat and staff, said goodbye to the owners and went back to Spruce Hillock. Slowly and thoughtfully he walked his way, because he certainly had to remember the rhyme; Finally, when he was already ascending the hillock, where the firs surrounded him more and more closely and became higher and higher, the rhyme suddenly came to mind by itself, and he even jumped for joy.
Then a huge fellow in the clothes of a raftsman stepped out from behind the trees, holding in his hand a hook as long as a ship's mast. Peter Munch's legs buckled when he saw the giant walking slowly beside him, for he realized that it was none other than Michel the Dutchman. The terrible ghost walked silently, and Peter, in fear, furtively glanced at him. He was, perhaps, a head taller than the tallest man Peter had ever seen, his face, though completely pitted with wrinkles, seemed neither young nor old; he was dressed in a canvas jacket, and huge boots pulled over leather trousers were familiar to Peter from legend.
“Peter Munk, why did you come here to Spruce Hillock?” the forester finally asked in a low, muffled voice.
“Good morning, fellow countryman,” answered Peter, pretending not to be frightened at all, although in fact he was trembling all over, “I am going through Spruce Hillock to my home.
“Peter Munch,” the giant objected, throwing a terrible, piercing look at the young man, “your path does not lie through this grove.
“Well, yes, it’s not quite a straight path,” he remarked, “but it’s hot today, so I thought that it would be cooler here for me.”
- Don't lie, Peter the Coal Miner! cried the Dutchman Michel in a thunderous voice. “Otherwise, I’ll lay you down on the spot with this hook.” Do you think I didn't see you begging the dwarf for money? he added a little softer. “Let’s say it was a stupid idea, and it’s good that you forgot the rhyme, because the shorty is a tight-fisted fellow, he won’t give much, and if he gives to anyone, he won’t rejoice. You, Peter, are a wretch, and I feel sorry for you from the bottom of my heart. Such a nice, handsome fellow could do better than sit all day near the coal pit! Others keep pouring out thalers or ducats, and you can barely scrape together a few pennies. What a life!
- Your truth, life is unenviable, you can’t say anything here!
- Well, for me this is a mere trifle - I have already rescued more than one such young man from need - you are not the first. Tell me, how many hundreds of thalers will you need to get started?
Then he shook the money in his huge pocket, and it rang like that night in Peter's dream. But Peter's heart sank with alarm and pain at these words; he was thrown into the heat, then into the cold, it was not like the Dutchman Michel was able to give money out of pity, without demanding anything in return. Peter remembered the mysterious words of the old woodcutter about rich people, and, full of inexplicable fear, he shouted:
“Thank you very much, sir, but I don’t want to deal with you - because I recognized you!” - and ran as fast as he could. But the forest spirit followed him with huge steps, muttering muffledly and menacingly:
- You will regret it, Peter, it is written on your forehead and you can see in your eyes - you cannot escape me. Don't run so fast, listen to a reasonable word, this is already the border of my possessions!
But as soon as Peter heard this and noticed a narrow ditch ahead, he rushed even faster in order to cross the border as soon as possible, so that in the end Michel also had to speed up, and he chased Peter with abuse and threats. With a desperate leap, the young man jumped over the ditch - he saw how the forester lifted his hook, preparing to bring it down on Peter's head; however, he jumped safely to the other side, and the hook shattered into chips, as if hitting an invisible wall, only one long piece flew to Peter.
Triumphantly, he picked up a piece of wood to throw it back to the rude Michel, but suddenly he felt that a piece of wood came to life in his hand, and, to his horror, he saw that he was holding a monstrous snake, which reached out to him, gleaming eyes and greedily sticking out its tongue. He released it, but it managed to wrap itself tightly around his arm and, swaying, gradually approached his face. Suddenly there was a noise of wings, and a huge capercaillie flew from somewhere, he grabbed the snake by the head with his beak and soared into the air with it, and the Dutchman Michel, who saw from the other side of the ditch how the snake was carried away by someone stronger than him, howled and stomped with rage.
Barely catching his breath and still trembling all over, Peter continued on his way; the path became steeper and the terrain more and more deserted, and soon he found himself again near a huge spruce. He began, as yesterday, to bow to the Glass Man, and then said:
Keeper of the Treasure in the dense forest!
Among the green firs lies your home.
“Although you didn’t quite guess, Peter the coal miner, but I’ll show myself to you, so be it,” said a thin, gentle voice near him.
Peter looked around in amazement: under a beautiful spruce sat a little old man in a black jacket, red stockings and a huge hat. He had a thin, friendly face, and a gentle beard, as if from a cobweb, he smoked - miracles, and nothing more! - a blue glass tube, and when Peter came closer, he was even more surprised; all the clothes, shoes and hat of the Little Man were also made of glass, but it was soft, as if it had not yet had time to cool down, for it followed every movement of the Little Man and fitted him like matter.
“So you met this robber, Michel the Dutchman?” said the Little Man, coughing strangely after every word. - He wanted to scare you well, but only I took away his cunning club from the evil one, he will not get it again.
“Yes, Mr. Keeper of the Treasure,” answered Peter with a deep bow, “I was very frightened. And you, then, were the capercaillie that pecked the snake - the lowest thank you. I came here to ask you for advice and help, it’s too bad for me, coal miner, he will remain a coal miner, but I’m still young, so I thought that something better could come out of me. When I look at others, how much they have amassed in a short time - take at least Ezekhil or the King of Dances - they don’t peck money!
"Peter," said the Little Man with the utmost seriousness, blowing a long puff of smoke from his pipe. “Peter, I don’t want to hear about those two. What good is it to them that they will be considered happy here for a few years, but then they will become all the more unhappy? Do not despise your craft, your father and your grandfather were worthy people, and yet they were engaged in the same business as you, Peter Munch! I would not like to think that the love of idleness has brought you here.
The serious tone of the Little Man frightened Peter, and he blushed.
- No, Mr. Keeper of the Treasure, - he objected, - I know that idleness is the mother of all vices, but you won’t be offended by me because I like another occupation more than my own. A coal miner is the most insignificant person on earth, here are glassmakers, raftsmen, watchmakers - they will be more respectable.
“Haughtiness often precedes a fall,” the Little Man replied, a little more affably. - What kind of strange tribe are you people! Few of you are satisfied with the position you have by birth and upbringing. Well, if you become a glass maker, you will certainly want to become a timber merchant, but if you become a timber merchant, this will not be enough for you, and you will wish yourself the place of a forester or district chief. But be your way! If you promise me to work hard, I will help you, Peter, to live better. I have a habit of everyone who was born on Sunday and managed to find a way to me, to fulfill his three wishes. In the first two he is free, and in the third I can refuse him if his desire is reckless. Wish something for yourself too, Peter, but make no mistake, let it be something good and useful!
- Hooray! You are a wonderful Glass Man, and it is not for nothing that you are called the Keeper of the Treasure, you yourself are a real treasure! Well, since I can wish, what my soul asks, then I want, firstly, to be able to dance even better than the King of Dances and each time I bring twice as much money to the tavern as he!
- Fool! cried the Little Man angrily. - What an empty desire - to dance well and throw as much money as possible into the game! Aren't you ashamed, brainless Peter, to miss your happiness like that! What good will it do you and your poor mother if you dance well? What use is money to you, since you wished it for yourself only for the inn, and all of it will remain there, like the money of the insignificant King of Dances? For the rest of the week you will again be penniless and still in need. One more day, your wish will be fulfilled - but think carefully and wish yourself something sensible!
Peter scratched his head and, after a moment's hesitation, said:
“Well then, I wish for myself the biggest and most beautiful glassworks in the entire Black Forest, with everything it’s supposed to, and money to run it!”
- And nothing more? asked the Little Man anxiously. "Nothing else, Peter?"
- Well, you can add a horse and a wagon ...
- Oh, brainless Peter the coal miner! cried the Little Man, and out of vexation threw his glass pipe into the trunk of a thick spruce, so that it shattered into smithereens. - Horse! Carriage! Mind, mind - that's what you should have wished for, simple human understanding, and not a horse and a wagon! Well, do not be sad, we will try to make sure that this does not harm you - your second desire, in general, is not so stupid. A good glass factory will feed its owner, a craftsman, you just have to grab the mind, and the horse and wagon would appear by themselves!
“But, Mr. Keeper of the Treasure, I still have one more desire. So I could wish myself a mind, since I lack it so much, as you say.
- No! You will have to go through hard times more than once, and you will be glad, radekhonek, that you have one more desire in reserve. Now go home! Here, take it, - said the little lord of the fir trees, pulling a bag out of his pocket, - here are two thousand guilders, that's all, and don't try to come to me again for money, otherwise I will hang you on the highest spruce. That's how it's been with me ever since I've lived in this forest. Three days ago old Winkfritz, who owned a large glassworks in the lower forest, died. Go there tomorrow morning and offer your heirs your price, honor upon honor. Be a good fellow, work diligently, and from time to time I will visit you and help you with advice and deeds, since you have not begged your mind for yourself. But I tell you not jokingly - your first desire was bad. Look, Peter, do not try to frequent the tavern, it has not yet brought anyone to good.
Having said this, the Little Man took out a new pipe of the finest transparent glass, stuffed it with dry fir cones, and thrust it into his toothless mouth. Then he pulled out a huge burning glass, went out into the sun and lit his pipe. Having done this, he kindly extended his hand to Peter, gave him some more good advice, and then began to puff his pipe more and more and blow more smoke until he himself disappeared in a cloud of smoke that smelled of real Dutch tobacco and gradually dissipated, swirling between the tops of the fir trees.
When Peter came home, he found his mother in great anxiety - the kind woman thought that her son had been taken into the soldiers. But he returned in the best of spirits and said that he met a good friend in the forest, who lent him money so that he, Peter, would change his coal-burning trade to another, better one. Although Peter's mother had lived in a coal-burner's hut for thirty years and was accustomed to faces black with soot, as a miller's wife gets used to her husband's face white with flour, she was nevertheless vain enough that as soon as Peter painted for her a brilliant future, she was filled with contempt for one's class. “Yes,” she said, “the mother of the owner of the glassworks is not some gossip Greta or Beta, now in church I will sit on the front pews where decent people sit.”
Her son quickly got along with the heirs of the glass factory. He left all the old workers, but now they had to blow glass for him day and night. At first, he was fine with the new business. He took up the habit of slowly going down to the factory and it was important to walk around there with his hands in his pockets, looking here and there and making remarks at which the workers sometimes made fun; but his greatest pleasure was to watch glass being blown. Often he also set to work and made the most outlandish figures out of the soft mass of glass. But soon this occupation bored him, and he began to go to the factory at first only for an hour, then every other day, and there once a week, and his apprentices did whatever they pleased. And the reason for this was that Peter frequented the tavern. On the very first Sunday after he visited Spruce Hillock, Peter went to a tavern and saw his old acquaintances there - and the King of Dances, who famously danced in the middle of the hall, and Fat Ezekhil - this one was sitting at a beer mug and playing dice, then and throwing ringing thalers on the table. Peter hurriedly put his hand in his pocket to check if the Glass Man had deceived him - and look! His pocket was full of gold and silver coins. Yes, and his legs itched as if they were asking to dance, and so, as soon as the first dance was over, Peter and his partner stood in front, next to the King of Dances, and when he jumped three feet up, Peter flew up four, when he threw out the most intricate and unprecedented knees, Peter wrote out such monograms with his feet that the audience was beside himself with amazement and delight. When they heard in the tavern that Peter had bought a glassworks, and saw that when he caught up with the musicians during the dance, he each time threw them several kreuzers, there was no bounds to surprise. Some thought that he had found a treasure in the forest, others that he had received an inheritance, but both of them now looked at him as a person who had achieved something in life, and showed him every respect - and all because he got money. And although Peter had lost a whole twenty guilders that evening, his pocket still rang as if there were a good hundred thalers left.
When Peter noticed how respectfully he was being treated, he completely lost his head with joy and pride. He now threw handfuls of money and generously distributed it to the poor, for he had not yet forgotten how he himself had been oppressed by poverty before. The art of the King of Dances was put to shame by the supernatural dexterity of the new dancer, and this high title passed from now on to Peter.
The most inveterate Sunday players did not make such bold bets as he did, but they also lost much less. However, the more Peter lost, the more money he had. Everything happened exactly as he demanded of the Glass Man. He always wanted to have exactly as much money in his pocket as Fat Ezekhil had, and he lost to him. And when he happened to lose twenty or thirty guilders at once, they immediately turned out to be in his pocket again, as soon as Ezekiel had to hide his winnings. Little by little he outdid the most infamous guys in all the Black Forest in the game and revelry, and he was more often called Peter the player than the King of the Dances, because now he played on weekdays. But his glass factory gradually fell into decay, and Peter's unreason was to blame. More and more glasses were made on his orders, but Peter, together with the factory, did not manage to buy a secret where this glass could be sold more profitably. In the end, he did not know what to do with all this goods, and sold it at half price to itinerant merchants to pay the wages of the workers.
One evening he trudged home from the tavern, and although he drank a lot to dispel his sadness, he still thought with anguish and fear of the ruin that lay ahead of him. Suddenly he noticed that someone was walking next to him, looked around - here you are! It was the Glass Man. Anger and rage seized Peter, he began to vehemently and impudently scold the little forest man - he is to blame for all his, Peter's, misfortunes.
What do I need a horse and cart for now? he shouted. “What use is a factory and all my glass to me?” When I was a simple grimy coal miner, even then I had more fun, and I did not know worries. And now I expect from day to day that the district chief will come, describe my property for debts and sell it at auction.
- So this is how it is? So it's my fault that you're unhappy? Is that your gratitude for all my favors? Who told you to make such stupid wishes? You wanted to become a glassmaker, but you had no idea where to sell glass. Didn't I warn you to be careful what you wish for? Mind, ingenuity - that's what you lack, Peter.
- Where does the mind and ingenuity! he cried. “I'm no more stupid than the others, you'll see it later, Glass Man. - With these words, he roughly grabbed the woodsman by the collar and shouted: - Gotcha, Mr. Keeper of the Treasure! Today I will name my third desire, and you please let me fulfill it. So, I want to immediately receive on the spot twice a hundred thousand thalers and a house, and on top of that ... oh-oh-oh! he yelled and twitched his hand: the Glass Man turned into molten glass and burned his hand with fire. And the Man himself disappeared without a trace.
Many days later, Peter's swollen hand reminded him of his ingratitude and recklessness. But then he drowned out the voice of conscience in himself and thought: “Well, let them sell my factory and everything else, because I still have Fat Ezekhil. As long as he has money in his pocket on Sundays, I will have it too.
That's right, Peter! Well, how can he not have them? So in the end it happened, and it was an amazing arithmetical incident. One Sunday he drove up to the tavern, all the curious people were leaning out of the windows, and now one says: “Peter the player has rolled”, the other echoes him: “Yes, the King of Dances, a rich glassmaker”, and the third shook his head and said: “There was wealth , yes floated; they say that he has a lot of debts, and in the city one person said that the district chief was about to call an auction.
Peter the rich man solemnly and ceremoniously bowed to the guests, got down from the wagon and shouted:
- Good evening, master! What, is Fat Ezekiel already here?
- Come in, come in, Peter! Your place is free, and we have already sat down at the cards.
Peter Munch entered the tavern and immediately reached into his pocket: Ezekiel must have had a hefty sum of money with him, because Peter's pocket was stuffed to the brim. He sat down at the table with the others and began to play; then he lost, then he won, and so they sat at the card table until the evening, until all the honest people began to go home, and they all continued to play by candlelight; then two other players said:
“That’s enough for today, it’s time for us to go home to our wife and children.”
However, Peter the Player began to persuade Fat Ezekhil to stay. He did not agree for a long time, but at the end he exclaimed:
- Well, now I will count my money, and then we will roll the dice; rate - five guilders; less is not a game.
He pulled out his purse and counted the money - exactly one hundred guilders had accumulated, so Peter the gambler knew how much he had - he didn’t even have to count. However, if earlier Ezekhil won, now he was losing bet after bet and at the same time poured terrible curses. As soon as he rolled the die, Peter followed him, and each time he had two more points. Finally, Ezekiel laid out the last five guilders on the table and exclaimed:
- I'll try again, but if I lose again, I still won't quit; then you, Peter, will lend me out of your winnings! An honest person always helps his neighbor.
