安徒生童話故事第93篇：
引導語：關于安徒生童話故事，大家學習了哪些?下面的《守塔人奧列》這篇安徒生童話主要講什么內容呢?歡迎大家閱讀了解。
"在這個世界里，事情不是上升，就是下降。不是不降，就是上升!我現在不能再進一步向上爬了。上升和下降，下降和上升，大多數的人都有這一套經驗。歸根結底，我們最后都要成為守塔人，從一個高處來觀察生活和一切事情。”
這是我的朋友、那個老守塔人奧列的一番議論。他是一位喜歡瞎聊的有趣人物。他好像是什么話都講，但在他心的深處，卻嚴肅地藏著許多東西。是的，他的家庭出身很好，據說他還是一個樞密顧問官的少爺呢——他也許是的。他曾經念過書，當過塾師的助理和牧師的副秘書;但是這又有什么用呢?他跟牧師住在一起的時候，可以隨便使用屋子里的任何東西。他那時正像俗話所說的，是一個翩翩少年。他要用真正的皮鞋油來擦靴子，但是牧師只準他用普通油。他們為了這件事鬧過意見。這個說那個吝嗇，那個說這個虛榮。鞋油成了他們敵對的根源，因此他們就分手了。
但是他對牧師所要求的東西，同樣也對世界要求：他要求真正的皮鞋油，而他所得到的卻是普通的油脂。這么一來，他就只好離開所有的人而成為一個隱士了。不過在一個大城市里，唯一能夠隱居而又不至于餓飯的地方是教堂塔樓。因此他就鉆進去，在里邊一面孤獨地散步，一面抽著煙斗。他一忽兒向下看，一忽兒向上瞧，產生些感想，講一套自己能看見和看不見的事情，以及在書上和在自己心里見到的事情。
我常常借一些好書給他讀：你是怎樣一個人，可以從你所交往的朋友看出來。他說他不喜歡英國那種寫給保姆這類人讀的小說，也不喜歡法國小說，因為這類東西是陰風和玫瑰花梗的混合物。不，他喜歡傳記和關于大自然的奇觀的書籍。我每年至少要拜訪他一次——一般是新年以后的幾天內。他總是把他在這新舊年關交替時所產生的一些感想東扯西拉地談一陣子。
我想把我兩天拜訪他的情形談一談，我盡量引用他自己說的話。
第一次拜訪
在我最近所借給奧列的書中，有一本是關于圓石子的書。這本書特別引其他的興趣，他埋頭讀了一陣子。
“這些圓石子呀，它們是古代的一些遺跡!”他說。“人們在它們旁邊經過，但一點也不想其它們!我在田野和海灘上走過時就是這樣，它們在那兒的數目不少。人們走過街上的鋪石——這是遠古時代的最老的遺跡!我自己就做過這樣的事情。現在我對每一塊鋪石表示極大的敬意!我感謝你借給我的這本書!它吸引住我的注意力，它把我的一些舊思想和習慣都趕走了，它使我迫切地希望讀到更多這類的書。
“關于地球的傳奇是最使人神往的一種傳奇!可怕得很，我們讀不到它的頭一卷，因為它是用一種我們所不懂的語言寫的。我們得從各個地層上，從圓石子上，從地球所有的時期里去了解它。只有到了第六卷的時候，活生生的人——亞當先生和夏娃女士——才出現。對于許多讀者說來，他們出現得未免太遲了一點，因為讀者希望立刻就讀到關于他們的事情。不過對我說來，這完全沒有什么關系。這的確是一部傳奇，一部非常有趣的傳奇，我們大家都在這里面。我們東爬西摸，但是我仍然停在原來的地方;而地球卻是在不停地轉動，并沒有把大洋的水弄翻，淋在我們的頭上。我們踩著的地殼并沒有裂開，讓我們墜到地中心去。這個故事不停地進展，一口氣存在了幾百萬年。
“我感謝你這本關于圓石的書。它們真夠朋友!要是它們會講話，它們能講給你聽的東西才多呢。如果一個人能夠偶爾成為一個微不足道的東西，那也是蠻有趣味的事兒，特別是像我這樣一個處于很高的地位的人。想想看吧，我們這些人，即使擁有最好的皮鞋油，也不過是地球這個蟻山上的壽命短促的蟲蟻，雖然我們可能是戴有勛章、擁有職位的蟲蟻!在這些有幾百萬歲的老圓石面前，人真是年輕得可笑。我在除夕讀過一本書，讀得非常入迷，甚至忘記了我平時在這夜所作的那種消遺——看那'到牙買加去的瘋狂旅行'!嗨!你決不會知道這是怎么一回事兒!
