雙語·豪夫童話 施佩薩特林中客棧_冷酷的心（上）

The Inn in the Spessart_The Marble Heart (First Part)

Whoever travels through Suabia should not neglect to take a peep into the Black Forest; not on account of the trees, although one does not find every-where such a countless number of magnificent pines, but because of the inhabitants, between whom and their outlying neighbors there exists a marked difference. They are taller than ordinary people, broad-shouldered and strong-limbed. It seems as though the balmy fragrance exhaled by the pines had given them a freer respiration, a clearer eye, and a more resolute if somewhat ruder spirit than that possessed by the inhabitants of the valleys and plains. And not only in their bearing and size do they differ from other people, but in their customs and pursuits as well. In that part of the Black Forest included within the Grand Duchy of Baden, are to be seen the most strikingly dressed inhabitants of the whole forest. The men let nature have her own way with their beards; while their black jackets, close-fitting knee breeches, red stockings, and peaked hats bound with a broad sheaf, give them a picturesque, yet serious and commanding appearance. Here the people generally are occupied in the manufacture of glass; they also make watches and sell them to half the world.

On the other side of the forest formerly dwelt a branch of this same race; but their employment had given them other customs and manners. They felled and trimmed their pine trees, rafted the logs down the Nagold into the Neckar, and from the Upper-Neckar to the Rhine, and thence far down into Holland, and even at the sea coast these raftsmen of the Black Forest were known. They stopped on their way down the rivers at each city that lined the banks, and proudly awaited purchasers for their logs and boards, but kept their largest and longest logs to dispose of for a larger sum, to the Mynheers for shipbuilding purposes. These raftsmen were accustomed to a rough, wandering life. Their joy was experienced in floating down the streams on their rafts; their sorrow in the long walk back on the banks. Thus from the nature of their occupation they required a costume entirely different from that worn by the glass-makers on the other side of the Black Forest. They wore jackets of dark linen, over which green suspenders of a hand-breadth's width crossed over their broad breasts; black leather knee breeches, from the pockets of which projected brass foot-rules like badges of honor; but their joy and pride lay in their boots, the largest perhaps that ever came into vogue in any part of the world, as they could be drawn up two spans of the hand above the knee, so that the raftsmen could wade around in a yard of water without wetting their feet.

Up to quite a recent period, the inhabitants of this forest believed in spirits of the wood. But it is somewhat singular that the spirits who, as the legend ran, dwelt in the Black Forest, took sides in these prevailing fashions. Thus, it was averred that the Little Glass-Man, a good little spirit, only three-and-a-half feet high, never appeared otherwise than in a peaked hat with a wide brim, as well as a jacket and knee breeches and red stockings; whereas, Dutch-Michel, who haunted the other part of the forest, was a giant-sized broad-shouldered fellow in the dress of a raftsman, and several people who had seen him, asserted that they would not care to pay for the hides that would be used to make him a pair of boots. “And so tall,” said they, “that an ordinary man would not reach to his neck.”

With these spirits of the forest, a young man of this region is reported to have had a strange experience, which I will relate.

There lived in the Black Forest a widow by the name of Frau Barbara Munkin; her husband had been a charcoal-burner, and after his death she brought up her son to the same business. Young Peter Munk, a cunning fellow of sixteen, was much pleased to sit all the week round on his smoking piles of wood, just as he had seen his father do; or, all black and sooty as he was, and a scarecrow to the people, he would go down to the towns to sell his charcoal. But a charcoal-burner has plenty of time to think about himself and others; and when Peter Munk sat on his half-burned piles of wood, the dark trees about him and the deep stillness of the forest disposed him to tears and filled his heart with nameless longings. Something troubled him, and he could not well make out what it was. Finally he discovered what it was that had so put him out of sorts; it was his occupation.

“A lonely black charcoal-burner,” reflected he. “It is a miserable life. How respectable are the glassmakers, the watchmakers, and even the musicians of a Sunday evening! And when Peter Munk, cleanly-washed and brushed, appears dressed in his father's best jacket with silver buttons and with bran-new red stockings, and when one walks behind me and thinks, Who is that stylish-looking fellow? and inwardly praises my stockings and my stately walk—when he passes by me and turns around to look, he is sure to say to himself: ‘Oh, it's only Charcoal Pete!’”

