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單身漢的睡帽
單身漢的睡帽1
哥本哈根有一條街；它有這樣一個(gè)奇怪的名字——虎斯根·斯特勒得②。為什么它要叫這樣一個(gè)名字呢？它的意思是什么呢？它應(yīng)該是德文。不過人們?cè)谶@兒卻把德文弄錯(cuò)了。人們應(yīng)該說(shuō)Hauschen才對(duì)，它的意義是“小房子”。從前——的確是在許多許多年以前——這兒沒有什么大建筑，只有像我們現(xiàn)在在廟會(huì)時(shí)所看到的那種木棚子。是的，它們比那還要略為大一點(diǎn)，而且開有窗子；不過窗框里鑲著的東西，不是獸角，就是膀胱皮，因?yàn)槟菚r(shí)玻璃很貴，不是每座屋子都用得起的。當(dāng)然，我們是在談很久以前的事情——那么久，即使曾祖父的祖父談起它，也要說(shuō)“好久以前的時(shí)候”——事實(shí)上，那是好幾個(gè)世紀(jì)以前的事兒。
那時(shí)卜列門和留貝克的有錢商人經(jīng)常跟哥本哈根做生意。他們不親自到這兒來(lái)，只是派他們的伙計(jì)來(lái)。這些人就住在這條“小房子街”上的木棚子里，出賣啤酒和香料。
德國(guó)的啤酒是非�？煽诘模曳N類繁多，包括卜列門、普利生、愛姆塞等啤酒，甚至還有布龍斯威克白啤酒③。香料出售的種數(shù)也不少——番紅花、大茴香、生姜，特別是胡椒。的確，胡椒是這兒一種最重要的商品；因此在丹麥的那些德國(guó)的伙計(jì)就獲得了一個(gè)稱號(hào)：“胡椒朋友”�！麄�?cè)诔鰢?guó)以前必須答應(yīng)老板一個(gè)條件，那就是：他們不能在丹麥討太太。他們有許多人就這樣老了。他們得自己照料自己，安排自己的生活，壓制自己的感情——如果他們真有感情沖動(dòng)起來(lái)的話。他們有些人變成了非常孤獨(dú)的單身漢，思想很古怪，生活習(xí)慣也很古怪。從他們開始，凡是達(dá)到了某種年齡而還沒有結(jié)婚的人，現(xiàn)在人們統(tǒng)統(tǒng)把他們叫做“胡椒朋友”。人們要懂得這個(gè)故事，必須要了解這一點(diǎn)。
“胡椒朋友”成了人們開玩笑的一個(gè)對(duì)象。據(jù)說(shuō)他們總是要戴上睡帽，并且把帽子拉到眼睛上，然后才去睡覺。孩子們都這么唱：
砍柴，砍柴！
唉，唉！這些單身漢真孤獨(dú)。
他們戴著一頂睡帽去睡覺，
他只好自己生起爐火。
是的，這就是人們所唱的關(guān)于他們的歌！人們這樣開一個(gè)單身漢和他的睡帽的玩笑，完全是因?yàn)樗麄兗炔焕斫鈫紊頋h，也不了解他的睡帽的緣故。唉！這種睡帽誰(shuí)也不愿意戴上！為什么不呢？我們且聽吧：
在很古的時(shí)候，這條小房子街上沒有鋪上石塊；人們把腳從這個(gè)坑里拖出來(lái)，又踏進(jìn)另一個(gè)坑里去，好像是在一條人跡罕至的偏僻小路上走一樣；而且它還是狹窄得很。那些小房子緊挨在一起，和對(duì)面的距離很短，所以在夏天就常常有人把布篷從這個(gè)屋子扯到對(duì)面的屋子上去。在這種情況下，胡椒、番紅花和生姜的氣味就比平時(shí)要特別厲害了。
柜臺(tái)后面站著的沒有很多年輕人；不，他們大多數(shù)都是老頭兒。但是他們并不是像我們所想象的那些人物：他們并沒有戴著假發(fā)和睡帽，穿著緊腿褲，把背心和上衣的扣子全都扣上。不是的，祖父的曾祖父可能是那個(gè)樣兒——肖像上是這樣繪著的；但是“胡椒朋友”卻沒有錢來(lái)畫他們的肖像。這也實(shí)在可惜：如果曾經(jīng)有人把他們某一位站在柜臺(tái)后或在禮拜天到教堂去做禮拜的那副樣兒畫出一張來(lái)，現(xiàn)在一定是很有價(jià)值的。他們的帽子總是有很高的頂和很寬的邊。最年輕的伙計(jì)有時(shí)還喜歡在帽子上插一根羽毛。羊毛襯衫被燙得很平整的布領(lǐng)子掩著；窄上衣緊緊地扣著，大鍵松松地披在身上，褲腳一直扎進(jìn)競(jìng)口鞋里——因?yàn)檫@些伙計(jì)們都不穿襪子；他們的腰帶上掛著一把吃飯用的刀子和湯匙；同時(shí)為了自衛(wèi)起見，還插著一把較大的刀子——這個(gè)武器在那個(gè)時(shí)候常常是不可缺少的。
安東——小房子街上一位年紀(jì)最大的店員——他節(jié)日的裝束就是這樣。他只是沒有戴高頂帽子，而戴了一種無(wú)邊帽。在這帽子底下還有一頂手織的便帽——一頂不折不扣的睡帽。他戴慣了它，所以它就老是在他的頭上。他有兩頂這樣的帽子。他真是一個(gè)值得畫一下的人物，他瘦得像一根棍子，他的眼睛和嘴巴的四周全是皺紋；他的手指很長(zhǎng)，全是骨頭；他的眉毛是灰色的，密得像灌木叢。他的左眼上懸得有一撮頭發(fā)——這并不使他顯得漂亮，但卻引起人對(duì)他的注意。人們都知道，他是來(lái)自卜列門；可是這并不是他的故鄉(xiāng)，只是他的老板住在那兒。他的老家是在杜林吉亞——在瓦爾特堡附近的愛塞納哈城④。老安東不大談到它，但這更使他想念它。
這條街上的老伙計(jì)們不常碰到一起。每人呆在自己的店里。晚間很早店就關(guān)上門了，因此街上也顯得相當(dāng)黑暗。只有一絲微光從屋頂上鑲著角的窗子透露進(jìn)來(lái)。在這里面，老單身漢一般地是坐在床上，手里拿著一本德文《圣詩(shī)集》，口中吟著晚禱詩(shī)；要不然他就在屋子里東摸西摸，忙這忙那，一直忙到深夜，這種生活當(dāng)然不是很有趣的。在他鄉(xiāng)作為一個(gè)異國(guó)人是一種悲慘的境遇：誰(shuí)也不管你，除非你妨害到別人。