“巫婆騎著掃帚旅行的故事是人所共知的——那是在‘圣漢斯之夜’①，目的地是卜洛克斯堡。但是我們也有過瘋狂的旅行。這是此時此地的事情：新年夜到牙買加去的旅行。所有那些無足輕重的男詩人、女詩人、拉琴的、寫新聞的和藝術界的名流——即毫無價值的一批人——在除夕夜乘風到牙買加去。他們都騎在畫筆上或羽毛筆上，因為鋼筆不配馱他們：他們太生硬了。我已經說過，我在每個除夕夜都要看他們一下。我能夠喊出他們許多人的名字來，不過跟他們糾纏在一起是不值得的，因為他們不愿意讓人家知道他們*?著羽毛筆向牙買加飛過去。
“我有一個侄女。她是一個漁婦。她說她專門對三個有地位的報紙供給罵人的字眼。她甚至還作為客人親自到報館去過。她是被抬去的，因為她既沒有一支羽毛筆，也不會騎。這都是她親口告訴我的。她所講的大概有一半是謊話，但是這一半卻已經很夠了。
“當她到達了那兒以后，大家就開始唱歌。每個客人寫下了自己的歌，每個客人唱自己的歌，因為各人總是以為自己的歌最好。事實上它們都是半斤八兩，同一個調調兒。接著走過來的就是一批結成小組的話匣子。這時各種不同的鐘聲便輪流地響起來。于是來了一群小小的鼓手;他們只是在家庭的小圈子里擊鼓。另外有些人利用這時機彼此交朋友：這些人寫文章都是不署名的，也就是說，他們用普通油脂來代替皮鞋油。此外還有劊子手和他的小廝;這個小廝最狡猾，否則誰也不會注意到他的。那位老好人清道夫這時也來了;他把垃圾箱弄翻了，嘴里還連連說：‘好，非常好，特殊地好!’正當大家在這樣狂歡的時候，那一大堆垃圾上忽然冒出一根梗子，一株樹，一朵龐大的花，一個巨大的菌子，一個完整的屋頂——它是這群貴賓們的滑棒②，它把他們在過去一年中對這世界所做的事情全都挑起來。一種像禮花似的火星從它上面射出來：這都是他們發表過的、從別人抄襲得來的一些思想和意見;它們現在都變成了火花。
“現在大家玩起一種‘燒香’的游戲;一些年輕的詩人則玩起‘焚心’的游戲。有些幽默大師講著雙關的俏皮話——這算是最小的游戲。他們的俏皮話引起一起回響，好像是空罐子在撞著門、或者是門在撞著裝滿了炭灰的罐子似的。‘這真是有趣極了!’我的侄女說。事實上她還說了很多非常帶有惡意的話，不過很有趣!但是我不想把這些話傳達出來，因為一個人應該善良，不能老是挑錯。你可以懂得，像我這樣一個知道那兒的歡樂情況的人，自然喜歡在每個新年夜里看看這瘋狂的一群飛過。假如某一年有些什么人沒有來，我一定會找到代替的新人物。不過今年我沒有去看那些客人。我在圓石上面滑走了，滑到幾百萬年以前的時間里去。我看到這些石子在北國自由活動，它們在挪亞沒有制造出方舟以前，早就在冰塊上自由漂流起來。我看到它們墜到海底，然后又在沙洲上冒出來。沙洲露出水面，說：‘這是瑟蘭島!’我看到它先變成許多我不認識的鳥兒的住處，然后又變成一些野人酋長的宿地。這些野人我也不認識，后來他們用斧子刻出幾個龍尼文③的人名來——這成了歷史。但是我卻跟這完全沒有關系，我簡直等于一個零。