The raftsmen on the other side of the forest also aroused his envy. When these giants came over among the glass-makers, dressed in their elegant clothes, wearing at least fifty pounds of silver in buttons, buckles, and chains, when they looked on at a dance, with legs spread wide apart, swore in Dutch, and smoked pipes from Cologne three feet long in the stem, just like any distinguished Mynheer—then was Peter convinced that such a raftsman was the very picture of a lucky man. And when these fortunate beings put their hands into their pockets and drew out whole handfuls of thalers and shook for half a-dozen at a throw—five guldens here, ten there—then he would nearly lose his senses, and would steal home to his hut in a very melancholy mood. On many holiday nights he had seen one or another of these timber merchants lose more at play than his poor father had ever been able to earn in a year.

Distinguished above all others were three of these men and Peter was uncertain which one of them was most wonderful. One was a large heavy man, with a red face, who passed for the richest man of them all. He was called Stout Ezekiel. He went down to Amsterdam twice a year with timber, and always had the good fortune to sell it at so much higher a price than others could sell theirs, that he could afford to ride back home in good style, while the others had to return on foot. The second man of the trio was the lankest and leanest person in the whole forest, and was called Slim Schlurker. Peter envied him for his audacity; he contradicted the most respectable people, occupied more room when the inn was crowded than four of the stoutest, either by spreading his elbows out on the table, or by stretching his legs out on the bench, and yet no one dared to interfere with him, for he had an enormous amount of money. But the third was a handsome young man, who was the best dancer far and wide, and had, therefore, received the title of King of the Ball. He had been a poor boy, and had been a servant to one of the lumber dealers, when he suddenly became very rich. Some said that he had found a pot of gold under an old pine tree, others asserted that he had fished up a packet of gold pieces near Bingen on the Rhine, with the pole with which the raftsmen sometimes speared for fish; and that the packet was part of the great Nibelungen treasure that lies buried there. In short, he had suddenly become a rich man, and was looked upon by young and old with the respect due a prince.

Charcoal Pete often thought of these three men, as he sat so lonely in the forest of pines. It is true that all three had a common failing that made them hated by the people; this was their inhuman avarice—their utter lack of sympathy for the poor and unfortunate; for the inhabitants of the Black Forest are a kind-hearted people. But you know how it goes in the world; if they were hated on account of their avarice, they yet commanded deference by virtue of their money; for who but they could throw away thalers as if one had only to shake them down from the pines?

“I won’t stand this much longer,” said Peter, dejectedly, to himself one day; for the day before had been a holiday, and all the people had been down to the inn. “If I don’t make a strike pretty soon, I shall make away with myself. Oh, if I were only as rich and respectable as the Stout Ezekiel, or so bold and mighty as the Slim Schlurker, or as famous and as well able to throw thalers to the fiddlers as the King of the Ball! Where can the fellow get his money?” He thought over all the ways by which one could make money, but none of them suited him. Finally there occurred to him the traditions of people who had become rich through the aid of Dutch Michel and the Little Glass-Man. During his father's life-time, other poor people often came to visit them, and Peter had heard them talk by the hour of rich people and of the way their riches were acquired. The name of the Little Glass-Man was often mentioned in these conversations, as one who had helped these rich men to their wealth; and Peter could almost remember the verse that had to be spoken at the Tannenbuehl in the centre of the forest in order to summon him. It ran thus:

Schatzhauser im grünen Tannenwald,

Bis schon viel’ hundert Jahre alt,

Dir geh?rt all’ Land wo Tannen stehn—

But strain his memory as he would, he could not recall another line. He often debated within himself whether he should not ask this or that old man what the rest of the rhyme was, but was held back by a certain dread of betraying his thoughts—and then, too, the tradition of the Glass-Man could not be very widely known, and the rhyme must be known to but very few, for there were not many rich people in the forest; and, strangest of all, why had not his father and the other poor people tried their luck? He finally led his mother into speaking about the Little Glass-Man; but she only told him what he knew before, and knew only the first line of the rhyme, although she did add afterwards that the spirit only showed himself to people who were born on a Sunday between eleven and two o’clock. In that respect, she told him, he would fill the requirements, if he could only remember the verse; as he was born on a Sunday noon.