當(dāng)外面是黑夜，下著雪或雨的時(shí)候，這地方就常常顯得極端陰暗和寂寞。這兒看不見什么燈，只有掛在墻上的那個(gè)圣母像面前有一個(gè)孤獨(dú)的小亮。在街的另一頭，在附近一個(gè)渡口的.木欄柵那兒，水聲這時(shí)也可以清楚地聽得見。這樣的晚上是既漫長(zhǎng)而又孤寂，除非人們能找些事情來(lái)做。打包裹和拆包裹并非是天天有的事情；而人們也不能老是擦著秤或者做著紙袋。所以人們還得找點(diǎn)別的事情來(lái)做。老安東正是這樣打發(fā)他的時(shí)間。他縫他的衣服，補(bǔ)他的皮鞋。當(dāng)他最后上床睡覺的時(shí)候，他就根據(jù)他的習(xí)慣在頭上保留著他的睡帽。他把它拉得很低，但是不一會(huì)兒他又把它推上去，看看燈是不是完全吹熄了，他把燈摸一下，把燈芯捻一下，然后翻個(gè)身躺下去，又把睡帽拉下一點(diǎn)。這時(shí)他心里又疑慮起來(lái)：是不是下面那個(gè)小火缽里的每一顆炭都熄了和壓滅了——可能還有一顆小小的火星沒有滅，它可以使整體的火又燃起來(lái)，造成災(zāi)害。于是他就下床來(lái)，爬下梯子——因?yàn)槲覀兒茈y把它叫做“樓”梯。當(dāng)他來(lái)到那個(gè)火缽旁邊的時(shí)候，一顆火星也看不見；他很可以轉(zhuǎn)身就回去的。但是當(dāng)他走了一半的時(shí)候，他又想起門閂可能沒有插好，窗扉可能沒有關(guān)牢。是的，他的那雙瘦腿又只好把他送到樓下來(lái)。當(dāng)他又爬到床上去的時(shí)候，他全身已經(jīng)凍冰了，他的牙齒在嘴里發(fā)抖，因?yàn)楫?dāng)寒冷知道自己呆不了多久的時(shí)候，它也就放肆起來(lái)。他把被子往上拉得更緊一點(diǎn)，把睡帽拉得更低一點(diǎn)，直蓋到眉毛上，然后他的思想便從生意和這天的煩惱轉(zhuǎn)到別的問題上去。但是這也不是愉快的事情，因?yàn)檫@時(shí)許多回憶就來(lái)了，在他周圍放下一層簾子，而這些簾子上常常是有尖針的，人們常常用這些針來(lái)刺自己，叫出一聲“哦！”這些刺就刺進(jìn)肉里去，使人發(fā)燒，還使人流出眼淚。老安東就常常是這個(gè)樣子——流出熱淚來(lái)。大顆的淚珠一直滾到被子上或地板上。它們滴得很響，好像他痛苦的心弦已經(jīng)斷了似的。有時(shí)它們像火焰似地燎起來(lái)，在他面前照出一幅生命的圖畫——一幅在他心里永遠(yuǎn)也消逝不了的圖畫。如果他用睡帽把他的眼睛揩一下的話，這眼淚和圖畫的確就會(huì)破滅，但是眼淚的源泉卻是一點(diǎn)也沒有動(dòng)搖，它仍然藏在他心的深處。這些圖畫并不根據(jù)它們實(shí)際發(fā)生的情況，一幕一幕地按照次序顯現(xiàn)出來(lái)；最痛苦的情景常常是一齊到來(lái)；最快樂的情景也是一齊到來(lái)，但是它們總是撒下最深的陰影。
單身漢的睡帽2
這個(gè)暑假，我讀了許多有趣的故事。其中讓我記憶最深的就是安徒生的童話《單身漢的睡帽》。這個(gè)故事講的是一個(gè)德國(guó)名叫安東的單身漢的悲慘生活。安東年輕時(shí)和一位叫莫利的姑娘相愛，可這事卻發(fā)生了一些變故，莫利說(shuō)她從來(lái)沒有真正愛過安東，而放棄了他。安東傷心極了，可接下來(lái)不幸的`事情又發(fā)生了：一場(chǎng)洪水使安東的父親破產(chǎn)了，變成了一個(gè)窮人，貧病交加，安東的父親悲傷和苦難折磨得他癱瘓?jiān)诖病０矕|不得不從失戀的悲傷中走出來(lái)，擔(dān)當(dāng)起養(yǎng)家的重任。因此他來(lái)到丹麥的一條小屋街為那些富人們干活：賣調(diào)味料。這條大街大多數(shù)都是和木棚子一樣小的屋子，不過干這行的富人規(guī)定他們不能結(jié)婚。不久，安東的父親去世了。
漸漸的，漸漸的，安東老了，瘦得象根棍子，臉上全是皺紋，頭上習(xí)慣性地戴著一頂睡帽。一個(gè)人在異國(guó)無(wú)依無(wú)靠，過完了一天又一天孤獨(dú)地?zé)o趣生活。他習(xí)慣上了床把自己的睡帽拉下遮住眼睛，往往這時(shí)他都會(huì)想起自己以前的許多事，想起自己家鄉(xiāng)的圖林根，眼淚象珍珠一樣一顆一顆落下來(lái)，這些淚水里都有圖片，那就是他和莫利一起度過的快樂時(shí)光。這時(shí)外面刮著狂風(fēng)下著大雪。三天后，老安東在床上很渴很餓，可是他一點(diǎn)力氣也沒有，老安東就這樣悄聲無(wú)息地死了！
看到這里，我的眼睛模糊了，如果沒有莫利的拋棄，也許能組成一個(gè)幸福的家庭，沒有父親的破產(chǎn)，沒有富人殘忍的要求，老安東的生活就不會(huì)那么痛苦！那么悲慘！
這個(gè)社會(huì)多么不平等啊！
單身漢的睡帽3
THERE is a street in Copenhagen with a very strange name. It is called “Hysken” street. Where the name came from, and what it means is very uncertain. It is said to be German, but that is unjust to the Germans, for it would then be called “Hauschen,” not “Hysken.” “Hauschen,” means a little house; and for many years it consisted only of a few small houses, which were scarcely larger than the wooden booths we see in the market-places at fair time. They were perhaps a little higher, and had windows; but the panes consisted of horn or bladder-skins, for glass was then too dear to have glazed windows in every house. This was a long time ago, so long indeed that our grandfathers, and even great-grandfathers, would speak of those days as “olden times;” indeed, many centuries have passed since then.