“有三四顆美麗的流星落下來了。它們射出一道光，把我的思想引到另外一條路線上去。你大概知道流星是一種什么樣的東西吧?有些有學問的人卻不知道!我對它們有我的看法;我的看法是從這點出發：人們對做過善良事情的人，總是在心里私自說著感謝和祝福的話;這種感謝常常是沒有聲音的，但是它并不因此就等于毫無意義。我想太陽光會把它吸收進去，然后把它不聲不響地射到那個做善事的人身上。如果整個民族在時間的進程中表示出這種感謝，那么這種感謝就形成一個花束，變做一顆流星落在這善人的墳上。
“當我看到流星的時候，特別是在新年的晚上，我感到非常愉快，知道誰會得到這個感謝的花束。最近有一顆明亮的星落到西南方去，作為對許多許多人表示感謝的一種跡象。它會落到誰身上呢?我想它無疑地會落到佛倫斯堡灣的一個石崖上。丹麥的國旗就在這兒，在施勒比格列爾、拉索④和他們的伙伴們的墳上飄揚。另外有一顆落到陸地上：落到‘蘇洛’——它是落到荷爾堡墳上的一朵花，表示許多人在這一年對他的感謝——感謝他所寫的一些優美的劇本。
“最大和最愉快的思想莫過于知道我們墳上有一顆流星落下來。當然，決不會有流星落到我的墳上，也不會有太陽光帶給我謝意，因為我沒有什么東西值得人感謝;我沒有得到那真正的皮鞋油，”奧列說，“我命中注定只能在這個世界上得到普通的油脂。”
第二次拜訪
這是新年，我又爬到塔上去。奧列談起那些為舊年逝去和新年到來而干杯的事情。因此我從他那兒得到一個關于杯子的故事。這故事含有深意。
“在除夕夜里，當鐘敲了12下的時候，大家都拿著滿杯的酒從桌子旁站起來，為新年而干杯。他們手中擎著酒杯來迎接這一年;這對于喜歡喝酒的人說來，是一個良好的開端!他們以上床睡覺作為這一年的開始;這對于瞌睡蟲說來，也是一個良好的開端!在一年的過程中，睡覺當然占很重要的位置;酒杯也不例外。
“你知道酒杯里有什么嗎?”他問。“是的，里面有健康、愉快和狂歡!里面有悲愁和苦痛的不幸。當我來數數這些杯子的時候，我當然也數數不同的人在這些杯子里所占的重量。
“你要知道，第一個杯子是健康的杯子!它里面長著健康的草。你把它放在大梁上，到一年的末尾你就可以坐在健康的樹蔭下了。
“拿起第二個杯子吧!是的，有一只小鳥從里面飛出來。它唱出天真快樂的歌給大家聽，叫大家跟它一起合唱：生命是美麗的!我們不要老垂著頭!勇敢地向前進吧!
“第三個杯子里涌現出一個長著翅膀的小生物。他不能算是一個安琪兒，因為他有小鬼的血統，也有一個小鬼的性格。他并不傷害人，只是喜歡開開玩笑。他坐在我們的耳朵后面，對我們低聲講一些滑稽的事情。他鉆進我們的心里去，把它弄得溫暖起來，使我們變得愉快，變成別的頭腦所承認的一個好頭腦。
“第四個杯子里既沒有草，也沒有鳥，也沒有小生物;那里面只有理智的限度——一個人永遠不能超過這個限度。
“當你拿起那第五個杯子的時候，就會哭一場。你會有一種愉快的感情沖動，否則這種沖動就會用別種方式表現出來。風流和放蕩的'狂歡王子'會砰的一聲從杯子里冒出來!他會把你拖走，你會忘記自己的尊嚴——假如你有任何尊嚴的話。你會忘記的事情比你應該和敢于忘記的事情要多得多。處處是跳舞、歌聲和喧鬧。假面具把你拖走。穿著絲綢的魔鬼的女兒們，披著頭發，露出美麗的肢體，脾氣地走來。避開她們吧，假如你可能的話!
