This is the story of Peter Munch. He was a poor coal miner. He lived with his mother, continuing his father's craft. And he had a chance to face two forest spirits, in whom they believed in his native Black Forest.

One is the Glass Man. He lived under the tallest spruce and was a good helper. And the other is the giant Michel the Dutchman. He was blamed by the locals for making people heartless and greedy. He could bestow innumerable wealth. But no one knew what he took in return. It was said that the pay for it was terrible.

Of course, Peter really wanted to improve his position. His mother even said that he was born on a Sunday afternoon. And this meant that the Glass Man would certainly help him. Here, you just need to know the spell to call it. And neither Peter nor his mother fully remembered him.

But then, somehow Peter heard a song of young people passing by and the words of the spell surfaced in his memory. And he went to the forest.

On the way, he met with Mikhel, who offered him his services. But, Peter, remembering the stories about him and the terrible pay, ran away. The giant told him that he would still regret it.

I must say that Peter was very jealous of the three raftmen. One of them was an excellent dancer. And the second, Ezekiel Tolstoy, was unspeakably lucky in gambling and his pocket was always full of voiced thalers. These people were heartless. However, they were respected.

But, now Peter is standing in front of the tallest spruce and pronouncing a rhyme-spell. And, the Glass Man appeared. He said that he grants three wishes to those born on Sunday afternoon. He will perform the first two in any case, whatever they are. And here is the third, only if it is not stupid.

The collier, without hesitation, wished he could dance better than Wilm and that he always had as much money in his pocket as Ezekiel had. And his second desire was to own a glass factory. With the third, the Glass Man asked him not to rush.

All this was done. But, since Peter was not engaged in the plant, he soon began to bring him only losses. And then his property was completely described. In addition, Ezekiel began to lose, and to Peter himself. But he didn't benefit from winning. His pocket turned out to be as empty as that of a losing opponent.

Annoyed at the Glass Man, he went to bow to Michel the Dutchman. In exchange for wealth, he took out his heart from his chest, replacing it with a stone.

Now Peter was rich and respected. He traveled the world for two years. But nothing made him happy. There was a stone in his chest now. He returned home and, on Michel's advice, got down to business. Officially, he was selling timber. But in fact, he lent money, returning much larger amounts to himself. He became deaf to someone else's grief. I completely forgot about my mother, who weekly came under his windows to beg.

Also, Peter got married. His wife, Lisbeth, was a very modest girl and had kind heart. But, she soon became known as the most greedy in the district. Peter forbade her to help the poor.

One day, the girl's heart failed. She treated an old man passing by with wine and bread. And then, unexpectedly, her husband returned. Enraged, he hit Lisbeth on the head and she fell dead. And the old man turned out to be none other than the Glass Man. He told Peter that he would judge him. And gave him 7 days to repent. And disappeared. Peter's wife is also missing.

On the seventh day he went to the old man and asked for help to return it to him. living heart. He tricked him into taking it back from the Dutchman. Coming back to the tall spruce, he asked the spirit to kill him. This was his third, left in reserve, desire. But then, his mother and the living Lizbeth came out to him. They forgave him everything. And he again had a lively and kind heart beating in his chest.

Peter returned to his craft - he again became a coal miner. The glass man gave it to his family new house. And Peter earned respect from his neighbors thanks to his kindness and hospitality. He got a good lesson.

Wealth, the price of which is feelings, the heart, does not cost anything and it will not bring happiness. It is better to live content with little than to have a stone in your chest in exchange for honor and money. Respect can also be earned through good deeds.

The poor coal miner from the Black Forest, Peter Munch, "small intelligent", began to be weary of the low-income and, it seems, not at all honorable craft inherited from his father. However, of all the ideas of how to suddenly get a lot of money, he did not like any. Remembering the old legend about the Glass Man, he tries to summon him, but forgets the last two lines of the spell. In the village of lumberjacks, he is told a legend about Michel the Giant, who gives wealth, but requires a large payment for them. When Peter finally remembered the entire text of the Glass Man's call, he met Michel, who at first promised wealth, but when Peter tried to escape, he threw his hook at him. Fortunately, Peter ran to the border of his farms, and the hook broke, and the snake, which turned into one of the chips that flew off from the hook, was killed by a huge capercaillie. It turned out that this was not a capercaillie at all, but a Glass Man. He promised to fulfill three wishes, and the guy wished to dance well, always have as much money in his pocket as the richest man in their city, a glass factory. The Glass Man, disappointed with such material desires, advised to leave the third desire “for later”, but he gave money to open a factory. But Peter soon launched the plant, and spent all the time at the gaming table. One day, Fat Ezekiel (the richest man in the city) had no money in his pocket - therefore, Peter ended up with nothing ... Mikhel the Giant gave him a lot of hard currency, but in return took his living heart (there were jars with the hearts of many rich people), and inserted a stone one into his chest. But the money did not bring happiness to Peter with a cold heart, but after he hit his wife Lisbeth, who served a cup of wine and bread to an old man passing by (it was the Glass Man), and she disappeared, the time came for the third wish: Peter wanted to regain his warm heart. The Glass Man taught him how to do it: the guy told Michel that he did not believe that he had taken his heart, and for the sake of verification, he inserted it back. The brave Munch, whose ardent heart was harder than stone, was not afraid of the Giant, and when he sent the elements (fire, water, ...) at him one after another, an unknown force carried Peter out of Mikhel's possessions, and the giant himself became small, like worm. Having met the Glass Man, Munch wanted to die in order to end his shameful life, but instead of an ax, he brought him his mother and wife. chic house Peter burned down, there was no wealth, but a new one stood on the site of the old father's house. And when the Munks had a son, the Glass Man presented his last gift: the cones picked up by Peter in his forest turned into brand new thalers.

Wilhelm Hauff

Cold heart

If you ever get to Shv a biyu, then do not forget to look into Shv a Rzwald, which means "Black Forest". The Schwarzwalders who inhabit this area are very different from the inhabitants of the rest of Germany. They are tall, broad-shouldered, and have strong arms and legs. All this gives them the aroma of tall firs, which they inhale from childhood. They breathe more freely than the inhabitants of the surrounding valleys, and they see more sharply, and their character is firmer, although harsh.

The inhabitants of the Baden Black Forest are the most beautifully dressed. Black jackets, tight pleated trousers and wide-brimmed pointed hats give their appearance something foreign and at the same time serious and even respectable. All of them, as a rule, are engaged in the manufacture of glass and watches.

Away from them live the Black Forest, with other customs and habits.

These Schwarzwalders trade in timber. They fell and cut trees and float them far, far away - to Holland: there, near the sea, they know well these Black Foresters with their long rafts. Along the way, they stop near cities and importantly wait for buyers for their logs. But they sell the longest barrels to the Dutch for heavy gold - the Dutch build ships from them.

Rafters wear jackets made of dark linen, green, a palm wide, help through the chest and pants made of black leather. A brass ruler always peeps out of the pocket of the pants - the hallmark of the rafter.

But most of all they are proud of their huge boots. There are no such high boots in any corner of the earth! These boots are pulled over the knees, and rafters can roam in them in deep water.

Such are the inhabitants of the Black Forest.

Until recently, they all believed in forest spirits. And these spirits also dressed differently. It was assured, for example, that a little glass man, a good forest gnome, three human feet tall, did not show up except in a wide-brimmed pointed hat, caftan, trousers and red stockings. But the Dutchman-M and hel, a broad-shouldered giant, walks in the clothes of a rafter. It is said that more than one bull skin was used for his boots. “They are so huge that an ordinary person will fit into them with his head!” - say the Schwarzwalders.

With this Michel Dutchman and with the glass man there is one very strange story. I want to tell you about her.

There lived a widow in the Black Forest - Frau B a Rbara Munch. Her husband was a coal miner, and when he died, the widow began to teach her sixteen-year-old son to this craft.

Like any coal miner, Peter had enough time to think. And when he sat alone by the crackling fire, the forest silence and huge trees set him up for sad thoughts.

It was as if he saw his father sitting near a smoky fire, where coals were burned, he saw his father black, covered with soot, disgusting people.

An incomprehensible longing crept into his heart. Something depressed him, angered him - he himself could not understand what!

Finally, Peter understood: the title of coal miner - that's what depressed him so much.

Black unsociable coal miner! Beggarly life! he whispered under his breath. - How all glassmakers, watchmakers, even musicians are respected on Sunday evening!

The rafting lads also made Peter jealous. Hung with silver trinkets, in rich clothes, they sat in the tavern, stretching their legs, and watched the dancers. They smoked thin Cologne pipes and dropped catchy Dutch words through their teeth. When Peter looked at them, they seemed to him the happiest people on earth!

He was especially struck by three - Peter did not know which of them to envy more.

One of them was a fat man with a red face. He was considered the first rich man in the district and was very lucky. His name was Fat Ezekiel. Twice a year he floated his timber to Amsterdam and each time he sold it for the highest price.

The second was the longest and thinnest man in the entire Black Forest. They called him the Lanky Sharkoon.

In a cramped tavern Long-legged occupied more space than any four fat men. Because he always put his elbows on the table. Or climbed with his feet on the bench. And no one ever contradicted him, because he was also fabulously rich.

The third was a handsome young man. He was the best dancer, and therefore he was called the King of the Dances.

“If I were rich like Fat Ezekiel, or bold and strong like Lanky Sharkoon, or as famous as the King of Dances! .. - thought Peter. “And where do they get money from?”

When Peter's father was alive, the poor often came to visit them. They talked for a long time with their father about who and how got rich. In conversations, the Glass Man, who lives in the forest, was mentioned every now and then. Peter even knew the beginning of the spell this dwarf responded to.

It started like this:

Good gnome in the spruce forest.
Treasure under the roots.
Say at least one word...

Once Peter brought his mother to talk about this, but she also remembered only what Peter himself knew. And she also said that the Glass Gnome is shown only to those who were born on Sunday, at noon. The dwarf would probably have appeared to Peter, because he was born on Sunday, exactly at twelve o'clock in the afternoon.

Poor Peter! When he found out about this, he was terribly happy and proud.

Knowing the beginning of the spell, and even being born on Sunday, isn't that enough to see the Glass Man?

And then one day, having sold his coals, he put on his father's jacket, new red stockings and a Sunday hat, took his long stick and said goodbye to his mother.

