Project Gutenberg's The Little Glass Man and Other Stories, by Wilhelm Hauff This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Little Glass Man and Other Stories Author: Wilhelm Hauff Release Date: May 7, 2014 [EBook #45606] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE GLASS MAN *** Produced by eagkw, David Edwards and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) Half Title THE CHILDREN’S LIBRARY THE LITTLE GLASS MAN From a wash drawing by James Pryde “FAT HEZEKIEL” Title Page THE LITTLE GLASS MAN AND OTHER STORIES FROM THE GERMAN OF WILHELM HAUFF ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK: MACMILLAN & CO. LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN 1894 Decoration CONTENTS PAGE How the Stories were found. By L. Eckenstein 1 The Little Glass Man 15 The Story of the Caliph Stork 83 The Story of Little Muck 100 Nose, the Dwarf 130 [1] Decoration HOW THE STORIES WERE FOUND BY L. ECKENSTEIN AIRY QUEEN sat in her office drinking afternoon tea. Fairy Queen, thinking how she could please children best, had turned publisher. She had come to London, she had taken an office up a steep flight of stairs, and had sent out her fairies all over Europe in search of children’s books. Off they had gone in all directions, and so many manuscripts and books had been sent in or brought back by them, that Fairy Queen published volume after volume of the Children’s Library, and still there remained a lot of work to be done. There she sat now thinking over the tales she had published and over those she was planning to publish, as the clock of St. Paul’s slowly struck five. Fairy Queen poured out a last cup of tea; she finished sorting a heap of letters which she packed away in the drawers of her writing-table, and listened in the direction of the room next to hers. There were steps on the stairs coming and going. Then there was a good deal of banging about the room, and Fairy Queen’s ear caught snatches of a song. In that room were stored books, and manuscripts, and letters and brown paper parcels, and there by the side of the big, big waste-paper basket of Fairy Queen’s publishing firm, sat Gogul Mogul reading manuscripts. Gogul Mogul was a long-legged creature, with a tiny head, who had come out of Fairyland to help publish tales suitable for child readers. He was devoted to Fairy Queen, and read through piles and piles of manuscript with great perseverance, though he frequently groaned, longing to be back in Fairyland. But he was not groaning now. As Fairy Queen opened the door calling to him, he was lightly dancing a double shuffle and waving a telegram to the tune. At sight of her he burst into a joyous laugh. ‘Her absence need not cast a shadow on us all,’ he cried; ‘the fairy from Germany is on her way home. She telegraphs to me from Dover; she will be here in time for the fairies’ meeting. And having passed the seas and crossed the sands, she found the story of the Little Glass Man at last.’ ‘A good thing, a good thing,’ said Fairy Queen, taking the telegram; ‘as it is, I have lost all patience with her. From France, from Ireland, from Greece, even from Russia, numbers of tales have arrived. And from Germany, so much nearer to us, so much more literary, nothing comes. Just as though there were not plenty of fairy tales to be found there! But I have no doubt she has wasted so much time looking for these special stories, just because you had set your heart on having them.’ ‘Upon my word,’ Gogul Mogul said. And he jumped over his toes, a feat he was fond of performing, serenely smiling at the large blot of ink which ornamented his forefinger. ‘Of course you will meet her at the station,’ said Fairy Queen; ‘see her home, and call for her again in a cab. The meeting begins at nine; all the fairies who are in town will be there. And mind you do not keep us waiting as you did last month!’ Her tone was severe; but Gogul Mogul went on smiling his sweetest smile, while he muttered to himself— ‘Then skilful most, when most severely judged, But chance it not.’ A few hours later daylight had passed away and a bright moon looked down into the thronged thoroughfare of Holborn, putting to shame the yellow lights of the gas lamps and the glare of the few shop windows that were lit up by electric light. Into side courts and up winding alleys the moon made her way, and poured down full into a narrow passage up which ladies’ figures, bundled in ulsters and shawls, were hurrying in twos and threes. Under an arched doorway they disappeared. The moon could not look round the corner, but above there was a row of arched stone windows. She looked in at these into a long large wainscotted old hall, and there she found those figures and knew them again. I doubt if you would have known them. I should not myself but that I had been helping downstairs in the cloak-room, taking hats and wraps and ulsters, even one pair of goloshes, and mixing them up for the surprise of seeing what lovely creatures came out from those dark clothes. Have you ever seen a butterfly squeeze out of a chrysalis, I wonder? Have you seen those shining creatures shake themselves free from their dark covering, take flight, and vanish away? But those lovely creatures whose cloaks I helped to ticket could not vanish away from me altogether. Like the moon, I managed to find them again. For I knew of a small window upstairs from which one could overlook the old hall. When there were smoking concerts this window was open for ventilation to let out the smoke; to-night it should be open for me to peep in. So when the old lady in the cloak-room said she required my help no longer, she thought it was time for me to go to bed; I said ‘Thank you,’ and went upstairs and made my way along the passages to the small window, and sat close to it and looked down into the old hall. Oh, the colour, the movement, the loveliness of it all! I once went to a pantomime and saw the Transformation Scene with all the fairies. It was very beautiful and a little like what I saw now. Only there the fairies were all made up with painted faces, and curls which had not grown on their heads, while here you could see at a glance that everything was quite real. And they were so lovely, these fairies! I made myself comfortable at the window, no one could see me from below. Only the moon from the big window opposite stared me full in the face. ‘No matter what you think,’ I said, nodding at her; ‘don’t you talk about inquisitiveness. Why there isn’t a window or a cranny but you take a peep in if F [2] [3] [4] [5] you get the chance!’ Down below, at one end of the hall, there was a raised platform; on this, in the largest of the chairs, sat Fairy Queen with a crown on her head and a long silver train. A few other fairies, all with long trains, sat by her, and the rest moved about in the hall. In one corner, just below where I sat, there was a long table, on which were set out plates with pasties and sweets and sandwiches; there were coloured glasses also and flagons of wine. Near the table stood Gogul Mogul greeting the fairies as they arrived and handing them refreshments. He was dressed in green tights, his hair stood up in a great mop. Among all those ladies he was the only gentleman; but he knew his importance, and he looked it. ‘Oh yes, she has come,’ I heard him say in answer to inquiries; ‘what heart could wish for more! she is without, putting herself straight. Did you say raspberry tart or cherry tart?’ he asked, turning to a fairy. And taking up a flagon, he quoted— ‘Here plenty’s liberal horn shall pour, Of fruits for thee a copious shower.’ Suddenly there was a stir, the door had opened and a fairy came in dressed in the bluest of blues. Gogul Mogul went up to her; she came to the table and ate a sandwich; then he led her by the hand to the upper end of the room, where Fairy Queen and the other grand fairies rose to receive her. They talked of her long absence, then of other things. But I was not listening; I was watching Gogul Mogul, who had come back to the refreshment table, where, all the fairies having been helped, he proceeded to help himself. I have seen school-boys in bun shops, and school-girls settling down to a feast of chocolate creams; in these I have sometimes joined myself. But never before, never since, did I see the like of Gogul Mogul. Sandwich after sandwich, tart after tart, he put into his mouth; there was no choosing, no hesitation, no pause, till every bit of the food off the dishes had gone. And then—it sounds nonsense, and no one will believe it possible who has not seen it done—he turned up the cloth at one end of the table, then at the other, and went on rolling and rolling it up over plates and dishes and glasses and flagons, till there was nothing left but a small napkin, which he squeezed into the breast-pocket slit of his tight green clothes. I looked up and straight at the moon, who seemed to be smiling. ‘Is it a dream,’ I thought, ‘is it a practical joke, or is it really a meeting of the Women’s Gossip Revival Society, as they said downstairs?’ The Blue Fairy was now sitting on the platform, all the other fairies too had taken seats. Gogul Mogul, the wonderful Gogul Mogul, who well deserved the title of Food Destroyer to Her Majesty, sauntered up to the platform, where he sat down by the side of Fairy Queen. Fairy Queen then rose and said: ‘This night being the Full Moon we have met as usual to hear what the fairies have to report about children’s books and child-readers; how the children have liked the stories, and what they think of them. But as the Blue Fairy has just arrived from Germany, where she has been so long, I propose to call on her to tell us some of her adventures.’ There was a great clapping of hands at this. Gogul Mogul stood up, bowed to the Blue Fairy, and said: ‘A feast of reason and a flow of soul!’ at which there was renewed clapping of hands. The Blue Fairy hesitated, she fingered the gold spangles of her dress, she shook back her curls. Then she began: ‘Germany is a wonderful country. It is very big as you know, and very different in places; the parts I like best are the large forests which extend uphill and downhill for many many miles. We all hope to go back to Fairyland some day, but next to going there we could not do better than settle in one of these German forests; with the squirrels playing about, and the birds singing, and the little streams bubbling between the moss-grown rocks, I really felt quite at home there. The folk live in the queerest of houses, and are dressed in the queerest of clothes; and there can be nothing funnier than the dear little children, who come a long distance over the hills to school, walking barefoot, and who sit down outside the schoolhouse and put on their stockings and shoes before they go in, as if wearing shoes and stockings were part of doing lessons. Well, I went to stay in the Black Forest first; Gogul Mogul told me it was there I must go to hear about the Little Glass Man. I believe he knew him as a boy when the Little Glass Man used to visit in Fairyland. But I travelled about on coaches painted a bright yellow, I stayed about in old-fashioned sunny village inns, I heard about many wonderful things, but I could not find out anything about the Little Glass Man. Had he left those parts, had people forgotten about him? ‘One afternoon I had been in a saw-mill watching the saw go up and down through the long pine-wood trunk which slowly moved along to meet it, to the sound of the splashing wheel outside going round and round. Every time the saw had cut through the length of the trunk it stopped, there was a great rush of water outside, a little bell was set tinkling, and then the sawyer, or the saw-miller, as they call him over there, wound the trunk back and set the saw so as to cut the next plank, and then the whole thing was again set going. It was curious watching the sawdust jerked up, and the huge block of timber cut lengthwise into so many planks, and the miller going in and out over the sawdust. I felt quite sorry when at last he stopped the little bell without setting the saw going again, and came and stood by me. ‘Then we talked about this and that, and I asked him about the Little Glass Man; he must know so many woodmen who felled the trees and brought the timber to the mill; had they ever met