“第六個杯子!是的，撒旦本人就坐在里面。他是一個衣冠楚楚、會講話的、迷人的和非常愉快的人物。他完全能理解你，同意你所說的一切話，他完全是你的化身!他提著一個燈籠走來，以便把你領到他的家里去。從前有過關于一個圣者的故事;有人叫他從七大罪過中選擇一種罪過;他選擇了他認為最小的一種：醉酒。這種罪過引導他犯其他的六種罪過。人和魔鬼的血恰恰在第六個杯子里混在一起;這時一切罪惡的細菌就在我們的身體里發展起來。每一個細菌像《圣經》里的芥末子一起欣欣向榮地生長，長成一棵樹，蓋滿了整個世界。大部分的人只有一個辦法：重新走進熔爐，被再造一次。
“這就是杯子的故事!”守塔人奧列說。“它可以用皮鞋油，也可用普通的油講出來。兩種油我全都用了。”
這就是我對奧列第二次的拜訪。如果你想再聽到更多的故事，那么你的拜訪還得——待續。
①即6月23日的晚上。在歐洲的中世紀，基督教徒在這天晚上唱歌跳舞，以紀念圣徒漢斯(St. Hans)的生日。Hans可能是Johnnes(約翰)。
②原文是“Slaraffenstang”。這是一種擦了油的棒子，非常光滑，不容易爬或在上面踩。它是在運動時試驗爬或踩的能力的一種玩具。
③龍尼文是北歐最古的文字，現在已不存在。
④施勒比格列爾和拉索是安徒生一個朋友的兩個兒子;他們在一次抵抗德國的進攻中戰死。
守塔人奧列英文版：
Ole the Tower-Keeper
N the world it’s always going up and down; and now I can’t go up any higher!” So said Ole the tower-keeper. “Most people have to try both the ups and the downs; and, rightly considered, we all get to be watchmen at last, and look down upon life from a height.”
Such was the speech of Ole, my friend, the old tower-keeper, a strange, talkative old fellow, who seemed to speak out everything that came into his head, and who for all that had many a serious thought deep in his heart. Yes, he was the child of respectable people, and there were even some who said that he was the son of a privy councillor, or that he might have been. He had studied, too, and had been assistant teacher and deputy clerk; but of what service was all that to him? In those days he lived in the clerk’s house, and was to have everything in the house—to be at free quarters, as the saying is; but he was still, so to speak, a fine young gentleman. He wanted to have his boots cleaned with patent blacking, and the clerk could only afford ordinary grease; and upon that point they split. One spoke of stinginess, the other of vanity, and the blacking became the black cause of enmity between them, and at last they parted.
This is what he demanded of the world in general, namely, patent blacking, and he got nothing but grease. Accordingly, he at last drew back from all men, and became a hermit; but the church tower is the only place in a great city where hermitage, office and bread can be found together. So he betook himself up thither, and smoked his pipe as he made his solitary rounds. He looked upward and downward, and had his own thoughts, and told in his own way of what he read in books and in himself. I often lent him books—good books; and you may know by the company he keeps. He loved neither the English governess novels nor the French ones, which he called a mixture of empty wind and raisin-stalks: he wanted biographies, and descriptions of the wonders of, the world. I visited him at least once a year, generally directly after New Year’s day, and then he always spoke of this and that which the change of the year had put into his head.
I will tell the story of three of these visits, and will reproduce his own words whenever I can remember them.
First Visit
AMONG the books which I had lately lent Ole, was one which had greatly rejoiced and occupied him. It was a geological book, containing an account of the boulders.