The rich merchants in Bremen and Lubeck, who carried on trade in Copenhagen, did not reside in the town themselves, but sent their clerks, who dwelt in the wooden booths in the Hauschen street, and sold beer and spices. The German beer was very good, and there were many sorts—from Bremen, Prussia, and Brunswick—and quantities of all sorts of spices, saffron, aniseed, ginger, and especially pepper; indeed, pepper was almost the chief article sold here; so it happened at last that the German clerks in Denmark got their nickname of “pepper gentry.” It had been made a condition with these clerks that they should not marry; so that those who lived to be old had to take care of themselves, to attend to their own comforts, and even to light their own fires, when they had any to light. Many of them were very aged; lonely old boys, with strange thoughts and eccentric habits. From this, all unmarried men, who have attained a certain age, are called, in Denmark, “pepper gentry;” and this must be remembered by all those who wish to understand the story. These “pepper gentlemen,” or, as they are called in England, “old bachelors,” are often made a butt of ridicule; they are told to put on their nightcaps, draw them over their eyes, and go to sleep. The boys in Denmark make a song of it, thus:—
“Poor old bachelor, cut your wood,
Such a nightcap was never seen;
Who would think it was ever clean?
Go to sleep, it will do you good.”
So they sing about the “pepper gentleman;” so do they make sport of the poor old bachelor and his nightcap, and all because they really know nothing of either. It is a cap that no one need wish for, or laugh at. And why not? Well, we shall hear in the story.
In olden times, Hauschen Street was not paved, and passengers would stumble out of one hole into another, as they generally do in unfrequented highways; and the street was so narrow, and the booths leaning against each other were so close together, that in the summer time a sail would be stretched across the street from one booth to another opposite. At these times the odor of the pepper, saffron, and ginger became more powerful than ever. Behind the counter, as a rule, there were no young men. The clerks were almost all old boys; but they did not dress as we are accustomed to see old men represented, wearing wigs, nightcaps, and knee-breeches, and with coat and waistcoat buttoned up to the chin. We have seen the portraits of our great-grandfathers dressed in this way; but the “pepper gentlemen” had no money to spare to have their portraits taken, though one of them would have made a very interesting picture for us now, if taken as he appeared standing behind his counter, or going to church, or on holidays. On these occasions, they wore high-crowned, broad-brimmed hats, and sometimes a younger clerk would stick a feather in his. The woollen shirt was concealed by a broad, linen collar; the close jacket was buttoned up to the chin, and the cloak hung loosely over it; the trousers were tucked into the broad, tipped shoes, for the clerks wore no stockings. They generally stuck a table-knife and spoon in their girdles, as well as a larger knife, as a protection to themselves; and such a weapon was often very necessary.