him? ‘The miller was a big rough man with a stubbly beard; I don’t know if he was at all deaf, but when he spoke it was so loud that he must have thought me dull of hearing. ‘“Take my advice,” he said, “if you want to know about the country go into the town. Don’t expect us to know about Little Glass Men, or other little men; we don’t care for such things. But in the town you are sure to find all about it stored away in some book. Take my advice, go into a town; it is there that you find out about things in the country.” ‘Was he right? I wondered as I walked home that night. I could not believe it, so I stayed on in the Black Forest till it was time to come home, but without ever hearing of the Little Glass Man. I was on the railroad again. It was early one [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] morning when we stopped at a station; there was no train for two hours, so I took a walk into the town. There was a clear, fast-flowing river below, and in the distance again such wonderful wooded hills. I went into a shop and asked for some writing-paper. ‘The gentleman who brought it out had on the shabbiest of coats, but on his head there was an embroidered velvet cap, and his slippers too were embroidered. Only his toes were stuck inside these, and he moved about the shop slowly so as not to leave them behind. ‘“And what is the name of that wood yonder?—those hills, I mean?—those wooded heights?—that mountain range?” I asked, trying word after word, and at last standing in the doorway and pointing at the hills opposite, while he blankly stared at me. ‘“Where can you be from that you should not know?” he said at last. ‘“I am from England,” I said rather hotly, “from London, a small place you may have heard of.” ‘He nodded, “Oh yes, I know. You have not come all that way alone; surely a lady by herself....” ‘“Oh yes I have,” I said, “and I have a good mind to go up among those hills by myself too; perhaps some one up there might tell me what they are called.” ‘“Look here,” he said, “if you really mean to go, let me lend you my map. I have got such a splendid one. And I shan’t be using it for months, as there is no one to mind the shop for me.” ‘He brought it out of a drawer and unfolded it, while I stared in my turn. ‘“You see,” he said, “that is the highest point; now be sure you don’t miss seeing that. You see Forsthaus Diana marked; well there is the inn, that spot close to it. That is where all those wonderful stories were told.” ‘“What stories?” I said; “nothing about the Little Glass Man, I suppose?” ‘He went to the back of the shop and fumbled about. ‘“Yes, of course, about the Little Glass Man, and about the Golden Florin,” he said; “even if you live in an out-of- the-way place like London, you must have heard of them. Here is the book; stories by Hauff. Dear me, to think that my father met the man more than once who stored up all these treasures! You can take the book as well as the map, if you like; if you are not coming back this way you can send them by any one who is.” ‘There was no chair in the shop, I had to support myself against the counter, I felt so overcome with having found the story at last. The gentleman went on pointing out the best way to go, and what I must see, and after half an hour it was all settled, my luggage was to be sent up one way and I was to go another. ‘“I am glad you will see the old inn standing where the stories were told,” he said, “and you will be quite comfortable at the forest-house Diana. If I were you I should tell the lady-forester at once that you are an English girl, and no Nihilist; that is what she is sure to think if she sees a girl travelling about by herself. Tell her I sent you there, and give my love to her niece Malchen, a wild little girl but a good one, I feel sure, whatever they say to the contrary.”’ At this point of her narrative the Blue Fairy stopped. There was a pause. ‘Well?’ said Gogul Mogul. ‘Go on, please go on,’ the fairies called in the audience. ‘There is nothing more to tell,’ said the Blue Fairy; ‘the story of the Little Glass Man was found. I read it through the next afternoon, sitting in the garden of the inn where the student had originally told it. Then I went back into the forest- house Diana, and sat chatting in the kitchen with the lady-forester while the apples and potatoes for the pigs were stewing, and Malchen sat by eating sour milk from a great earthenware bowl. But of course that has nothing to do with the finding of the stories. Only it was so enjoyable up there, it was so delightful walking with that splendid map, and reading those stories, and making friends with a charcoal-burner who was quite like Peter Munk, and looking on while huge bits of timber were felled, that I stayed on and on. Only of course there was the work of translating the stories into English.’ Again the Blue Fairy stopped; there was prolonged cheering and clapping of hands. It was Fairy Queen who spoke next: ‘All this is very interesting,’ she said, ‘and so, I feel sure, is a great deal more which the Blue Fairy could tell us about Germany. But she has been travelling all day, she must be tired, we must not ask for more to-night; only I am sure you must all be wanting to hear the story about this Little Glass Man. As for myself, I am most anxious to hear what he was like and what he did. As the fairy has translated the story into English, and Gogul Mogul is sure to have the manuscript about him, I propose calling on him to read it to us.’ There was long and loud cheering at this among the fairies. Gogul Mogul fumbled first in one pocket, then in another; at last he brought out a roll of manuscript and began as follows: Decoration THE LITTLE GLASS MAN HOSE who travel through Swabia should always remember to cast a passing glance into the Schwarzwald,[1] not so much for the sake of the trees (though pines are not found everywhere in such prodigious numbers, nor of such a surpassing height), as for the sake of the people, who show a marked difference from all others in the neighbourhood. They are taller than ordinary men, broad-shouldered, strong-limbed, and it seems as if the bracing air which blows through the pines in the morning, had allowed them, from their youth upwards, to breathe more freely, and had given them a clearer eye and a firmer, though ruder, mind than the inhabitants of the [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] T [16] valleys and plains. The strong contrast they form to the people living without the limits of the “Wald,” consists, not merely in their bearing and stature, but also in their manners and costume. Those of the Schwarzwald of the Baden territory dress most handsomely; the men allow their beards to grow about the chin just as nature gives it; and their black jackets, wide trousers, which are plaited in small folds, red stockings, and painted hats surrounded by a broad brim, give them a strange, but somewhat grave and noble appearance. Their usual occupations are the manufacturing of glass, and the so-called Dutch clocks, which they carry about for sale over half the globe. Another part of the same race lives on the other side of the Schwarzwald; but their occupations have made them contract manners and customs quite different from those of the glass manufacturers. Their Wald supplies their trade; felling and fashioning their pines, they float them through the Nagold into the Neckar, from thence down the Rhine as far as Holland; and near the sea the Schwarzwälder and their long rafts are well known. Stopping at every town which is situated along the river, they wait proudly for purchasers of their beams and planks; but the strongest and longest beams they sell at a high price to Mynheers, who build ships of them. Their trade has accustomed them to a rude and roving life, their pleasure consisting in drifting down the stream on their timber, their sorrow in wandering back again along the shore. Hence the difference in their costume from that of the glass manufacturers. They wear jackets of a dark linen cloth, braces a hand-breadth wide, displayed over the chest, and trousers of black leather, from the pocket of which a brass rule sticks out as a badge of honour; but their pride and joy are their boots, which are probably the largest that are worn in any part of the world, for they may be drawn two spans above the knee, and the raftsmen may walk about in water at three feet depth without getting their feet wet. It is but a short time ago that the belief in hobgoblins of the wood prevailed among the inhabitants, this foolish superstition having been eradicated only in modern times. But the singularity about these hobgoblins who are said to haunt the Schwarzwald, is, that they also wear the different costumes of the people. Thus it is affirmed of the Little Glass Man, a kind little sprite three feet and a half high, that he never shows himself except in a painted little hat with a broad brim, a doublet, white trousers, and red stockings; while Dutch Michel, who haunts the other side of the forest, is said to be a gigantic, broad-shouldered fellow wearing the dress of a raftsman; and many who have seen him say they would not like to pay for the calves whose hides it would require to make one pair of his boots, affirming that, without exaggeration, a man of the middle height may stand in one of them with his head only just peeping out. The following strange adventure with these spirits is said to have once befallen a young Schwarzwälder:—There lived a widow in the Schwarzwald whose name was Frau Barbara Munk; her husband had been a charcoal-burner, and after his death she had by degrees prevailed upon her boy, who was now sixteen years old, to follow his father’s trade. Young Peter Munk, a sly fellow, submitted to sit the whole week near the smoking stack of wood, because he had seen his father do the same; or, black and sooty and an abomination to the people as he was, to drive to the nearest town and sell his charcoal. Now a charcoal-burner has much leisure for reflection, about himself and others; and when Peter Munk was sitting by his stack, the dark trees around him, as well as the deep stillness of the forest, disposed his heart to tears, and to an unknown secret longing. Something made him sad, and vexed him, without his knowing exactly what it was. At length, however, he found out the cause of his vexation,—it was his condition. ‘A black, solitary charcoal- burner,’ he said to himself; ‘it is a wretched life. How much more are the glass manufacturers, and the clock-makers regarded; and even the musicians, on a Sunday evening! And when Peter Munk appears washed, clean, and dressed out in his father’s best jacket with the silver buttons and bran-new red stockings—if then, any one walking behind him, thinks to himself, “I wonder who that smart fellow is?” admiring, all the time, my stockings and stately gait;—if then, I say, he passes me and looks round, will he not say, “Why, it is only Peter Munk, the charcoal-burner”?’ The raftsmen also on the other side of the wood were an object of envy to him. When these giants of the forest came over in their splendid clothes, wearing about their bodies half a hundredweight of silver, either in buckles, buttons, or chains, standing with sprawling legs and consequential look to see the dancing, swearing in Dutch, and smoking Cologne clay pipes a yard long, like the most noble Mynheers, then he pictured to himself such a raftsman as the most perfect model of human happiness. But when these fortunate men put their hands into their pocket, pulled out handfuls of thalers and staked a Sechsbätzner piece upon the cast of a die, throwing their five or ten florins to and fro, he was almost mad and sneaked sorrowfully home to his hut. Indeed he had seen some of these gentlemen of the timber trade, on many a holy-day evening, lose more than his poor old father had gained in the whole year. There were three of these men in particular of whom he knew not which to admire most. The one was a tall stout man with ruddy face, who passed for the richest man in the neighbourhood; he was usually called ‘fat Hezekiel.’ Twice every year he went with timber to Amsterdam, and had the good luck to sell it so much dearer than the others that he could return home in a splendid carriage, while they had to walk. The second was the tallest and leanest man in the whole Wald, and was usually called ‘the tall Schlurker’; it was his extraordinary boldness that excited Munk’s envy, for he contradicted people of the first importance, took up more room than four stout men, no matter how crowded the inn might be, setting either both his elbows upon the table, or drawing one of his long legs on the bench; yet, notwithstanding all this, none dared to oppose him, since he had a prodigious quantity of money. The third was a handsome young fellow, who being the best dancer far around, was called ‘the king of the dancing-room.’ Originally poor, he had been servant to one of the timber merchants, when all at once he became immensely rich; for which some accounted by saying he had found a potful of money under an old pine tree, while others asserted that he had fished up in the Rhine, near Bingen, a packet of gold coins with the spear which these raftsmen sometimes throw at the fish as they go along in the river, that packet being part of the great ‘Niebelungenhort,’ which is sunk there. However this might be, the fact of his suddenly becoming rich caused him to be looked upon as a prince by young and old. Often did poor Peter Munk the coal-burner think of these three men when sitting alone in the pine forest. All three indeed had one great fault, which made them hated by everybody; this was their insatiable avarice, their heartlessness towards their debtors and towards the poor, for the Schwarzwälder are naturally a kind-hearted people. However, we [16] [17] [18] [19] [20] [21] all know how it is in these matters; though they were hated for their avarice, yet they commanded respect on account of their money, for who but they could throw away thalers, as if they could shake them from the pines? ‘This will do no longer,’ said Peter one day to himself, when he felt very melancholy, it being the morrow after a holiday, when everybody had been at the inn; ‘if I don’t soon thrive I shall make away with myself; oh that I were as much looked up to and as rich as the stout Hezekiel, or as bold and powerful as the tall Schlurker, or as renowned as the king of the dancing-room, and could, like him, throw thalers instead of kreutzers to the musicians! I wonder where the fellow gets his money!’ Reflecting upon all the different means by which money may be got, he could please himself with none, till at length he thought of the tales of those people who, in times of old, had become rich through the Dutchman Michel, or the Little Glass Man. During his father’s lifetime other poor people often came to call, and then their conversation was generally about rich persons, and the means by which they had come by their riches; in these discourses the Little Glass Man frequently played a conspicuous part. Now, if Peter strained his memory a little, he could almost recall the short verse which one must repeat near the Tannenbühl in the heart of the forest, to make the sprite appear. It began as follows— ‘Keeper of wealth in the forest of pine, Hundreds of years are surely thine: Thine is the tall pine’s dwelling place—’ But he might tax his memory as much as he pleased, he could remember no more of it. He often thought of asking some aged person what the whole verse was. However, a certain fear of betraying his thoughts kept him back, and moreover he concluded that the legend of the Little Glass Man could not be very generally known, and that but few were acquainted with the incantation, since there were not many rich persons in the Wald;—if it were generally known, why had not his father, and other poor people, tried their luck? At length, however, he one day got his mother to talk about the little man, and she told him what he knew already, as she herself remembered only the first line of the verse; but she added that the sprite would show himself only to those who had been born on a Sunday, between eleven and two o’clock. He was, she said, quite fit for evoking him, as he was born at twelve o’clock at noon; if he but knew the verse. When Peter Munk heard this he was almost beside himself with joy and desire to try the adventure. It appeared to him enough to know part of the verse, and to be born on a Sunday, for the Little Glass Man to show himself. Consequently when he one day had sold his charcoal, he did not light a new stack, but put on his father’s holiday jacket, his new red stockings, and best hat, took his blackthorn stick, five feet long, into his hand, and bade farewell to his mother, saying, ‘I must go to the magistrate in the town, for we shall soon have to draw lots who is to be soldier, and therefore I wish to impress once more upon him that you are a widow, and I am your only son.’ His mother praised his resolution; but he started for the Tannenbühl. This lies on the highest point of the Schwarzwald, and not a village or even a hut was found, at that time, for two leagues around, for the superstitious people believed it was haunted; they were even very unwilling to fell timber in that part, though the pines were tall and excellent, for often the axes of the wood-cutters had flown off the handle into their feet, or the trees falling suddenly, had knocked the men down, and either injured or even killed them; moreover, they could have used the finest trees from there only for fuel, since the raftsmen never would take a trunk from the Tannenbühl as part of a raft, there being a tradition that both men and timber would come to harm if they had a tree from that spot on the water. Hence the trees there grew so dense and high that it was almost night at noon. When Peter Munk approached the place, he felt quite awe-stricken, hearing neither voice nor footstep except his own; no axe resounded, and even the birds seemed to shun the darkness amidst the pines. Peter Munk had now reached the highest point of the Tannenbühl, and stood before a pine of enormous girth, for which a Dutch shipbuilder would have given many hundred florins on the spot. ‘Here,’ said he, ‘the treasure-keeper (Schatzhauser) no doubt lives;’ and pulling off his large hat, he made a low bow before the tree, cleared his throat, and said with a trembling voice, ‘I wish you a good evening, Mr. Glass Man.’ But receiving no answer, and all around remaining silent as before, he thought it would probably be better to say the verse, and therefore murmured it forth. On repeating the words he saw, to his great astonishment, a singular and very small figure peep forth from behind the tree. It seemed to him as if he had beheld the Little Glass Man, just as he was described; the little black jacket, red stockings, hat, all even to the pale, but fine shrewd countenance of which the people talked so much, he thought he had seen. But alas, as quickly as it had peeped forth, as quickly it had disappeared again. ‘Mr. Glass Man,’ cried Peter Munk, after a short hesitation, ‘pray don’t make a fool of me; if you fancy that I have not seen you, you are vastly mistaken; I saw you very well peeping forth from behind the tree.’ Still no answer; only at times he fancied he heard a low, hoarse tittering behind the tree. At length his impatience conquered this fear, which had still restrained him, and he cried, ‘Wait, you little rascal, I will have you yet.’ At the same time he jumped behind the tree, but there was no Schatzhauser, and only a pretty little squirrel was running up the tree. Peter Munk shook his head; he saw he had succeeded to a certain degree in the incantation, and that he perhaps only wanted one more rhyme to the verse to evoke the Little Glass Man; he tried over and over again, but could not think of anything. The squirrel showed itself on the lowest branches of the tree, and seemed to encourage or perhaps to mock him. It trimmed itself, it rolled its pretty tail, and looked at him with its cunning eyes. At length he was almost afraid of being alone with this animal; for sometimes it seemed to have a man’s head and to wear a three-cornered hat, sometimes to be quite like another squirrel, with the exception only of having red stockings and black shoes on its hind feet. In short, it was a merry little creature, but still Peter felt an awe, fancying that all was not right. Peter now went away with more rapid strides than he had come. The darkness of the forest seemed to become blacker and blacker; the trees stood closer to each other, and he began to be so terrified that he ran off in a trot, and only became more tranquil when he heard dogs bark at a distance, and soon after descried the smoke of a hut through [22] [23] [24] [25] [26] the trees. But on coming nearer and seeing the dress of the people, he found that having taken the contrary direction, he had got to the raftsmen instead of the glass-makers. The people living in the hut were wood-cutters, consisting of an aged man with his son, who was the owner, and some grown-up grandchildren. They received Peter Munk, who begged a night’s quarter, hospitably enough without asking his name or residence; they gave him cider to drink, and in the evening a large black cock, the best meal in the Schwarzwald, was served up for supper. After this meal the housewife and her daughters took their distaffs and sat round a large pine torch, which the boys fed with the finest rosin; the host with his guest sat smoking and looking at the women; while the boys were busy carving wooden spoons and forks. The storm was howling and raging through the pines in the forest without, and now and then very heavy blasts were heard, and it was as if whole trees were breaking off and crashing down. The fearless youths were about to run out to witness this terrific and beautiful spectacle, but their grandfather kept them back with a stern look and these words: ‘I would not advise any of you,’ cried he, ‘to go now outside the door; by heavens he never would return, for Michel the Dutchman is building this night a new raft in the forest.’ The younger of them looked at him with astonishment, having probably heard before of Michel, but they begged their grandpapa to tell them some interesting story of him. Peter Munk, who had heard but confused stories of Michel the Dutchman on the other side of the forest, joined in this request, asking the old man who and where he was. ‘He is the lord of the forest,’ was the answer; ‘and from your not having heard this at your age, it follows that you must be a native of those parts just beyond the Tannenbühl, or perhaps still more distant. But I will tell you all I know, and how the story goes about him. A hundred years ago or thereabouts, there were far and wide no people more upright in their dealings than the Schwarzwälder, at least so my grandfather used to tell me. Now, since there is so much money in the country, the people are dishonest and bad. The young fellows dance and riot on Sundays, and swear to such a degree that it is horrible to hear them; whereas formerly it was quite different, and I have often said and now say, though he should look in through the window, that the Dutchman Michel is the cause of all this depravity. A hundred years ago there lived a very rich timber merchant who had many servants; he carried his trade far down the Rhine and was very prosperous, being a pious man. One evening a person such as he had never seen came to his door; his dress was like that of the young fellows of the Schwarzwald, but he was full a head taller than any of them, and no one had ever thought there could be such a giant. He asked for work, and the timber merchant, seeing he was strong, and able to carry great weights, agreed with him about the wages and took him into his service. He found Michel to be a labourer such as he had never yet had; for in felling trees he was equal to three ordinary men, and when six men were pulling at one end of a trunk he would carry the other end alone. After having been employed in felling timber for six months, he came one day before his master, saying, “I have now been cutting wood long enough here, and should like to see what becomes of my trunks; what say you to letting me go with the rafts for once?” To which his master replied, “I have no objection, Michel, to your seeing a little of the world; to be sure I want strong men like yourself to fell the timber, and on the river all depends upon skill; but, nevertheless, be it for this time as