- If you please, at least a hundred guilders, - answered the King of Dances, who could not get enough of his luck.
Fat Ezekiel shook the dice and rolled: fifteen. "So! he shouted. “Now let’s see what you have!” But Peter rolled eighteen, and then a familiar hoarse voice came from behind him: “That's it! It was the last bet."
He looked back - behind him in all his huge growth was the Dutchman Michel. Out of fright, Peter dropped the money he had just scooped off the table. But Fat Ezekhil did not see Michel and demanded ten guilders from Peter the player to win back. As if in oblivion, he reached into his pocket, but the money was not there; he began to shake his caftan, but not a single heller fell out of it, and only now Peter remembered his first desire - to always have as much money as Fat Ezekhil had. Wealth dissipated like smoke. Ezekhil and the innkeeper watched in surprise as he rummaged through his pockets and did not find money - they could not believe that he no longer had them; but when they themselves searched his pockets and found nothing, they fell into a rage and began to shout that Peter was a sorcerer, that he had sent all the winnings and the rest of his money home by witchcraft. Peter defended himself staunchly, but everything was against him; Ezekhil announced that he would spread this terrible story throughout the Black Forest, and the innkeeper threatened to go to the city at dawn tomorrow and claim Peter Munch as a sorcerer; he hopes to see, added the innkeeper, how Peter will be burned. Then, furious, they attacked Peter, tore off his caftan and pushed him out the door.
Not a single star burned in the sky when Peter, in complete despondency, wandered home; however, he still distinguished a gloomy giant next to him, who did not lag behind him a single step and finally spoke:
- You played it out, Peter Munch. The end of your lordly life, I could have predicted this even when you did not want to know me and ran to the stupid glass gnome. Now you yourself see what happens to those who do not listen to my advice. Well, now try your luck with me - I feel sorry for you. No one has yet repented of having approached me. So, if the road does not frighten you, tomorrow I will be on Spruce Hillock all day - you just have to call.
Peter perfectly understood who was talking to him, but he was terrified. Without answering, he rushed to run to the house.
At these words, the narrator's speech was interrupted by some fuss below. One could hear how the carriage drove up, how several people demanded to bring a lantern, how loudly they knocked on the gate, how dogs barked. The room reserved for the driver and the artisans overlooked the road, and all four of the guests ran there to see what had happened. As far as the light of the lantern allowed, they made out a large dormez in front of the driving yard; a tall man was just helping two veiled ladies out of the carriage; the coachman in livery unharnessed the horses, and the footman unfastened the wardrobe trunk.
“God help them,” sighed the driver. “If these gentlemen get out of the tavern safe and sound, then I have nothing to fear for my wagon.
- Shh! the student whispered. - It seems to me that they are not waiting for us, but these ladies. It must be that those downstairs already knew about their arrival in advance. Oh, if only they could be warned! Ah, I know! There is only one room in the whole house besides mine, befitting these ladies, and right next to mine. They are led there. Sit in this room and make no noise, while I will try to warn their servants.
The young man quietly made his way to his room, extinguished the candles, leaving only the cinder that the hostess had given to burn. Then he began to eavesdrop at the door.
Soon the hostess escorted the ladies upstairs, indicated the room allotted to them, friendly and affectionately persuading them to go to bed as soon as possible after such a tiring journey. Then she went downstairs. Soon the student heard heavy man steps. He carefully opened the door and saw through the crack that tall man who was helping the ladies out of the dormez. He was in a hunting suit, with a hunting knife in his belt, and, apparently, he was the master of the horse or the huntsman, the visiting lackey of two unknown ladies. Seeing him coming up the stairs alone, the student quickly opened the door and beckoned him over. He came closer in bewilderment, but before he had time to ask what was the matter, the student said to him in a whisper:
- Dear sir, you ended up in a robber's den.
The stranger was scared. The student pulled him into the room and told him what a suspicious house it was.
The huntsman was very disturbed by his words. The student heard from him that the ladies - the countess and her maid - at first wanted to ride all night, but about half an hour from here they met a horseman, he called them and asked where they were going. Having learned that they intended to drive all night through the Spessart forest, he advised them not to do this, because now they are playing pranks here. “If you want to listen to good advice,” he added, “then give up this idea: it’s not far from here to the tavern, no matter how bad and inconvenient it may be, it’s better to spend the night there, you shouldn’t unnecessarily expose yourself to danger on a dark night.” The man who gave such advice seemed, according to the huntsman, very honest and noble, and the countess, fearing an attack by robbers, ordered to spend the night in this tavern.
The huntsman considered it his duty to warn the ladies of the impending danger. He went into an adjoining room and after a while opened the door that led from the Countess's room to the student's room. The countess, a lady of about forty, pale with fear, went out to the student and asked him to repeat everything he had said to the huntsman. Then they consulted what to do in their perilous position, and decided to call as carefully as possible the two servants of the countess, the driver and both artisans, so that in case of an attack they all stick together.
When everyone was assembled, the door that led from the countess's room to the corridor was locked and forced with chests of drawers and chairs. The countess and the maid sat down on the bed, and two of their servants stood guard. And the huntsman and those who had stopped at the inn earlier, in anticipation of the attack, were placed at the table in the student's room. It was about ten in the evening, everything was quiet in the house, and it seemed that no one was going to disturb the peace of the guests.
– In order not to fall asleep, let's do the same as before, – suggested the master. “We told different stories, and if you don’t mind, sir, we’ll do the same now.”
But the huntsman not only did not object, but even, in order to prove his readiness, offered to tell something himself. He started like this:
Cold heart
Part two
When on Monday morning Peter came to his factory, he found there not only workers, but also other people whose appearance would not please anyone. They were the district chief and three bailiffs. The boss wished Peter good morning, asked how he slept, and then unfolded a long list of Peter's creditors.
– Can you pay or not? he asked sternly. - And, please, live it up, I have no time to tinker with you - it’s a good three hours’ walk to the prison.
Here Peter completely lost heart: he confessed that he had no money, and allowed the chief and his people to describe the house and the estate, the factory and the stable, the wagon and the horses, but while the district chief and his assistants walked around, examining and evaluating his property, he thought: "It's not far from Spruce Hillock, if the little forest man did not help me, I'll try my luck with the big one." And he rushed to Spruce Hillock, and with such speed, as if the bailiffs were chasing him on the heels.
When he ran past the place where he first spoke with the Glass Man, it seemed to him as if some invisible hand was holding him, but he broke free and rushed on, to the very border, which he had a good look at, and before he could, out of breath, call: “Dutch Michel! Mr. Dutchman Michel! ”, - how a giant raftsman with his hook appeared in front of him.
“He came,” he said, laughing. “Otherwise they would have skinned them and sold them to creditors!” Well, don't worry, all your troubles, as I said, came from the Glass Man, this proud and hypocrite. Well, if you give, then with a generous hand, and not like this skvalyga. Let's go, - he said and moved into the depths of the forest. “Let’s go to my house, and we’ll see if we run into you or not.”
"How do we 'collide'? Peter thought anxiously. - What can he demand from me, do I have goods for him? Will he force himself to serve or something else?
They walked up a steep path and soon found themselves near a gloomy deep gorge with sheer walls. Michel the Dutchman ran lightly down the rock as if it were a smooth marble staircase; but here Peter almost fainted: he saw how Mikhel, having stepped to the bottom of the gorge, became as tall as a bell tower; the giant held out his hand, the length of an oar, opened his hand, the width of a tavern table, and exclaimed:
- Sit on my palm and grab your fingers tighter - don't be afraid - you won't fall!
Trembling with fear, Peter did as he was told - he sat down on Michel's palm and grabbed his thumb.
They descended deeper and deeper, but, to Peter's great surprise, it did not get darker; on the contrary, the daylight in the gorge seemed to become even brighter, so that it hurt the eyes. The lower they descended, the smaller Mikhel became, and now he stood in his former appearance in front of the house - the most ordinary house of a wealthy Black Forest peasant. The room into which Mikhel led Peter was also in every way like the rooms of other owners, except that it seemed somehow uncomfortable. The wooden cuckoo clock, the huge tiled stove, the wide benches along the walls and the utensils on the shelves were the same here as everywhere else. Mikhel showed the guest a place at a large table, and he himself went out and soon returned with a jug of wine and glasses. He poured wine for himself and Peter, and they began to talk; The Dutchman Michel began to describe to Peter the joys of life, foreign countries, cities and rivers, so that in the end he passionately wanted to see all this, which he confessed honestly to the Dutchman.
“Even if you are brave in spirit and strong in body to start big things, but after all, it’s worth your stupid heart to beat faster than usual, and you will tremble; well, and insults to honor, misfortunes - why should a smart guy worry about such trifles? Did your head hurt from resentment when you were called a swindler and a scoundrel the other day? Did you have pains in your stomach when the district chief came to throw you out of the house? So tell me what hurts you?
“Heart,” answered Peter, pressing his hand to his agitated chest: at that moment it seemed to him that his heart was somehow timidly rushing about.
- Do not be offended, but you have thrown more than one hundred guilders to lousy beggars and other rabble, but what's the point? They invoked God's blessing on you, wished you good health, so what? Did it make you healthier? Half of that money would be enough to keep a doctor around. God's blessing - there's nothing to say, a blessing when they describe your property, but they themselves are driven out into the street! And what made you reach into your pocket as soon as the beggar held out his tattered hat to you? The heart, again the heart - not eyes and not tongue, not hands and not legs, but only the heart - you, as they say, took everything too close to your heart.
“But is it possible to wean ourselves from this?” And now - no matter how I try to drown out my heart, it throbs and hurts.
- Yes, where are you, poor fellow, to deal with him! – with laughter exclaimed the Dutchman Michel. - And you give me this useless little thing, you will see how easy it will become for you right away.
- Give you my heart? Peter exclaimed in horror. "But then I'll die immediately!" Never!
- Yes, of course, if one of your gentlemen surgeons decided to cut out your heart, you would die on the spot, but I do it in a completely different way - come here, see for yourself.
With these words, he stood up, opened the door to the next room and invited Peter to enter. The young man's heart convulsively contracted as soon as he crossed the threshold, but he did not pay attention to it, so unusual and amazing was what was revealed to his eyes. On the wooden shelves stood rows of flasks filled with a clear liquid, each containing someone's heart; all the flasks were labeled with names, and Peter read them with curiosity. He found there the heart of the county chief from F., the heart of Fat Ezechil, the heart of the King of Dances, the heart of the chief forester; there were also six hearts of grain buyers; eight hearts of recruiting officers, three hearts of usurers - in short, it was a collection of the most respectable hearts from all cities and villages for a twenty-hour journey around.
- Look! All these people have done away with worldly worries and anxieties, none of these hearts is no longer beating anxiously and anxiously, and their former owners feel great having put a restless tenant out the door.
“But what do they have now instead of a heart?” asked Peter, whose head was spinning from everything he saw.
“And this one,” answered the Dutchman Michel; he reached into the box and handed it to Peter
stone heart.
- That's it! - he was amazed, unable to resist the trembling that permeated his entire body. - A heart of marble? But listen, Mr. Michel, after all, from such a heart in the chest it must be oh-oh, how cold?
“Of course, but this cold is pleasant. And why does a man have a warm heart? In winter, it will not warm you - a good cherry liqueur is hotter than the hottest heart, and in summer, when everyone is languishing from the heat, you won’t believe how cool such a heart gives. And, as I said, neither anxiety, nor fear, nor stupid compassion, nor any other sorrows will reach this heart.
"Is that all you can give me?" Peter asked in annoyance. - I was hoping to get money, and you offer me a stone.
“Well, I think a hundred thousand guilders will be enough for you at first. If you give them a reasonable use, you will soon become a millionaire.
- One hundred thousand? cried the poor collier in delight. – Yes stop you, heart, so madly beating in my chest! We'll say goodbye soon. Okay, Michel! Give me a stone and money and, so be it, take this beater out of the cage!
- I knew that you were a guy with a head, - the Dutchman answered, smiling affectionately, - let's go have another glass, and then I will count the money for you.
They sat down again at the table in the upper room and drank and drank until Peter fell into a deep sleep.
Peter the coal miner woke up from the cheerful trill of the mail horn and - look! - he was sitting in a luxurious carriage and rolling along a wide road, and when he leaned out of the window, he saw behind him, in a blue haze, the outlines of the Black Forest. At first, he could not believe that it was he, and not someone else, who was sitting in the carriage. For his dress, too, was not at all what it was yesterday; however, he so clearly remembered everything that happened to him that in the end he stopped racking his brains and exclaimed: “And there’s nothing to think about - it’s me, Peter the coal miner, and no one else!”
He was surprised at himself that he was not at all sad when he left his native quiet land for the first time, the forests where he had lived for so long, and that, even remembering his mother, who was now left orphaned, without a piece of bread, he could not squeeze a single tear from his eyes, not a single breath from the chest; for everything was now equally indifferent to him. “Oh yes,” he recalled, “after all, tears and sighs, homesickness and sadness come from the heart, and now I have – thanks to the Dutchman Michel – a cold heart made of stone.”
He put his hand to his chest, but everything was quiet there, nothing moved. "I'll be glad if he kept his word about the hundred thousand guilders as he did about the heart," he thought, and began to search the carriage. He found every dress he could dream of, but the money was nowhere to be found. Finally he stumbled upon a bag containing many thousands of thalers of gold and checks for trading houses in all the big cities. “So my wishes have come true,” thought Peter, sitting comfortably in the corner of the carriage and rushing off to distant lands.
For two years he traveled around the world, looked from the window of the carriage to the right and left, glanced at the houses he passed, and when he stopped, he noticed only the sign of his hotel, then he ran around the city, where he was shown various sights. But nothing pleased him - no pictures, no buildings, no music, no dancing; he had a heart of stone, indifferent to everything, and his eyes and ears had forgotten how to perceive beauty. The only joy left for him was to eat and drink and sleep; so he lived, roaming the world aimlessly, eating for fun, sleeping out of boredom. From time to time, however, he recalled that he was, perhaps, happier and happier when he lived in poverty and was forced to work in order to feed himself. Then he enjoyed the sight of a beautiful valley, music and dancing, and he could rejoice for hours in anticipation of the simple food that his mother brought him to the coal pit. And when he thought about the past like this, it seemed incredible to him that now he was not even able to laugh, and before that he had laughed at the most trifling joke. Now, when others laughed, he only twisted his mouth out of politeness, but his heart was not amused at all. He felt how calm his soul was, but still he was not pleased. But it was not homesickness and not sadness, but boredom, emptiness, a joyless life that finally drove him home.
When he left Strasbourg and saw his native forest, darkening in the distance, when tall Schwarzwalders with friendly open faces began to meet him again, when a loud, guttural, but euphonious native speech reached his ears, he involuntarily clutched his heart; for the blood in his veins ran faster and he was ready to rejoice and cry at the same time - but what a fool! - His heart was made of stone. And the stones are dead, they don't laugh or cry.
First of all, he went to the Dutchman Michel, who received him with the same cordiality.
“Mikhel,” Peter told him, “I have traveled the world, seen a lot, but all this is nonsense and only bored me. True, your stone thing, which I carry in my chest, protects me from many things. I never get angry or sad, but on the other hand, I live, as it were, by half. Could you revive this stone heart a little? Better yet, give me back my old one! In my twenty-five years, I got used to it, and if it ever did stupid things, it still had an honest and cheerful heart.
The forest spirit laughed bitterly and evilly.
“When you die in due time, Peter Munch,” he answered, “it will certainly return to you; then you will regain your soft, responsive heart and feel what awaits you - joy or torment! But here on earth, it will no longer be yours. Yes, Peter, you traveled to your heart's content, but the life you led could not benefit you. Settle down somewhere in the local forests, build yourself a house, get married, put your money into circulation - you lack a real business, you are bored from idleness, and you blame everything on an innocent heart.
Peter realized that Michel was right in speaking of idleness, and set out to increase his wealth. Michel gave him another hundred thousand guilders and parted from him as a good friend.