After this fashion was Anthony dressed on holidays and festivals, excepting that, instead of a high-crowned hat, he wore a kind of bonnet, and under it a knitted cap, a regular nightcap, to which he was so accustomed that it was always on his head; he had two, nightcaps I mean, not heads. Anthony was one of the oldest of the clerks, and just the subject for a painter. He was as thin as a lath, wrinkled round the mouth and eyes, had long, bony fingers, bushy, gray eyebrows, and over his left eye hung a thick tuft of hair, which did not look handsome, but made his appearance very remarkable. People knew that he came from Bremen; it was not exactly his home, although his master resided there. His ancestors were from Thuringia, and had lived in the town of Eisenach, close by Wartburg. Old Anthony seldom spoke of this place, but he thought of it all the more.
The old clerks of Hauschen Street very seldom met together; each one remained in his own booth, which was closed early enough in the evening, and then it looked dark and dismal out in the street. Only a faint glimmer of light struggled through the horn panes in the little window on the roof, while within sat the old clerk, generally on his bed, singing his evening hymn in a low voice; or he would be moving about in his booth till late in the night, busily employed in many things. It certainly was not a very lively existence. To be a stranger in a strange land is a bitter lot; no one notices you unless you happen to stand in their way. Often, when it was dark night outside, with rain or snow falling, the place looked quite deserted and gloomy. There were no lamps in the street, excepting a very small one, which hung at one end of the street, before a picture of the Virgin, which had been painted on the wall. The dashing of the water against the bulwarks of a neighboring castle could plainly be heard. Such evenings are long and dreary, unless people can find something to do; and so Anthony found it. There were not always things to be packed or unpacked, nor paper bags to be made, nor the scales to be polished. So Anthony invented employment; he mended his clothes and patched his boots, and when he at last went to bed,—his nightcap, which he had worn from habit, still remained on his head; he had only to pull it down a little farther over his forehead. Very soon, however, it would be pushed up again to see if the light was properly put out; he would touch it, press the wick together, and at last pull his nightcap over his eyes and lie down again on the other side. But often there would arise in his mind a doubt as to whether every coal had been quite put out in the little fire-pan in the shop below. If even a tiny spark had remained it might set fire to something, and cause great damage. Then he would rise from his bed, creep down the ladder—for it could scarcely be called a flight of stairs—and when he reached the fire-pan not a spark could be seen; so he had just to go back again to bed. But often, when he had got half way back, he would fancy the iron shutters of the door were not properly fastened, and his thin legs would carry him down again. And when at last he crept into bed, he would be so cold that his teeth chattered in his head. He would draw the coverlet closer round him, pull his nightcap over his eyes, and try to turn his thoughts from trade, and from the labors of the day, to olden times. But this was scarcely an agreeable entertainment; for thoughts of olden memories raise the curtains from the past, and sometimes pierce the heart with painful recollections till the agony brings tears to the waking eyes. And so it was with Anthony; often the scalding tears, like pearly drops, would fall from his eyes to the coverlet and roll on the floor with a sound as if one of his heartstrings had broken. Sometimes, with a lurid flame, memory would light up a picture of life which had never faded from his heart. If he dried his eyes with his nightcap, then the tear and the picture would be crushed; but the source of the tears remained and welled up again in his heart. The pictures did not follow one another in order, as the circumstances they represented had occurred; very often the most painful would come together, and when those came which were most full of joy, they had always the deepest shadow thrown upon them.
The beech woods of Denmark are acknowledged by every one to be very beautiful, but more beautiful still in the eyes of old Anthony were the beech woods in the neighborhood of Wartburg. More grand and venerable to him seemed the old oaks around the proud baronial castle, where the creeping plants hung over the stony summits of the rocks; sweeter was the perfume there of the apple-blossom than in all the land of Denmark. How vividly were represented to him, in a glittering tear that rolled down his cheek, two children at play—a boy and a girl. The boy had rosy cheeks, golden ringlets, and clear, blue eyes; he was the son of Anthony, a rich merchant; it was himself. The little girl had brown eyes and black hair, and was clever and courageous; she was the mayor’s daughter, Molly. The children were playing with an apple; they shook the apple, and heard the pips rattling in it. Then they cut it in two, and each of them took half. They also divided the pips and ate all but one, which the little girl proposed should be placed in the ground.
“You will see what will come out,” she said; “something you don’t expect. A whole apple-tree will come out, but not directly.” Then they got a flower-pot, filled it with earth, and were soon both very busy and eager about it. The boy made a hole in the earth with his finger, and the little girl placed the pip in the hole, and then they both covered it over with earth.
“Now you must not take it out to-morrow to see if it has taken root,” said Molly; “no one ever should do that. I did so with my flowers, but only twice; I wanted to see if they were growing. I didn’t know any better then, and the flowers all died.”
Little Anthony kept the flower-pot, and every morning during the whole winter he looked at it, but there was nothing to be seen but black earth. At last, however, the spring came, and the sun shone warm again, and then two little green leaves sprouted forth in the pot.
“They are Molly and me,” said the boy. “How wonderful they are, and so beautiful!”
Very soon a third leaf made its appearance.