“Yes, they’re rare old fellows, those boulders!” he said; “and to think that we should pass them without noticing them! And over the street pavement, the paving stones, those fragments of the oldest remains of antiquity, one walks without ever thinking about them. I have done the very thing myself. But now I look respectfully at every paving-stone. Many thanks for the book! It has filled me with thought, and has made me long to read more on the subject. The romance of the earth is, after all, the most wonderful of all romances. It’s a pity one can’t read the first volume of it, because it is written in a language that we don’t understand. One must read in the different strata, in the pebble-stones, for each separate period. Yes, it is a romance, a very wonderful romance, and we all have our place in it. We grope and ferret about, and yet remain where we are; but the ball keeps turning, without emptying the ocean over us; the clod on which we move about, holds, and does not let us through. And then it’s a story that has been acting for thousands upon thousands of years and is still going on. My best thanks for the book about the boulders. Those are fellows indeed! They could tell us something worth hearing, if they only knew how to talk. It’s really a pleasure now and then to become a mere nothing, especially when a man is as highly placed as I am. And then to think that we all, even with patent lacquer, are nothing more than insects of a moment on that ant-hill the earth, though we may be insects with stars and garters, places and offices! One feels quite a novice beside these venerable million-year-old boulders. On last New Year’s eve I was reading the book, and had lost myself in it so completely, that I forgot my usual New Year’s diversion, namely, the wild hunt to Amager. Ah, you don’t know what that is!
“The journey of the witches on broomsticks is well enough known—that journey is taken on St. John’s eve, to the Brocken; but we have a wild journey, also which is national and modern, and that is the journey to Amager on the night of the New Year. All indifferent poets and poetesses, musicians, newspaper writers, and artistic notabilities,—I mean those who are no good,—ride in the New Year’s night through the air to Amager. They sit backwards on their painting brushes or quill pens, for steel pens won’t bear them—they’re too stiff. As I told you, I see that every New Year’s night, and could mention the majority of the riders by name, but I should not like to draw their enmity upon myself, for they don’t like people to talk about their ride to Amager on quill pens. I’ve a kind of niece, who is a fishwife, and who, as she tells me, supplies three respectable newspapers with the terms of abuse and vituperation they use, and she has herself been at Amager as an invited guest; but she was carried out thither, for she does not own a quill pen, nor can she ride. She has told me all about it. Half of what she said is not true, but the other half gives us information enough. When she was out there, the festivities began with a song; each of the guests had written his own song, and each one sang his own song, for he thought that the best, and it was all one, all the same melody. Then those came marching up, in little bands, who are only busy with their mouths. There were ringing bells that rang alternately; and then came the little drummers that beat their tattoo in the family circle; and acquaintance was made with those who write without putting their names, which here means as much as using grease instead of patent blacking; and then there was the beadle with his boy, and the boy was worst off, for in general he gets no notice taken of him; then, too, there was the good street sweeper with his cart, who turns over the dust-bin, and calls it ‘good, very good, remarkably good.’ And in the midst of the pleasure that was afforded by the mere meeting of these folks, there shot up out of the great dirt-heap at Amager a stem, a tree, an immense flower, a great mushroom, a perfect roof, which formed a sort of warehouse for the worthy company, for in it hung everything they had given to the world during the Old Year. Out of the tree poured sparks like flames of fire; these were the ideas and thoughts, borrowed from others, which they had used, and which now got free and rushed away like so many fireworks. They played at ‘the stick burns,’ and the young poets played at ‘heart-burns,’ and the witlings played off their jests, and the jests rolled away with a thundering sound, as if empty pots were being shattered against doors. ‘It was very amusing!’ my niece said; in fact, she said many things that were very malicious but very amusing, but I won’t mention them, for a man must be good-natured, and not a carping critic. But you will easily perceive that when a man once knows the rights of the journey to Amager, as I know them, it’s quite natural that on the New Year’s night one should look out to see the wild chase go by. If in the New Year I miss certain persons who used to be there, I am sure to notice others who are new arrivals; but this year I omitted taking my look at the guests, I bowled away on the boulders, rolled back through millions of years, and saw the stones break loose high up in the north, saw them drifting about on icebergs, long before Noah’s ark was constructed, saw them sink down to the bottom of the sea, and re-appear with a sand-bank, with that one that peered forth from the flood and said, ‘This shall be Zealand!’ I saw them become the dwelling-place of birds that are unknown to us, and then become the seat of wild chiefs of whom we know nothing, until with their axes they cut their Runic signs into a few of these stones, which then came into the calendar of time. But as for me, I had gone quite beyond all lapse of time, and had become a cipher and a nothing. Then three or four beautiful falling stars came down, which cleared the air, and gave my thoughts another direction. You know what a falling star is, do you not? The learned men are not at all clear about it. I have my own ideas about shooting stars, as the common people in many parts call them, and my idea is this: How often are silent thanksgivings offered up for one who has done a good and noble action! The thanks are often speechless, but they are not lost for all that. I think these thanks are caught up, and the sunbeams bring the silent, hidden thankfulness over the head of the benefactor; and if it be a whole people that has been expressing its gratitude through a long lapse of time, the thankfulness appears as a nosegay of flowers, and at length falls in the form of a shooting star over the good man’s grave. I am always very much pleased when I see a shooting star, especially in the New Year’s night, and then find out for whom the gift of gratitude was intended. Lately a gleaming star fell in the southwest, as a tribute of thanksgiving to many—many! ‘For whom was that star intended?’ thought I. It fell, no doubt, on the hill by the Bay of Flensborg, where the Dannebrog waves over the graves of Schleppegrell, Læsløe, and their comrades. One star also fell in the midst of the land, fell upon Sorø, a flower on the grave of Holberg, the thanks of the year from a great many —thanks for his charming plays!
“It is a great and pleasant thought to know that a shooting star falls upon our graves. On mine certainly none will fall—no sunbeam brings thanks to me, for here there is nothing worthy of thanks. I shall not get the patent lacquer,” said Ole, “for my fate on earth is only grease, after all.”
Second Visit
IT was New Year’s day, and I went up on the tower. Ole spoke of the toasts that were drunk on the transition from the Old Year into the New—from one grave into the other, as he said. And he told me a story about the glasses, and this story had a very deep meaning. It was this:
“When on the New Year’s night the clock strikes twelve, the people at the table rise up with full glasses in their hands, and drain these glasses, and drink success to the New Year. They begin the year with the glass in their hands; that is a good beginning for drunkards. They begin the New Year by going to bed, and that’s a good beginning for drones. Sleep is sure to play a great part in the New Year, and the glass likewise. Do you know what dwells in the glass?” asked Ole. “I will tell you. There dwell in the glass, first, health, and then pleasure, then the most complete sensual delight; and misfortune and the bitterest woe dwell in the glass also. Now, suppose we count the glasses—of course I count the different degrees in the glasses for different people.
“You see, the first glass, that’s the glass of health, and in that the herb of health is found growing. Put it up on the beam in the ceiling, and at the end of the year you may be sitting in the arbor of health.
“If you take the second glass—from this a little bird soars upward, twittering in guileless cheerfulness, so that a man may listen to his song, and perhaps join in ‘Fair is life! no downcast looks! Take courage, and march onward!’
“Out of the third glass rises a little winged urchin, who cannot certainly be called an angel child, for there is goblin blood in his veins, and he has the spirit of a goblin—not wishing to hurt or harm you, indeed, but very ready to play off tricks upon you. He’ll sit at your ear and whisper merry thoughts to you; he’ll creep into your heart and warm you, so that you grow very merry, and become a wit, so far as the wits of the others can judge.
“In the fourth glass is neither herb, bird, nor urchin. In that glass is the pause drawn by reason, and one may never go beyond that sign.