Soon a rumor spread in the Black Forest that Peter the coal miner, or Peter the gambler, had returned from distant lands, and now he was much richer than before. And this time everything went on as it has long been done: as soon as Peter was left without a penny, he was pushed out of the "Sun", and now, as soon as he appeared there again on the very first Sunday evening, everyone began vying with each other to shake his hand, to praise his horse , inquire about travels, and when he sat down to play ringing thalers with Fat Ezechil, he was looked at with even more respect than before.
However, now he began to engage not in the glass business, but in the timber trade, however, only for show. His main occupation was the buying and resale of grain and usury. Little by little, half of the Black Forest became indebted to him, but he only lent money at ten per cent, or forced the poor to buy grain from him at exorbitant prices if they could not pay it off at once. He was now in close friendship with the district chief, and if someone could not pay the debt to Mr. Peter Munch on time, the chief with his henchmen galloped to the debtor, appraised the house and household, sold everything in an instant, and kicked out father, mother and children for everything four sides. At first, this gave Peter the rich some displeasure, because the unfortunate poor, having lost their homes, besieged his house: men prayed for indulgence, women tried to soften their stony heart, and children cried, begging for a piece of bread. But when he got himself ferocious shepherd dogs, the "cat concerts", as he called them, immediately stopped. He urged the dogs on the beggars, and they ran away screaming. The "old woman" annoyed him most of all. And it was none other than old Munkich, Peter's mother. She fell into poverty when her house and yard were sold under the hammer, and her son, returning home rich, did not even remember her. So from time to time she would drop by his yard, old, infirm, with a stick. She did not dare to enter the house, because once he kicked her out, but she suffered greatly because she was forced to live on alms from strangers, while her own son could have prepared for her a comfortable old age. However, a cold heart remained indifferent at the sight of a familiar withered face, pleading eyes, an outstretched withered hand, a bent figure. On Saturdays, when she knocked on his door, he grumbled and took out a small coin, wrapped it in a piece of paper and sent it to her with a servant. He heard how she thanked him in a trembling voice and wished him well, how, groaning, she wandered away, but at that moment he was only interested in one thing: that he had wasted six more batzens.
Finally, Peter got the idea to get married. He knew that any father in the Black Forest would willingly give his daughter for him, and he was picky: he wanted people to marvel at his intelligence and happiness in this case too. That is why he traveled all over the region, looking into all corners, but not one of his beautiful countrywomen was good enough for him. Finally, after Peter went around all the dance halls in a vain search for the most beautiful beauty, he once heard that the most beautiful and virtuous girl in all the Black Forest was the daughter of a poor woodcutter. She lives quietly and secludedly, diligently and sensibly manages the household in her father's house, and she never goes to dances, even on Trinity Day or on a temple holiday. As soon as Peter heard about this Black Forest miracle, he decided to ask for the girl's hand and went to her father, whose house he was shown. The father of the beautiful Lizbeth was not a little surprised that such an important gentleman had come to him, he was even more surprised when he heard that this was none other than Peter the rich man, who now wanted to become his son-in-law. He did not think for a long time, because now, he believed, poverty and worries were over, and without asking Lisbeth, he gave his consent, and the kind girl was so obedient that, without contradiction, she became Mrs. Munch.
But the life of the poor thing did not go at all as she dreamed and hoped. It seemed to her that she managed the household well, but there was nothing to please Mr. Peter. She felt sorry for the poor, and since her husband was rich, she saw no sin in giving a pfennig to a poor beggar woman or offering a glass to an old man. However, when Mr. Peter noticed this, he fixed her with an angry look and said in a menacing voice:
“Why are you distributing my goods to vagabonds and ragamuffins?” Have you brought with you a dowry that you can give away? Your father's beggar's staff can't even heat the stove, and you're throwing money around like a princess. Look, I'll catch you again, give you a good whip!
The beautiful Lisbeth wept secretly in her room, suffering from her husband's hardness of heart, and she often thought that it would be better for her to find herself again at home, in her father's squalid dwelling, than to live in the mansions of the rich but hardhearted Peter. Oh, if she knew that his heart was made of marble and he could not love anyone - neither her nor any other person on earth - she would certainly not be surprised! But she didn't know that. And so, it used to be that she was sitting on her porch, and a beggar was walking by, taking off his hat and turning on his song - so she screwed up her eyes so as not to pity his sad look, and clenched her hand into a fist so as not to accidentally put it in her pocket and do not pull out a coin from there. That is why a bad reputation went about her throughout the Black Forest: the beautiful Lisbeth de is even greedier than her husband.
One fine day Lisbeth was sitting in the yard at the spinning wheel and humming a little song; her heart was gratifying, because it was a fine day and Peter had gone hunting. And then she sees that a decrepit old man is wandering along the road, bending under the weight of a large bag - she could even hear him groaning from afar. Lisbeth looks at him sympathetically and thinks to herself that it is not right to load such a load on such a small old man. Meanwhile, the old man, groaning, comes closer and, having caught up with Lisbeth, almost falls down from exhaustion.
“Oh, take pity, hostess, let me drink,” the old man said, “my urine is gone!”
“At your age, you can’t carry such weights,” Lisbeth said.
“Yes, here the need makes the back bend, it is necessary to feed,” the old man answered. “Ah, how can a rich woman like you know how bitter poverty is and how refreshing a sip of water in such a heat!”
Hearing this, Lisbeth ran to the kitchen, grabbed a jug from the shelf and poured water into it, but when she carried his old man and, before reaching him a few steps, she saw how he was sitting on a bag, exhausted, unhappy, pity pierced her, she she realized that her husband was not at home, and therefore put the jug aside, took a glass, filled it with wine, put a hefty piece of rye bread on top and served it to the old man with the words:
- A sip of wine will give you more strength than water - you are already so old. Just drink slowly and eat bread.
The man looked at Lisbeth in surprise, the old eyes filled with tears; he drank wine and said:
“I am already old, but I have met few people in my life who would be so kind and so generously and heartily did alms as you, Mistress Lisbeth. But for this you will be granted prosperity - such a heart will not remain without a reward.
“She won’t stay, and she will receive the reward on the spot,” a terrible voice suddenly rang out; when they turned around, they saw behind them Peter with his face burning with anger. “So you squander my best wine on the poor, and let vagabonds drink from my glass?” Well, here's your reward!
Lizbeth fell at his feet and began to ask for forgiveness, but the stone heart did not know pity, - Peter threw a whip in his hand and with an ebony handle grabbed his beautiful wife on the head with such force that she fell lifeless into the hands of the old man. When Peter saw this, he seemed to immediately repent of his deed and leaned over to see if Lizbeth was still alive, but then the little man spoke in a voice well known to Peter:
“Don’t bother, Peter the coal miner, it was the most beautiful, most delicate flower of the Black Forest, but you trampled it down, and it won’t bloom again.
Then all the blood drained from Peter's face.
“Ah, is that you, Mr. Keeper of the Treasure?” - he said. “Well, you can’t take back what’s been done, so it was written in her birth.” I just hope you don't denounce me as a murderer?
- Unfortunate! answered the Glass Man. “What use will it be to me if I send your mortal shell to the gallows!” You should not be afraid of an earthly court, but of a different and more severe one, for you have sold your soul to an evil force!
“If I sold my heart,” cried Peter, “then who is to blame for this, if not you with your deceitful treasures!” It was you, the evil spirit, who led me to death, you forced me to seek help from that other one - and you are responsible for everything!
But before he could say those words, the Glass Man began to grow and swell, his eyes were like soup bowls, and his mouth was like the mouth of an oven, from which flames burst.
Peter threw himself on his knees, and though he had a heart of stone, he trembled like a blade of grass. The forester dug into the back of his head with hawk claws, picked him up and whirled him in the air, like a whirlwind whirling a dry leaf, and threw him to the ground so that his bones cracked.
- Worm! he shouted in a thunderous voice. “I could crush you if I wanted to, for you have offended the Lord of the Forest. But for the sake of the deceased, who fed and watered me, I give you a week's time. If you do not turn to good, I will come and grind you to powder, and you will die without repentance!
It was already late in the evening when several people, passing by, saw Peter the rich man, sprawled on the ground with no memory. They began to turn and turn it over, trying to awaken it to life, but for a long time all their efforts were in vain. Finally, one of them went into the house, brought water and splashed it in his face. Here Peter took a deep breath, groaned and opened his eyes; he looked around for a long time, and then asked where his wife, Lisbeth, was, but no one saw her. He thanked the people for their help, wandered into his house and began looking everywhere for her, but Lizbeth was nowhere to be found - neither in the cellar nor in the attic: what he considered a terrible dream turned out to be a sad reality. Now, when he was left alone, strange thoughts began to visit him: he was not afraid of anything, for his heart was cold, as soon as he thought about the death of his wife, he began to think about his own death - about how burdened he would leave he is this world - burdened with the tears of the poor, their thousand-fold curses that could not soften his hearts; the weeping of the unfortunate whom he poisoned with dogs; burdened by the silent despair of his mother, the blood of the beautiful and kind Lisbeth; what will he answer her old father when he comes to him and asks: “Where is my daughter, your wife?” And how will he answer to another, to the one who owns all the forests, all the seas, all the mountains and human lives?
This tormented him and at night in his sleep, he woke up every minute from a gentle voice that called to him: “Peter, get yourself a living heart!” And when he woke up, he hastened to close his eyes again, for he recognized the voice that warned him in his dream - it was the voice of Lisbeth. The next day he went to a tavern to dispel his gloomy thoughts, and found Fatty Ezekhil there. Peter sat next to him, they talked about this and that: about good weather, about the war, about taxes and, finally, about death, about how somewhere someone suddenly died. Then Peter asked the Fat Man what he thought about death in general and what, in his opinion, would follow it. Ezekiel told him that the body would be buried, and the soul would either ascend to heaven or descend into hell.
- So, the heart will also be buried? Peter asked anxiously.
“Of course, he will be buried too.
“Well, what if a person no longer has a heart?” Peter continued.
Hearing this, Ezekiel stared at him in fear.
– What do you mean by that? Are you making fun of me? Do you think I don't have a heart?
“Oh, you have a heart, and a wonderful one, hard as a stone,” replied Peter.
Ezechiel widened his eyes at him, looked around to see if anyone could hear them, and said:
- How do you know? Maybe your heart is no longer beating?
“No, it doesn’t, at least not in my chest,” replied Peter Munch. “But tell me—now you know what I'm talking about—what will become of our hearts?
“What’s wrong with you, buddy?” Ezekiel asked laughing. - In this world you live in clover, well, it will be with you. That's why our cold hearts are good, that from such thoughts we are not a bit afraid.
- What is true is true, but thoughts are creeping into my head. And if I now do not know fear, I remember well how terribly afraid of hellish torments when I was still a naive little boy.
“Well, we can’t expect anything good,” said Ezekhil. - Once I asked a teacher about this, he said that after our death, the hearts will be weighed - whether the severity of sins is great. Light hearts will fly up, heavy ones will fall down; I think our stones will pull a lot.
“Yes, of course,” Peter replied. “But I myself often feel uncomfortable because my heart remains so indifferent and indifferent when I think about such things.
So they spoke; however, five or six times that same night, Peter heard a familiar voice whisper in his ear, “Peter, get yourself a living heart!” He did not feel remorse for having killed his wife, but when he told the servants that she had left, he himself always thought: “Where could she have gone?” So six days passed; at night he invariably heard the same voice and kept thinking about the little forester and his terrible menace; but on the seventh morning he jumped out of bed and exclaimed: "Well, I'll go and try to get myself a living heart, a dead stone in my chest makes my life boring and meaningless." He hurriedly put on his Sunday dress, mounted his horse, and galloped to Spruce Hillock. Having reached that place on Spruce Hillock, where the fir trees were especially dense, he dismounted, tied his horse, hurriedly walked towards a thick spruce and, standing in front of it, uttered a spell:
Keeper of the Treasure in the dense forest!
Among the green firs lies your home.
I always called to you with hope,
Who saw the light on Sunday.
And the Glass Man appeared, but not as friendly and affectionate as before, but gloomy and sad; he was wearing a frock coat of black glass, and a long mourning veil descended from his hat, and Peter immediately understood for whom he had put on mourning.
– What do you want from me, Peter Munch? he asked in a hollow voice.
“I have one more wish, Mr. Keeper of the Treasure,” replied Peter, without looking up.
– Can stone hearts wish? asked the Little Man. “You have everything that your bad temper demanded, and I can hardly fulfill your desire.
“But you gave me three wishes; I still have one left.
“And yet I can refuse you if it’s stupid,” continued the forester, “but say, listen, what you want.
“Then take the dead stone out of my chest and give me my living heart!” Peter said.
Did I make this deal with you? asked the Glass Man. – And am I Dutch Michel, who gives wealth along with a heart of stone? There, with him, look for your heart.
Oh, he will never give it back to me! Peter replied.
“I feel sorry for you, even though you are a scoundrel,” said the Little Man after some thought. “But since your desire is not stupid, I cannot refuse you at all and leave you without any help. So, listen: you won’t return your heart by force, but by cunning - perhaps, and perhaps even without much difficulty, because Mikhel was and remains a stupid Mikhel, even though he considers himself a great clever man. Go straight to him and do as I tell you.
He taught Peter how to behave and gave him a cross made of the most transparent glass.
“He won’t be able to deprive you of your life and will set you free if you stick this cross under his nose and pray at the same time. And as soon as you get from him what you wanted, come back to me, to the same place.
Peter Munch took the cross, tried to memorize all the Little Man's instructions well and went further, to the possessions of the Dutchman Michel. He called his name three times, and the giant immediately appeared.
- Did you kill your wife? he asked with a terrible laugh. “I would have done the same, she gave away your property to the poor. But you will have to leave for a while - they will look for her, they will not find her, and a noise will rise; so you really need money, that's what you came for?
“You guessed right,” Peter replied. - Only this time we need more money - America is far away.
Mikhel went ahead and brought him to his house; there he opened a chest full of money, and began to take out whole columns of gold coins. While he was counting out the money to Peter, he said:
“And you, Mikhel, are an empty talk!” You deftly tricked me - you said that I had a stone in my chest, and my heart, they say, is with you!
– Isn't that so? Michel was surprised. - Can you hear your heart? Isn't yours cold as ice? Do you feel fear or grief or are you able to repent of something?
“You just stopped my heart, but it’s still in my chest, and Ezekhil’s too, he told me that you fooled us, where can you take a heart out of a person’s chest, and even so that he doesn’t I felt you had to be a magician to do this.
“I assure you,” Mikhel exclaimed irritably, “Ezekhil and all those who received wealth from me have the same hearts of stone as yours, and your real ones are kept here in my room.
- Well, you are much more likely to lie! Peter laughed. “You tell someone else!” Do you think I didn't see strange things when I traveled? The hearts you have in your room are artificial, made of wax. You are rich, no doubt, but you do not know how to conjure.
Then the giant got angry and flung open the door to the room.
- Come on, come in and read the labels; yonder in that bottle is the heart of Peter Munch, look how it trembles. Can wax move?
“And yet it is made of wax,” replied Peter. “A real heart doesn’t beat like that at all, mine is still in my chest. No, you can't spell.
- Okay, I'll prove it to you now! Michel shouted angrily. “You yourself will feel that this is your heart.
He took Peter's heart, opened his jacket, took out a stone from his chest and showed it to him. Then he breathed on his heart and carefully put it back in place. Peter immediately felt how it beat, and was delighted - he could rejoice again!
- Well, are you sure? Michel asked smiling.
"Yes, you're right," replied Peter, carefully pulling a cross out of his pocket. “I would never have believed that such miracles could be done!”
- Right? As you can see, I can conjure. Well, now let me put your stone back in for you.
Quietly, Mr. Michel! shouted Peter, taking a step back and holding the cross in front of him. - The fish is hooked. This time you are the fool! And he began to read the prayers that he could remember.
Here Mikhel began to decrease - he became lower and lower, then crawled along the floor, wriggling like a worm, groaning and groaning, and the hearts around were beating and pounding like a clock in a watchmaker's workshop. Peter was frightened, terrified, and he rushed out of the room, out of the house; beside himself with fear, he climbed up the rock, for he heard Mikhel jump up, began to stomp his feet, rage and send him terrible curses after him. Having got out upward, Peter hurried to Spruce Hillock. Then a terrible thunderstorm broke out; lightning flashed to his left and right, splitting the trees, but he reached the Glass Man's domain unharmed.
