Music with various rhythms that sound like ticking clocks; first softly, then louder.
So, here we are! Take a seat on the bench by the stove and let’s drink a pint of wine together. Cheers, here’s to your health, you poor fellow. Is it true that you’ve never left the gloomy Black Forest your whole life?
COAL PETER: Not yet, indeed, Dutch Michael, how would I?
DUTCH MICHAEL: In different company, of course! Every year I get to float down the Rhine to Holland atop a raft of timber. Not to mention the trips to foreign countries I allow myself in my free time.
COAL PETER: Oh, to do that just once!
DUTCH MICHAEL: It’s up to you. Until now your heart has gotten in the way of everything.
COAL PETER: My heart?
DUTCH MICHAEL: When, in your whole body, you might have the courage and strength to do something, but a few beats of your stupid heart make you tremble, as do your misfortunes and insults to your honor — why should a smart fellow like you have to worry about such things? Was it your head that bothered you when they called you an impostor and a scoundrel? Did your stomach ache when the bailiff came to throw you out of your house? Tell me, please, what was paining you?
COAL PETER: My heart.
DUTCH MICHAEL: You have, and don’t resent me for saying this, thrown away hundreds of guldens on vile panhandlers and other riff-raff; what good did it do you? They wished you good blessings and a healthy body; are you any healthier for it? For half that squandered money you could have gotten a doctor. Blessings — nice blessings those, when you are seized for debt and evicted! And what was it that drove you to reach in your pocket every time a beggar stretched out a tattered hat? — Your heart, once again, your heart, and not your eyes or tongue, arms or legs, but your heart; you took it, as they say, too much to heart.
COAL PETER: But what can be done to stop it? I try as hard as I can to stifle it, but nonetheless my heart beats, bringing me pain.
DUTCH MICHAEL (with a sneering laugh): You, poor rascal, can do nothing about it; but give me the palpitating thing and then you’ll see how good you have it.
COAL PETER (horrified): Give you my heart? I would die on the spot! Never!
DUTCH MICHAEL: Well, if you had one of those honorable surgeons remove your heart from your body, you would surely die; but with me it’s different; come into this room and see for yourself!
Music: Fugue of the Pounding Heart.
COAL PETER: For God’s sake! What is that?
DUTCH MICHAEL: Yes, take a good look at what’s in those spirit glasses! They cost me a wad of dough! Take a closer look and read the names on the labels.
After reading each name aloud, corresponding music.
Here we have the bailiff and here Fat Ezekiel. This is the heart of the Dance Hall King and that of the Head Forester. And here we have a whole collection of racketeers and recruiting officers. Look, all of them got rid of a life of fear and worry; none of these hearts beats with worry and fear anymore, and their former owners feel they’ve gotten an unruly guest out of the house.
COAL PETER (fearfully): But what do they carry in their chests now?
DUTCH MICHAEL: A meticulously manufactured stone heart like this one here.
COAL PETER (shuddering): Really? A heart of marble? Listen here, Mr. Dutch Michael, that must feel awfully cold in one’s chest.
DUTCH MICHAEL: Well, yes, but quite pleasantly cool. Why should a heart be warm? In the winter that warmth is of no use to you at all — a good cherry brandy is of greater help than a warm heart. And during the summer, when it’s hot and humid, you wouldn’t believe how such a heart can cool you down. And as I said, neither fear nor dread, nor foolish compassion nor any other misery throbs in such a heart.
COAL PETER (annoyed): And that’s all you have to offer? I was thinking of money, and you offer me a stone!
DUTCH MICHAEL: Well, I think, 100,000 guldens should be enough for you as a start. If you manage it shrewdly, you will soon be a millionaire.
COAL PETER (happy): Hey you, don’t beat so fiercely in my chest! We will soon be done with one another. Very well, Michael, give me the stone and the money, and remove the worry from its dwelling place!
DUTCH MICHAEL (happy): I knew you were a sensible fellow. Come, let’s have a drink, and then I’ll fork over the money.
The heart music fades into a Post Horn Fugue.
COAL PETER (wakes up and stretches): Aah! I slept a long time. Was that a post horn that just woke me? Am I awake, or am I still dreaming? It seems to me that I am riding somewhere, and there is a postilion and horses up ahead. I am, in fact, sitting in a stagecoach. And the mountains, back there in the distance, that’s the Black Forest. And even my clothes have changed. Why am I not even a little melancholy that I am leaving, for the first time, the forests where I lived for so long? What is my mother doing? How strange, she’s probably sitting there, helpless and in despair, and yet this thought cannot draw a single tear from my eye. I am indifferent to it all. Why? Oh, that’s right, tears and sighs, homesickness and melancholy come from the heart and, thanks to Dutch Michael, mine is cold and made of stone. If he kept his word about the hundred thousand, as he did with my heart, then I should be happy. Sure enough, here is a purse with thousands of coins and bills from the commercial houses of all the big cities.
Post horn melody.
JUMBLE OF VOICES: Frankfurt am Main! Frankfurter sausages! Goethe House! Frankfurt Radio! Apple wine! The Frankfurt Times! Marzipan cookies! Frankfurt is teeming with curiosities!
COAL PETER: What’s there to eat and drink? Wrap up a couple dozen sausages for me, a couple jugs of apple wine, and a couple pounds of marzipan cookies.
Post horn melody.
JUMBLE OF VOICES: Paris! Le Matin! Paris-Midi! Paris-Soir! Cacahouètes, cacahouètes, and cacahouètes! The Louvre! The Eiffel Tower! Eskimo pops, goody bags! Surprises!
COAL PETER (sleepy): Where are we now? Oh, in Paris! Then pack up some champagne, lobsters, and oysters, so I don’t die of hunger and thirst!
A VOICE: Mr. Postilion, who is that sleepy gentleman?
POSTILION: Oh, that’s Mr. Coal Peter from the Black Forest, who ate and drank so much in Frankfurt that he can hardly move.
Post horn melody.
JUMBLE OF VOICES: London! Britannia rules the waves! Ginger ale! Scotch Whisky! Toffees! Muffins! The Morning Post! The Daily News! The Times! Turkey and plumcake!
Coal Peter snores.
A VOICE: Mr. Postilion, who is that snoring gentleman over there?
POSTILION: That’s Mr. Coal Peter from the Black Forest, who ate and drank so much in Paris that he can hardly keep his eyes open. Post horn melody.
JUMBLE OF VOICES: Constantinople! Visit the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn! Carpets! A hookah perhaps? Bagpipes made in Constantinople! Rahat lokum! Visit the whirling dervishes in Gallipoli and the minarets of the Hagia Sophia!
Coal Peter snores.
A VOICE: Mr. Postilion, who is that snoring gentleman over there?
POSTILION: That’s Mr. Coal Peter from the Black Forest who has already eaten and drunk so much at the previous stops that he can’t keep his eyes open at all.
Post horn melody.
JUMBLE OF VOICES: Roma! La Stampa di Roma! Il Corriere della Sera! Il Foro Romano! The Coliseum! Giovinezza! Vino bianco e vino rosso! Spaghetti! Polenta! Risotto! Frutti di mare! Antiquities! Visit the Pope and Il Duce!