“Who does that stand for?” thought he, and then came another and another. Day after day, and week after week, till the plant became quite a tree. And all this about the two children was mirrored to old Anthony in a single tear, which could soon be wiped away and disappear, but might come again from its source in the heart of the old man.
In the neighborhood of Eisenach stretches a ridge of stony mountains, one of which has a rounded outline, and shows itself above the rest without tree, bush, or grass on its barren summits. It is called the “Venus Mountain,” and the story goes that the “Lady Venus,” one of the heathen goddesses, keeps house there. She is also called “Lady Halle,” as every child round Eisenach well knows. She it was who enticed the noble knight, Tannhauser, the minstrel, from the circle of singers at Wartburg into her mountain.
Little Molly and Anthony often stood by this mountain, and one day Molly said, “Do you dare to knock and say, ‘Lady Halle, Lady Halle, open the door: Tannhauser is here!’” But Anthony did not dare. Molly, however, did, though she only said the words, “Lady Halle, Lady Halle,” loudly and distinctly; the rest she muttered so much under her breath that Anthony felt certain she had really said nothing; and yet she looked quite bold and saucy, just as she did sometimes when she was in the garden with a number of other little girls; they would all stand round him together, and want to kiss him, because he did not like to be kissed, and pushed them away. Then Molly was the only one who dared to resist him. “I may kiss him,” she would say proudly, as she threw her arms round his neck; she was vain of her power over Anthony, for he would submit quietly and think nothing of it. Molly was very charming, but rather bold; and how she did tease!
They said Lady Halle was beautiful, but her beauty was that of a tempting fiend. Saint Elizabeth, the tutelar saint of the land, the pious princess of Thuringia, whose good deeds have been immortalized in so many places through stories and legends, had greater beauty and more real grace. Her picture hung in the chapel, surrounded by silver lamps; but it did not in the least resemble Molly.
The apple-tree, which the two children had planted, grew year after year, till it became so large that it had to be transplanted into the garden, where the dew fell and the sun shone warmly. And there it increased in strength so much as to be able to withstand the cold of winter; and after passing through the severe weather, it seemed to put forth its blossoms in spring for very joy that the cold season had gone. In autumn it produced two apples, one for Molly and one for Anthony; it could not well do less. The tree after this grew very rapidly, and Molly grew with the tree. She was as fresh as an apple-blossom, but Anthony was not to behold this flower for long. All things change; Molly’s father left his old home, and Molly went with him far away. In our time, it would be only a journey of a few hours, but then it took more than a day and a night to travel so far eastward from Eisenbach to a town still called Weimar, on the borders of Thuringia. And Molly and Anthony both wept, but these tears all flowed together into one tear which had the rosy shimmer of joy. Molly had told him that she loved him—loved him more than all the splendors of Weimar.
One, two, three years went by, and during the whole time he received only two letters. One came by the carrier, and the other a traveller brought. The way was very long and difficult, with many turnings and windings through towns and villages. How often had Anthony and Molly heard the story of Tristan and Isolda, and Anthony had thought the story applied to him, although Tristan means born in sorrow, which Anthony certainly was not; nor was it likely he would ever say of Molly as Tristan said of Isolda, “She has forgotten me.” But in truth, Isolda had not forgotten him, her faithful friend; and when both were laid in their graves, one, on each side of the church, the linden-trees that grew by each grave spread over the roof, and, bending towards each other, mingled their blossoms together. Anthony thought it a very beautiful but mournful story; yet he never feared anything so sad would happen to him and Molly, as he passed the spot, whistling the air of a song, composed by the minstrel Walter, called the “Willow bird,” beginning—
“Under the linden-trees,
Out on the heath.”
One stanza pleased him exceedingly—
“Through the forest, and in the vale,
Sweetly warbles the nightingale.
This song was often in his mouth, and he sung or whistled it on a moonlight night, when he rode on horseback along the deep, hollow way, on his road to Weimar, to visit Molly. He wished to arrive unexpectedly, and so indeed he did. He was received with a hearty welcome, and introduced to plenty of grand and pleasant company, where overflowing winecups were passed about. A pretty room and a good bed were provided for him, and yet his reception was not what he had expected and dreamed it would be. He could not comprehend his own feelings nor the feelings of others; but it is easily understood how a person can be admitted into a house or a family without becoming one of them. We converse in company with those we meet, as we converse with our fellow-travellers in a stage-coach, on a journey; we know nothing of them, and perhaps all the while we are incommoding one another, and each is wishing himself or his neighbor away. Something of this kind Anthony felt when Molly talked to him of old times.
“I am a straightforward girl,” she said, “and I will tell you myself how it is. There have been great changes since we were children together; everything is different, both inwardly and outwardly. We cannot control our wills, nor the feelings of our hearts, by the force of custom. Anthony, I would not, for the world, make an enemy of you when I am far away. Believe me, I entertain for you the kindest wishes in my heart; but to feel for you what I now know can be felt for another man, can never be. You must try and reconcile yourself to this. Farewell, Anthony.”
Anthony also said, “Farewell.” Not a tear came into his eye; he felt he was no longer Molly’s friend. Hot iron and cold iron alike take the skin from our lips, and we feel the same sensation if we kiss either; and Anthony’s kiss was now the kiss of hatred, as it had once been the kiss of love. Within four-and-twenty hours Anthony was back again to Eisenach, though the horse that he rode was entirely ruined.