When Charcoal Pete heard this, he was almost beside himself with joy at the thought of undertaking this adventure. It appeared to him sufficient that he knew a part of the verse, and that he was born on a Sunday; so he thought that the Glass-Man would appear to him. Therefore, after he had sold his charcoal one day, he did not kindle any more fires, but put on his father's best jacket, his new red stockings and his Sunday hat, grasped his black-thorn cane, and bade good-bye to his mother, saying: “I must go to town on business; we shall soon have to draw lots again to see who shall serve in the army, and I will once more call the justice's attention to the fact that I am the only son of a widow.”

His mother commended his resolution, and he started off for Tannenbuehl. The Tannenbuehl lies on the highest point of the Black Forest; and within a radius of a two-hours’ walk, not a village nor even a hut was to be found, for the superstitious people held the Tannenbuehl to be an unsafe place. And tall and splendid as were the trees in this region, they were now but seldom disturbed by the woodman's ax; for often when the wood-choppers had ventured in there to work, the axes had flown from the helves and cut them in the foot, or the trees had fallen unexpectedly before they could get out of the way, and had killed and injured many. Then, too, these magnificent trees could only be sold for firewood, as the raftsmen would never take a single log from this locality into their rafts, for the tradition was current among them that both men and rafts would come to grief if they were to do so. Therefore, it was that the trees of the Tannenbuehl had been left to grow so thick and tall that it was almost as dark as night there on the clearest day; and Peter Muck began to feel rather timid there, for he heard not a voice, not a step save his own, not even the ring of an ax, while even the birds appeared to shun these dark shadows.

Charcoal Pete at last reached the highest point of the Tannenbuehl, and stood before a pine of enormous girth, for which a ship-builder in Holland would have given many hundred guldens, delivered at his yard.“Here,” thought he, “the Little Glass-Man would be most likely to live.”So he took off his Sunday hat, made a low bow before the tree, cleared his throat, and said in a trembling voice: “I wish you a very good afternoon, Mr. Glass-Man.” But there was no answer, and every thing about was as still as before. “Perhaps I have to speak the verse first,” thought he, and mumbled:

Schatzhauser im grünen Tannenwald,

Bist schon viel’ hundert Jahre alt,

Dir geh?rt all’ Land wo Tannen stehn—

As he spoke these words, he saw, to his great terror, a very small, strange figure peep out from behind the great tree. To Peter it seemed to be the Little Glass-Man, just as he had heard him described: a black jacket, red stockings, a peaked hat with a broad brim, and a pale but fine and intelligent little face. But alas, as quickly as the Little Glass-Man had looked around the tree, so quickly had he disappeared again. “Mr. Glass-Man,” cried Peter Munk after a long pause, “be so kind as not to make a fool of me. Mr. Glass-Man, if you think I didn’t see you, you are very much mistaken. I saw you very plainly when you looked around the tree.”Still no answer; but occasionally Peter believed he heard a low, amused chuckle behind the tree. Finally his impatience conquered the fear that had held him back. “Wait, you little fellow,” cried he; “I will soon catch you.”With one leap he sprang behind the tree, but there was no”Schatzhauser im grünen Tannenwald,”and only a small squirrel ran up the tree.

Peter Munk shook his head; he saw that he had the method of conjuration all right up to a certain point, and that perhaps only another line was needed to induce the Little Glass-Man to appear. He thought over this and that, but found nothing to the purpose. The squirrel was to be seen on the lower branches of the tree, and acted as if it were either trying to cheer him up or was making sport of him. It smoothed down its fur, waved its fine bushy tail, and looked at him with intelligent eyes. But at last he was afraid to remain here alone with this little creature; for now the squirrel would appear to have a human head and a three-peaked hat, and then again it would be just like other squirrels, with the exception of red stockings and black shoes on its hinder legs. In short, it was a merry creature; but nevertheless Charcoal Pete stood in dread of it, believing that there was some magic in all this.