I need to go to the city,” he lied.

In fact, he did not go to the city, but to the Great Spruce Hill. This hill is the most high place in the Black Forest. In those days, there was not a single village, not a single hut far around.

Peter was terrified in this forest - no human steps were heard here, even the birds avoided this place.

The collier Peter had reached the top of Spruce Hill and was now standing under a tall, immense spruce. For such a spruce, Dutch shipbuilders fell off would have yourself at home for more than one hundred guilders.

“Somewhere here, probably, the Master of the forest treasures lives,” thought Peter.

He took off his hat, made a deep bow in front of the fir tree, cleared his throat and said in a trembling voice:

Have a nice evening, mister dwarf!

There was no answer. There was deathly silence around.

Wilhelm Hauff
Cold heart
The poor coal miner from the Black Forest, Peter Munk, "small intelligent", began to be weary of the low-income and, it seems, not at all honorable craft inherited from his father. However, of all the ideas of how to suddenly get a lot of money, he did not like any. Remembering the old legend about the Glass Man, he tries to summon him, but forgets the last 2 lines of the spell. In the village of lumberjacks, he is told a legend about Michel the Giant, who gives wealth, but requires a large payment for them. When Peter finally remembered the entire text of the Glass Man's challenge, he met Micah, who at first promised riches, but when Peter tried to escape, he threw his hook at him. Fortunately, Peter ran to the border of his farms, and the hook broke, and the snake, which turned into one of the chips that flew off from the hook, was killed by a huge capercaillie.
It turned out that this was not a capercaillie at all, but a Glass Man. He promised to fulfill 3 wishes, and the guy wished to dance well, always have as much money in his pocket as the richest man in their city, a glass factory. The Glass Man, disappointed with such material desires, advised to leave the third desire “for later”, but he gave money to open a factory. But Peter soon launched the plant, and spent all the time at the gaming table. One day, Tolstoo Ezekiel (the richest man in the city) did not have money in his pocket - therefore, Peter ended up with nothing ... Micah the Giant gave him a lot of hard currency, but in return took his living heart (on the shelves in Micah's dwelling there were jars with hearts of many rich people), and inserted a stone into his chest.
But the money did not bring happiness to Peter with a cold heart, and after he hit his wife Lizbeth, who served a cup of wine and bread to an old man who was passing by (it was the Glass Man), and she disappeared, the time came for the third wish: Peter wanted to regain his warm heart . The Glass Man taught him how to do it: the guy told Micah that he did not believe that he had taken his heart, and for the sake of verification, he inserted it back. The brave Munch, whose ardent heart was harder than stone, was not afraid of the Giant, and when he sent the elements (fire, water, ...) at him one after another, an unknown force carried Peter out of Micah's possessions, and the giant himself became small, like a worm.
Having met the Glass Man, Munch wanted to die in order to end his shameful life, but instead of an ax, he brought him his mother and wife. Peter's chic house burned down, there was no wealth, but a new one stood in place of the old father's house. And when the Munks had a son, the Glass Man presented his last gift: the cones picked up by Peterov in his forest turned into brand new thalers.

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Part one

Whoever travels around Swabia should not forget to visit the Black Forest for a while. Not for the sake of trees, although not everywhere you will see such a darkness of magnificent slender fir trees, but for the sake of people who are surprisingly different from other inhabitants of these places. They are taller than ordinary people, broad in the shoulders, powerfully built, and it seems downright that the invigorating spirit that blows from the fir trees in the morning endowed them with freer breathing, a clearer look and a firmer, although more severe disposition from their youth. than the inhabitants of the plains and river valleys. Not only, however, in posture and stature, but also in customs and dress, they differ sharply from people living outside these wooded mountains.

The inhabitants of the Baden Black Forest are the most beautifully dressed. The local men do not cut their beards, they grow them as nature should, and their black jackets, wide trousers with small folds, red stockings and pointed, wide-brimmed hats give them some unusual, but at the same time some stern, dignified look.

The usual occupation of the local inhabitants is the manufacture of glass. They also make watches that sell almost all over the world.

At the other end of the Black Forest lives part of the same tribe, but from their occupations they have different manners and customs than glassmakers.

They trade their timber. They fell and hew their firs, float them down the Nagold to the Neckar, and from the upper Neckar down the Rhine into the depths of Holland, and in the seaside places they know the Black Foresters and their long rafts well. They stop at every city that stands on the river and proudly wait to buy logs and boards from them.

And the strongest and longest logs they sell for big money to the Dutch Mingers, who build ships from them. So, these people are accustomed to a harsh, nomadic life. Joy for them is to drive their rafts down the river, longing is to return by the shore.

That is why their festive clothes are so different from the clothes of glassmakers from another part of the Black Forest. They wear jackets of dark canvas, green, the width of the palm of a help on a broad chest, black leather trousers, from the pocket of which, as a mark of distinction, a copper inch ruler peeps out.

But their pride and joy are boots, probably the largest that are worn in the world: their tops can be raised two spans above the knees, and raftsmen walk in them at least three feet deep in water without the risk of getting their feet wet.

Until recently, the inhabitants of the local forests believed in forest spirits, and only in the most recent times managed to get rid of this stupid superstition. It is curious, however, that the spirits that, according to legend, live in the Black Forest, are divided according to these different types of clothing. Thus, for example, it is said that Glassy, ​​a good woodsman, three and a half feet tall, never shows himself otherwise than in a pointed hat with large fields, in a jacket, bloomers and red stockings. Michel, the Dutchman, walking on the other side of the forest, is, they say, a huge, broad-shouldered fellow in the clothes of a raft driver, and many of those who saw him assure that they would not like to pay out of their own pocket for calves, the skin of which would be enough for him on boots. “They are so tall that an ordinary person will go up to the neck in them,” eyewitnesses said and swore that they were not exaggerating at all.

With these forest spirits, a strange story once happened to a young Black Forester, which I want to tell.

There lived a widow in the Black Forest, Mrs. Barbara Munch. Her husband was a coal miner, and after his death she slowly prepared her sixteen-year-old son for the same occupation.

Young Peter Munch, a smart fellow, meekly - after all, his father lived exactly like that - sat for whole weeks by a smoking fire and then, black, covered in soot, fearful, drove his coal down to the city, and sold it there.

But the coal miner has time to think about himself and others, and when Peter Munch was sitting by his fire, the dark trees all around and the deep silence of the forest set his soul to tears and unaccountable longing. Something upset him, something annoyed him - he didn't know what.

At last he realized what made him angry, and it turned out that this was his position. “Black, lonely coal miner! he said to himself. What a miserable life! How respected are glass blowers, watchmakers, even musicians on a Sunday evening! What if Peter Munch, freshly washed and dressed up, walks out in his father's dress coat with silver buttons and brand new red stockings, and someone tagging along behind me thinks: "Who is this slender guy?" - and silently praises my stockings and my posture, then, passing by and looking back, he will surely say: “Oh, it’s just Peter, the son of a coal miner!”

Rafters from the other end of the Black Forest were also the subject of his envy. When these forest giants came in smart clothes, carrying almost two pounds of silver in the form of buttons, chains and buckles, when they, legs wide apart, watched the dances with important faces, cursed in Dutch and, like the most noble mingers, smoked long, elbow-length Cologne pipes - such a raft driver seemed to him the happiest person.

And when these lucky ones reached into their pockets, took out large handfuls of large thalers from there and, having staked a dozen or two kreuzers, easily squandered five or even ten guilders into the bones, he completely lost his head and wandered gloomily into his hut, for on another holiday, these "forest masters" lost more than his poor father earned in a year.

He especially admired three of these people, which of them was more - he himself did not know.

One was a fat, tall man with a red face, he was reputed to be the richest in the company. They called him Fat Ezechil. He floated timber to Amsterdam twice a year, and always managed to sell it so dearly than the others that when others returned home on foot, he sailed up in style in the ship.

The other was the thinnest and lankiest man in all the Black Forest, he was called the Long Schlurker, and Munch envied his exceptional courage. He crossed over respected people occupied, no matter how closely they sat in the tavern, more space than the four fattest guests, because either he put both elbows on the table, or put one of his long legs on the bench, and yet no one dared to contradict him, because that he had crazy money. And the third was a handsome young man, the best dancer in these places and nicknamed therefore the King of Dancers. He was once poor and served as a worker for one of the "forest masters". But suddenly he became incredibly rich. Some said that he found a pot filled with money somewhere under an old spruce tree, others claimed that with a spear, which raftsmen sometimes fish, he pulled a bag of gold from the Rhine near Bingen, and this bag was part of the treasure of the Nibelungs buried there. - in short, he suddenly became rich, and everyone, old and young, revered him as a prince.

This trinity was often thought of by Peter, the son of a coal miner, when he sat alone in a spruce forest.

True, they all had one main vice that caused universal hatred for them - their incredible stinginess, their ruthlessness towards debtors and the poor - after all, the Schwarzwalders are good-natured people. But it is known how it is in the world: they were hated for their stinginess, but for their wealth they were also respected. Who could, like them, throw thalers as if money were falling on them from the trees?

“Things will not go on like this,” Peter once said to himself in tormenting anguish, for the day before there was a holiday and everyone gathered in a tavern, “if I’m not lucky soon, I’ll do something to myself. Ah, that I was as well respected and as rich as fat Ezechil, or as bold and powerful as Long Schlurker, or as famous and could throw thalers instead of kreuzers to musicians as the King of Dancers! Where does this little guy get money from? He went over in his mind all the ways to get money, but he did not like any of them.

Finally, legends came to his mind about people who had become rich in the old days thanks to Michel the Dutchman or the Glassman. During the life of their father, other poor people often came to visit them, and then there were long conversations about the rich and how they became rich. In these conversations, Steklyashnik was often mentioned. Thinking carefully, Peter could even remember the rhyme that had to be said on a certain hillock in the middle of the forest in order to summon him. The verse began like this:

The old man-forester,
Only that friend to you

But no matter how he strained his memory, he could not remember a single word further.

He thought about asking one of the old people what other words there were, but each time he was held back by some kind of fear of betraying his thoughts, besides, he believed that the legend of the Glassware was not very well known and few people remember this spell, for there were not God knows how many rich people in the forest, and why, in fact, neither his father nor other poor people tried their luck?