His heart was beating joyfully, if only because it was beating. But then Peter looked back at his life with horror - it was like a thunderstorm, which a minute before split the most beautiful trees around him. Peter thought of Lisbeth, his beautiful and kind wife, whom he killed out of greed, and seemed to himself a real monster; running to the abode of the Glass Man, he wept bitterly.
The Keeper of the Treasure sat under a spruce and smoked a small pipe, but he looked much more cheerfully than before.
- Why are you crying, Peter the coal miner? - he asked. “Maybe you didn’t manage to get your heart back and you ended up with the stone one?”
- Ah, sir! Peter sighed. - While I had a cold heart, I never cried, my eyes were dry, like the earth in the July heat, but now my own heart is torn to pieces, just think what I have done: I brought my debtors to scrip, sick and beggars were poisoned by dogs; Yes, you yourself saw how my whip fell on her beautiful forehead!
– Peter! You were a great sinner! - said the little man. “Money and idleness corrupted you, and your heart turned to stone, stopped feeling joy and sorrow, repentance and pity. But repentance mitigates guilt, and if I knew that you truly regret your life, I could do something else for you.
“I don’t want anything else,” answered Peter, hanging his head sadly. - My life is over, I can no longer see joy; what will I do alone in the whole world? Mother will never forgive me for how I mocked her, perhaps I, the monster, brought her to the grave! And Lisbeth, my wife! Better kill me, Mr. Keeper of the Treasure, then my unfortunate life will end at once!
“Very well,” replied the Little Man, “if it is your will, I have the ax at hand.”
He calmly took the straw out of his mouth, knocked it out and put it in his pocket. Then he slowly got up and disappeared into the spruce forest. And Peter, weeping, sat down on the grass; life meant nothing to him now, and he dutifully waited for the fatal blow. After a while, he heard light footsteps behind him and thought: “This is the end!”
“Look back one more time, Peter Munch!” exclaimed the Man.
Peter wiped away his tears, looked around and saw his mother and wife Lisbeth looking at him affectionately. He happily jumped to his feet.
“So you’re alive, Lisbeth!” And you are here, mother - have you forgiven me?
“They will forgive you,” said the Glass Man, “for you have sincerely repented, and all will be forgotten. Return now to your father's hut, and become a coal-burner, as before; if you are industrious and honest, you will learn to respect your trade, and your neighbors will love and honor you more than if you had ten barrels of gold.
This is what the Glass Man said, and with that he said goodbye to them.
All three did not know how to praise and bless him, and happy they went home.
The magnificent home of Peter the Rich no longer existed; he was struck by lightning, and he was burned along with all the wealth; but it was not far to the father's hut, and their path now led there, and they did not grieve at all about the loss of property.
But what was their surprise when they approached the hut! It turned into a solid peasant house, its decoration was simple, but comfortable and tidy.
“The good Glass Man did it!” exclaimed Peter.
- What a beautiful house! Lisbeth said. “I’m much more comfortable here than in a big house with many servants.
Since then, Peter Munch has become a hardworking and conscientious person. He was content with what he had, tirelessly practiced his craft, and over time, without outside help, he made a fortune and earned respect and love throughout the region. He never quarreled with Lisbeth again, honored his mother and gave to the poor who knocked at his door. When, a few years later, Lisbeth gave birth to a pretty boy, Peter went to Spruce Hillock and cast a spell. But the Glass Man did not show up.
- Mister Keeper of the Treasure! Peter called loudly. “Listen, I don’t need anything, I just want to ask you to be the godfather of my son!”
But no one answered, only the wind that suddenly came up rustled in the fir trees and dropped a few cones into the grass.
“Well, since you don’t want to show yourself, I’ll take these bumps as a keepsake!” exclaimed Peter, put the cones in his pocket and went home. When at home he took off his festive jacket and his mother, before putting it in the chest, turned out her pockets, four heavy bundles fell out, and when they were unwrapped, there were completely new Baden thalers, and not a single fake one among them. It was a gift from the Spruce Forest Man to his godson, little Peter.
Since then, they lived peacefully and comfortably, and many years later, when Peter Munch's hair had already turned gray, he did not get tired of repeating: “Yes, it’s better to be content with little than to have gold and all sorts of other riches and at the same time have a cold heart. ".
Wilhelm GAUF
COLD HEART
Anyone who happened to visit the Black Forest will tell you that you will never see such tall and mighty fir trees anywhere else, nowhere else will you meet such tall and strong people. It seems as if the very air, saturated with sun and resin, made the inhabitants of the Black Forest unlike their neighbors, the inhabitants of the surrounding plains. Even their clothes are not the same as others. The inhabitants of the mountainous side of the Black Forest dress up especially intricately. The men there wear black coats, wide, finely pleated bloomers, red stockings, and large-brimmed pointed hats. And I must admit that this outfit gives them a very impressive and respectable look.
All the inhabitants here are excellent glassworkers. Their fathers, grandfathers and great-grandfathers were engaged in this craft, and the fame of the Black Forest glassblowers has long been around the world.
On the other side of the forest, closer to the river, the same Schwarzwalders live, but they are engaged in a different craft, and their customs are also different. All of them, like their fathers, grandfathers and great-grandfathers, are lumberjacks and raftsmen. On long rafts they float the forest down the Neckar to the Rhine, and along the Rhine to the sea.
They stop at every coastal town and wait for buyers, and the thickest and longest logs are driven to Holland, and the Dutch build their ships from this forest.
Rafters are accustomed to the harsh wandering life. Therefore, their clothes are not at all like the clothes of glassmakers. They wear jackets of dark linen and black leather trousers over green, palm-wide, sashes. A copper ruler always sticks out of the deep pockets of their trousers - a sign of their craft. But most of all they are proud of their boots. Yes, and there is something to be proud of! Nobody in the world wears boots like that. They can be pulled above the knees and walked in them on water, as if on dry land.
Until recently, the inhabitants of the Black Forest believed in forest spirits. Now, of course, everyone knows that there are no spirits, but many legends about mysterious forest inhabitants have passed from grandfathers to grandchildren.
It is said that these forest spirits wore a dress exactly the same as the people among whom they lived.
The Glass Man - a good friend of people - always appeared in a wide-brimmed pointed hat, in a black camisole and harem pants, and on his feet he had red stockings and black shoes. He was as tall as a one-year-old child, but this did not in the least interfere with his power.
And Michel the Giant wore the clothes of rafters, and those. who happened to see him, they assured him that a good fifty calfskins should have been used for his boots, so that an adult could hide in these boots with his head. And they all swore that they weren't exaggerating in the slightest.
One Schwarunald guy had to get acquainted with these forest spirits.
About how it happened and what happened, you will now find out.
Many years ago there lived in the Black Forest a poor widow named and nicknamed Barbara Munch.
Her husband was a coal miner, and when he died, her sixteen-year-old son Peter had to take up the same craft. Until now, he only watched his father put out coal, and now he himself had a chance to sit days and nights near a smoking coal pit, and then drive around with a cart along the roads and streets, offering his black goods at all gates and scaring the children with his face and clothes darkened by coal dust.
The charcoal trade is so good (or so bad) that it leaves a lot of time for reflection.
And Peter Munch, sitting alone by his fire, like many other coal miners, thought about everything in the world. The silence of the forest, the rustling of the wind in the treetops, the lonely cry of a bird - everything made him think about the people he met while wandering with his cart, about himself and about his sad fate.
“What a pitiful fate to be a black, dirty coal miner! thought Peter. - Is it the craft of a glazier, a watchmaker or a shoemaker! Even the musicians who are hired to play at Sunday parties are honored more than us!” So, if it happens, Peter Munch will come out on a holiday on the street - cleanly washed, in his father's ceremonial caftan with silver buttons, in new red stockings and shoes with buckles ... Anyone who sees him from afar will say: “What a guy - well done ! Who would it be? And he will come closer, only wave his hand: “Oh, but it’s just Peter Munch, the coal miner! ..” And he will pass by.
But most of all, Peter Munch envied the raftmen. When these forest giants came to them for a holiday, hanging half a pood of silver trinkets on themselves - all kinds of chains, buttons and buckles - and, legs wide apart, looked at the dances, puffing from arshin Cologne pipes, it seemed to Peter that there was no people are happier and more honorable. When these lucky ones put their hand into their pockets and pulled out handfuls of silver coins, Peter's breath spiraled, his head was troubled, and he, sad, returned to his hut. He could not see how these “wood-burning gentlemen” lost more in one evening than he himself earned in a whole year.
But three raftmen evoked in him special admiration and envy: Ezekiel the Fat, Schlyurker Skinny and Wilm the Handsome.
Ezekiel the Fat was considered the first rich man in the district.
He was unusually lucky. He always sold timber at exorbitant prices, the money itself flowed into his pockets.
Schlyurker Skinny was the most courageous person Peter knew. No one dared to argue with him, and he was not afraid to argue with anyone. In the tavern he ate and drank for three, and occupied a place for three, but no one dared to say a word to him when he, spreading his elbows, sat down at the table or stretched his long legs along the bench - he had a lot of money .
Wilm Handsome was a young, stately fellow, the best dancer among the raftsmen and glaziers. More recently, he was as poor as Peter, and served as a worker for timber merchants. And suddenly, for no reason at all, he got rich "Some said that he found a pot of silver in the forest under an old spruce. Others claimed that somewhere on the Rhine he picked up a bag of gold with a hook.
One way or another, he suddenly became rich, and the raftsmen began to revere him, as if he were not a simple raftsman, but a prince.
All three - Ezekiel the Fat, Shlyurker Skinny and Wilm the Handsome - were completely different from each other, but all three equally loved money and were equally heartless towards people who did not have money. And yet, even though they were disliked for their greed, everything was forgiven for their wealth. Yes, and how not to forgive! Who, except for them, could scatter ringing thalers to the right and left, as if they got money for free, like fir cones ?!
“And where do they get so much money from,” thought Peter, returning somehow from a festive feast, where he did not drink, did not eat, but only watched how others ate and drank. “Ah, if only I had at least a tenth of what Ezekiel Tolstoy drank and lost today!”
Peter went over in his mind all the ways he knew how to get rich, but he could not think of a single one that was in the slightest degree correct.
Finally, he remembered stories about people who allegedly received whole mountains of gold from Michel the Giant or from the Glass Man.
Even when their father was alive, poor neighbors often gathered in their house to dream of wealth, and more than once they mentioned the little patron of glassblowers in their conversation.
Peter even remembered the rhymes that had to be said in the thicket of the forest, near the biggest spruce, in order to summon the Glass Man:
- Under a shaggy spruce,
In a dark dungeon
Where the spring is born, -
An old man lives between the roots.
He's incredibly rich
He keeps a cherished treasure...
There were two more lines in these rhymes, but no matter how Peter puzzled, he could never remember them.
He often wanted to ask one of the old people if they remembered the end of this spell, but either shame or fear of betraying his secret thoughts held him back.
“Yes, they probably don’t know these words,” he consoled himself. “And if they knew, then why didn’t they themselves go into the forest and call the Glass Man! ..
In the end, he decided to start a conversation with his mother about it - maybe she will remember something.
But if Peter forgot the last two lines, then his mother remembered only the first two.
But he learned from her that the Glass Man is shown only to those who were lucky enough to be born on a Sunday between twelve and two o'clock in the afternoon.
“If you knew this spell from word to word, he would certainly appear to you,” said the mother, sighing. “You were born just on Sunday, at noon.
Hearing this, Peter completely lost his head.
“Come what may,” he decided, “and I must try my luck.”
And so, having sold all the coal prepared for buyers, he put on his father's holiday coat, new red stockings, a new Sunday hat, picked up a stick and said to his mother:
- I need to go to town. They say that soon there will be a recruitment for the soldiers, so, I think, you should remind the commander that you are a widow and that I am your only son.
His mother praised him for his prudence and wished him a happy journey. And Peter briskly walked along the road, but not into the city, but straight into the forest. He walked higher and higher along the slope of the mountain, overgrown with spruce, and finally reached the very top.
The place was quiet, deserted. There is no housing anywhere - no lumberjacks' hut, no hunting hut.
Rarely does anyone visit here. Among the surrounding residents it was rumored that these places were unclean, and everyone tried to bypass Spruce Mountain.
Here grew the tallest, strongest firs, but for a long time the sound of an ax had not been heard in this wilderness. And no wonder! As soon as some lumberjack looked here, disaster would inevitably happen to him: either the ax would jump off the ax handle and pierce his leg, or the cut tree would fall so quickly that the person did not have time to jump back and he was pounded to death, and the raft, into which at least one such a tree, certainly went to the bottom along with the raftsman. Finally, people completely stopped disturbing this forest, and it grew so violently and densely that even at noon it was dark here as at night.
Peter was terrified when he entered the thicket. It was quiet all around, not a sound anywhere. He heard only the sound of his own footsteps. It seemed that even the birds did not fly into this dense forest twilight.
Near a huge spruce, for which the Dutch shipbuilders, without hesitation, would give more than one hundred guilders, Peter stopped.
“Probably the biggest spruce in the whole world! he thought. “So this is where the Glass Man lives.”
Peter removed his festive hat from his head, made a deep bow in front of the tree, cleared his throat, and said in a timid voice:
- Good evening, mister glass master!
But no one answered him.
“Perhaps it’s better to say the rhymes first,” thought Peter, and, stammering over every word, he muttered:
- Under a shaggy spruce,
In a dark dungeon
Where the spring is born, -
An old man lives between the roots.
He's incredibly rich
He keeps a cherished treasure...
And then – Peter could hardly believe his eyes! Someone peeked out from behind a thick trunk. Peter managed to notice a pointed hat, a dark coat, bright red stockings... Someone's quick, keen eyes met Peter's for a moment.
Glass Man! It is he! It is, of course, he! But there was no one under the tree. Peter almost wept with grief.
- Mister glass master! he shouted. - Where are you? Mister glass master! If you think that I have not seen you, you are mistaken. I saw perfectly how you looked out from behind the tree.
Again, no one answered him. But it seemed to Peter that behind the Christmas tree someone laughed softly.
- Wait! shouted Peter. - I'll catch you! And in one leap he found himself behind a tree. But the Glass Man was not there. Only a small fluffy squirrel flew up the trunk with lightning.
“Ah, if I knew the rhymes to the end,” Peter thought sadly, “the Glass Man would probably come out to me. No wonder I was born on a Sunday!..”
Wrinkling his brow, furrowing his brows, he tried his best to remember the forgotten words or even come up with them, but nothing came of it.
And while he was muttering the words of a spell under his breath, a squirrel appeared on the lower branches of the tree, right above his head. She was prettier, fluffing her red tail, and slyly looked at him, either laughing at him, or wanting to provoke him.
And suddenly Peter saw that the squirrel's head was not at all animal, but human, only very small - no more than a squirrel's. And on his head is a wide-brimmed, pointed hat. Peter froze in amazement. And the squirrel was already again the most ordinary squirrel, and only on its hind legs it had red stockings and black shoes.
Here too: Peter could not stand it and rushed to run as fast as he could.
He ran without stopping, and only then took a breath when he heard the barking of dogs and saw in the distance smoke rising from the roof of a hut. Coming closer, he realized that out of fear he had lost his way and was running not towards the house, but in the opposite direction. Lumberjacks and raftsmen lived here.
The owners of the hut greeted Peter cordially and, without asking what his name was and where he came from, they offered him a lodging for the night, fried a large capercaillie for dinner - this is a favorite food of the locals - and brought him a mug of apple wine.
After dinner, the hostess and her daughters took the spinning wheels and sat down closer to the splinter. The children made sure that it did not go out, and watered it with fragrant spruce resin. The old host and his eldest son, smoking their long pipes, talked with the guest, and the younger sons began to carve spoons and forks out of wood.
By evening, a storm broke out in the forest. She howled outside the windows, bending hundred-year-old firs almost to the ground. Every now and then thunderclaps and a terrible crack were heard, as if trees were breaking and falling somewhere not far away.
“Yes, I would not advise anyone to leave the house at such a time,” said the old master, getting up from his seat and closing the door more firmly. - Whoever goes out will never come back. This night Michel the Giant cuts wood for his raft.