Peter left the spot at a much faster pace than he had approached it. The shadows of the pine wood seemed to deepen, the trees to be taller, and such terror took possession of him that he broke into a run, and experienced a sense of security only when he heard dogs barking in the distance, and saw between the trees the smoke rising from a hut. But when he came nearer, and perceived the dress worn by the people in the hut, he found that in his alarm he had taken the wrong direction, and instead of arriving among the glass-makers, he had come to the raftsmen. The people who dwelt in the hut were wood-choppers; an old man, his son, who was the owner of the house, and some grandchildren. They gave Charcoal Pete a hospitable reception, without asking for his name and residence; brought him cider to drink, and for supper a large blackcock, the most tempting dish in the Black Forest, was set on the table.

After supper the housewife and her daughters gathered, with their distaffs, around the light which the children fed with the finest resin; the grandfather, the guest, and the master of the house smoked and looked at the busy fingers of the women, while the boys were occupied in cutting out wooden forks and spoons. Out in the forest a storm was raging; one heard every now and then heavy peals of thunder, and often it sounded as though entire trees had been snapped off and crushed together. The fearless children wanted to go out into the forest to view this wild and beautiful scene; but their grandfather restrained them by a sharp word and look. “I would not advise any one to go outside the door,” exclaimed he;“he would never come back again, for Dutch Michel is cutting a fresh link of logs to-night.”

The children all stared at him. They might have heard the name of Dutch Michel mentioned before, but now they begged their grandfather that he would tell them all about him. And Peter Munk, who had heard Dutch Michel spoken of on the other side of the forest only in a vague way, joined in the children's request, and asked the old man who Dutch Michel was and where he was to be seen. “He is the master of this forest;and, judging from such an inquiry from a man of your age, you must live on the other side of the Tannenbuehl, or even farther away, not to have heard of him. I will tell you what I know about Dutch Michel, and the stories that are circulated regarding him:

“About a hundred years ago—at least so my ancestors said—there was not a more honorable race of people on the face of the earth than the inhabitants of the Black Forest. But now, since so much money has come into the country, the people are dishonest and wicked; the young fellows dance and sing on Sunday, and swear most terribly. But at the time of which I speak there was a very different state of things; and even though Dutch Michel is looking in at the window now, I say, just as I have often said before, that he is to blame for all this woful change. There lived a hundred years or more ago, a rich timber merchant, who employed a large number of men. He traded far down the Rhine, and his business prospered, as he was a God-fearing man. One evening a man came to his door, the like of whom he had never seen before. His clothing did not differ from that of the Black Forest workingmen, but he was a good head taller than any of them, and it had not been believed that such a giant existed any where. He asked for work, and the timber merchant, seeing that he was strong and so well adapted to carrying heavy loads, made a bargain with him. Michel was a workman such as this man had never had before. As a wood-chopper he was the equal of any other three men; and he would carry one end of a tree which required six men to carry the other end.

“But after cutting trees for six months, he went to his employer and said: ‘I have cut wood here long enough now, and should like to see where my tree-trunks go to; so how would it do if you were to let me go down on the rafts?’ The timber merchant replied: ‘I will not stand in the way of your seeing a little of the world, Michel. To be sure, I need strong men to fell the trees, while on the raft more cleverness is required; but it shall be as you wish for this time.’

“The raft on which he was to go, consisted of eight sections, the last of which was made up of the largest timbers. But what do you think happened? On the evening before they started, the tall Michel brought eight more logs to the water, thicker and longer than any that had ever been seen before, and each one he had carried as lightly on his shoulder as if it were simply a raft pole, so that all were amazed. Where he had cut them remains a mystery to-day. The heart of the timber merchant rejoiced as he saw them, and began to reckon up what they might be worth; but Michel said: ‘There, those are for me to travel on. I shouldn’t get very far on those other chips.’ His master, by way of thanks, presented him with a pair of high boots; but Michel threw them aside, and produced a pair that my grandfather assured me weighed a hundred pounds and stood five feet high.

“The raft was started off, and if Michel had astonished the wood-choppers before, it was now the turn of the raftsmen to be surprised;for instead of the float going more slowly down the stream, as had been expected on account of these enormous logs, as soon as they touched the Neckar they flew down the river with the speed of an arrow. If they came to a curve in the Neckar, that had usually given the raftsmen much trouble to keep the raft in the middle of the stream and prevent it from grounding on the gravel or sand, Michel would spring into the water and push the raft to the right or the left, so that it passed by without accident. But if they came to a stand-still, he would run forward to the first section, have all the other men throw down their poles, stick his own enormous beam into the gravel, and with a single push the float flew down the river at such a rate that the land and trees and villages seemed to be running away from them.