Finally, he somehow brought his mother to talk about the woodsman, and she told him what he already knew, remembered only the first line of the spell, and at the end told him that the glass was shown only to people born on Sunday between eleven and two hours. He himself, she said, would be fit for it if he knew the spell, for he was born on a Sunday at noon sharp.

Hearing this, Peter, the son of a coal miner, almost went crazy with joy and a desire to try his luck. Enough, it seemed to him, to know a part of the spell and be born on Sunday - and Glassy will appear. Therefore, having once sold his coal, he did not start a new fire, but put on his father's dress jacket, new red stockings and a Sunday hat, took his five-foot staff of thorns in his hand and, saying goodbye to his mother, said:

- I need to go to the city, to a government office, because soon we will be casting lots, who will become soldiers, so I want to remind the official once again that you are a widow and I am your only son.

His mother praised him for this intention, and he went to the famous hillock.

This hillock is located on the very high peak Black Forest, and then around it, at a distance of a good two hours, there was not only a village, but even some kind of hut, because superstitious people believed that it was “unclean” there.

Although the fir trees were tall and luxurious there, they also avoided felling the forest in this area, the axes of the lumberjacks who worked there often jumped off the ax handle and stuck in the leg, and the trees happened to fall unexpectedly, touching, maiming and even killing people. Yes, and the best trees from there went only for firewood, because the rafters did not fasten the logs from this hillock into rafts: there was a belief that if at least one such log fell into the water, trouble would happen to people and rafts. That is why the trees on that hillock were so dense and so tall that on a clear day it was almost as dark as night, and Peter Munch's soul completely went to his heels. He heard no voices, no axes, nothing but his own footsteps. Even the birds seemed to shun this forest darkness.

Climbing the hillock, Peter, the son of a collier, stopped in front of a thick spruce, for which some Dutch shipbuilder, without hesitation, would have paid several hundred guilders. “Probably here,” thought Peter, “the keeper of treasures lives.”

He took off his big Sunday hat, bowed low to the tree, cleared his throat, and said in a trembling voice:

“I dare to wish you a good evening, Mr. Glasser.”

But there was no answer, there was the same silence around as before. “Perhaps we still need to cast a spell,” he thought, and muttered:

The old man-forester,
Only that friend to you
He only enters your domain ...

As he uttered these words, he saw, to his great horror, how some tiny strange creature was peeking out from behind a thick spruce.

It seemed to him that he saw a real glass-box, exactly the same as he was described. The black jacket, red stockings, hat - everything was in place, even the pale, but thin and intelligent face, about which there were stories, Peter, it seemed to him, managed to see. But alas, the glass-box disappeared as quickly as it appeared!

“Mr. Glassman,” Peter Munch exclaimed, after a little hesitation, “please, don’t fool me!.. Mr. Glassman, if you think that I haven’t seen you, then you are very mistaken, I perfectly saw how you look out of for the tree.

Again there was no answer, only occasionally he could hear someone giggling softly and hoarsely behind the tree. Finally, his impatience overcame the fear that had shackled him.

“Wait, little one,” he exclaimed, “I’ll get to you!” - and with one jump he found himself behind a spruce, but there was no old forest man there, only a small, graceful squirrel flew up the trunk.

Peter Munch shook his head: he realized that he had overcome a good part of the spell and that, if he remembered, perhaps, just one more line of the rhyme, the glassy would be right there. But no matter how much he rummaged through his memory, he remembered nothing. The squirrel appeared on the lower branches of the spruce, either encouraging him or mocking him. She washed herself, wagged her beautiful tail, looked at him with intelligent eyes, and finally he felt uneasy alone with this animal: it seemed to him that the squirrel had a human head, and even in a cocked hat, then she was no different from any other squirrel, except for red stockings on the hind legs and black shoes.

In a word, it was a funny animal, but Peter the coal miner was terrified: he thought that something was unclean here.

On the way back Peter stepped up. The darkness of the spruce forest became more and more impenetrable, the trees crowded closer and closer, and suddenly he was seized with such horror that he completely started running.

He calmed down only when he heard the barking of dogs in the distance and soon after saw the smoke of the hut between the trunks. But, approaching and seeing how its tenants were dressed, he realized that out of fear he went straight in the opposite direction and came not to the glassmakers, but to the raftmen. Lumberjacks lived in this hut: an old man, his son - the owner of the house - and several adult grandchildren. They kindly received Peter the coal miner, let him spend the night, did not ask either his name or where he lives, gave him apple wine to drink, and in the evening they served a large capercaillie, a favorite Black Forest dish, on the table.

After dinner, the hostess and her daughters sat down at their spinning wheels by a large torch, which the boys lit, dipping it in the purest spruce resin, the grandfather, guest and host smoked and watched the women work, and the guys carved spoons and forks from wood. A storm howled in the forest, raging among the fir trees, powerful blows were heard from everywhere, and it often seemed that whole trees were breaking and collapsing with a roar. The fearless boys wanted to go out into the forest and look at this terrifyingly beautiful picture, but their grandfather stopped them with a stern look and a shout.

“I don’t advise anyone to go outside the threshold now,” he shouted to them, “whoever goes out will not return, God is my witness!” For tonight Michel the Dutchman is chopping wood for his new raft.

The eyes of the younger grandchildren lit up. Although they had already heard about Michel the Dutchman, they asked their grandfather to tell about him once more. Peter Munch, who, living at the other end of the forest, had heard only vaguely about Michel the Dutchman, joined his grandchildren and asked the old man who he was and where he lived.

- He is the owner of this forest, and if you, despite your age, do not know about it, then you live on the other side of the hill or even further. And I will tell you about Michel the Dutchman what I myself know and what the legend says. About a hundred years ago - so, in any case, my grandfather told about it - there was no people on the whole earth more honest than the Schwarzwalders. Now, when there is so much money in our region, people have lost their conscience, they have deteriorated. Young guys dance and bawl on Sundays and use such foul language that it simply takes fear. But then everything was different, and even if he himself looked through that window now, I still repeat that Michel the Dutchman is to blame for all this damage.

So, about a hundred years ago, or even more, there lived a wealthy timber merchant. He kept many workers and floated timber far down the Rhine, and God sent him good luck in business, because he was a pious fellow. And then one evening a man appeared to him, such as he had never seen in his life. Dressed like all Black Forest boys, he was taller than everyone else on a good head, no one would have believed that such giants even exist in the world. He asks the owner for work, and, seeing that this guy is strong and will cope with any burden, the timber merchant negotiates with him about a salary, and they shake hands.

Mikhel turned out to be a worker like never before. He felled the forest for three, and if six were dragging a log from one end, then he alone shouldered the other end. And so, after working half a year at logging, he once came to his master and said: “It’s enough for me to cut wood, I want to see where my logs go, would you let me go with rafts once?”

The owner replied: “I won’t bother you, Michel, if you want to get some air, and although I need strong people like you, and agility is important on rafts, let it be your way this time.

On that they decided. The raft with which he was to set sail was made up of eight bundles, and the latter consisted of thick logs. And what? The night before, long Mikhel delivers eight more logs of unprecedented thickness and length to the river, and each one carries on his shoulder with such ease, as if they were poles - everyone was just amazed. Where he cut them down, no one knows to this day.

The owner's soul really jumped up when he saw this, because he figured out how much they could give for these logs. And Mikhel said: “Well, I’ll swim on them, but you won’t go far on those chips!” The owner wanted to thank him with a pair of boots, such as raftsmen use, but he threw them away and took out from somewhere others that no one had ever seen before. My grandfather said they weighed a hundred pounds and were five feet long.

The raft started off, and if earlier Mikhel surprised the lumberjacks, now the raftsmen had to be amazed. Everyone expected that because of the huge logs the raft would go down the river more slowly than usual, but on the contrary, as soon as they entered the Neckar, it flew like an arrow. If usually on each bend of the Neckar the raftsmen had difficulty keeping the rafts on the rod so as not to sit on the pebbles or on the sand, now Michel jumped into the water every time, with one push he sent the raft to the left or right in order to quickly pass the dangerous place, and when the river flowed straight ahead, ran across to the first bunch, forced everyone to lie down on the poles, rested his huge sixth against the pebbles, and from one push the raft rushed forward so that the banks, trees and villages seemed to fly past.

So they arrived twice as fast as usual to Cologne am Rhein, where they usually sold their timber. But then Mikhel said: “Well, you are merchants, well, you don’t have anything to say, you understand your benefit! Do you really think that all this wood that is brought in from the Black Forest goes to the inhabitants of Cologne for their own needs? No, they buy it from you for next to nothing and then resell it for a lot of money to Holland. Let's sell the smaller logs here and drive the bigger ones to Holland. Whatever we get in excess of the regular price will go into our pocket.”

So said the cunning Michel, and the rest liked it. Some because they wanted to visit Holland and look at her, others because of the money.

Only one among them was an honest man, and he tried to convince them not to risk the good of the owner and not to deceive him about the price, but they did not listen to this man and forgot his words. Only Michel the Dutchman did not forget them.

They sailed with the timber down the Rhine, Michel steered the raft and quickly brought them to Rotterdam. There they offered them a price four times higher than before, and paid especially well for the huge logs of Michel.

Seeing so much money, the Schwarzwalders lost their heads with joy. Mikhel divided the proceeds: he left the fourth part to the owner, and distributed the rest to the raftsmen. And now they, with the sailors and all sorts of other rabble, went to wander around the taverns, where they squandered and lost their money, and the honest man who dissuaded them from sailing on, Michel the Dutchman sold to a slave trader, and there was no more rumor or spirit about him.

Since then, Holland has become a paradise for the Black Forest guys, and Michel the Dutchman was their king. For a long time, the lumber merchants knew nothing about this trade, and money, foul language, bad morals, drunkenness and gambling quietly came here from Holland.