“Take the fifth glass, and you will weep at yourself, you will feel such a deep emotion; or it will affect you in a different way. Out of the glass there will spring with a bang Prince Carnival, nine times and extravagantly merry. He’ll draw you away with him; you’ll forget your dignity, if you have any, and you’ll forget more than you should or ought to forget. All is dance, song and sound: the masks will carry you away with them, and the daughters of vanity, clad in silk and satin, will come with loose hair and alluring charms; but tear yourself away if you can!
“The sixth glass! Yes, in that glass sits a demon, in the form of a little, well dressed, attractive and very fascinating man, who thoroughly understands you, agrees with you in everything, and becomes quite a second self to you. He has a lantern with him, to give you light as he accompanies you home. There is an old legend about a saint who was allowed to choose one of the seven deadly sins, and who accordingly chose drunkenness, which appeared to him the least, but which led him to commit all the other six. The man’s blood is mingled with that of the demon. It is the sixth glass, and with that the germ of all evil shoots up within us; and each one grows up with a strength like that of the grains of mustard-seed, and shoots up into a tree, and spreads over the whole world: and most people have no choice but to go into the oven, to be re-cast in a new form.
“That’s the history of the glasses,” said the tower-keeper Ole, “and it can be told with lacquer or only with grease; but I give it you with both!”
Third Visit1
ON this occasion I chose the general “moving-day” for my visit to Ole, for on that day it is anything but agreeable down in the streets in the town; for they are full of sweepings, shreds, and remnants of all sorts, to say nothing of the cast-off rubbish in which one has to wade about. But this time I happened to see two children playing in this wilderness of sweepings. They were playing at “going to bed,” for the occasion seemed especially favorable for this sport. They crept under the straw, and drew an old bit of ragged curtain over themselves by way of coverlet. “It was splendid!” they said; but it was a little too strong for me, and besides, I was obliged to mount up on my visit to Ole.
“It’s moving-day to day,” he said; “streets and houses are like a dust-bin—a large dust-bin; but I’m content with a cartload. I may get something good out of that, and I really did get something good out of it once. Shortly after Christmas I was going up the street; it was rough weather, wet and dirty—the right kind of weather to catch cold in. The dustman was there with his cart, which was full, and looked like a sample of streets on moving-day. At the back of the cart stood a fir tree, quite green still, and with tinsel on its twigs; it had been used on Christmas eve, and now it was thrown out into the street, and the dustman had stood it up at the back of his cart. It was droll to look at, or you may say it was mournful—all depends on what you think of when you see it; and I thought about it, and thought this and that of many things that were in the cart: or I might have done so, and that comes to the same thing. There was an old lady’s glove, too: I wonder what that was thinking of? Shall I tell you? The glove was lying there, pointing with its little finger at the tree. ‘I’m sorry for the tree,’ it thought; ‘and I was also at the feast, where the chandeliers glittered. My life was, so to speak, a ball night—a pressure of the hand, and I burst! My memory keeps dwelling upon that, and I have really nothing else to live for!’ This is what the glove thought, or what it might have thought. ‘That’s a stupid affair with yonder fir tree,’ said the potsherds. You see, potsherds think everything is stupid. ‘When one is in the dust-cart,’ they said, ‘one ought not to give one’s self airs and wear tinsel. I know that I have been useful in the world—far more useful than such a green stick.’ This was a view that might be taken, and I don’t think it quite a peculiar one; but for all that, the fir tree looked very well: it was like a little poetry in the dust-heap; and truly there is dust enough in the streets on moving-day. The way is difficult and troublesome then, and I feel obliged to run away out of the confusion; or, if I am on the tower, I stay there and look down, and it is amusing enough.