“Thus in half the time usually consumed, they reached Cologne on the Rhine, where they had been accustomed to sell their float. But here Michel spoke up once more: ‘You seem to be merchants who understand your own interests. Do you then think that the people of Cologne use all this timber that comes from the Black Forest? No, they buy it of you at half its cost, and sell it to Holland merchants at an immense advance. Let us sell the smaller logs here, and take the larger ones down to Holland;what we receive above the usual price will be our own gain.’

“Thus spake the crafty Michel, and the others were content to do as he advised—some because they had a desire to see Holland, and others on account of the money they would pocket. Only one of the men was honest, and tried to dissuade his companions from exposing their master's property to further risks, or to cheat him out of the higher price they might receive; but they would not listen to him, and forgot his words. Dutch Michel, however, did not forget them. They continued on down the Rhine, and Michel conducted the raft and soon brought it to Rotterdam. There they were offered four times the former price, and the enormous logs that Michel had brought sold for a large sum. When these raftsmen found themselves the possessors of so much money, they could hardly contain themselves for joy. Michel made the division, one part for the timber merchant and the three others among the men. And now they frequented the taverns with sailors and other low associates, gambled and threw away their money; but the brave man who had advised against their going to Holland was sold to a slave-dealer by Dutch Michel, and was never again heard of. From that time forth Holland was the paradise of the raftsmen of the Black Forest, and Dutch Michel was their king. The timber merchants did not learn of the swindle practiced on them for some time; and money,oaths, bad manners, drunkenness and gambling were gradually imported from Holland unnoticed.

“When the story of these doings came out, Dutch Michel was nowhere to be found. But he is not by any means dead. For a hundred years he has carried on his ghostly deeds in the forest, and it is said that he has been the means of enriching many; but at the cost of their souls. How that may be, I will not say; but this much is certain: that on these stormy nights he picks out the finest trees in the Tannenbuehl, where none dare to chop, and my father once saw him break off a tree four feet thick as easily as if it had been a reed. He makes a present of these trees to those who will turn from the right and follow him; then at midnight they bring down these logs to the river, and he goes with his followers down to Holland. But if I were the King of Holland, I would have him blown to pieces with grape-shot; for every ship that has in it any of Dutch Michel's timber, even if it be only a single stick, must go to the bottom. This is the cause of all the shipwrecks we hear of; for how else could a fine strong ship, as large as a church, be destroyed on the water? And whenever Dutch Michel fells a pine in the Black Forest on a stormy night, one of his timbers springs from a ship's side, the water rushes in, and the ship is lost with all her crew. Such is the legend of Dutch Michel; and it is sure that all that is bad in the Black Forest may be ascribed to him. But oh, he can make one rich!” added the old man mysteriously; “yet I wouldn’t have any thing to do with him—I would not for any money stand in the shoes of the Stout Ezekiel or in those of the Slim Schlurker; and the King of the Ball is reported to belong to him also.”

During the recital of the old man's story, the storm had ceased. The girls now timidly lighted their lamps and went off to bed, while the man gave Peter a bag of leaves for a pillow on the settee, and wished him goodnight.

Never before did Charcoal Pete have such dreams as on this night. Now the sullen giant, Dutch Michel, would raise the window and hold out before him with his enormously long arm a purse full of gold pieces, which he chincked together; then he would see the good-natured Little Glass-Man riding about the room on a monstrous green bottle, and he could hear his merry laugh just as it sounded in the Tannenbuehl; then again there was hummed into his left ear:

In Holland there is gold;

You can have it if you will

For very little pay;

Gold, Gold!

Then in his right ear he heard the song of the “Schatzhauser im grünen Tannenwald,” and a soft voice whispered: “Stupid Charcoal Pete! Stupid Peter Munk can’t think of any thing to rhyme with stehen, and yet was born on Sunday at twelve o’clock. Rhyme, stupid Peter, rhyme!”He sighed and groaned in his sleep. He tried his best to think of a rhyme for that word; but as he had never made a rhyme in his life, all his efforts in his dream were fruitless. But on awaking with the early dawn, his dream recurred to his mind. He sat himself down behind the table with folded arms, and thought over the whispers he could still hear. “Rhyme, stupid Charcoal Pete, rhyme,” said he to himself, meanwhile tapping his forehead with his finger; but the rhyme would not come forth at his bidding.