And when this story was revealed, Michel the Dutchman sank into the water, but he did not die. For a good hundred years he has been misbehaving in our forest, and they say that with his help many managed to get rich - but at the cost of his poor soul, I won’t say anything more. I only know that even now, even on such stormy nights, he seeks out on a hillock where it is not supposed to fell wood, the best firs, and my father himself saw how he broke a trunk four feet thick, like a reed. He gives these logs to those who stray from the good path and go to his comrades. At midnight they launch the forest, and Michel sails with them to Holland. But if I were the lord of Holland, I would have ordered him shot with grapeshot, because all ships in which there is even a board from Michel the Dutchman will certainly sink. That is why we hear so often about shipwrecks. Why else would a beautiful, strong ship the size of a church not stay on the water and go to the bottom? But the fact of the matter is that as soon as the Michelughollander knocks down a spruce in the Black Forest on a rainy night, one of his former boards jumps out of the grooves of the ship, a leak forms, and the ship with everyone who sailed on it dies. This is the legend about Michel the Dutchman, and this is true - everything bad in the Black Forest comes from him. Oh, he can make a man rich! added the old man with a mysterious look. “But I don’t want anything from him. For no price would I want to be in the shoes of fat Ezechil and Long Schlurker. It is said that the King of Dancers also succumbed to him!

While the old man was talking, the storm subsided. The girls timidly lit the lamps and left. And the men put a sack stuffed with leaves instead of a pillow for Peter Munch on a bench by the stove and wished him good night.

Never before had Peter, the son of a coal miner, had such terrible dreams as on that night.

Now it seemed to him that the gloomy, huge Dutchman Michel opened the window from the outside and thrust a purse with gold coins into the room with his long arm, shaking them so that they ring with a clean, pleasant ring, then he again saw the small, friendly Glassman - he was galloping along riding a huge green bottle in the room, and it seemed to Peter that he heard the same hoarse laughter as on a hillock, and then in his left ear it rang again:

There's a lot of money in Holland
Hey, don't be shy, come on people!
Hey, do not be shy, hurry up:
Gold, gold - heaps!

And then suddenly in his right ear he again heard a song about the old man-forester, and someone's gentle voice whispered: "Stupid Peter the coal miner, stupid Peter Munk, you can't find a rhyme for the word" Sunday at twelve sharp. Look, stupid Peter, look!”

He grunted, he moaned in his sleep, he tried to find a rhyme, but since he had never composed poetry in his life, all his efforts were in vain.

When he awoke at dawn, this dream seemed strange to him. He sat down at the table, crossed his arms over his chest, and thought about the whispers that still echoed in his ears. “Search, stupid Peter the coal miner, search,” he said to himself and tapped his forehead with his finger, but the rhyme did not work out. He was still sitting there, staring gloomily at one point and thinking about the rhyme for the word "possession", when three guys walked past the house into the forest, one of whom, walking, sang:

The forest lords of the domain
From the hills I looked.
Her that Sunday
Forever I left.

Then Peter was struck like lightning, he quickly jumped up, ran out of the house, deciding that he had not heard, and, catching up with the guys, quickly and firmly grabbed the hand of the one who sang.

- Wait a minute, buddy! he exclaimed. - What is your rhyme to "possession"? Do me a favor, repeat to me the words that you sang.

"What about you, boy?" - answered the Schwarzwald. - What I want, then I sing, and let go of my hand, otherwise ...

— No, repeat what you sang! cried Peter, almost unconscious, and clung to him even tighter.

Seeing this, two others immediately rushed at poor Peter, screaming and beating him until he let go of the sleeve of the third in pain and fell exhausted to his knees.

"Now we're even!" they said with a laugh. - And remember, mad: such as we should not be bullied.

“Of course, I will remember,” Peter the coal miner answered with a sigh. - But since you beat me, do me the favor of repeating clearly what he sang.

They laughed again and began to mock him, but the one who sang the song repeated her words to him, and with laughter and singing they moved on.

- So, "Sunday", - said the poor fellow, with difficulty getting to his feet after the beatings, - "Sunday" is a rhyme for "possession." Now, glassy, ​​we'll talk one more time.

He went to the hut, took his hat and staff, said goodbye to the occupants of the hut, and headed back to the hillock.

He walked slowly and thoughtfully, because he needed to remember one more line of the rhyme.

Finally, when he was already climbing the hillock and the firs went higher and in a denser crowd, he remembered the ill-fated line and jumped for joy. Then a giant in the clothes of a raft-driver stepped out from behind the fir trees, with a hook long as a mast in his hand. Peter Munch's legs almost buckled when he saw him walking slowly beside him. "This, of course, is none other than Michel the Dutchman!" he thought. The terrible giant still walked in silence, and from time to time Peter glanced timidly at him askance. He was a head taller than the tallest man Peter had ever seen, his face was not that young, but not old either, but all in wrinkles and folds. He was wearing a canvas jacket, and huge boots pulled over leather trousers were well known to Peter from the legend he had heard from the old man.

— Peter Munk, what are you doing on this hillock? the forest lord finally asked in a low, booming voice.

“Good morning, fellow countryman,” replied Peter, wishing to show that he was not frightened, although he himself was trembling. - I want to go home through this hillock.

“Peter Munch,” he objected, casting a prickly, terrible look at him, “your path does not lead through this grove.

“Well, yes, it’s not exactly a direct way,” he said, “but it’s hot today, and I thought it would be cooler here.

- Don't lie, coal miner! Michel the Dutchman exclaimed in a thunderous voice. - And then I'll knock you down with a pole. Do you think I didn't see you begging for something from the little one? he added softly. - Come on, come on, it was a stupid trick, and it's good that you forgot the rhyme. He is a miser, this half-wit, and does not give much, and to whom he gives, he will not be happy all his life ... You, Peter, poor fellow, and I feel sorry for you from the bottom of my heart. So cheerful handsome guy there would be a better job in the world than burning coals! Others have no account of thalers and ducats, but you have a little change. Not life, but squalor.

- That's right, you're right, not life, but grief.

- Well, for me it's nothing, - continued the formidable Mikhel, - I have already rescued many nice guys, you are not the first. How many, say, hundreds, I mean thalers, do you need to start?

With these words, he shook the money in his huge pocket, and they jingled just like last night in a dream.

But Peter's heart trembled with fear and pain at these words, he was thrown into cold and heat, Michel the Dutchman was not the kind to give money out of pity, without demanding anything in return. Peter remembered the cryptic words of the old man about rich people, and an inexplicable fear made him exclaim:

— Thanks a lot sir, but I don't want to do business with you, I've already heard a lot about you.

And he started running as fast as he could.

But the forest spirit walked with huge steps beside him and muttered muffledly with a threat:

“You will regret it, Peter, you will still come to me. It's written on your forehead, you can see it in your eyes. You can’t get away from me ... Don’t run so fast, listen to reasonable words one more time, there is already the border of my possessions!

But, hearing this and seeing a shallow ditch ahead, Peter only ran even faster in order to cross the border as soon as possible, and Mikhel had to quicken his pace, pursuing him with abuse and threats. The young man made a desperate leap across the ditch, seeing how the forest spirit swung a hook to throw it at him. He successfully jumped over to the other side, and the hook broke in the air, as if it had stumbled upon an invisible wall, and only a long fragment flew to Peter.

He triumphantly raised it to throw it back at the insolent Dutch Michel, but immediately felt that this piece of wood was moving in his hand, and, to his horror, saw that he was holding in his hand nothing but a huge snake, which already reaches out to him, sticking out his tongue and sparkling eyes. He released her, but she was already tightly wrapped around his arm and, swaying, her head was getting closer to his face. Suddenly, from somewhere, rustling its wings, a huge capercaillie flew off, it grabbed the head of the snake with its beak, rose into the air with it, and Michel the Dutchman, who saw all this from the other side of the ditch, howled, screamed and went berserk when someone else carried the snake away. mightier than him.

Exhausted, trembling all over, Peter continued on his way. The road became steeper, the terrain more remote, and soon he was again at the huge spruce. As on the previous day, he made a few bows to the invisible Glasser, and then said:

The old man-forester,
Only that friend to you
And your domain will enter
Who was born on Sunday.

“True, you didn’t hit the very mark, but since it’s you, Peter, the son of a coal miner, it’s okay,” said someone’s gentle, thin voice somewhere nearby.

Peter looked around in amazement: under a beautiful spruce sat a little old man in a black jacket, red stockings and a big hat.

He had a thin, kind face with a delicate beard, as if made of cobwebs. He was smoking - it was strange to see this - a pipe of blue glass, and, coming closer, Peter, to his amazement, saw that the clothes, shoes and hat of this little man were also made of colored glass. But the glass was soft, as if it had not yet cooled down, it, like a cloth, adapted to every movement of the woodsman.

“Did you meet that rude Michel the Dutchman?” - said the little man, coughing strangely after each word. - He wanted to scare you, but I took his beater from him, he will never get it.

“Yes, Mr. Treasurer,” replied Peter with a low bow, “I really got scared. And you, probably, were that Mr. Capercaillie that pecked at the snake, thank you very much for this ... But I came to you for advice. My life is bad and difficult. Nothing good awaits the coal miner. And since I'm still young, I thought: what if something else comes out of me. Look at others - how they succeeded for a short time, take at least Etzekhil or the King of Dancers, they have a lot of money.

“Peter,” the little man said very sternly, exhaling a long stream of smoke from his pipe, “Peter, I don't want to hear about these people. What use is it to them that they will seem happy here for a year or two, but they will be all the more unhappy later? Don't be afraid of your craft. Your father and your grandfather were worthy people, and they did the same, Peter Munch! I don't want to think that it was your love of idleness that brought you to me.

Peter was frightened by such a stern answer and blushed.

“No,” he said, “idleness, mister guardian of the forest, idleness, I know very well, this is the beginning of all vices, but do not be angry with me because I like other occupations more than my own. coal miner - last person in the world, and there is more respect for glassmakers, raftsmen, watchmakers, and all others.

“Arrogance often precedes death,” the little man said a little friendlier, “you people are strange creatures!” Rarely is your brother satisfied with the position that he has inherited from birth and upbringing, and if you were a glassmaker, you would want to become a timber merchant, and if you were a timber merchant, you would like the service of a forester or the apartment of a district chief. But so be it, if you promise to work honestly, I will help you get a better job, Peter! To everyone who was born on Sunday and managed to reach me, I usually grant three wishes. The first two can be anything, but I don't do the third if it's stupid. Wish you something too, but only, Peter, something good and useful!

- Hooray! You are a wonderful glass man, and you are rightfully called a treasure keeper, because treasures are really in your hands! Well, if I am allowed to wish for what my heart desires, then, first of all, I want to dance even better than the King of Dancers, and, when I come to the tavern, always have as much money with me as Ezekhil has.