“What matters it?” said he; “I am ruined also. I will destroy everything that can remind me of her, or of Lady Halle, or Lady Venus, the heathen woman. I will break down the apple-tree, and tear it up by the roots; never more shall it blossom or bear fruit.”
The apple-tree was not broken down; for Anthony himself was struck with a fever, which caused him to break down, and confined him to his bed. But something occurred to raise him up again. What was it? A medicine was offered to him, which he was obliged to take: a bitter remedy, at which the sick body and the oppressed spirit alike shuddered. Anthony’s father lost all his property, and, from being known as one of the richest merchants, he became very poor. Dark days, heavy trials, with poverty at the door, came rolling into the house upon them like the waves of the sea. Sorrow and suffering deprived Anthony’s father of his strength, so that he had something else to think of besides nursing his love-sorrows and his anger against Molly. He had to take his father’s place, to give orders, to act with energy, to help, and, at last, to go out into the world and earn his bread. Anthony went to Bremen, and there he learnt what poverty and hard living really were. These things often harden the character, but sometimes soften the heart, even too much.
How different the world, and the people in it, appeared to Anthony now, to what he had thought in his childhood! What to him were the minstrel’s songs? An echo of the past, sounds long vanished. At times he would think in this way; yet again and again the songs would sound in his soul, and his heart become gentle and pious.
“God’s will is the best,” he would then say. “It was well that I was not allowed to keep my power over Molly’s heart, and that she did not remain true to me. How I should have felt it now, when fortune has deserted me! She left me before she knew of the change in my circumstances, or had a thought of what was before me. That is a merciful providence for me. All has happened for the best. She could not help it, and yet I have been so bitter, and in such enmity against her.”
Years passed by: Anthony’s father died, and strangers lived in the old house. He had seen it once again since then. His rich master sent him journeys on business, and on one occasion his way led him to his native town of Eisenach. The old Wartburg castle stood unchanged on the rock where the monk and the nun were hewn out of the stone. The great oaks formed an outline to the scene which he so well remembered in his childhood. The Venus mountain stood out gray and bare, overshadowing the valley beneath. He would have been glad to call out “Lady Halle, Lady Halle, unlock the mountain. I would fain remain here always in my native soil.” That was a sinful thought, and he offered a prayer to drive it away. Then a little bird in the thicket sang out clearly, and old Anthony thought of the minstrel’s song. How much came back to his remembrance as he looked through the tears once more on his native town! The old house was still standing as in olden times, but the garden had been greatly altered; a pathway led through a portion of the ground, and outside the garden, and beyond the path, stood the old apple-tree, which he had not broken down, although he talked of doing so in his trouble. The sun still threw its rays upon the tree, and the refreshing dew fell upon it as of old; and it was so overloaded with fruit that the branches bent towards the earth with the weight. “That flourishes still,” said he, as he gazed. One of the branches of the tree had, however, been broken: mischievous hands must have done this in passing, for the tree now stood in a public thoroughfare. “The blossoms are often plucked,” said Anthony; “the fruit is stolen and the branches broken without a thankful thought of their profusion and beauty. It might be said of a tree, as it has been said of some men—it was not predicted at his cradle that he should come to this. How brightly began the history of this tree, and what is it now? Forsaken and forgotten, in a garden by a hedge in a field, and close to a public road. There it stands, unsheltered, plundered, and broken. It certainly has not yet withered; but in the course of years the number of blossoms from time to time will grow less, and at last it was cease altogether to bear fruit; and then its history will be over.”
Such were Anthony’s thoughts as he stood under the tree, and during many a long night as he lay in his lonely chamber in the wooden house in Hauschen Street, Copenhagen, in the foreign land to which the rich merchant of Bremen, his employer, had sent him on condition that he should never marry. “Marry! ha, ha!” and he laughed bitterly to himself at the thought.
Winter one year set in early, and it was freezing hard. Without, a snowstorm made every one remain at home who could do so. Thus it happened that Anthony’s neighbors, who lived opposite to him, did not notice that his house remained unopened for two days, and that he had not showed himself during that time, for who would go out in such weather unless he were obliged to do so. They were gray, gloomy days, and in the house whose windows were not glass, twilight and dark nights reigned in turns. During these two days old Anthony had not left his bed, he had not the strength to do so. The bitter weather had for some time affected his limbs. There lay the old bachelor, forsaken by all, and unable to help himself. He could scarcely reach the water jug that he had placed by his bed, and the last drop was gone. It was not fever, nor sickness, but old age, that had laid him low. In the little corner, where his bed lay, he was over-shadowed as it were by perpetual night. A little spider, which he could however not see, busily and cheerfully spun its web above him, so that there should be a kind of little banner waving over the old man, when his eyes closed. The time passed slowly and painfully. He had no tears to shed, and he felt no pain; no thought of Molly came into his mind. He felt as if the world was now nothing to him, as if he were lying beyond it, with no one to think of him. Now and then he felt slight sensations of hunger and thirst; but no one came to him, no one tended him. He thought of all those who had once suffered from starvation, of Saint Elizabeth, who once wandered on the earth, the saint of his home and his childhood, the noble Duchess of Thuringia, that highly esteemed lady who visited the poorest villages, bringing hope and relief to the sick inmates. The recollection of her pious deeds was as light to the soul of poor Anthony. He thought of her as she went about speaking words of comfort, binding up the wounds of the afflicted and feeding the hungry, although often blamed for it by her stern husband. He remembered a story told of her, that on one occasion, when she was carrying a basket full of wine and provisions, her husband, who had watched her footsteps, stepped forward and asked her angrily what she carried in her basket, whereupon, with fear and trembling, she answered, “Roses, which I have plucked from the garden.” Then he tore away the cloth which covered the basket, and what could equal the surprise of the pious woman, to find that by a miracle, everything in her basket—the wine, the bread— had all been changed into roses.