“There are the good people below, playing at ‘changing houses.’ They toil and tug away with their goods and chattels, and the household goblin sits in an old tub and moves with them. All the little griefs of the lodging and the family, and the real cares and sorrows, move with them out of the old dwelling into the new; and what gain is there for them or for us in the whole affair? Yes, there was written long ago the good old maxim: ‘Think on the great moving-day of death!’ That is a serious thought. I hope it is not disagreeable to you that I should have touched upon it? Death is the most certain messenger, after all, in spite of his various occupations. Yes, Death is the omnibus conductor, and he is the passport writer, and he countersigns our service-book, and he is director of the savings bank of life. Do you understand me? All the deeds of our life, the great and the little alike, we put into this savings bank; and when Death calls with his omnibus, and we have to step in, and drive with him into the land of eternity, then on the frontier he gives us our service-book as a pass. As a provision for the journey, he takes this or that good deed we have done, and lets it accompany us; and this may be very pleasant or very terrific. Nobody has ever escaped the omnibus journey. There is certainly a talk about one who was not allowed to go—they call him the Wandering Jew: he has to ride behind the omnibus. If he had been allowed to get in, he would have escaped the clutches of the poets.
“Just cast your mind’s eye into that great omnibus. The society is mixed, for king and beggar, genius and idiot, sit side by side. They must go without their property and money; they have only the service-book and the gift out of the savings bank with them. But which of our deeds is selected and given to us? Perhaps quite a little one, one that we have forgotten, but which has been recorded—small as a pea, but the pea can send out a blooming shoot. The poor bumpkin who sat on a low stool in the corner, and was jeered at and flouted, will perhaps have his worn-out stool given him as a provision; and the stool may become a litter in the land of eternity, and rise up then as a throne, gleaming like gold and blooming as an arbor. He who always lounged about, and drank the spiced draught of pleasure, that he might forget the wild things he had done here, will have his barrel given to him on the journey, and will have to drink from it as they go on; and the drink is bright and clear, so that the thoughts remain pure, and all good and noble feelings are awakened, and he sees and feels what in life he could not or would not see; and then he has within him the punishment, the gnawing worm, which will not die through time incalculable. If on the glasses there stood written ‘oblivion,’ on the barrel ‘remembrance’ is inscribed.
“When I read a good book, an historical work, I always think at last of the poetry of what I am reading, and of the omnibus of death, and wonder, which of the hero’s deeds Death took out of the savings bank for him, and what provisions he got on the journey into eternity. There was once a French king—I have forgotten his name, for the names of good people are sometimes forgotten, even by me, but it will come back some day;—there was a king who, during a famine, became the benefactor of his people; and the people raised up to his memory a monument of snow, with the inscription, ‘Quicker than this melts didst thou bring help!’ I fancy that Death, looking back upon the monument, gave him a single snow-flake as provision, a snow-flake that never melts, and this flake floated over his royal head, like a white butterfly, into the land of eternity. Thus, too, there was Louis XI. I have remembered his name, for one remembers what is bad—a trait of him often comes into my thoughts, and I wish one could say the story is not true. He had his lord high constable executed, and he could execute him, right or wrong; but he had the innocent children of the constable, one seven and the other eight years old, placed under the scaffold so that the warm blood of their father spurted over them, and then he had them sent to the Bastille, and shut up in iron cages, where not even a coverlet was given them to protect them from the cold. And King Louis sent the executioner to them every week, and had a tooth pulled out of the head of each, that they might not be too comfortable; and the elder of the boys said, ‘My mother would die of grief if she knew that my younger brother had to suffer so cruelly; therefore pull out two of my teeth, and spare him.’ The tears came into the hangman’s eyes, but the king’s will was stronger than the tears; and every week two little teeth were brought to him on a silver plate; he had demanded them, and he had them. I fancy that Death took these two teeth out of the savings bank of life, and gave them to Louis XI, to carry with him on the great journey into the land of immortality; they fly before him like two flames of fire; they shine and burn, and they bite him, the innocent children’s teeth.
“Yes, that’s a serious journey, the omnibus ride on the great moving-day! And when is it to be undertaken? That’s just the serious part of it. Any day, any hour, any minute, the omnibus may draw up. Which of our deeds will Death take out of the savings bank, and give to us as provision? Let us think of the moving-day that is not marked in the calendar.”
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