- Fool! - answered the little man in anger. - What an insignificant desire - to dance well and have a lot of money for the game. And aren't you ashamed, stupid Peter, to steal your happiness from yourself? What good is it to you and your poor mother if you learn to dance? What is the use of money to you, which, according to your desire, will go only to the inn and remain there, like the money of the unfortunate King of Dancers? And all week you will, as before, live in poverty. You have another wish, but this time try to be smarter!

Peter scratched the back of his head and, after a little hesitation, said:

- Well, so I want to have under my supervision the best and richest glassworks in the entire Black Forest, with all the tools and money.

- Nothing else? - asked the little man with a preoccupied look. - And nothing else, Peter?

- Well ... add another horse and wagon.

“O foolish Peter, son of a collier! - the little man exclaimed and indignantly launched his glass pipe into a thick spruce, which caused the pipe to shatter. - Horses? Carriages? Uma, you understand of sound mind and the simplest prudence should have been desired by you, and not horses and wagons. Well, do not worry, we will try so that this does not harm you either. After all, the second desire is generally not stupid. A good glassworks will also feed the efficient owner, only in addition to it you could take the mind and prudence, and carts and horses would then appear by themselves.

“But, Mr. Treasurer,” replied Peter, “I still have one more wish left behind. So I can wish myself a mind, if it is so necessary for me, as you think.

- No, it's all. There are still such misfortunes awaiting you that you will be glad to have one wish in reserve. Now go home. Here, - said the woodsman, taking out a purse from his pocket, - here are two thousand guilders, that's enough, and never ask me for money again, otherwise I will have to hang you on the highest spruce. This has been my custom ever since I have lived in this forest. Old man Winkfritz died three days ago. Go there tomorrow morning and buy his case properly. Live well, work diligently, and I will visit you from time to time and help you with advice and deed, because you didn’t ask for a mind. But your first desire - I say this not jokingly - was bad. Don't wander around the taverns, Peter! It hasn't done anyone any good yet.

Saying this, the little man took out a new pipe of wonderful opal glass, stuffed it with scales of dry fir cones, and put it into his small, toothless mouth. Then he took out a huge burning glass, went out into the sun and lit his pipe. Having finished with this, he held out his hand to Peter in a friendly manner, gave him a few more good advice, began to puff his pipe harder and harder, and finally disappeared in a cloud of smoke that smelled of real Dutch tobacco and, slowly swirling, dissipated between the tops of the trees.

Arriving home, Peter found his mother in great anxiety: this kind woman thought that her son had been taken into the soldiers. And he was in a good and cheerful mood and told her that he met a good friend in the forest, who loaned him money so that Peter would change his occupation as a coal miner to some other one.

Although his mother had lived for thirty years in a coal-burner's hut and was accustomed to faces covered with soot in the same way as any miller gets used to her husband's face white with flour, yet she was vain enough to despise her former position, as soon as Peter promised a brighter future for her, and said:

“Yes, the mother of a man who owns a glassworks is not like some neighbor Greta or Beta, and now I will sit in the church in the front rows, where decent people sit.

Her son quickly got along with the heirs of the glassworks. He left the workers he found there to serve at his place and ordered glass to be made day and night.

At first he liked this craft. He went down to the glassworks for a long time, walked decorously there, holding his hands in his pockets, looked here and there, made various remarks, at which his workers sometimes laughed a lot, but his greatest joy was to watch how glass was blown, and often he himself undertook this work and blew the most bizarre figures out of the still soft mass.

Soon, however, he got tired of the work, and he began to visit the glassworks at first only for an hour a day, then only every other day, and finally only once a week, and his apprentices did what they wanted. And the reason for this was his addiction to the tavern.

On the very first Sunday after the trip to the well-known hillock, he went to the tavern, where the King of Dancers was already jumping around the platform, and the fat Ezechil was already sitting at the mug, playing dice for kronentalers.

Peter quickly reached into his pocket to see if the glassmaker kept his word, and the pocket turned out to be full of silver and gold. Yes, and his legs itched, as if they wanted to dance and jump; and when the first dance was over, Peter and his lady stood in front, near the King of Dancers, and if he jumped three feet, Peter flew up four, and if he did some wonderful kneeling, Peter twisted and twisted his legs so that all the spectators went crazy with fun and admiration.

And when they heard on the dance floor that Peter had bought a glassworks, when they saw that every time he caught up with the musicians during the dance, he threw them twenty kreuzers, there was simply no end to the surprise. Some thought that he found a treasure in the forest, others believed that he received an inheritance, but now everyone respected him and considered him a person with a position in society - just because he had money. After all, he lost twenty guilders that very evening, and yet his pocket still rang as before, as if there were still a good hundred thalers.

Seeing how he was respected, Peter lost his head with joy and pride. He threw money right and left and generously distributed it to the poor, remembering how poverty oppressed him. The art of the King of Dancers was put to shame by the new dancer's uncanny dexterity, and Peter was now called the Emperor of the Dances. On Sundays, the smartest players didn't dare to bet as much money as he did, but they didn't lose as much either. And the more he lost, the more he won. Everything was going exactly as he demanded of Glass. He wished to always have as much money in his pocket as the fat man Etzekhil, and it was Etzekhil who lost his money. And, having lost twenty or thirty guilders at once, he immediately found them in his pocket as soon as Ezechil took them. Gradually, he outdid the most dissolute people in the Black Forest in extravagance and revelry, and he was more often called Peter the Player than the Dance Emperor, for he now played almost always on weekdays. In addition, his glassworks fell into decay because of his foolishness. He ordered glass to be made as much as possible, but he did not buy, together with the glass factory, the secret of how best to sell this glass. As a result, he did not know what to do with so much glass, and sold it at half price to itinerant merchants, only to pay off his workers.

One evening he was returning home from a tavern and, despite a large number of wine he drank to cheer up, with horror and longing thought about his ruin. Suddenly he noticed that someone was walking nearby, he turned around, and it turned out that it was Glass. Then Peter flew into a rage and, quite insolent, declared that this little man was to blame for all his troubles.

"What am I to do now with the horse and wagon?" he exclaimed. - What do I need a glassworks and all my glass? Even when I was an insignificant coal boy, I lived more cheerfully and did not know worries. And now I expect from day to day that the district chief will come, evaluate my property and sell it at auction for debts.

— Is that how? - said Steklyashchik. - That's how? So it's my fault that you're unhappy? Is this, then, gratitude for my good deeds? Who told you to conceive such foolish desires? You wanted to become a glassmaker and did not know where to sell glass? Didn't I tell you to be careful what you wish for? Mind-reason - that's what, Peter, you lacked.

- What does mind-reason mean? he exclaimed. - I'm not stupid, not stupider than others, and I'll prove it to you, glassmaker! - With these words, he roughly grabbed little man by the scruff of the neck and yelled: - Got you, old man-forest man ?! Now I will name my third desire, and you will fulfill it. On the spot, I demand twice a hundred thousand thalers, and a house, and ... ah! - he shouted and twitched his hand, because the woodsman turned into hot glass and burned his hand with sparks of flame. The man was no longer visible.

For many days the swollen hand reminded Peter of his ingratitude and stupidity. But then he silenced his conscience and said:

“Even if they sell the glassworks and everything else, I still have fat Etzekhil. As long as he has money on Sundays, I will certainly have it too.

That's right, Peter! So what if he doesn't have them? So it once happened, and it was an unheard-of case in arithmetic. One Sunday, he drove up to a tavern, people leaned out of the windows, and someone said: “Here is Peter the player!”, Another picked up: “Yes, the Emperor from dancing, the rich glassmaker”, and the third shook his head and said: "You can put an end to wealth, there are all sorts of rumors about his debts, and in the city one person said that the district chief, just look, will describe his goods." In the meantime, the rich Peter greeted the guests, who were standing at the windows, with dignity and dignity, got down from the wagon and shouted:

"Good evening, good host!" What, fat man Ezechil is already here?

Come in, Peter! Your place is waiting for you, and we have already sat down for the cards.

Peter Munch entered the tavern, immediately reached into his pocket and realized that Etzekhil was well stocked, because his, Peter's, pocket was full of money.

He sat down with those sitting at the table and began to play. He won and then he lost, and so they played until other honest people went home after dark. Then they played by candlelight until the other two players said, "That's enough, it's time to go home to your wife and kids." But Peter the player began to convince the fat man Etsekhil to stay. He did not agree for a long time, but finally exclaimed:

— Okay, now I'll count my money and we'll play dice. The rate will be five guilders, at least only for children to play.

He took out his purse and counted the money, it turned out to be a hundred guilders, and Peter the gambler didn't even have to count, now he already knew how much cleansing he had. But if Ezekhil had won before, now he was losing bet after bet and cursing what the world was worth. If he had a doublet, then Peter the player immediately got a doublet, but each time by two points more. Finally the fat man put the last five guilders on the table and exclaimed:

“Once again, and if I lose this too, I still don’t quit the game, then you will lend me from your winnings, Peter, because an honest fellow will always help another.

“As much as you want, at least a hundred guilders,” the Emperor replied from the dance, pleased with his win, and the fat man Etzekhil shook the dice and, throwing them, knocked out fifteen points.

- Double doublet! he exclaimed. - Well, now let's see!

But Peter knocked out eighteen points, and a hoarse, familiar voice said behind him:

Well, that was the last one.

He looked around - Michel the Dutchman was standing behind him in all his huge growth. Peter, in fear, dropped the money that he had already raked in. But the fat man Etsekhil did not see the woodsman and demanded that Peter the player lend him ten guilders for the game. He half-consciously put his hand into his pocket, but there was no money there, he looked in another pocket, but found nothing there either, he turned the caftan inside out, but not a single copper fell out, and only now did he remember his own first desire - always have as much money as fat Ezechil. Everything disappeared like smoke.

The owner and Etsekhil looked at him with surprise when he was looking for and could not find any money, they could not believe that he had nothing else, and when they finally looked into his pockets, they were furious and declared that Peter was a gambler - evil wizard that he sent all the money won and his own in some unclean way to his home. Peter stubbornly defended himself, but everything was against him. Ezechil said that this terrible story he would tell the whole Black Forest, and the owner promised to go early tomorrow morning to the city and report on Peter Munch that he was a sorcerer, and added that he hoped to see him burnt. Then they attacked him, tore off his padded jacket and threw him out the door.