In this way the memory of the kind lady dwelt in the calm mind of Anthony. She was as a living reality in his little dwelling in the Danish land. He uncovered his face that he might look into her gentle eyes, while everything around him changed from its look of poverty and want, to a bright rose tint. The fragrance of roses spread through the room, mingled with the sweet smell of apples. He saw the branches of an apple-tree spreading above him. It was the tree which he and Molly had planted together. The fragrant leaves of the tree fell upon him and cooled his burning brow; upon his parched lips they seemed like refreshing bread and wine; and as they rested on his breast, a peaceful calm stole over him, and he felt inclined to sleep. “I shall sleep now,” he whispered to himself. “Sleep will do me good. In the morning I shall be upon my feet again, strong and well. Glorious! wonderful! That apple-tree, planted in love, now appears before me in heavenly beauty.” And he slept.
The following day, the third day during which his house had been closed, the snow-storm ceased. Then his opposite neighbor stepped over to the house in which old Anthony lived, for he had not yet showed himself. There he lay stretched on his bed, dead, with his old nightcap tightly clasped in his two hands. The nightcap, however, was not placed on his head in his coffin; he had a clean white one on then. Where now were the tears he had shed? What had become of those wonderful pearls? They were in the nightcap still. Such tears as these cannot be washed out, even when the nightcap is forgotten. The old thoughts and dreams of a bachelor’s nightcap still remain. Never wish for such a nightcap. It would make your forehead hot, cause your pulse to beat with agitation, and conjure up dreams which would appear realities.
The first who wore old Anthony’s cap felt the truth of this, though it was half a century afterwards. That man was the mayor himself, who had already made a comfortable home for his wife and eleven children, by his industry. The moment he put the cap on he dreamed of unfortunate love, of bankruptcy, and of dark days. “Hallo! how the nightcap burns!” he exclaimed, as he tore it from his bead. Then a pearl rolled out, and then another, and another, and they glittered and sounded as they fell. “What can this be? Is it paralysis, or something dazzling my eyes?” They were the tears which old Anthony had shed half a century before.
To every one who afterwards put this cap on his head, came visions and dreams which agitated him not a little. His own history was changed into that of Anthony till it became quite a story, and many stories might be made by others, so we will leave them to relate their own. We have told the first; and our last word is, don’t wish for a “bachelor’s nightcap.”
結(jié)束語(yǔ)：
安徒生運(yùn)用童話的形式訴說(shuō)著他的愛、他對(duì)世事的洞察以及對(duì)生命的追問，他填補(bǔ)了全世界孩子童年的`夢(mèng)境，向他們傳遞了現(xiàn)實(shí)世界的真善美，以上的安徒生經(jīng)典童話故事希望大家喜歡!
安徒生，丹麥19世紀(jì)著名童話作家，世界文學(xué)童話創(chuàng)始人，因?yàn)槠渫捵髌范劽谑馈Ｋㄟ^童話的形式，真實(shí)地反映了他所處的那個(gè)時(shí)代及其社會(huì)生活，深厚地表達(dá)了平凡人的感情和意愿，從而使人們的感情得到凈化與升華。下面小編為大家?guī)?lái)經(jīng)典安徒生童話：?jiǎn)紊頋h的睡帽，歡迎大家閱讀!
THERE is a street in Copenhagen with a very strange name. It is called “Hysken” street. Where the name came from, and what it means is very uncertain. It is said to be German, but that is unjust to the Germans, for it would then be called “Hauschen,” not “Hysken.” “Hauschen,” means a little house; and for many years it consisted only of a few small houses, which were scarcely larger than the wooden booths we see in the market-places at fair time. They were perhaps a little higher, and had windows; but the panes consisted of horn or bladder-skins, for glass was then too dear to have glazed windows in every house. This was a long time ago, so long indeed that our grandfathers, and even great-grandfathers, would speak of those days as “olden times;” indeed, many centuries have passed since then.
The rich merchants in Bremen and Lubeck, who carried on trade in Copenhagen, did not reside in the town themselves, but sent their clerks, who dwelt in the wooden booths in the Hauschen street, and sold beer and spices. The German beer was very good, and there were many sorts—from Bremen, Prussia, and Brunswick—and quantities of all sorts of spices, saffron, aniseed, ginger, and especially pepper; indeed, pepper was almost the chief article sold here; so it happened at last that the German clerks in Denmark got their nickname of “pepper gentry.” It had been made a condition with these clerks that they should not marry; so that those who lived to be old had to take care of themselves, to attend to their own comforts, and even to light their own fires, when they had any to light. Many of them were very aged; lonely old boys, with strange thoughts and eccentric habits. From this, all unmarried men, who have attained a certain age, are called, in Denmark, “pepper gentry;” and this must be remembered by all those who wish to understand the story. These “pepper gentlemen,” or, as they are called in England, “old bachelors,” are often made a butt of ridicule; they are told to put on their nightcaps, draw them over their eyes, and go to sleep. The boys in Denmark make a song of it, thus:—
“Poor old bachelor, cut your wood,
Such a nightcap was never seen;
Who would think it was ever clean?