Peter was immediately alert.
- And who is this Michel? he asked the old man.
“He is the owner of this forest,” said the old man. “You must be from outside if you haven’t heard anything about it.” Well, I'll tell you what I know myself and what has come down to us from our fathers and grandfathers.
The old man settled himself comfortably, took a puff from his pipe, and began:
- A hundred years ago - so, at least, my grandfather told - there was no people on the whole earth more honest than the Black Forest. Now, when there is so much money in the world, people have lost their shame and conscience. There is nothing to say about young people - the only thing they have to do is dance, swear and overspend. And it wasn't like that before. And the blame for everything - I said this before and now I will repeat it, even if he himself looked into this window - Michel the Giant is to blame for everything. From him all the troubles and went.
So, it means that a rich lumber merchant lived in these places a hundred years ago. He traded with distant Rhenish cities, and his affairs went as well as possible, because he was an honest and industrious man.
And then one day a guy comes to hire him. No one knows him, but it is clear that the local one is dressed like a Black Forester. And almost two heads taller than everyone else. Our guys and the people themselves are not small, but this real giant.
The lumber merchant immediately realized how profitable it is to keep such a hefty worker. He gave him a good salary, and Mikhel (that was the name of this guy) stayed with him.
Needless to say, the lumber merchant did not lose.
When it was necessary to cut down the forest. Michel worked for three. And when the logs had to be dragged, the lumberjacks took six of them at one end of the log, and Mikhel lifted the other end.
After serving like this for half a year, Mikhel appeared to his master.
“Enough,” he says, “I cut down the trees. Now I want to see where they go. Let me go, master, once with the rafts down the river.
“Let it be your way,” the owner said. “Though on rafts you need not so much strength as dexterity, and in the forest you would be more useful to me, but I don’t want to prevent you from looking at the wide world. Get ready!”
The raft, on which Mikhel was supposed to go, was made up of eight links of selected timber. When the raft was already tied up, Michel brought eight more logs, but such large and thick ones as no one had ever seen. And he carried each log on his shoulder so easily, as if it were not a log, but a simple hook.
“Here I will swim on them,” Mikhel said. “And your chips will not stand me.”
And he began to knit a new link from his huge logs.
The raft was so wide that it barely fit between the two banks.
Everyone gasped when they saw such a colossus, and the owner of Mikhel was rubbing his hands and already wondering in his mind how much money could be gained this time from the sale of the forest.
To celebrate, they say, he wanted to give Mikhel a pair of the best boots that raftsmen wear, but Mikhel did not even look at them and brought his own boots from somewhere in the forest. My grandfather assured me that each boot was two pounds in weight and five feet in height.
And now everything was ready. The raft moved.
Up to this time, Michel, every day, surprised the lumberjacks, now it was the turn of the raftsmen to be surprised.
They thought that their heavy raft would barely float with the current. Nothing happened - the raft rushed along the river like a sailboat.
Everyone knows that rafters have the hardest time on turns: the raft must be kept in the middle of the river so that it does not run aground. But this time, no one noticed the turns. Mikhel, just a little, jumped into the water and with one push sent the raft to the right, then to the left, deftly skirting the shoals and pitfalls.
If there were no bends ahead, he ran across to the front link, stuck his huge hook into the bottom with a swing, pushed off - and the raft flew with such speed that it seemed that the coastal hills, trees and villages were rushing past.
The raftmen did not even have time to look back when they arrived in Cologne, where they usually sold their timber. But then Michel said to them:
“Well, you are smart merchants, how I look at you! What do you think - the local inhabitants themselves need as much wood as we float from our Black Forest? No matter how! They buy it from you at half price, and then resell it at exorbitant prices to the Dutch. Let's put the small logs on sale here, and let's drive the big ones further, to Holland, and we ourselves will sell them to the shipbuilders there. What the owner follows at local prices, he will receive in full. And what we gain beyond that will be ours.”
He did not have to persuade the rafters for a long time. Everything was done exactly according to his word.
The raftmen drove the master's goods to Rotterdam and there they sold it four times more expensive than they were given in Cologne!
Mikhel set aside a quarter of the proceeds for the owner, and divided three-quarters among the rafters. And those in all their lives did not happen to see so much money. The guys' heads were spinning, and they had such fun, drunkenness, card games! From night to morning and from morning to night ... In a word, they did not return home until they had drunk and lost everything to the last coin.
From that time on, Dutch taverns and taverns began to seem like a real paradise to our guys, and Michel the Giant (after this trip they began to call him Michel the Dutchman) became the real king of raftsmen.
More than once he took our raftmen there, to Holland, and little by little drunkenness, gambling, strong words - in a word, all sorts of nasty things migrated to these parts.
The owners for a long time did not know anything about the tricks of the raftsmen. And when the whole story finally came out and they began to inquire who the main instigator here was, Michel the Dutchman disappeared. They searched for him, they searched - no! He disappeared - as if he had sunk into the water ...
- Died, maybe? Peter asked.
- No, knowledgeable people say that he is still in charge of our forest. They also say that if you ask him properly, he will help anyone to get rich. And he has already helped some people ... Yes, only there is a rumor that he does not give money for nothing, but demands for them something more expensive than any money ... Well, I won’t say anything more about this. Who knows what is true in these tales, what is a fable? Only one thing, perhaps, is true: on such nights as this, Michel the Dutchman cuts and breaks old fir trees there, on the top of the mountain, where no one dares to cut. My father himself once saw how he, like a reed, broke a fir tree into four girths. Whose rafts these spruces then go to, I do not know. But I know that in the place of the Dutch, I would pay for them not with gold, but with grapeshot, because every ship into which such a log falls, will certainly go to the bottom. And the whole point here, you see, is that as soon as Mikhel breaks a new spruce on the mountain, an old log, hewn from the same mountain spruce, cracks or jumps out of the grooves, and the ship leaks. That is why we hear about shipwrecks so often. Believe my word: if not for Michel, people would wander on the water as on dry land.
The old man fell silent and began to knock out his pipe.
“Yes…” he said again, rising from his seat. - That's what our grandfathers told about Michel the Dutchman ... And no matter how you turn it, all our troubles came from him. Of course, he can give wealth, but I would not want to be in the shoes of such a rich man, whether it be Ezekiel the Fat himself, or Shlyurker Skinny, or Wilm the Handsome.
While the old man was talking, the storm subsided. The hosts gave Peter a bag of leaves instead of a pillow, wished him good night, and everyone went to bed. Peter settled down on a bench under the window and soon fell asleep.
Never before had coal miner Peter Munch had such terrible dreams as on that night.
It seemed to him that Michel the Giant was cracking open the window and holding out to him a huge sack of gold. Michel shakes the sack right over his head, and the gold tinkles, tinkles, loud and tempting.
Now it seemed to him that the Glass Man, riding a large green bottle, was riding all over the room, and Peter again heard the sly, quiet chuckle that had reached him in the morning from behind the big spruce.
And all night Peter was disturbed, as if arguing among themselves, by two voices. A hoarse thick voice hummed over the left ear:
- Gold, gold,
Pure - without deceit, -
Full gold
Fill your pockets!
Don't work with a hammer
Plow and shovel!
Who owns the gold
He lives richly!
- Under a shaggy spruce,
In a dark dungeon
Where the spring is born, -
An old man lives between the roots...
So what's next, Peter? How is it next? Oh, stupid, stupid collier Peter Munch! Can't remember such simple words! And he was also born on a Sunday, exactly at noon ... Just think of a rhyme for the word “Sunday”, and the rest of the words will come by themselves! ..
Peter groaned and groaned in his sleep, trying to remember or invent forgotten lines. He tossed and turned from side to side, but since he had not composed a single rhyme in his entire life, he did not invent anything this time either.
The coal miner woke up as soon as it was light, sat down with his arms crossed over his chest, and began to think about the same thing: what word goes with the word "Sunday"?
He tapped his forehead with his fingers, rubbed the back of his head, but nothing helped.
And suddenly he heard the words of a cheerful song. Three guys passed under the window and sang at the top of their lungs:
- Across the river in the village ...
Wonderful honey is brewed...
Let's have a drink with you
On the first day of Sunday!
Peter was on fire. So here it is, this rhyme for the word “Sunday”! It's full, isn't it? Did he misheard?
Peter jumped up and rushed headlong to catch up with the guys.
- Hey buddies! Wait! he shouted.
But the guys didn't even look back.
Finally Peter caught up with them and grabbed one of them by the arm.
- Repeat what you sang! he shouted, panting.
- Yes, what's the matter with you! – answered the guy. - What I want, then I sing. Let go of my hand now, or else...
- No, first tell me what you sang! Peter insisted and squeezed his hand even tighter.
Then two other guys, without thinking twice, pounced with their fists on poor Peter and beat him so badly that sparks fell from the poor fellow's eyes.
- Here's a snack for you! - said one of them, rewarding him with a heavy cuff. - You will remember what it is like to offend respectable people! ..
- I don't want to remember! said Peter, groaning and rubbing the bruised places. “Now, since you beat me up anyway, do yourself a favor and sing me that song you just sang.”
The guys burst out laughing. But then they still sang him a song from beginning to end.
After that, they said goodbye to Peter in a friendly way and went on their way.
And Peter returned to the lumberjack's hut, thanked the hosts for the shelter, and, taking his hat and stick, again went to the top of the mountain.
He walked and kept repeating to himself the cherished words “Sunday - wonderful, wonderful - Sunday” ... And suddenly, without knowing how it happened, he read the entire verse from the first to the last word.
Peter even jumped for joy and threw up his hat.
The hat flew up and disappeared into the thick branches of the spruce. Peter raised his head, looking for where it caught on, and froze in fear.
In front of him stood a huge man in the clothes of a raft-driver. On his shoulder he had a hook as long as a good mast, and in his hand he held Peter's hat.
Without saying a word, the giant tossed Peter his hat and walked beside him.
Peter timidly, askance looked at his terrible companion. He seemed to feel in his heart that this was Michel the Giant, about whom he had been told so much yesterday.
– Peter Munk, what are you doing in my forest? the giant suddenly said in a thunderous voice. Peter's knees shook.
“Good morning, master,” he said, trying not to show that he was afraid. - I go through the forest to my house - that's all my business.
– Peter Munch! the giant thundered again and looked at Peter in such a way that he involuntarily closed his eyes. Does this road lead to your house? You deceive me, Peter Munch!
“Yes, of course, it doesn’t lead quite directly to my house,” Peter murmured, “but it’s such a hot day today ... So I thought that it would be cooler to go through the forest, even further!”
“Don’t lie, collier Munch! - shouted Mikhel the Giant so loudly that cones rained from the fir trees on the ground. “Otherwise I’ll knock the spirit out of you with one click!”
Peter cringed all over and covered his head with his hands, expecting a terrible blow.
But Michel the Giant did not hit him. He only looked mockingly at Peter and burst out laughing.
- Oh, you're a fool! - he said. - I found someone to bow to! .. You think I didn’t see how you crucified yourself in front of this pathetic old man, in front of this glass vial. Lucky for you that you didn't know the end of his stupid spell! He is a miser, gives little, and if he gives something, you will not be happy with life. I'm sorry for you, Peter, I'm sorry from the bottom of my heart! Such a nice, handsome guy could go far, and you are sitting near your smoky pit and burning coals. Others throw thalers and ducats right and left without hesitation, but you are afraid to spend a copper penny... What a miserable life!
- What's true is true. Life is unhappy.
- That's the same! .. - said the giant Michel. - Well, yes, it’s not the first time for me to help out your brother. Simply put, how many hundred thalers do you need to get started?
He patted his pocket, and the money rattled there as loudly as the gold that Peter had dreamed of at night.
But now this ringing for some reason did not seem tempting to Peter. His heart sank in fear. He remembered the words of the old man about the terrible retribution that Mikhel demands for his help.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, “but I don't want to deal with you. I know who you are!
And with these words, he rushed to run as fast as he could.
But Michel the Giant did not lag behind him. He walked beside him with huge steps and muttered in a low voice:
“You will repent, Peter Munch!” I can see in your eyes that you will repent... It is written on your forehead. Don't run so fast, listen to what I'll tell you! This is the end of my domain...
Hearing these words, Peter rushed to run even faster. But getting away from Michel was not so easy. Peter's ten steps were shorter than Michel's one step. Having reached almost to the very ditch, Peter looked around and almost cried out - he saw that Mikhel had already raised his huge hook over his head.
Peter mustered the last of his strength and jumped over the ditch in one leap.
Michel stayed on the other side.
Cursing terribly, he swung and threw a heavy hook after Peter. But the smooth, apparently strong as iron, tree shattered into splinters, as if it had hit some invisible stone wall. And only one long chip flew over the ditch and fell near Peter's feet.
What, buddy, did you miss? Peter shouted and grabbed a piece of wood to throw it at Mikhel the Giant.
But at that very moment he felt that the tree came to life in his hands.
It was no longer a sliver, but a slippery poisonous snake. He wanted to throw her away, but she managed to wrap herself tightly around his arm and, swaying from side to side, brought her terrible narrow head closer and closer to his face.
And suddenly large wings rustled in the air.
A huge capercaillie hit the snake with its strong beak from the summer, grabbed it and soared into the sky. Mikhel the Giant gnashed his teeth, howled, shouted, and, shaking his fist at someone invisible, walked towards his lair.
And Peter, half-dead with fear, went on his way.
The path became steeper and steeper, the forest became thicker and more deaf, and finally Peter again found himself near a huge shaggy spruce on the top of the mountain.
He took off his hat, hung three low bows in front of the spruce - almost to the very ground - and in a breaking voice uttered the cherished words:
- Under a shaggy spruce,
In a dark dungeon
Where the spring is born, -
An old man lives between the roots.
He's incredibly rich
He keeps the cherished treasure.
Gets a wonderful treasure!
Before he had time to utter the last word, as someone's thin, sonorous, like crystal, voice said:
Hello, Peter Munch!
And at that very moment, under the roots of an old spruce, he saw a tiny old man in a black coat, in red stockings, with a large pointed hat on his head. The old man looked affably at Peter and stroked his little beard, so light, as if it were made of cobwebs. He had a blue glass pipe in his mouth, and he puffed on it every now and then, releasing thick puffs of smoke.
Without ceasing to bow, Peter went up and, to his considerable surprise, saw that all the clothes on the old man: a caftan, trousers, a hat, shoes - everything was made of multi-colored glass, but only this glass was very soft, as if it had not yet cooled down after melting .
“That rude Michel seems to have scared you a lot,” said the old man. “But I taught him a good lesson and even took away his famous hook from him.
“Thank you, Mr. Glass Man,” said Peter. “I really got scared. And you, right, were that respectable capercaillie who pecked at the snake? You saved my life! I would be lost without you. But, if you are so kind to me, do me the favor of helping me in one more thing. I am a poor coal miner, and life is very difficult for me. You yourself understand that if you sit near a coal pit from morning to night, you won’t go far. And I'm still young, I would like to know something better in life. Here I look at others - all people are like people, they are honored, and respected, and wealth ... Take, for example, Ezekiel Tolstoy or Wilm the Handsome, the king of dances - they have money like straw! ..
“Peter,” the Glass Man interrupted him sternly and, puffing on his pipe, blew a thick cloud of smoke, “never talk to me about these people. And don't think about them. Now it seems to you that there is no one in the whole world who would be happier than them, but a year or two will pass, and you will see that there is no one more unhappy in the world. And I will tell you again: do not despise your craft. Your father and grandfather were the most respectable people, and they were coal miners. Peter Munk, I don't want to think that it was your love of idleness and easy money that brought you to me.
While saying this, the Glass Man looked Peter straight in the eye.
Peter blushed.
“No, no,” he muttered, “I myself know that laziness is the mother of all vices, and all that sort of thing. But is it really my fault that my trade is not more to my liking? I am ready to be a glazier, a watchmaker, an alloyer - anything but a coal miner.
- You are a strange people - people! said the Glass Man, grinning. - Always dissatisfied with what is. If you were a glazier, you would want to become a rafter, if you were an rafter, you would want to become a glazier. Well, let it be your way. If you promise me to work honestly, without being lazy, I will help you. I have this custom: I fulfill three wishes of everyone who is born on Sunday between twelve and two o'clock in the afternoon and who can find me. I fulfill two desires, whatever they may be, even the most stupid ones. But the third wish comes true only if it is worth it. Well, Peter Munk, think carefully and tell me what you want.