Not a single star was in the sky when Peter despondently wandered to his dwelling. But he still recognized the dark figure that was walking beside him and finally said:

“Your business is lost, Peter Munk, all your prosperity is over, and I could tell you this already when you did not want to listen to me and ran to the stupid glass dwarf. Now you see what happens when my advice is ignored. But try your luck with me, your fate makes me sympathize. Whoever addressed me has never regretted it, and if the road does not frighten you, then tomorrow I will be all day on the hill at your service, just call.

Peter guessed who was talking to him, he was horrified and, without answering, ran to the house.

Part two

When on Monday Peter came to his glassworks, there were not only his workers, but also other people whom it was not so pleasant to see - the district chief with three bailiffs. The boss wished Peter good morning, asked how he slept, and then pulled out a long list of Peter's creditors.

Will you pay or not? asked the district chief with a stern air. - And please, hurry up: I'm running out of time, and the prison is a good three hours away.

Here Peter completely lost heart, confessed that he had nothing else, and left the boss to assess the house and yard, the glassworks and the stable, the wagon and horses. And when the bailiffs and the district chief began to walk around, describing everything and evaluating, he thought: "It's not far from the hillock, the little man did not help me, I'll try my luck with the big man."

He ran to the hillock, ran as fast as if the bailiffs were chasing him. When he ran past the place where he first spoke with Glassy, ​​he had the feeling that he was being held by an invisible hand, but he broke free, ran on and ran to the border that he had noticed before. And as soon as he, out of breath, shouted: "Michel the Dutchman, Mr. Michel the Dutchman!" - the giant raft-runner with his hook was right there.

- Appeared? he said laughing. "They wanted to skin you and sell it to your creditors?" Well, calm down. All your troubles, as I said, from this little glassy, ​​renegade and hypocrite. If we are to give, then we must give generously, and not like this miser. But let's go,” he continued, turning towards the forest, “let's go to my house, we'll see if we can come to terms with you.

“To collide? thought Peter. - What can he demand from me and what can I offer him? Should I serve him? What does he want from me? They went along a steep path and found themselves at a cliff, on the edge of a deep dark gorge. Michel the Dutchman ran down the rock as if it were a gentle marble staircase. Peter almost fainted, for, descending to the very bottom of the gorge, Mikhel became as tall as a bell tower and, holding out his hand, long as an oar, with a palm as wide as a table in a tavern, powerful as a death knell, exclaimed in a bass :

- Sit on my palm and hold on to your fingers, you won't fall!

Peter, trembling, obeyed, sat down on the giant's hand and grabbed his thumb.

He descended for a long time, but, to Peter's surprise, it did not get darker, on the contrary, the light in the gorge even seemed to increase, his eyes could not stand its brightness.

The lower Peter went down, the smaller Michel the Dutchman became.

And so, having assumed his former appearance, the forester stood in front of the house, exactly the same, no better, no worse than that of all the rich peasants in the Black Forest. The room where he brought Peter was no different from other people's rooms, except perhaps for some desolation. Wooden wall clocks, a huge tiled stove, wide benches, utensils on the shelves were the same here as everywhere else.

Mikhel showed him a place at a large table, then left and soon returned with a jug of wine and glasses.

He poured a drink for both of them, and they began to talk, and Michel the Dutchman talked about the joys of life, about distant countries, about beautiful rivers and cities, so much so that Peter was finally seized by a great longing for them, and he frankly told the Dutchman about it.

“For all your strength, courage and willingness to do something, you can falter if your stupid heart suddenly beats a little faster. Offended honor, misfortune - why would a guy with a mind worry about such nonsense? Did your head hurt when someone recently called you a liar and a scoundrel? Did you have stomach cramps when the district chief came to throw you out of the house? So tell me what hurts you?

“Heart,” replied Peter, pressing his hand to his swaying chest, for it seemed to him that his heart was trembling with fear.

“You threw away, forgive me, you threw away hundreds of guilders on lousy beggars and all sorts of scammers, but what's the point? They wished you luck and health for this. So why are you getting healthier? Yes, for half this waste of money you could hire a doctor. Good luck, nothing to say, good luck if your good is sold at auction, and you are kicked out! And what made you reach into your pocket as soon as some beggar offered his tattered hat? .. Heart, heart again, not your eyes, not tongue, not hands, not legs, but your heart. You are all too close, as they say, took to heart.

"But how can I get rid of it?" I am now trying my best to control my heart, but it still beats and hurts.

- Yeah, - Michel exclaimed with a laugh, - you can’t cope with him! But give that hammer to me and you'll see how good you feel.

— You - my heart?! Peter cried out in horror. “But for that I would have to die right there!” Never!

“Yes, if one of your gentlemen surgeons cut out your heart, you would, of course, die. But I am a different matter. But come in and see for yourself.

With these words, he got up, opened the door to a smaller room, and led the visitor there.

Peter's heart sank convulsively as he crossed the threshold, but he paid no attention to it, because a strange and amazing sight met his eyes. There were flasks filled with a clear liquid on numerous wooden shelves, and in each of these flasks there was a heart, and labels with names were pasted on the flasks, which Peter began to read with curiosity. Here was the heart of the district chief, the heart of the fat man Etzekhil, the heart of the King of Dancers, the heart of the head forester. There were also six hearts of grain buyers, eight recruiting officers, three usurers' hearts - in a word, it was a collection of the most respected hearts within a twenty-hour radius of the journey.

— Look! Michel the Dutchman said. - All of them got rid of worldly anxieties and worries, none of these hearts no longer beats anxiously and preoccupiedly, and their former owners are glad that they expelled the restless guest.

“But what do they carry in their chests instead?” asked Peter, who was dizzy from everything he saw.

“That's it,” Mikhel answered and took out a stone heart from a drawer.

— Is that how? - Peter said, and goosebumps went down his skin. - A heart of marble? But, really, Mr. Michel the Dutchman, it must be quite cold in the chest from this.

- Of course, but this coolness is pleasant. Why should the heart be warm? In winter, its warmth is of no use, here a good cherry is more useful than a warm heart, and in summer, when everything is stuffy and hot, you cannot imagine how cool it is then from such a heart. And as I said, neither fear, nor horror, nor foolish compassion, nor other sorrows rise to such a heart.

"Is that all you can give me?" asked Peter displeasedly. - I was hoping to get money, and you offer me a stone!

“Well, for starters, I think a hundred thousand guilders will be enough for you. If you deftly put them into circulation, then soon you can become a millionaire.

- One hundred thousand?! exclaimed the poor collier happily. - Yes, don’t knock so furiously in my chest, we will soon say goodbye to each other. Okay, Michel. Give me a stone and money, and you can take this fidget out of the back.

“I thought you were a smart guy,” the Dutchman replied, smiling amiably. - Let's have another drink, and then I'll give you the money.

They again sat down to drink in the big room, and they all drank and drank until Peter fell into a deep sleep...

Peter, the son of a coal miner, woke up from the cheerful singing of a post horn, and it turned out that he was sitting in a beautiful carriage and rolling along a wide road, and, leaning out of the window, he saw that the Black Forest was turning blue far behind.

At first he could not believe that he himself was sitting in the carriage, for the clothes he was wearing were not at all the same as yesterday, but then he remembered everything so clearly that he finally ceased to be perplexed and exclaimed: “I am Peter, the son of a coal miner, and no one else, that's clear!" He marveled at himself that he was not sad at all, leaving his quiet homeland, the forests where he had lived for so long. Even at the thought of his mother, who was now probably alone in trouble and need, he could not squeeze out a tear or even breathe. Everything was so indifferent to him. “Oh, right,” he said later, “tears and sighs, homesickness and sadness come from the heart, and my heart - thanks to Michel the Dutchman - is cold and made of stone.”

He put his hand to his chest, and nothing moved, there was complete silence. “If he kept his promise about the hundred thousand as well as his promise about the heart, that would be nice,” he said, and began to search the carriage. He found all sorts of clothes he could wish for, but no money. Finally he came across a bag and found in it many thousands of thalers in gold and checks for trading houses in all the big cities. “Now everything is as I wanted,” he thought, sitting comfortably in the corner of the carriage, and set off into unknown distances.

For two years he traveled around the world and looked from his carriage at the houses that flickered to the left and right, and stopping, looked only at the sign of his hotel, then went around the city and examined the main sights. But nothing pleased him, not a single picture, not a single building, no music, no dances, his stone heart was indifferent to everything, and his eyes and ears did not perceive any beauties. All he had left was the joy of eating, drinking and sleeping, and his life consisted in the fact that he traveled around the world without a goal, ate for entertainment, and slept out of boredom.

Sometimes, however, he recalled that he was happier, happier when he lived in poverty and had to work in order not to die of hunger. He used to be fascinated by some beautiful view of the valley, admired by music and singing, before he spent hours enjoying the simple food that his mother brought him to the pit where he burned the coal. When he thought about the past in this way, it seemed very strange to him that now he even forgot how to laugh, and before that he laughed at the slightest joke. When others laughed, he now twisted his mouth only out of politeness, but his heart did not participate in this smile. He felt now that he was completely calm, but he did not feel satisfaction. Not homesickness, not sadness, but boredom, satiety, a joyless life drove him in the end to his native land.

When, riding from Strasbourg, he saw the dark forest of his homeland, when he again saw the strong figures and open, honest faces of the Black Forest, when a loud, low-voiced, but harmonious native speech- he quickly grabbed his heart, for his blood ran faster through his veins, and he was already ready to rejoice and cry, but he forgot, fool, that his heart is made of stone, and the stones are dead, they do not laugh and do not cry .

First of all, he went to Michel the Dutchman, who received him with the same cordiality.

“Mikhel,” he said to him, “so I traveled around the world and saw everything, but everything is nonsense, and I was only bored. Actually, your stone contraption, which I carry in my chest, protects me from many things. I'm never angry, I'm never sad, but I'm never happy, and I feel like I'm only half alive. Could you make the stone heart a little more responsive? Better yet, give me back my old heart. For twenty-five years, I got used to it, and although it sometimes threw out stupid things, it still had a frisky and cheerful heart.