Go to sleep, it will do you good.”
So they sing about the “pepper gentleman;” so do they make sport of the poor old bachelor and his nightcap, and all because they really know nothing of either. It is a cap that no one need wish for, or laugh at. And why not? Well, we shall hear in the story.
In olden times, Hauschen Street was not paved, and passengers would stumble out of one hole into another, as they generally do in unfrequented highways; and the street was so narrow, and the booths leaning against each other were so close together, that in the summer time a sail would be stretched across the street from one booth to another opposite. At these times the odor of the pepper, saffron, and ginger became more powerful than ever. Behind the counter, as a rule, there were no young men. The clerks were almost all old boys; but they did not dress as we are accustomed to see old men represented, wearing wigs, nightcaps, and knee-breeches, and with coat and waistcoat buttoned up to the chin. We have seen the portraits of our great-grandfathers dressed in this way; but the “pepper gentlemen” had no money to spare to have their portraits taken, though one of them would have made a very interesting picture for us now, if taken as he appeared standing behind his counter, or going to church, or on holidays. On these occasions, they wore high-crowned, broad-brimmed hats, and sometimes a younger clerk would stick a feather in his. The woollen shirt was concealed by a broad, linen collar; the close jacket was buttoned up to the chin, and the cloak hung loosely over it; the trousers were tucked into the broad, tipped shoes, for the clerks wore no stockings. They generally stuck a table-knife and spoon in their girdles, as well as a larger knife, as a protection to themselves; and such a weapon was often very necessary.
After this fashion was Anthony dressed on holidays and festivals, excepting that, instead of a high-crowned hat, he wore a kind of bonnet, and under it a knitted cap, a regular nightcap, to which he was so accustomed that it was always on his head; he had two, nightcaps I mean, not heads. Anthony was one of the oldest of the clerks, and just the subject for a painter. He was as thin as a lath, wrinkled round the mouth and eyes, had long, bony fingers, bushy, gray eyebrows, and over his left eye hung a thick tuft of hair, which did not look handsome, but made his appearance very remarkable. People knew that he came from Bremen; it was not exactly his home, although his master resided there. His ancestors were from Thuringia, and had lived in the town of Eisenach, close by Wartburg. Old Anthony seldom spoke of this place, but he thought of it all the more.
The old clerks of Hauschen Street very seldom met together; each one remained in his own booth, which was closed early enough in the evening, and then it looked dark and dismal out in the street. Only a faint glimmer of light struggled through the horn panes in the little window on the roof, while within sat the old clerk, generally on his bed, singing his evening hymn in a low voice; or he would be moving about in his booth till late in the night, busily employed in many things. It certainly was not a very lively existence. To be a stranger in a strange land is a bitter lot; no one notices you unless you happen to stand in their way. Often, when it was dark night outside, with rain or snow falling, the place looked quite deserted and gloomy. There were no lamps in the street, excepting a very small one, which hung at one end of the street, before a picture of the Virgin, which had been painted on the wall. The dashing of the water against the bulwarks of a neighboring castle could plainly be heard. Such evenings are long and dreary, unless people can find something to do; and so Anthony found it. There were not always things to be packed or unpacked, nor paper bags to be made, nor the scales to be polished. So Anthony invented employment; he mended his clothes and patched his boots, and when he at last went to bed,—his nightcap, which he had worn from habit, still remained on his head; he had only to pull it down a little farther over his forehead. Very soon, however, it would be pushed up again to see if the light was properly put out; he would touch it, press the wick together, and at last pull his nightcap over his eyes and lie down again on the other side. But often there would arise in his mind a doubt as to whether every coal had been quite put out in the little fire-pan in the shop below. If even a tiny spark had remained it might set fire to something, and cause great damage. Then he would rise from his bed, creep down the ladder—for it could scarcely be called a flight of stairs—and when he reached the fire-pan not a spark could be seen; so he had just to go back again to bed. But often, when he had got half way back, he would fancy the iron shutters of the door were not properly fastened, and his thin legs would carry him down again. And when at last he crept into bed, he would be so cold that his teeth chattered in his head. He would draw the coverlet closer round him, pull his nightcap over his eyes, and try to turn his thoughts from trade, and from the labors of the day, to olden times. But this was scarcely an agreeable entertainment; for thoughts of olden memories raise the curtains from the past, and sometimes pierce the heart with painful recollections till the agony brings tears to the waking eyes. And so it was with Anthony; often the scalding tears, like pearly drops, would fall from his eyes to the coverlet and roll on the floor with a sound as if one of his heartstrings had broken. Sometimes, with a lurid flame, memory would light up a picture of life which had never faded from his heart. If he dried his eyes with his nightcap, then the tear and the picture would be crushed; but the source of the tears remained and welled up again in his heart. The pictures did not follow one another in order, as the circumstances they represented had occurred; very often the most painful would come together, and when those came which were most full of joy, they had always the deepest shadow thrown upon them.