But Peter didn't hesitate. He tossed up his hat for joy and shouted:
- Long live the Glass Man, the kindest and most powerful of all the forest spirits! .. If you, the wisest lord of the forest, really want to make me happy, I will tell you the most cherished desire of my heart. Firstly, I want to be able to dance better than the dancing king himself and always have as much money in my pocket as Ezekiel the Tolstoy himself has when he sits down at the gambling table ...
- Crazy! said the Glass Man, frowning. "Couldn't you have come up with something smarter?" Well, judge for yourself: what will be the use for you and your poor mother if you learn to throw out different knees and kick your legs like that slacker Wilm? And what is the use of money if you leave it at the gambling table, like that rogue Ezekiel the Fat? You ruin your own happiness, Peter Munch. But you can’t turn back what has been said - your desire will be fulfilled. Tell me, what else would you like? But look, this time be smarter!
Peter thought. He wrinkled his forehead and rubbed the back of his head for a long time, trying to come up with something clever, and finally said:
“I want to be the owner of the best and biggest glass factory in the Black Forest. And, of course, I need money to put it into motion.
- And it's all? asked the Glass Man, looking searchingly at Peter. – Is that all? Think carefully, what else do you need?
- Well, if you don't mind, add a couple more horses and a carriage to your second wish! That's enough...
“You are a stupid man, Peter Munch! exclaimed the Glass Man, and in anger he threw his glass pipe so that it hit the spruce trunk and shattered into smithereens. - “Horses, carriage”! .. You need mind-reason, do you understand? Mind-reason, not horses and a stroller. Well, yes, after all, your second desire is smarter than the first. The glass factory is a worthwhile business. If you drive it wisely, you will have horses and a carriage, and you will have everything.
“Well, I still have one more desire,” said Peter, “and I can wish myself intelligence, if it is so necessary, as you say.
“Wait, save your third wish for a rainy day.” Who knows what else lies ahead of you! Now go home. Yes, take this for a start, ”said the Glass Man and took out a purse full of money from his pocket. “There are exactly two thousand guilders here. Three days ago, old Winkfritz, owner of a large glass factory, died. Offer this money to his widow, and she will gladly sell you her factory. But remember: work feeds only those who love work. Yes, do not hang out with Ezekiel Tolstoy and go to the tavern less often. This will not lead to good. Well, goodbye. I will occasionally look to you to help with advice when you lack your mind-reason.
With these words, the little man pulled out of his pocket a new pipe made of the best frosted glass and stuffed it with dry spruce needles.
Then, biting it hard with his small, sharp teeth like a squirrel's, he took out a huge magnifying glass from another pocket, caught a ray of sunshine in it, and lit a cigarette.
A light smoke rose from the glass cup. Peter smelled of sun-warmed resin, fresh spruce shoots, honey, and for some reason the best Dutch tobacco. The smoke grew thicker and thicker and finally turned into a whole cloud, which, swirling and curling, slowly melted in the tops of the fir trees. And the Glass Man disappeared with him.
Peter stood in front of the old spruce for a long time, rubbing his eyes and peering into the thick, almost black needles, but he did not see anyone. Just in case, he bowed low to the big tree and went home.
He found his old mother in tears and anxiety. The poor woman thought that her Peter had been taken to the soldiers and she would not have to see him soon.
What was her joy when her son returned home, and even with a wallet full of money! Peter did not tell his mother about what really happened to him. He said that he had met a good friend in the city, who had loaned him two thousand guilders so that Peter could start a glass business.
Peter's mother had lived all her life among the coal miners and was accustomed to seeing everything around as black from soot, as a miller's wife gets used to seeing everything around as white from flour. So at first she was not very happy about the upcoming change. But in the end, she herself dreamed of a new, well-fed and calm life.
“Yes, whatever you say,” she thought, “it is more honorable to be the mother of a glass manufacturer than to be the mother of a simple coal miner. Neighbors Greta and Beta are no match for me now. And in the church from now on I will not sit by the wall where no one sees me, but on the front benches, next to the wife of the burgomaster, the mother of the pastor and the aunt of the judge...”
The next day Peter went to the widow of old Winkfritz at dawn.
They quickly got along, and the plant with all the workers passed to a new owner.
At first, Peter liked glasswork very much.
Whole days, from morning to evening, he spent at his factory. He used to come slowly, and, with his hands behind his back, as old Winkfritz did, he importantly walks around his possessions, looking into all corners and making comments first to one worker, then to another. He did not hear how behind his back the workers laughed at the advice of an inexperienced owner.
Peter's favorite thing was to watch the glassblowers work. Sometimes he himself took a long pipe and blew out of a soft, warm mass a pot-bellied bottle or some intricate, unlike anything figure.
But soon he got tired of it all. He began to come to the factory for just an hour, then every other day, every two, and finally no more than once a week.
The workers were very happy and did what they wanted. In a word, there was no order at the plant. Everything went upside down.
And it all started with the fact that Peter took it into his head to look into the tavern.
He went there on the very first Sunday after buying the plant.
The tavern was fun. Music played, and in the middle of the hall, to the surprise of all those gathered, the king of dances, Wilm the Handsome, famously danced.
And in front of a mug of beer, Ezekiel Tolstoy sat and played dice, throwing hard coins on the table without looking.
Peter hurriedly reached into his pocket to see if the Glass Man had kept his word. Yes, I did! His pockets were full of silver and gold.
“Well, that’s right, and he didn’t let me down about dancing,” Peter thought.
And as soon as the music began to play a new dance, he picked up some girl and paired up with her against Wilm the Handsome.
Well, it was a dance! Wilm jumped three-quarters and Peter four-quarters, Wilm whirled and Peter wheeled, Wilm arched his legs with a pretzel, and Peter twisted with a corkscrew.
Since this inn stood, no one had ever seen anything like it.
They shouted “Hurrah!” to Peter, and unanimously proclaimed him the king over all the kings of dancing.
When all the tavern patrons learned that Peter had just bought himself a glass factory, when they noticed that every time he passed the musicians in the dance, he threw a gold coin to them, there was no end to the general surprise.
Some said that he found a treasure in the forest, others that he received an inheritance, but everyone agreed that Peter Munch was the nicest guy in the whole area.
Having danced to his heart's content, Peter sat down next to Ezekiel Tolstoy and volunteered to play a game or two with him. He immediately bet twenty guilders and immediately lost them. But that didn't bother him at all. As soon as Ezekiel put his winnings in his pocket, Peter also added exactly twenty guilders to his pocket.
In a word, everything turned out exactly as Peter wanted. He wanted to always have as much money in his pocket as Ezekiel the Fat, and the Glass Man granted his wish. Therefore, the more money passed from his pocket into the pocket of fat Ezekiel, the more money became in his own pocket.
And since he was a very bad player and lost all the time, it is not surprising that he was constantly on the winning side.
Since then, Peter began to spend all days at the gambling table, both holidays and weekdays.
People got so used to it that they no longer called him the king of all dance kings, but simply Peter the Player.
But although he was now a reckless reveler, his heart was still kind. He distributed money to the poor without an account, just as he drank and lost without an account.
And suddenly Peter began to notice with surprise that he had less and less money. And there was nothing to be surprised. Since he began to visit the tavern, he completely abandoned the glass business, and now the factory brought him not income, but losses. Customers stopped turning to Peter, and soon he had to sell all the goods at half price to itinerant merchants just to pay off his masters and apprentices.
One evening Peter was walking home from the tavern. He drank a fair amount of wine, but this time the wine did not cheer him up at all.
He thought with horror of his imminent ruin. And suddenly Peter noticed that someone was walking beside him with short, quick steps. He looked back and saw the Glass Man.
- Oh, it's you, sir! Peter said through gritted teeth. Have you come to admire my misfortune? Yes, there is nothing to say, you generously rewarded me! .. I would not wish such a patron to my enemy! Well, what do you want me to do now? Just look, the head of the district himself will come and let all my property go for debts at a public auction. Indeed, when I was a miserable coal miner, I had fewer sorrows and worries ...
“So,” said the Glass Man, “so!” So you think I'm the one to blame for all your misfortunes? And in my opinion, you yourself are to blame for not being able to wish for anything worthwhile. In order to become the master of the glass business, my dear, you must first of all be an intelligent person and know the skill. I told you before and now I will tell you: you lack intelligence, Peter Munch, intelligence and ingenuity!
- What is there still mind! .. - Peter shouted, choking with resentment and anger. “I am no more stupid than anyone else, and I will prove it to you in practice, fir cone!”
With these words, Peter grabbed the Glass Man by the collar and began to shake him with all his might.
“Yeah, you got it, lord of the forests?” Come on, fulfill my third wish! So that right now in this very place there would be a bag of gold, a new house and... Ay-ay!.. - he suddenly yelled in a voice not his own.
The Glass Man seemed to burst into flame in his hands and lit up with a dazzling white flame. All his glass clothes became red-hot, and hot, prickly sparks splashed in all directions.
Peter involuntarily unclenched his fingers and waved his burned hand in the air.
At that very moment, a laughter sounded in his ear, light as the sound of glass, and everything was silent.
The Glass Man is gone.
For several days Peter could not forget this unpleasant meeting.
He would have been glad not to think about her, but his swollen hand constantly reminded him of his stupidity and ingratitude.
But little by little his hand healed, and his soul felt better.
“Even if they sell my factory,” he reassured himself, “I will still have a fat Ezekiel. As long as he has money in his pocket, and I will not be lost.
That's how it is, Peter Munch, but if Ezekiel doesn't have money, what then? But that didn't even cross Peter's mind.
In the meantime, exactly what he did not foresee happened, and one fine day a very strange story took place, which cannot be explained by the laws of arithmetic.
One Sunday, Peter, as usual, came to the tavern.
“Good evening, master,” he said from the doorway. “What, fat Ezekiel is already here?”
“Come in, come in, Peter,” said Ezekiel himself. - A place has been reserved for you.
Peter walked over to the table and put his hand in his pocket to see if fat Ezekiel was a winner or a loser. It turned out to be a big win. Peter could judge this by his own well-filled pocket.
He sat down with the players and so spent the time until the very evening, now winning the game, now losing. But no matter how much he lost, the money in his pocket did not decrease, because Ezekiel Tolstoy was lucky all the time.
When it got dark outside, the players began to go home one by one. Fat Ezekiel also got up. But Peter so persuaded him to stay and play another game or two that he finally agreed.
“Very well,” said Ezekiel. “But first I’ll count my money. Let's roll the dice. The stake is five guilders. It makes no sense less: child's play! .. - He pulled out his wallet and began to count the money. Exactly one hundred guilders! he said, putting the wallet in his pocket.
Now Peter knew how much money he had: exactly one hundred guilders. And I didn't have to count.
And so the game began. Ezekiel threw the dice first - eight points! Peter threw the dice - ten points!
And so it went: no matter how many times Ezekiel the Fat threw the dice, Peter always had exactly two points more.
Finally the fat man laid out his last five guilders on the table.
- Well, throw it again! he shouted. “But know this, I will not give up, even if I lose even now. You will lend me some coins from your winnings. A decent person always helps out a friend in difficulty.
- Yes, what is there to talk about! Peter said. My wallet is always at your service.
Fat Ezekiel shook the bones and threw them on the table.
- Fifteen! - he said. "Now let's see what you have."
Peter threw the dice without looking.
- I took it! Seventeen! .. - he shouted and even laughed with pleasure.
At that very moment, a muffled, hoarse voice rang out behind him:
This was your last game!
Peter looked around in horror and saw behind his chair the huge figure of Michiel the Dutchman. Not daring to move, Peter froze in place.
But fat Ezekiel didn't see anyone or anything.
"Give me ten guilders, and we'll keep playing!" he said impatiently.
Peter put his hand in his pocket as if in a dream. Empty! He fumbled in another pocket - and there is no more.
Understanding nothing, Peter turned both pockets inside out, but did not find even the smallest coin in them.
Then he remembered with horror about his first desire. The damned Glass Man kept his word to the end: Peter wanted him to have as much money as Ezekiel Tolstoy had in his pocket, and here Ezekiel Tolstoy did not have a penny, and Peter had exactly the same amount in his pocket!
The owner of the inn and Ezekiel the Fat looked at Peter, wide-eyed. They could not understand in any way what he did with the money he won. And since Peter could not answer anything worthwhile to all their questions, they decided that he simply did not want to pay off the innkeeper and was afraid to believe in a debt to Ezekiel Tolstoy.
This made them so furious that the two of them attacked Peter, beat him, tore off his caftan and pushed him out the door.
Not a single star was visible in the sky when Peter made his way to his home.
The darkness was such that even an eye was gouged out, and yet he discerned some huge figure next to him, which was darker than the darkness.
- Well, Peter Munch, your song is sung! said a familiar hoarse voice. “Now you see what it’s like for those who don’t want to listen to my advice. And it's his own fault! You were free to hang out with this stingy old man, with this miserable glass vial! .. Well, all is not lost yet. I'm not vindictive. Listen, I'll be on my mountain all day tomorrow. Come and call me Do not repent!
Peter's heart went cold as he realized who was talking to him. Michel the Giant! Again Michel the Giant! .. Headlong, Peter rushed to run, not knowing where.
When on Monday morning Peter came to his glass factory, he found uninvited guests there - the head of the district and three judges.
The chief politely greeted Peter, asked if he had slept well and how his health was, and then pulled out a long list from his pocket, in which were the names of everyone to whom Peter owed money.
“Are you going to pay all these people, sir?” the boss asked, looking sternly at Peter. "If you're going, please hurry up." I don't have much time, and it's a good three hours to jail.
Peter had to admit that he had nothing to pay, and the judges, without much discussion, began to inventory his property.
They described the house and outbuildings, the factory and the stable, the carriage and the horses. They described the glassware that stood in the pantries, and the broom that was used to sweep the yard ... In a word, everything, everything that just caught their eye.
While they were walking around the yard, examining everything, feeling and evaluating everything, Peter stood aside and whistled, trying to show that this did not bother him in the least. And suddenly the words of Michel sounded in his ears: “Well, Peter Munch, your song is sung! ..”
His heart skipped a beat and his blood pounded in his temples.
“But it’s not so far to Spruce Mountain, closer than to the prison,” he thought. “If the little one didn’t want to help, well, I’ll go and ask the big one…”
And without waiting for the judges to finish their business, he stealthily went out of the gate and ran into the forest at a run.
He ran fast - faster than a hare from hounds - and he himself did not notice how he found himself on top of Spruce Mountain.
When he ran past the big old spruce, under which he had spoken to the Glass Man for the first time, it seemed to him that some invisible hands were trying to catch and hold him. But he broke free and ran recklessly on ...
Here is the ditch, beyond which the possessions of Michel the Giant begin! ..
With one leap, Peter jumped over to the other side and, barely catching his breath, shouted:
- Mister Michel! Mikhel the Giant! .. And before the echo had time to respond to his cry, a familiar terrible figure appeared in front of him as if from under the ground - almost as tall as a pine tree, in the clothes of a raftsman, with a huge hook on his shoulder ... Mikhel the Giant came to the call.
- Yeah, it's here! he said, laughing. “Well, have you been completely peeled off?” Is the skin still intact, or maybe even that skin was torn off and sold for debts? Yes, full, full, do not worry! Let's better come to me, we'll talk... Maybe we'll come to an agreement...
And he walked with sazhen steps uphill along the narrow stone path.
“Let's agree?..” thought Peter, trying to keep up with him. What does he want from me? After all, he himself knows that I have not a penny for my soul ... Will he make me work for myself, or what?
The forest path got steeper and steeper and finally broke off. They found themselves in front of a deep dark gorge.
Michel the Giant, without hesitation, ran down a steep cliff, as if it were a gentle staircase. And Peter stopped at the very edge, looking down with fear and not understanding what to do next. The gorge was so deep that from above even Michel the Giant seemed small, like a Glass Man.