The forest spirit laughed an unkind and bitter laugh.

“When you die, Peter Munch,” he answered, “then it will be so, then your soft, sensitive heart will return to you and you will be able to feel both joy and sorrow. But here, on earth, you will no longer have it! You, Peter, traveled around the world, but during the life that you led, it didn’t do you any good. Now settle down somewhere here in the forest, build yourself a house, get married, put your money into circulation. All you needed was a job. You are bored with idleness, and you blame it all on an innocent heart.

Peter admitted that Michel was right about idleness, and decided to get richer and richer. Michel once again gave him one hundred thousand guilders and said goodbye to him as to a good friend.

Rumors soon spread throughout the Black Forest that the collier, or Peter the Gambler, had returned and was much richer than before. Everything went well and is now normal. When he was left penniless, he was thrown out of the tavern, and when he now arrived there for the first time one Sunday evening, everyone began to shake his hand, praise his horse, and ask about his travels. And when he now played the ringing thalers again with the fat man Ezechil, they looked at him with the greatest respect.

He was engaged, however, no longer in the glass business, but in the timber trade, but only for show. His main occupation was the resale of grain and usury. Half of the Black Forest was gradually indebted to him. But he only lent money at ten percent or sold grain at exorbitant prices to the poor who could not pay at once.

With the district chief he was now in close friendship, and who could not pay Mr. Peter Munk on time, to that the district chief rode with his guards, evaluated the house and the estate, immediately sold everything, and drove his father, mother and children into the forest.

At first, this caused some displeasure to the rich Peter, because the poor people expelled from the house besieged his house in a crowd, the men begged to forgive the debt, the women tried to soften their stony heart, and the children begged for a piece of bread. But when he got the evil medela dogs, the cat concerts, as he called it, soon ceased. He whistled the dogs at the beggars, and they ran away, screaming in fear. Most of all bothered him "hag". And it was none other than old Munkich, Peter's mother. She has been in poverty since the sale of her house and estate, and her son, having returned rich, did not take care of her. And sometimes, leaning on a stick, she would come up to the house, old, decrepit, infirm. She did not dare to enter, because once he had expelled her, but she was bitter to live on the handouts of strangers, while her own son could save her from worries in her old age. But neither the familiar features of the pale face, nor the pleading eyes, nor the outstretched withered hand, nor the frail figure touched the cold heart. When she knocked on the door on Saturdays, he, grumbling, took out a small coin, wrapped it in a piece of paper and sent it to her with the worker. He heard her trembling voice as she thanked him and wished him well in life. He heard her grunting as she trotted away, but he thought of nothing but throwing twenty more kreuzers into the wind.

Finally, Peter got the idea to get married. He knew that any father in the Black Forest would gladly give his daughter for him. But he chose everything, because he wanted everyone to marvel at his happiness and his mind. He rode all over the Black Forest, looked here and there, and not a single local beauty seemed beautiful enough to him. Finally, after an unsuccessful search for the first beauty in all the dance halls, he somehow heard that the most beautiful and virtuous girl in the entire Black Forest was the daughter of a poor lumberjack. She, they told Peter, lives alone, diligently and deftly running her father's household, and never, even on Trinity Day and on a temple holiday, does not go to dances. Hearing about this miracle of the Black Forest, Peter decided to woo her and galloped to her hut, which was described to him. The father of the beautiful Lizbeth received such an important gentleman with surprise and was even more surprised when he heard that this was the rich man Peter, who wanted to become his son-in-law. He did not hesitate for a long time, deciding that now his worries and poverty would come to an end, and agreed without asking the beautiful Lisbeth, and the kind daughter was so obedient that she became Mrs. Munch without objection.

But the life of the poor thing did not go at all as she had dreamed. She believed that she knew a lot about the economy, but she could not please Mr. Peter. She felt sorry for the poor people and, since her husband was rich, she believed that it was not a sin to give a pfennig to some old beggar woman or to bring a glass of vodka to some old man. But, noticing this once, Mr. Peter said in a rough voice and with an evil expression on his face:

“Why are you giving away my good to every trash?” Have you brought anything into the house to give away? You can't warm your father's beggar's bag and soup, and you throw money around like some duchess! Once again I will notice - I will inflate!

The beautiful Lisbeth wept in her room because of her husband's hardness of heart, and often thought that it would be better to be at home, in her father's poor hut, than to live with the rich, but stingy and hard-hearted Peter. Ah, if she had known that he had a heart of marble and that he could not love her or anyone else in the world, she would not have been surprised, of course. And when she was now sitting on the porch, and a beggar passed by and, taking off his hat, began his prayers, she closed her eyes so as not to look at this grief, and clenched her hand into a fist so as not to accidentally reach into her pocket for a coin. So it went all over the Black Forest bad reputation about the beautiful Lisbeth, they said that she was even meaner than Peter Munch. One evening Mrs. Lisbeth was sitting outside the house, spinning, singing a little song: she was light-hearted, because the weather was fine, and Peter had gone somewhere on horseback. And now some old man is walking along the road with a big heavy bag, and she already hears him groaning from a distance. Lisbeth looks with sympathy and thinks: such a little old man shouldn't take such a heavy burden on himself.

The old man, meanwhile, groaning and staggering, came closer and, coming abreast of Lisbeth, almost fell under the load of the bag.

“Oh, take pity, mistress, give me a sip of water,” the old man pleaded, “I have no more strength, I’m dying of fatigue ...

"You shouldn't be carrying heavy things at your age," said Lisbeth.

“Yes, you have to serve as messengers so as not to die of hunger,” he answered. “Ah, such a rich woman as you does not know how bitter it is to be poor and how refreshing a sip of water in such a heat!”

Hearing this, she hurried into the house, took a mug from the shelf and filled it with water. But when Lisbeth returned and, before she had gone a few steps, saw how the old man was sitting on the sack - so miserable, so unhappy - her heart was filled with pity, and, remembering that her husband was not at home, she put down her mug of water, took a goblet, filled wine, put a good slice of rye bread on top and offered it to the old man.

“A sip of wine would probably be healthier than water at your age,” she said. - But drink slowly and eat bread.

The old man looked at her in surprise, and his old eyes filled with tears. He drank wine and said:

“I have lived to an old age, but I have seen few people who would be so responsive and do alms so beautifully and sweetly as you, Mistress Lisbeth. But for this you will live on earth in complete prosperity, such a heart will not be left without a reward.

"That's right, and she'll get her reward now!" - suddenly a terrible voice was heard, and, looking around, they saw Peter with a face purple with anger.

“So you pour out even my best wine to the poor, and you give all vagabonds to drink from my goblet?” So here's your reward!

Lisbeth threw herself at his feet and begged for forgiveness. But the stony heart did not know pity, he took the whip that was in his hand by the other end and with an ebony whip hit her beautiful forehead with such force that she expired and fell into the hands of the old man. Seeing this, Peter seemed to immediately regret what he had done. He bent down to see if she was still alive, but the old man said in a voice familiar to Peter:

— Don't bother, Peter the coal miner. It was the most beautiful, the most beautiful flower in the Black Forest, but you trampled it, and it will never bloom again.

Then all the blood drained from Peter's cheeks, and he said:

“So it’s you, Mr. Treasurer?” Well, what happened, happened, apparently, it should have turned out that way. I hope, however, that you won't sue me for murder.

- Unfortunate! - answered Steklyashchik. - What good is it to me that I send your mortal body to the gallows? You need to be afraid not of earthly courts, but of others, more severe, for you have sold your soul to a villain.

“And if I sold my heart,” shouted Peter, “then no one but you and your deceitful treasures is to blame for this!” It was you, the insidious spirit, who led me to my death, it was you who made me seek help from another, and it is you who are responsible for everything!

But no sooner had he said this than the glass-box began to grow high and wide, and resounded so that his eyes were now like soup bowls, and his mouth was like a baking oven, and a flame burst out from there, sparkling. Peter fell to his knees, and despite his stony heart, his whole body trembled like an aspen leaf. The forest spirit dug its hawk claws into the back of his head, circled him in the air like a dry leaf, and then threw him to the ground, so much so that all his ribs crunched.

— Worm! he exclaimed in a voice as booming as thunder. “I could, if I wanted to, crush you, for you have committed a crime against the lord of the forest. But for this dead woman who fed me and gave me drink, I give you a week's time; if you do not take the path of good, I will come and grind you to powder, and you will die under the burden of sins ...

It was already evening when several people, passing by, saw the rich man Peter Munch lying on the ground. They began to turn it around, looking for any signs of life. But their search was in vain for a long time. Finally one of them went into the house, brought water and splashed his face. Here Peter took a deep breath, groaned and opened his eyes, looked around for a long time and then asked where Lisbeth was, but no one saw her. He thanked the passers-by for their help, wandered into his house and began to look for his wife there, but she was not in the cellar or in the attic, and what he considered a terrible dream turned out to be the bitter truth. Now that he was all alone, he had strange thoughts. He was not afraid of anything, because his heart was cold. But, thinking about the death of his wife, he began to think about his own death, about the burden with which he would leave this world, the terrible burden of the tears shed by the poor, and their thousand-fold curses that could not soften his heart, about what was upon him the grief of the unfortunates on whom he set his dogs, and the quiet despair of his mother, and the blood of the beautiful, kind Lisbeth will fall. After all, he would have nothing to answer even to her old father if he came and asked: “Where is my daughter, your wife?” How will he answer to the one who owns all the forests, all the seas, all the mountains and all human lives?

This tormented him at night in his sleep, and every moment he woke up from the sounds of some sweet voice that said to him: “Peter, get yourself a warmer heart!” And when he woke up, he was in a hurry to close his eyes again, because, judging by the voice, this warning came from the lips of Lisbeth. The next day he went to a tavern to dispel such thoughts, and there he met the fat Ezechil. He sat down beside him, they began to talk about this and that, about the good weather, about the war, about taxes and, finally, about death, about how other people used to die suddenly. Then Peter asked the fat man what he thought about death in general and what happens after it. Ezechil answered him that the body is buried, and the soul is carried away either to heaven or to hell.

“So they bury the heart, too?” asked Peter curiously.

“Of course, him too.

What if a person no longer has a heart? Ezechil looked at him with fear at these words:

- What do you mean by that? Are you teasing me? Do you think I don't have a heart?!