While he was sitting thus, looking sadly before him with his mind intent on a rhyme for stehen,three fellows passed by the house,one of whom was singing:

Am Berge that ich stehen

Und schaute in das Thal,

Da hab’ ich sie gesehen

Zum allerletzten Mal.

That struck Peter's ear instantly, and springing up he rushed hastily out of the house, ran after the three men, and seized the singer roughly by the arm.

“Stop, friend,”cried he,“what was your rhyme for stehen? Be so kind as to recite what you sang.”

“What's the trouble with you, young fellow?” retorted the singer. “I can sing what I please, so let go of my arm, or—”

“No, you must tell me what you sang!” shouted Peter, taking a firmer grip on his arm. The two others did not hesitate long on seeing this but fell upon Peter with their hard fists and gave him such a beating that he was forced to let go his hold on the first man and sank exhausted to his knees.

“You have got your share now,” said they laughing, “and mind you, stupid fellow, never to jump upon people again on the highway.”

“Oh, I will surely take care!” replied Charcoal Pete sighing; “but now that I have had the blows, be so good as to tell me plainly what it was that man sang.”

They began to laugh again, and made sport of him; but the one who had sung the song repeated it to him, and laughing and singing they continued on their way.

“Also gesehen,”said the beaten one, as he raised himself up with some difficulty;“gesehen rhymes with stehen. Now then, Little Glass-Man, we will speak a word together.” He went back to the hut, took his hat and stick, and bade farewell to the inmates of the hut, and started on his way back to the Tannenbuehl.

He walked on slowly and thoughtfully, for he had a line to make up; finally as he came into the neighborhood of the Tannenbuehl, and the pines grew taller and thicker, he had completed the verse, and in his joy made a leap into the air. Just then appeared a man of giant size, who held in his hand a pole as long as a ship's mast. Peter's courage failed him as he saw this giant walking along very slowly near him; for, thought he, that is none other than Dutch Michel. But the giant remained silent, and Peter occasionally took a half-frightened look at him. He was fully a head taller than the largest man Peter had ever seen; his face was neither young nor old, and yet full of lines; he wore a linen jacket, and the enormous boots drawn over the leather breeches, Peter recognized from the legend he had heard the night before.

“Peter Munk, what are you doing in the Tannenbuehl?” inquired the King of the Wood, in a deep threatening voice.

“Good morning, neighbor,” replied Peter, with an effort to hide his uneasiness: “I was going back home through the Tannenbuehl.”

“Peter Munk,” returned the giant, darting a piercing look at him, “your way does not lie through this grove.”

“Well, no, not directly,” said Peter; “but it is warm to-day, and I thought it would be cooler up here.”

“Don’t tell a lie. Charcoal Pete!” cried Dutch Michel, in a voice of thunder, “or I will beat you to the ground with my pole. Do you think I didn’t hear you pleading with the Little Glass-Man?” continued he more gently. “Come, come, that was a foolish thing to do, and it is fortunate that you did not know that verse; he is a niggard, the little churl, and doesn’t give much, and those to whom he does give don’t enjoy life very much. Peter, you are a poor simpleton, and it grieves me to the soul to see such a lively, handsome fellow, who might do something in the world, burning charcoal. While others are throwing about great thalers or ducats, you can hardly raise a sixpence: ‘tis a miserable life.’”

“That's all true, and you are right; it is a miserable life.”

“Well, I shouldn’t mind giving you a lift,” continued the terrible Michel. “I have already helped many a brave fellow out of his misery, so you would not be the first. Speak up, now; how many hundred thalers do you want to start with?”

With these words, he shook the gold pieces in his immense pocket, and they jingled as Peter had heard them last night in his dream. His heart beat wildly and painfully; he was warm and cold by turns, and Dutch Michel did not look as if he was in the habit of giving away money in compassion without receiving something in return. The mysterious words of the old man in the hut recurred to his mind, and driven by unaccountable anxiety and terror, he cried: “Best thanks, master; but I won’t have any dealings with you, for I know you too well,” and ran off at the top of his speed.