And suddenly - Peter could hardly believe his eyes - Michel began to grow. He grew, grew, until he became the height of the Cologne bell tower. Then he extended his hand to Peter, as long as a hook, held out his palm, which was larger than the table in the tavern, and said in a voice booming like a funeral bell:
- Sit on my hand and hold on tight to my finger! Don't be afraid, you won't fall!
Terrified, Peter stepped onto the giant's hand and grabbed his thumb. The giant began to slowly lower his hand, and the lower he lowered it, the smaller he became.
When he finally put Peter on the ground, he was again the same height as always - much more than a man, but a little less than a pine tree.
Peter looked around. At the bottom of the gorge it was as light as above, only the light here was somehow inanimate - cold, sharp. It hurt his eyes.
There was no tree, no bush, no flower to be seen around. On the stone platform stood a large house, an ordinary house no worse and no better than those in which rich Black Forest raftmen live, only bigger, but otherwise nothing special.
Mikhel, without saying a word, opened the door, and they entered the room. And here everything was like everyone else: a wooden wall clock - the work of Black Forest clockmakers - a painted tiled stove, wide benches, all kinds of household utensils on shelves along the walls.
Only for some reason it seemed that no one lived here - it blew cold from the stove, the clock was silent.
“Well, sit down, buddy,” Michel said. - Let's have a glass of wine.
He went into another room and soon returned with a large jug and two pot-bellied glass glasses - exactly the same as those made at Peter's factory.
Having poured wine for himself and his guest, he started talking about all sorts of things, about foreign lands where he had happened to visit more than once, about beautiful cities and rivers, about large ships crossing the seas, and finally provoked Peter so much that he wanted to die to travel around white light and look at all its curiosities.
“Yes, this is life!” he said. “But we, fools, sit all our lives in one place and see nothing but fir-trees and pines.
“Well,” said Mikhel the Giant, slyly narrowing his eyes. - And you are not booked. You can travel and do business. Everything is possible - if only there is enough courage, firmness, common sense ... If only a stupid heart does not interfere! .. And how it interferes, damn it! and your heart will suddenly tremble, pound, and you will chicken out for no reason at all. And if someone offends you, and even for no reason at all? It seems that there is nothing to think about, but your heart aches, it aches ... Well, tell me yourself: when they called you a deceiver last night and pushed you out of the tavern, did your head hurt, or what? And when the judges described your factory and house, did your stomach hurt? Well, tell me straight, what's wrong with you?
“Heart,” said Peter.
And, as if confirming his words, his heart clenched anxiously in his chest and beat often, often.
“Yes,” said Michel the Giant, and shook his head. “Someone told me that, as long as you had money, you did not spare it to all sorts of beggars and beggars. Is this true?
"True," said Peter in a whisper. Michel nodded his head.
“Yes,” he repeated again. “Tell me, why did you do it?” What good is this to you? What did you get for your money? Wishing you all the best and good health! So what, did you become healthier from this? Yes, half of this money thrown away would be enough to keep a good doctor with you. And this would be much more beneficial for your health than all the wishes put together. Did you know it? Knew. What made you put your hand in your pocket every time some dirty beggar offered you his crumpled hat? The heart, again the heart, not the eyes, not the tongue, not the arms and not the legs. You, as they say, took everything too close to your heart.
But how can you make sure that doesn't happen? Peter asked. - You can’t command your heart! .. And now - I would so like it to stop trembling and hurting. And it trembles and hurts.
Michel laughed.
- Of course! - he said. "Where can you deal with him?" Stronger people and those can not cope with all his whims and quirks. You know what, brother, you better give it to me. See how I handle it.
- What? Peter screamed in horror. - Give you my heart? .. But I'll die on the spot. No, no, no way!
- Empty! Michel said. “That is, if one of your gentlemen surgeons took it into his head to take out your heart, then, of course, you would not live even a minute. Well, I'm different. And you will be alive and healthy as never before. Yes, come here, look with your own eyes ... You will see for yourself that there is nothing to be afraid of.
He got up, opened the door to the next room, and beckoned to Peter with his hand:
- Come in here, buddy, don't be afraid! There is something to see here.
Peter crossed the threshold and involuntarily stopped, not daring to believe his eyes.
His heart clenched so hard in his chest that he could barely catch his breath.
Along the walls on long wooden shelves stood rows of glass jars filled to the very brim with some kind of transparent liquid.
And in each jar was a human heart. On top of the label, glued to the glass, was written the name and nickname of the one in whose chest it used to beat.
Peter walked slowly along the shelves, reading label after label. On one was written: “the heart of the head of the district”, on the other - “the heart of the chief forester”. On the third, simply - "Ezekiel the Fat", on the fifth - "the king of dances."
In a word, there are many hearts and many respectable names known throughout the region.
“You see,” said Mikhel the Giant, “not one of these hearts shrinks anymore either from fear or from grief. Their former owners got rid once and for all of all worries, anxieties, heart defects and feel great since they evicted the restless tenant from their chest.
“Yes, but what do they have in their chest instead of a heart now?” stammered Peter, whose head was spinning from everything he had seen and heard.
“That’s it,” Michel replied calmly. He opened a drawer and pulled out a stone heart.
- This is? Peter asked, out of breath, and a cold shiver ran down his back. – Marble heart?.. But it must be very cold in the chest, right?
- Of course, it is a little cold, - said Mikhel, - but it is a very pleasant coolness. And why, in fact, the heart must certainly be hot? In winter, when it's cold, cherry liqueur warms much better than the warmest heart. And in the summer, when it’s already stuffy and hot, you won’t believe how nicely such a marble heart refreshes. And the main thing is that it won’t beat in you either from fear, or from anxiety, or from stupid pity. Very comfortably!
Peter shrugged.
"And that's all, why did you call me?" he asked the giant. “To tell you the truth, this is not what I expected from you. I need money, and you offer me a stone.
“Well, I think a hundred thousand guilders will be enough for you for the first time,” said Michel. “If you manage to profitably put them into circulation, you can become a real rich man.
“A hundred thousand!” shouted the poor collier in disbelief, and his heart began to beat so violently that he involuntarily held it with his hand. - Don't stab yourself, you restless one! Soon I'll be done with you forever... Mr. Michel, I agree to everything! Give me the money and your stone, and you can keep this stupid drummer.
“I knew that you were a guy with a head,” Michel said with a friendly smile. - On this occasion, you should drink. And then we'll get down to business.
They sat down at the table and drank a glass of strong, thick, like blood, wine, then another glass, another glass, and so on until the large jug was completely empty.
There was a roaring in Peter's ears and, dropping his head into his hands, he fell into a dead sleep.
Peter was awakened by the cheerful sounds of a mail horn. He sat in a beautiful carriage. The horses thumped their hooves, and the carriage rolled quickly. Looking out of the window, he saw far behind the mountains of the Black Forest in a haze of blue fog.
At first he could not believe that it was himself, coal miner Peter Munch, sitting on soft cushions in a rich lordly carriage. Yes, and the dress he was wearing was such as he had never dreamed of ... And yet it was he, the coal miner Peter Munch! ..
Peter thought for a moment. Here he is, for the first time in his life, leaving these mountains and valleys, overgrown with spruce forests. But for some reason, he is not at all sorry to leave his native places. And the thought that he had left his old mother alone, in need and anxiety, without saying a single word to her in parting, also did not sadden him at all.
“Oh yes,” he suddenly remembered, “because now I have a heart of stone! .. Thanks to Michel the Dutchman - he saved me from all these tears, sighs, regrets ...”
He put his hand to his chest and felt only a slight chill. The stone heart did not beat.
Well, he kept his word about the heart, Peter thought. “But what about money?”
He began to inspect the carriage, and among the heap of all sorts of traveling things he found a large leather bag, tightly stuffed with gold and checks for trading houses in all large cities.
“Well, now everything is in order,” thought Peter and sat comfortably among the soft leather pillows.
Thus began the new life of Mr. Peter Munch.
For two years he traveled around the wide world, saw a lot, but did not notice anything, except for postal stations, signs on houses and hotels in which he stayed.
However, Peter always hired a person who showed him the sights of each city.
His eyes looked at beautiful buildings, pictures and gardens, his ears listened to music, merry laughter, intelligent conversations, but nothing interested or pleased him, because his heart always remained cold.
His only pleasure was that he could eat well and sleep sweetly.
However, for some reason, all the dishes soon became boring to him, and sleep began to flee from him. And at night, tossing and turning from side to side, he often recalled how well he slept in the forest near the coal pit and how delicious the miserable dinner his mother brought from home was.
He was never sad now, but he was never happy either.
If others laughed in front of him, he only stretched his lips out of politeness.
It even seemed to him sometimes that he had simply forgotten how to laugh, and after all, before, it used to be that any trifle could make him laugh.
In the end, he became so bored that he decided to return home. Does it matter where you get bored?
When he again saw the dark forests of the Black Forest and the good-natured faces of his countrymen, the blood rushed to his heart for a moment, and it even seemed to him that he would now be delighted. Not! The stone heart remained as cold as it was. A stone is a stone.
Returning to his native places, Peter first of all went to see Michel the Dutchman. He received him in a friendly manner.
- Hello, buddy! - he said. - Well, did you have a good trip? Did you see the white light?
- Yes, how can I tell you ... - Peter answered. “Of course, I saw a lot, but all this is nonsense, sheer boredom ... In general, I must tell you, Mikhel, that this pebble that you awarded me is not such a find. Of course, it saves me a lot of trouble. I'm never angry, I'm not sad, but I'm never happy either. It's like I'm half-living... Can't you make him a little more alive? Better yet, give me back my old heart. In twenty-five years I had become rather accustomed to it, and although it sometimes played pranks, it still had a cheerful, glorious heart.
Michel the Giant laughed.
“Well, you are a fool, Peter Munch, as I see it,” he said. - I traveled, I traveled, but I didn’t pick up my mind. Do you know why you're bored? From idleness. And you bring down everything on the heart. The heart has absolutely nothing to do with it. You better listen to me: build yourself a house, get married, put money into circulation. When every guilder turns into ten, you will have as much fun as ever. Even a stone will be happy with money.
Peter agreed with him without much argument. Michel the Dutchman immediately gave him another hundred thousand guilders, and they parted on friendly terms.
Soon a rumor spread throughout the Black Forest that the coal miner Peter Munch had returned home even richer than he had been before his departure.
And then something happened that usually happens in such cases. He again became a welcome guest in the tavern, everyone bowed to him, hurried to shake hands, everyone was glad to call him their friend.
He left the glass business and began to trade in timber. But that was just for show.
In fact, he traded not in timber, but in money: he lent them and received them back with interest.
Little by little, half of the Black Forest was in his debt.
With the head of the district, he was now familiar. And as soon as Peter only hinted that someone had not paid him the money on time, the judges instantly flew into the house of the unfortunate debtor, described everything, evaluated and sold it under the hammer. Thus every gulden that Peter received from Michiel the Dutchman very soon turned into ten.
True, at first, Mr. Peter Munch was a little bothered by pleas, tears and reproaches. Entire crowds of debtors day and night besieged its doors. The men begged for a delay, the women tried to soften his stony heart with tears, the children asked for bread...
However, all this was settled as well as possible when Peter acquired two huge shepherd dogs. As soon as they were released from the chain, all this, in Peter's words, "cat music" stopped in an instant.
But what annoyed him most of all was the “old woman” (as he called his mother, Mrs. Munch).
When Peter returned from his wanderings, rich again and respected by everyone, he did not even go into her poor hut.
Old, half-starved, sick, she came to his yard, leaning on a stick, and timidly stopped at the threshold.
She did not dare to ask strangers, so as not to disgrace her rich son, and every Saturday she came to his door, waiting for alms and not daring to enter the house, from where she had already been kicked out once.
Seeing the old woman from the window, Peter, frowning angrily, took out several copper coins from his pocket, wrapped them in a piece of paper, and, calling the servant, sent them to his mother. He heard how she thanked him in a trembling voice and wished him every well-being, he heard how, coughing and tapping with a stick, she made her way past his windows, but he only thought that he had again wasted a few pennies.
Needless to say, now it was no longer the same Peter Munch, a reckless merry fellow who threw money to wandering musicians without counting and was always ready to help the first poor person he met. The current Peter Munch knew the value of money well and did not want to know anything else.
Every day he became richer and richer, but he did not become more cheerful.
And so, remembering the advice of Michel the Giant, he decided to marry.
Peter knew that any respectable person in the Black Forest would gladly give his daughter for him, but he was picky. He wanted everyone to praise his choice and envy his happiness. He traveled the whole region, looked into all the nooks and crannies, looked at all the brides, but not one of them seemed to him worthy of becoming the wife of Mr. Munch.
Finally, at a party, he was told that the most beautiful and modest girl in the entire Black Forest was Lisbeth, the daughter of a poor woodcutter. But she never goes to dances, sits at home, sews, runs the house and takes care of her old father. There is no better bride not only in these places, but in the whole world.
Without putting things off, Peter got ready and went to the beauty's father. The poor woodcutter was very surprised to see such an important gentleman. But he was even more surprised when he learned that this important gentleman wanted to woo his daughter.
How was it not to seize such happiness!
The old man decided that his sorrows and worries had come to an end, and, without thinking twice, gave Peter his consent, without even asking the beautiful Lizbeth.
And the beautiful Lisbeth was a submissive daughter. She unquestioningly fulfilled the will of her father and became Mrs. Munch.
But the poor thing had a sad life in the rich house of her husband. All the neighbors considered her an exemplary hostess, and she could not please Mr. Peter in any way.
She had a good heart, and, knowing that the chests in the house were bursting with all sorts of good things, she did not consider it a sin to feed some poor old woman, to take out a glass of wine to a passing old man, or to give a few small coins to the neighbor's children for sweets.
But when Peter once found out about this, he turned purple with anger and said:
“How dare you throw my stuff left and right? Have you forgotten that you yourself are a beggar?.. See to it that this is the last time, or else ...
And he looked at her so that the heart of poor Lisbeth turned cold in her chest. She wept bitterly and went to her room.
Since then, whenever some poor person passed by their house, Lisbeth closed the window or turned away so as not to see someone else's poverty. But she never dared to disobey her harsh husband.
No one knew how many tears she shed at night, thinking about Peter's cold, pitiless heart, but everyone now knew that Madame Munch would not give a dying man a sip of water and a hungry crust of bread. She was known as the meanest housewife in the Black Forest.
One day Lisbeth was sitting in front of the house, spinning yarn and humming a song. Her heart was light and cheerful that day, because the weather was excellent, and Mr. Peter was away on business.
And suddenly she saw that some old old man was walking along the road. Bent over in three deaths, he dragged a large, tightly stuffed bag on his back.
The old man kept stopping to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his forehead.
“Poor man,” thought Lisbeth, “how hard it is for him to bear such an unbearable burden!”
And the old man, going up to her, dropped his huge bag on the ground, sank heavily on it and said in a barely audible voice:
- Be merciful, mistress! Give me a sip of water. I was so exhausted that I just fell off my feet.
“How can you carry such weights at your age!” Lisbeth said.
- What can you do! Poverty! .. - answered the old man. “You have to live with something. Of course, for such a rich woman as you, this is difficult to understand. Here you, probably, except cream, and do not drink anything, and I will say thank you for a sip of water.
Without answering, Lisbeth ran into the house and poured a ladle full of water. She was about to take it to a passerby, but suddenly, before reaching the threshold, she stopped and returned to the room again. Opening the cupboard, she took out a large patterned mug, filled it to the brim with wine, and, covering the top with fresh, freshly baked bread, brought the old man out.
“Here,” she said, “refresh yourself for the journey.” The old man looked at Lisbeth with surprise with his faded, glassy eyes. He drank the wine slowly, broke off a piece of bread, and said in a trembling voice:
“I am an old man, but in my lifetime I have seen few people with such a kind heart as yours. And kindness never goes unrewarded...
And she will receive her reward now! A terrible voice boomed from behind them.
They turned around and saw Mr. Peter.
- So that's how you are! .. - he said through his teeth, clutching the whip in his hands and approaching Lizbeth. - You pour the best wine from my cellar into my favorite mug and treat some dirty tramps ... Here's to you! Get your reward!..
He swung and with all his strength hit his wife on the head with a heavy ebony whip.
Before she could even scream, Lisbeth fell into the old man's arms.