- Oh, you have a heart, and what a hard stone one, - answered Peter.

Ezechil looked at him in surprise, and looking round to make sure that no one had heard them, he said:

- How do you know? Or maybe yours isn't beating anymore either?

“If it beats, then at least not here, not in my chest,” answered Peter Munk. “But tell me—now you know what I am talking about—what will become of our hearts?”

“What do you care, brother? said Ezechil, laughing. - You live on earth for your pleasure, and thanks for that. This, after all, is the comfort of our cold hearts, that such thoughts do not inspire fear in us.

“True, but you still think about it, and although I don’t know fear now, I remember very well how I was afraid of hell when I was an innocent child.

“Well… we don’t have to expect anything particularly good,” said Etzekhil. - I asked a teacher about this, and he told me that after death, hearts are weighed to find out if they have serious sins. Light hearts rise, heavy ones fall, and our stones, I think, will be heavy!

“Yes,” answered Peter, “and I myself am often uncomfortable with the fact that my heart remains completely indifferent and quite indifferent when I think about such things.

Such was their conversation. But the next night, five or six times Peter heard a familiar voice whisper in his ear: “Peter, get yourself a warmer heart!”

He did not feel remorse for having killed her, but, telling his farmhands that his wife had left, each time he thought: “Where could she have gone?” Thus he spent six days. At night he always heard this voice and always thought about the forest spirit and its terrible menace. And on the seventh morning he jumped out of bed and exclaimed: “Indeed, I will try to get myself a warmer heart, otherwise this indifferent stone in my chest only makes my life monotonous and boring!” He quickly put on his Sunday dress, mounted his horse and galloped to the famous hillock.

On this hillock, where the trees stood closer together, he dismounted, tied his horse, and set off at a rapid pace towards the summit. Approaching a thick spruce, he said:

The old man-forester,
Only that friend to you
He only enters your domain,
Who was born on Sunday.

At once Glassy appeared, but his appearance was not the same as before, affable and friendly, but gloomy and sad. He was wearing a frock coat of black glass, and a long mourning crepe descended from his hat, and Peter immediately guessed whom he was mourning.

What do you want from me, Peter Munch? he asked in a hollow voice.

“I have one more wish, Mr. Treasurer,” replied Peter, lowering his eyes.

“Are stone hearts capable of wanting anything else?” - he said. - You have everything you need for your bad temper, and I'm unlikely to fulfill your desire.

- But you promised me to fulfill three wishes, and one more for me.

“But I can refuse if it is stupid,” continued the forest spirit. - Anyway, I'll listen to what you want.

“Take the dead stone out of me and give me my living heart,” said Peter.

Did I make this deal with you? - Asked Steklyashchik. - Am I Michel the Dutchman who gives wealth and cold hearts? There, with him, and look for your heart.

"Oh, he'll never give it back to me!" Peter answered.

“I feel sorry for you, although you are a bastard,” said the dwarf, after a little thought. - Insofar as your desire not stupid, at least I can't refuse to help you. So listen. You will not return your heart to yourself by any force, but by cunning you can return it, and, perhaps, without much difficulty. After all, Michel remains a stupid Michel, although he considers himself a great wise guy. Go straight to him and do as I command you.

And he instructed him and gave him a cross of transparent glass.

“Your life is out of danger, and he will let you go free if you show him this and pray at the same time. And having received what you came for, return to me at this place.

Peter Munch took the cross, memorized all the instructions and went on to the home of Michel the Dutchman. He called out to him three times, and the giant immediately appeared.

- Did you kill your wife? he asked with a terrible laugh. - I would do the same: she gave your goods to the poor. But you will have to leave these parts for a while, because there will be a noise when she is missed. And you probably need money, because you came for it?

- You guessed it, - Peter answered, - and this time I need quite a lot of money, because the way to America is not close.

Michel went ahead and brought him to his hut. There he opened a chest containing a lot of money, and began to take out whole columns of gold coins. As he laid them out on the table like this, Peter said:

- You, Mikhel, talker: you lied to me, as if I had a stone in my chest, but you have my heart!

— Isn't that so? - asked, surprised, Michel. - Can you feel your heart? Isn't it cold as ice? Do fear or longing come over you and are you able to repent of something?

“You only stopped my heart, but it is still in my chest, and the same is the case with Ezechiel, he told me that you lied to us. You are not the kind of person to take hearts out of your chest so imperceptibly and safely! To do this, you would need to be able to conjure.

“I assure you,” Mikhel exclaimed irritably, “that both Etzekhil and all the rich people who dealt with me have the same cold heart as yours, and I keep your real hearts in this room!”

- Well, it's healthy for you to lie! Peter laughed. - Tell it to someone else! Do you think I didn't see enough of such tricks when I traveled around the world? Those hearts you have there in the room are wax fakes. You are a rich man, I admit it, but you do not know how to conjure.

Then the giant became furious and flung open the door of the next room.

— Come in and read all the labels! Over there, look, the heart of Peter Munch. Do you see how it trembles? Can this be done with wax?

“And yet it is made of wax,” answered Peter. “A real heart doesn’t beat like that, and mine is still in my chest. No, you can't spell!

Well, I'll prove it to you! he exclaimed angrily. You will now feel that this is your heart.

He took the heart from the bottle, opened Peter's jacket, took out a stone from his chest and showed it to him. Then he breathed on a real heart and carefully inserted it where it was needed, and Peter immediately felt how it was beating, and again he was able to be glad about it.

- Well, how? - asked, grinning, Michel.

“Indeed, you were right,” replied Peter, carefully taking his cross out of his pocket. “I didn’t think it was possible to do such things.

- Right?! And I can conjure, you see. Now, let me put the stone in again.

- Wait, Mr. Michel! exclaimed Peter, taking a step back and holding out his hand with the cross. - You fell for the bait, and this time you were the fool.

Here Mikhel began to decrease, becoming lower and lower. He fell, he writhed like a worm, he moaned and groaned, and all the hearts around him beat and pounded, filling the room with the sounds of a watchmaker's shop. Peter was frightened, he became terrified, he ran out of the room and out of the house and, out of himself with fear, began to climb a sheer cliff, for he heard that Mikhel jumped up, stamped his feet, rushed about and began to send him monstrous curses. Climbing up, he ran to the hillock. Then a terrible thunderstorm broke out, lightning struck from the left and right next to him, felling and splitting the trees, but he safely reached the possessions of the glass.

His heart was beating happily, and only because it was beating. But then he looked back with horror at his life, as at a thunderstorm that fell behind him to the right and left of a beautiful forest. He thought of Lisbeth, of his beautiful, kind wife, whom he had killed out of greed. He seemed to himself a monster of the human race and wept bitterly when he approached the glass hill.

The treasure-keeper was already sitting under the spruce and smoking his pipe, but he looked more cheerful than before.

Why are you crying, Peter the Coal Miner? - he asked. - You didn't get your heart? Do you still have stone in your chest?

— Ah, sir! Peter sighed. - When I lived with the cold stone heart, I never cried, my eyes were dry as the earth in July. And now my old heart just breaks when I think what I've done! I plunged my debtors into poverty, poisoned the sick and poor with dogs, and ... you yourself remember how my whip hit her beautiful forehead!

“Peter, you were a great sinner!” - said the woodsman. “Money and idleness corrupted you, and your heart turned into stone and no longer knew joy, sorrow, repentance, or compassion. But remorse softens anger, and if I only knew that you truly regret your life, I would already be able to do something for you.

"I don't want anything else," Peter answered and lowered his head sadly. - I am a finished man, life is no longer a joy to me. What am I to do now alone in the world? My mother will never forgive me for the wrong I did her, and maybe I, the monster, have already brought her to the grave! And Lisbeth, my wife! Better kill me too, Mr. Treasurer, then my miserable life will end at once.

“Okay,” the little man answered, “if you don’t want anything else, then so be it. My ax is in my 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 went behind the fir. And Peter, weeping, sat down on the grass. Life no longer meant anything to him, and he patiently waited for the fatal blow. After a while, he heard quiet steps behind him and thought: "Well, that's all."

“Look back again, Peter Munch!” - exclaimed the little man.

Peter wiped his eyes, looked back and saw ... his mother and his wife Lisbeth looking at him affectionately. He happily jumped to his feet.

"So you're not dead, Lisbeth!" And you, mother, are also here and have forgiven me?

"They will forgive you," said Glassy, ​​"because your remorse is sincere." Everything will be forgotten. Go home to your father's hut, and be a collier as before. If you are honest and conscientious, you will learn to honor your craft, and your neighbors will love and respect you more than if you had ten barrels of gold.

Having said this, Steklyashchik said goodbye to them. They praised and blessed him and went home. The luxurious house of rich Peter was gone. Lightning set it on fire and burned it with all the good. But it was not far to the father's hut. There they went, and this great loss did not upset them.

But what was their surprise when they approached the hut! It turned into an excellent peasant house, and everything in it was simple, but solid and tidy.

- It was made by a good Glasser! exclaimed Peter.

— How nice! Lisbeth said. “It’s much more comfortable here than in a big house with many farmhands.

Since then, Peter Munch has become diligent and honest man. He was pleased with what he had, did his job without despondency, and in the end achieved prosperity on his own and earned respect and love throughout the Black Forest. He no longer quarreled with Lisbeth, honored his mother and gave to the poor who knocked at his door. When, after some time, Lisbeth gave birth to a nice little boy, Peter went to the famous hillock and cast his spell. But Steklyashchik did not come out to him.

“Mr. Treasurer,” he shouted loudly, “listen to me, please!” I'm not asking for anything, except for one thing: be godfather my son!

But there was no answer. Only the breeze rustled in the fir trees and dropped a few cones into the grass.

“Well, I’ll take this as a keepsake, since you don’t want to show yourself!” - exclaimed Peter, put the cones in his pocket and went home. But when he took off his Sunday jacket at home and his mother turned out the pockets before putting the jacket in the chest, four heavy columns in a wrapper fell out of it, and when they were unwrapped, there were nice, brand new Baden thalers, and among them not a single counterfeit one. It was a gift from the forester to his godson, little Peter.

So they lived quietly and peacefully, and, having already turned gray, Peter Munch did not stop saying: “It is better to be content with little than to have gold and all good things, but at the same time a cold heart.”