you wish.” ‘Now the float with which Michel was to go consisted of eight rafts, and in the last there were some of the largest beams. But what then? The evening before starting the tall Michel brought eight beams to the water, thicker and longer than had ever been seen, and he carried every one of them as easily upon his shoulder as if it had been a rowing-pole, so that all were amazed. Where he had felled them, no one knows to this day. The heart of the timber merchant was leaping with joy when he saw this, calculating what these beams would fetch; but Michel said, “Well, these are for me to travel on; with those chips I should not be able to get on at all.” His master was going to make him a present of a pair of boots, but throwing them aside, Michel brought out a pair the largest that had ever been seen, and my grandfather assured me they weighed a hundred pounds and were five feet long. ‘The float started; and if Michel had before astonished the wood-cutters, he perfectly astonished the raftsmen; for his raft, instead of drifting slowly down the river as they thought it would, by reason of the immense beams, darted on like an arrow, as soon as they came into the Neckar. If the river took a turn, or if they came to any part where they had a difficulty in keeping the middle stream, or were in danger of running aground, Michel always jumped into the water, pushing his float either to the right or to the left, so that he glided past without danger. If they came to a part where the river ran straight, Michel often sprang to the foremost raft, and making all put up their poles, fixed his own enormous pole in the sand, and by one push made the float dart along, so that it seemed as if the land, trees, and villages were flying by them. Thus they came in half the time they generally took to Cologne on the Rhine, where they formerly used to sell their timber. Here Michel said, “You are but sorry merchants and know nothing of your advantage. Think you these Colognese want all the timber from the Schwarzwald for themselves? I tell you no, they buy it of you for half its value, and sell it dear to Holland. Let us sell our small beams here, and go to Holland with the large ones; what we get above the ordinary price is our own profit.” ‘Thus spoke the subtle Michel, and the others consented; some because they liked to go and see Holland, some for the sake of the money. Only one man was honest, and endeavoured to dissuade them from putting the property of their master in jeopardy or cheating him out of the higher price. However, they did not listen to him and forgot his words, while Michel forgot them not. So they went down the Rhine with the timber, and Michel, guiding the float, soon brought them to Rotterdam. Here they were offered four times as much as at Cologne, and particularly the large beams of Michel fetched a very high sum. When the Schwarzwälders beheld the money, they were almost beside themselves with joy. Michel divided the money, putting aside one-fourth for their master, and distributing the other three among the men. And now they went into the public-houses with sailors and other rabble, squandering their money in drinking and gambling; while the honest fellow who had dissuaded them was sold by Michel to a slave-trader, and has never been heard of since. From that time forward Holland was a paradise to the fellows from the Schwarzwald, and the Dutchman Michel their king. For a long time the timber merchants were ignorant of this proceeding, and before people were aware, money, swearing, corrupt manners, drunkenness and gambling were imported from Holland. [27] [28] [29] [30] [31] [32] ‘When the thing became known, Michel was nowhere to be found, but he was not dead; for a hundred years he has been haunting the forest, and is said to have helped many in becoming rich at the cost of their souls of course: more I will not say. This much, however, is certain, that to the present day, in boisterous nights, he finds out the finest pines in the Tannenbühl where people are not to fell wood; and my father has seen him break off one of four feet diameter, as he would break a reed. Such trees he gives to those who turn from the right path and go to him; at midnight they bring their rafts to the water and he goes to Holland with them. If I were lord and king in Holland, I would have him shot, for all the ships that have but a single beam of Michel’s, must go to the bottom. Hence it is that we hear of so many shipwrecks; if it were not so, how could a beautiful, strong ship as large as a church go down. But as often as Michel fells a pine in the forest during a boisterous night, one of his old ones starts from its joints, the water enters, and the ship is lost, men and all. So far goes the legend of the Dutchman Michel; and true it is that all the evil in the Schwarzwald dates from him. Oh! he can make one rich,’ added the old man mysteriously; ‘but I would have nothing from him; I would at no price be in the shoes of fat Hezekiel and the long Schlurker. The king of the dancing-room, too, is said to have made himself over to him.’ The storm had abated during the narrative of the old man; the girls timidly lighted their lamps and retired, while the men put a sackful of leaves upon the bench by the stove as a pillow for Peter Munk, and wished him good-night. Never in his life had Peter such heavy dreams as during this night; sometimes he fancied the dark gigantic Michel was tearing the window open and reaching in with his monstrous long arm a purse full of gold pieces, which jingled clearly and loudly as he shook them; at another time he saw the little friendly Glass Man riding upon a huge green bottle about the room, and thought he heard again the same hoarse laughter as in the Tannenbühl; again something hummed into his left ear the following verse— ‘In Holland I wot, There’s gold to be got, Small price for a lot, Who would have it not?’ Again he heard in his right ear the song of the Schatzhauser in the green forest, and a soft voice whispered to him, ‘Stupid Coal-Peter, stupid Peter Munk, you cannot find a rhyme with “place,” and yet are born on a Sunday at twelve o’clock precisely. Rhyme, dull Peter, rhyme!’ He groaned, he wearied himself to find a rhyme, but never having made one in his life, his trouble in his dream was fruitless. When he awoke the next morning with the first dawn, his dream seemed strange to him; he sat down at the table with his arms crossed, and meditated upon the whisperings that were still ringing in his ears. He said to himself, ‘Rhyme, stupid Peter, rhyme,’ knocking his forehead with his finger, but no rhyme would come. While still sitting in this mood, looking gloomily down before him and thinking of a rhyme with ‘place,’ he heard three men passing outside and going into the forest, one of whom was singing— ‘I stood upon the brightest place, I gazed upon the plain, And then—oh then—I saw that face, I never saw again.’ These words flashed like lightning through Peter’s ear, and hastily starting up, he rushed out of the house, thinking he was mistaken in what he had heard, ran after the three fellows and seized, suddenly and rudely, the singer by the arm, crying at the same time, ‘Stop, friend, what was it you rhymed with “place”? Do me the favour to tell me what you were singing.’ ‘What possesses you, fellow?’ replied the Schwarzwälder. ‘I may sing what I like; let go my arm, or——’ ‘No, you shall tell me what you were singing,’ shouted Peter, almost beside himself, clutching him more tightly at the same time. When the other two saw this, they were not long in falling foul upon poor Peter with their large fists, and belabouring him till the pain made him release the third, and he sank exhausted upon his knees. ‘Now you have your due,’ said they, laughing; ‘and mark you, madcap, never again stop people like us upon the highway.’ ‘Woe is me!’ replied Peter with a sigh, ‘I shall certainly recollect it. But now that I have had the blows, you will oblige me by telling me plainly what he was singing.’ To this they laughed again and mocked him; but the one who had sung repeated the song to him, after which they went away laughing and singing. ‘“Face,”’ then said the poor belaboured Peter as he got up slowly, ‘will rhyme with “place”; now, Little Glass Man, I will have another word with you.’ He went into the hut, took his hat and long stick, bade farewell to the inmates, and commenced his way back to the Tannenbühl. Being under the necessity of inventing a verse, he proceeded slowly and thoughtfully on his way; at length, when he was already within the precincts of the Tannenbühl, and the trees became higher and closer, he found his verse, and for joy cut a caper in the air. All at once he saw coming from behind the trees a gigantic man dressed like a raftsman, who held in his hand a pole as large as the mast of a ship. Peter Munk’s knees almost gave way under him, when he saw him slowly striding by his side, thinking he was no other than the Dutchman Michel. Still the terrible figure kept silence, and Peter cast a side glance at him from time to time. He was full a head taller than the biggest man Peter had even seen; his face expressed neither youth nor old age, but was full of furrows and wrinkles; he wore a jacket of linen, and the enormous boots being drawn above his leather breeches, were well known to Peter from hearsay. ‘What are you doing in the Tannenbühl, Peter Munk?’ asked the wood king at length, in a deep, roaring voice. ‘Good morning, countryman,’ replied Peter, wishing to show himself undaunted, but trembling violently all the while. [33] [34] [35] [36] [37] ‘Peter Munk,’ replied Michel, casting a piercing, terrible glance at him, ‘your way does not lie through this grove.’ ‘True, it does not exactly,’ said Peter, ‘but being a hot day, I thought it would be cooler here.’ ‘Do not lie, Peter,’ cried Michel, in a thundering voice, ‘or I strike you to the ground with this pole; think you I have not seen you begging of the little one?’ he added mildly. ‘Come, come, confess it was a silly trick, and it is well you did not know the verse; for the little fellow is a skinflint, giving but little; and he to whom he gives is never again cheerful in his life. Peter, you are but a poor fool and I pity you in my soul; you, such a brisk, handsome fellow, surely could do something better in the world than make charcoal. While others lavish big thalers and ducats, you can scarcely spend a few pence; ’tis a wretched life.’ ‘You are right, it is truly a wretched life.’ ‘Well,’ continued Michel, ‘I will not stand upon trifles; you would not be the first honest good fellow whom I have assisted at a pinch. Tell me, how many hundred thalers do you want for the present?’ shaking the money in his huge pocket, as he said this, so that it jingled just as Peter had heard it in his dream. But Peter’s heart felt a kind of painful convulsion at these words, and he was cold and hot alternately; for Michel did not look as if he would give away money out of charity, without asking anything in return. The old man’s mysterious words about rich people occurred to him, and urged by an inexplicable anxiety and fear, he cried, ‘Much obliged to you, sir, but I will have nothing to do with you and know you well,’ and at the same time he began to run as fast as he could. The wood spirit, however, strode by his side with immense steps, murmuring and threatening, ‘You will repent it, Peter; it is written on your forehead and to be read in your eyes that you will not escape me. Do not run so fast, listen only to a single rational word; there is my boundary already.’ But Peter, hearing this and seeing at a little distance before him a small ditch, hastened the more to pass this boundary, so that Michel was obliged at length to run faster, cursing and threatening while pursuing him. With a desperate leap Peter cleared the ditch, for he saw that the wood spirit was raising his pole to dash it upon him; having fortunately reached the other side, he heard the pole shatter to pieces in the air as if against an invisible wall, and a long piece fell down at his feet. He picked it up in triumph to throw it at the rude Michel; but in an instant he felt the piece of wood move in his hand, and, to his horror, perceived that he held an enormous serpent, which was raising it...