A stone heart knows neither regret nor repentance. But then even Peter felt uneasy, and he rushed to Lisbeth to lift her up.
- Do not work, collier Munch! the old man suddenly said in a voice well known to Peter. “You broke the most beautiful flower in the Black Forest, and it will never bloom again.
Peter involuntarily recoiled.
“So it’s you, Mr. Glass Man!” he whispered in horror. - Well, what's done, you can't turn it back. But I hope at least you don't denounce me to court...
- To court? The Glass Man smiled bitterly. - No, I know your judge friends too well... Whoever could sell his heart will sell his conscience without hesitation. I will judge you myself!
Peter's eyes darkened at those words.
"Don't judge me, you old curmudgeon!" he shouted, shaking his fists. - It was you who killed me! Yes, yes, you, and no one else! By your grace, I went to bow to Michel the Dutchman. And now you yourself must answer to me, and not I to you! ..
And he swung his whip beside himself. But his hand remained frozen in the air.
Before his eyes, the Glass Man suddenly began to grow. He grew more and more, until he blocked the house, the trees, even the sun ... His eyes threw sparks and were brighter than the brightest flame. He breathed - and the scorching heat penetrated Peter through, so that even his stony heart warmed and quivered, as if beating again. No, even Michel the Giant had never seemed so scary to him!
Peter fell to the ground and covered his head with his hands to protect himself from the revenge of the angry Glass Man, but suddenly he felt that a huge hand, tenacious like the claws of a kite, grabbed him, lifted him high into the air and, whirling like the wind twists a dry blade of grass, threw him to the ground .
“Miserable worm!” boomed a thunderous voice above him. “I could burn you on the spot!” But, so be it, for the sake of this poor, meek woman, I give you seven more days of life. If during these days you do not repent - beware! ..
It was as if a fiery whirlwind rushed over Peter - and everything was quiet.
In the evening, people passing by saw Peter lying on the ground at the threshold of his house.
He was as pale as a dead man, his heart was not beating, and the neighbors had already decided that he was dead (after all, they did not know that his heart was not beating, because it was made of stone). But then someone noticed that Peter was still breathing. They brought water, moistened his forehead, and he woke up...
– Lizbeth! Where is Lizbeth? he asked in a hoarse whisper.
But no one knew where she was.
He thanked the people for their help and entered the house. Lisbeth was not there either.
Peter was completely taken aback. What does this mean? Where did she disappear to? Dead or alive, she must be here.
So several days passed. From morning to night he wandered around the house, not knowing what to do. And at night, as soon as he closed his eyes, he was awakened by a quiet voice:
“Peter, get yourself a warm heart!” Get yourself a warm heart, Peter!
He told his neighbors that his wife had gone to visit her father for a few days. Of course they believed him. But sooner or later they will find out that this is not true. What to say then? And the days allotted to him, so that he would repent, went on and on, and the hour of reckoning was approaching. But how could he repent when his stony heart knew no remorse? Oh, if only he could win a hotter heart!
And so, when the seventh day was already running out, Peter made up his mind. He put on a festive camisole, a hat, jumped on a horse and galloped to Spruce Mountain.
Where the frequent spruce forest began, he dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, and himself, clinging to thorny branches, climbed up.
He stopped near a large spruce, took off his hat, and, with difficulty remembering the words, said slowly:
- Under a shaggy spruce,
In a dark dungeon
Where the spring is born, -
An old man lives between the roots.
He's incredibly rich
He keeps the cherished treasure.
Who was born on Sunday
Receives a wonderful treasure.
And the Glass Man appeared. But now he was all in black: a coat of black frosted glass, black pantaloons, black stockings... A black crystal ribbon wrapped around his hat.
He barely glanced at Peter and asked in an indifferent voice:
– What do you want from me, Peter Munch?
“I have one more wish left, Mr. Glass Man,” said Peter, not daring to raise his eyes. - I would like you to do it.
– How can a stone heart have desires! replied the Glass Man. “You already have everything that people like you need. And if you still lack something, ask your friend Michel. I can hardly help you.
“But you yourself promised me three wishes. One more thing is left for me!
- I promised to fulfill your third wish, only if it is not reckless. Well, tell me, what else did you come up with?
“I would like… I would like…” Peter began in a broken voice. “Mr. Glass Man!” Take this dead stone out of my chest and give me my living heart.
- Did you make this deal with me? said the Glass Man. – Am I Michel the Dutchman? who distributes gold coins and stone hearts? Go to him, ask him for your heart!
Peter shook his head sadly.
“Oh, he won’t give it to me for anything. The Glass Man was silent for a minute, then he took his glass pipe out of his pocket and lit it.
“Yes,” he said, blowing smoke rings, “of course, he will not want to give you your heart ... And although you are very guilty before people, before me and before yourself, your desire is not so stupid. I will help you. Listen: you won't get anything from Mikhel by force. But it is not so difficult to outwit him, even though he considers himself smarter than everyone in the world. Bend over to me, I'll tell you how to lure your heart out of him.
And the Glass Man said in Peter's ear everything that had to be done.
“Remember,” he added in parting, “if you again have a living, warm heart in your chest, and if it does not falter in the face of danger and is harder than stone, no one will overcome you, not even Michel the Giant himself. And now go and come back to me with a living, beating heart, like all people. Or don't come back at all.
So said the Glass Man and hid under the roots of the spruce, and Peter with quick steps went to the gorge where Michel the Giant lived.
He called his name three times, and the giant appeared.
What, he killed his wife? he said, laughing. - Well, okay, serve her right! Why didn’t you take care of your husband’s good! Only, perhaps, friend, you will have to leave our lands for a while, otherwise the good neighbors will notice that she is gone, raise a fuss, start all sorts of talk ... You will not be without trouble. Do you really need money?
“Yes,” Peter said, “and more this time. After all, America is far away.
“Well, it won’t be about money,” said Mikhel and led Peter to his house.
He opened a chest in the corner, pulled out several large bundles of gold coins, and spreading them out on the table, began to count.
Peter stood nearby and poured the counted coins into a bag.
- And what a clever deceiver you are, Michel! he said, looking slyly at the giant. “After all, I completely believed that you took out my heart and put a stone in its place.
- So how is it? Mikhel said and even opened his mouth in surprise. Do you doubt that you have a heart of stone? What, it beats with you, freezes? Or maybe you feel fear, grief, remorse?
“Yes, a little,” said Peter. “I understand perfectly well, buddy, that you simply froze it, and now it is gradually thawing ... And how could you, without causing me the slightest harm, take out my heart and replace it with a stone one? To do this, you need to be a real magician! ..
“But I assure you,” Mikhel shouted, “that I did it!” Instead of a heart, you have a real stone, and your real heart lies in a glass jar, next to the heart of Ezekiel Tolstoy. You can see for yourself if you want.
Peter laughed.
- There is something to see! he said casually. - When I traveled in foreign countries, I saw many wonders and cleaner than yours. The hearts you have in glass jars are made of wax. I have even seen wax people, let alone hearts! No, whatever you say, you don’t know how to conjure! ..
Mikhel stood up and threw back his chair with a crash.
- Go here! he called, opening the door to the next room. - Look what's written here! Right here - on this bank! "Heart of Peter Munch"! Put your ear to the glass - listen to how it beats. Can wax beat and tremble like that?
- Of course it can. Wax people walk and talk at fairs. They have some kind of spring inside...
- A spring? And now you will find out from me what kind of spring it is! Fool! Can't tell a wax heart from his own!
Mikhel tore off Peter's camisole, pulled a stone out of his chest and, without saying a word, showed it to Peter. Then he took the heart out of the jar, breathed on it, and carefully placed it where it should have been.
Peter's chest felt hot and cheerful, and the blood ran faster through his veins.
He involuntarily put his hand to his heart, listening to its joyful knock.
Michel looked at him triumphantly.
Well, who was right? - he asked.
“You,” said Peter. - I didn’t think to admit that you are such a sorcerer.
- That's the same! .. - answered Mikhel, grinning smugly. “Now come on, I’ll put it in its place.”
- It's right there! Peter said calmly. - This time you were fooled, Mr. Michel, even though you are a great sorcerer. I won't give you my heart anymore.
- It's not yours anymore! Michel shouted. - I bought it. Give me back my heart now, you pathetic thief, or I'll crush you on the spot!
And, clenching his huge fist, he raised it over Peter. But Peter didn't even bow his head. He looked Mikhel straight in the eyes and said firmly:
- Will not give it back!
Mikhel must not have expected such an answer. He staggered away from Peter as if he had stumbled while running. And the hearts in the jars thumped as loudly as a watch in a workshop knocks out of its frames and cases.
Mikhel looked around them with his cold, deadening gaze - and they immediately fell silent.
Then he looked at Peter and said softly:
- That's what you are! Well, full, full, there is nothing to pose as a brave man. Someone, but I know your heart, was holding it in my hands... A pitiful heart - soft, weak... I suppose it's trembling with fear... Let it come here, it will be calmer in the bank.
- I'm not giving it! Peter said even louder.
- We will see!
And suddenly, in the place where Mikhel had just stood, a huge slippery greenish-brown snake appeared. In an instant, she wrapped herself in rings around Peter and, squeezing his chest, as if with an iron hoop, looked into his eyes with the cold eyes of Michel.
- Will you give it back? the snake hissed.
- Will not give it back! Peter said.
At that very moment, the rings that had been squeezing him disintegrated, the snake disappeared, and flames burst out from under the snake with smoky tongues and surrounded Peter from all sides.
Fiery tongues licked his clothes, hands, face...
- Will you give it back, will you give it back? .. - the flame rustled.
- Not! Peter said.
He almost suffocated from the unbearable heat and sulfuric smoke, but his heart was firm.
The flame subsided, and streams of water, seething and raging, fell on Peter from all sides.
In the noise of the water, the same words were heard as in the hiss of the snake, and in the whistle of the flame: “Will you give it back? Will you give it back?"
Every minute the water rose higher and higher. Now she has come up to the very throat of Peter ...
- Will you give it up?
- Will not give it back! Peter said.
His heart was harder than stone.
The water rose like a frothy crest before his eyes, and he almost choked.
But then some invisible force picked up Peter, lifted him above the water and carried him out of the gorge.
He did not even have time to wake up, as he was already standing on the other side of the ditch, which separated the possessions of Michel the Giant and the Glass Man.
But Michel the Giant has not yet given up. In pursuit of Peter, he sent a storm.
Like cut grass, century-old pines fell and ate. Lightning split the sky and fell to the ground like fiery arrows. One fell to the right of Peter, two steps away from him, the other to the left, even closer.
Peter involuntarily closed his eyes and grabbed the trunk of a tree.
- Thunder, thunder! he shouted, panting for breath. “I have my heart, and I won’t give it to you!”
And suddenly everything went silent. Peter lifted his head and opened his eyes.
Mikhel stood motionless at the border of his possessions. His arms dropped, his feet seemed to be rooted to the ground. It was evident that the magical power had left him. It was no longer the former giant, commanding the earth, water, fire and air, but a decrepit, hunched over, eaten by years old man in the tattered clothes of a raft-driver. He leaned on his hook as if on a crutch, buried his head in his shoulders, shrunk...
With every minute in front of Peter Michel became smaller and smaller. Here he became quieter than water, lower than grass, and finally pressed himself completely to the ground. Only by the rustle and vibration of the stems could one see how he crawled away like a worm into his lair.
Peter looked after him for a long time, and then slowly walked to the top of the mountain to the old spruce.
His heart beat in his chest, glad that it could beat again.
But the further he went, the sadder he became in his soul. He remembered everything that had happened to him over the years - he remembered his old mother, who came to him for miserable alms, he remembered the poor people whom he poisoned with dogs, he remembered Lisbeth ... And bitter tears rolled from his eyes.
When he came to the old spruce, the Glass Man was sitting on a mossy tussock under the branches, smoking his pipe.
He looked at Peter with clear, glassy eyes and said:
“What are you crying about, collier Munch? Aren't you happy to have a living heart beating in your chest again?
“Ah, it doesn't beat, it's torn apart,” said Peter. - It would be better for me not to live in the world than to remember how I lived until now. Mother will never forgive me, and I can't even ask poor Lisbeth for forgiveness. Better kill me, Mr. Glass Man - at least this shameful life will come to an end. Here it is, my last wish!
“Very well,” said the Glass Man. - If you want it, let it be your way. Now I'll bring the axe.
He slowly knocked out the pipe and slipped it into his pocket. Then he got up and, lifting the shaggy thorny branches, disappeared somewhere behind a spruce.
And Peter, crying, sank down on the grass. He did not regret life at all and patiently waited for his last minute.
And then there was a slight rustle behind him.
“Coming! thought Peter. “Now it’s all over!” And, covering his face with his hands, he bowed his head even lower.
Peter raised his head and involuntarily cried out. Before him stood his mother and wife.
- Lisbeth, you're alive! cried Peter, breathless with joy. - Mother! And you are here! .. How can I beg your forgiveness?!
“They have already forgiven you, Peter,” said the Glass Man. Yes, you did, because you repented from the bottom of your heart. But it's not stone now. Go back home and be still a coal miner. If you begin to respect your craft, then people will respect you, and everyone will gladly shake your blackened from coal, but clean hand, even if you do not have barrels of gold.
With these words, the Glass Man disappeared. And Peter with his wife and mother went home.
There is no trace left of Mr. Peter Munch's rich estate. During the last storm, lightning struck directly into the house and burned it to the ground. But Peter did not at all regret his lost wealth.
It was not far from his father's old hut, and he merrily walked there, remembering that glorious time when he was a carefree and cheerful coal miner...
How surprised he was when he saw a beautiful new house instead of a poor, crooked hut. Flowers were blooming in the front garden, starched curtains were white in the windows, and inside everything was so tidy, as if someone was waiting for the owners. The fire crackled merrily in the stove, the table was set, and on the shelves along the walls multi-colored glassware shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow.
– This is all given to us by the Glass Man! exclaimed Peter.
And a new life began in a new house. From morning to evening, Peter worked at his coal pits and returned home tired, but cheerful - he knew that at home they were waiting for him with joy and impatience.
At the card table and in front of the tavern counter, he was never seen again. But he spent his Sunday evenings now more cheerfully than before. The doors of his house were wide open for guests, and the neighbors willingly entered the house of the collier Munch, because they were met by the hostesses, hospitable and friendly, and the owner, good-natured, always ready to rejoice with a friend of his joy or help him in trouble.
A year later, a big event took place in the new house: Peter and Lizbeth had a son, little Peter Munk.
- Who do you want to call godfathers? the old woman asked Peter.
Peter didn't answer. He washed the coal dust from his face and hands, put on a festive caftan, took a festive hat and went to Spruce Mountain.
Near the familiar old spruce, he stopped and, bowing low, uttered the cherished words:
- Under a shaggy spruce.
In a dark dungeon...
He never lost his way, did not forget anything, and said all the words, as they should, in order, from the first to the last. But the Glass Man did not show up.
“Mr. Glass Man!” Peter shouted. “I don’t need anything from you, I don’t ask for anything and I came here only to call you as godfathers to my newborn son! .. You hear me. Mister Glass Man?
But all around was quiet. The Glass Man did not respond even here.
Only a light wind ran over the tops of the fir trees and dropped a few cones at Peter's feet.
- Well. I’ll take these fir cones as a souvenir, if the owner of Spruce Mountain doesn’t want to show himself anymore, ”Peter said to himself and, bowing in parting to the big spruce, he went home.
In the evening, old mother Munch, putting away her son's festive caftan in the closet, noticed that his pockets were stuffed with something. She turned them inside out and several large spruce cones fell out.
Having hit the floor, the bumps scattered, and all their scales turned into brand new shiny thalers, among which there was not a single fake one.
It was a gift from the Glass Man to little Peter Munch.
For many more years, the family of the coal miner Munch lived in peace and harmony in the world. Little Peter has grown up, big Peter has grown old.
And when the youth surrounded the old man and asked him to tell something about the past days, he told them this story and always ended it like this:
- I knew in my lifetime both wealth and poverty. I was poor when I was rich, rich when I was poor. I used to have stone chambers, but then my heart was stone in my chest. And now I have only a house with a stove - but a human heart.